CHAPTER 10 #2
“A number of plant specimens in specially designed crates were off-loaded and delivered to the Royal Botanic Gardens. I have the list here.” Sheffield passed it over.
“As you see, there are nut-bearing trees from the southern states of America—hickory, pecan, black walnut—as well as conifers from the New England region. All given as a gift from Quincy to fill out the gaps in the Royal Society’s collections of North American trees. ”
“Very generous of him,” murmured Wrexford. “One can’t help but speculate as to why he wishes to curry favor with the Society’s heads. But in truth, it’s not uncommon for would-be members to give extravagant gifts in hopes of obtaining a coveted invitation to join.”
Sheffield shifted impatiently, setting off a muted crackling of the papers still in his hands.
“Yes, well, here’s where it gets more interesting—another set of plant specimen crates was also off-loaded into the wagons going to the Royal Botanic Gardens.
But these were clearly labeled as the property of a private collector, to be held there for a later delivery. ”
“I’m waiting with bated breath,” murmured the earl.
“As well you should,” shot back his friend. “They’re destined for DeVere’s mansion in Marylebone Park. Which could mean that he and Quincy are more than mere casual acquaintances.”
“Or simply that DeVere paid very well to bring back an assortment of American plants,” pointed out the earl. Sheffield was anxious to help, but jumping to conclusions could lead them on a wild goose chase. “We know he has one of the finest private conservatories in all of Britain.”
“I’m well aware of that.” A shadow passed over Sheffield’s face. He had been present at DeVere’s mansion on that terrible night when Charlotte had been within a hair’s breadth of death. Lady Cordelia had been in danger as well . . .
They had all been extraordinarily fortunate that Luck had been on their side, reflected Wrexford. But Luck is fickle. It would be foolish to assume otherwise.
“I know what you’re thinking. But before you dismiss what I’ve said, please listen to the last bit of information,” said Sheffield. “And then you may make of it what you will.”
“I’ve always respected your judgment, Kit,” he answered. “Even when you yourself doubted it. So be assured that I’m paying attention—and keeping an open mind.”
Their eyes met, the years of friendship making any further words unnecessary.
A fluttery whisper stirred the air as Sheffield raised the single document left in his hand.
“There was one last consignment of cargo unloaded from Quincy’s ship.
The regular stevedores weren’t allowed to touch it—the crew handled moving a half-dozen heavy iron-banded chests—each fastened with padlocks—down to a waiting carriage. ”
Sheffield glanced down at the paper. “But the supervisor considers the dockyard his bailiwick, and doesn’t like it when ships try to circumvent the proper procedures. So he made a point of hefting one of the chests while the carriage awaited his permission to depart.”
A pause—his friend had a penchant for drawing out a dramatic moment.
“And made sure to learn the name of the recipient, and the address to which the goods were being delivered.”
Wrexford’s lips twitched. “Perhaps you should take up writing horrid novels, Kit. You’ve quite a knack for creating suspense. I’m assuming you’re about to tell me to whom the chests were sent.” He, too, paused. “And why it’s important.”
“Show a little more appreciation for my cleverness,” grumbled Sheffield. “It is important—or at least intriguing enough to merit some further thought.”
With a flourish, he dropped the document in the earl’s lap. “The chests contained gold coins—any dockyard supervisor worth his salt can open even the most complicated padlocks—and the amount was a very large sum. As for the recipient, they were delivered to a man by the name of Reginald Lyman.”
“Lyman . . .” Wrexford frowned. The name didn’t strike a chord.
“I daresay, Lady Charlotte might remember who he is.” All trace of bantering humor had disappeared from Sheffield’s face.
“Several years ago, A. J. Quill penned a drawing concerning his activities. He’s a ship captain for hire, with a very fast Baltimore Clipper and a reputation for taking on jobs that others find too dangerous.
The voyage that drew A. J. Quill’s attention concerned rumors of delivering a shipment of gold to French forces during the Peninsular War. ”
Wrexford stiffened. His younger brother, a decorated British cavalry officer, had lost his life fighting in the mountains of Portugal. “Bloody hell, was that the bastard who was—”
“Suspected of carrying the payroll for General Soult’s troops just before the battle at Badajoz?
” interjected Sheffield. “Yes, that’s Lyman.
As you know, the war for the Spanish Peninsula was draining Napoleon’s coffers.
As our forces began to take the offensive, he desperately needed to get funds to his armies, but much of his resources were already heading east.”
“As I recall the rumors,” said the earl, “the gold came from Prussia.”
“So it was said,” agreed Sheffield. “Having forced the Prussian king into an alliance with France at the Treaty of Tilsit, Napoleon demanded that he contribute to the war effort. However, the emperor worried about the delays and other perils of sending it west by wagon, and time was of the essence. So Napoleon decided to take a chance sending the shipment from Hamburg by sea, betting that a very fast and cunning captain could slip through the British patrols.”
“And Lyman accepted the job, even though it would leave his hands covered in his fellow countrymen’s blood,” muttered Wrexford.
“Even within the shark-eat-barracuda world of smugglers and pirates, Lyman has a filthy reputation,” replied Sheffield. “He’s said to be a man without a shred of conscience.”
The details of the incident were slowly drifting back to him.
“A British naval frigate spotted him sailing out of a Spanish harbor, but couldn’t catch up with him, and eventually lost him in the fog.
When the accusation was made against Lyman—informants in Spain corroborated that the gold had been off-loaded from his schooner—he claimed that he’d been blown off course from making a routine run along the Cornish coast after delivering documents and ore samples to a mining company in Falmouth. ”
Sheffield nodded. “The company confirmed the delivery, and as there was no evidence or eyewitness to any wrongdoing, no charges were brought.”
“But the scuttlebutt in both Britain and the Continent was that Lyman was guilty as sin.”
“Indeed.”
It was just the sort of self-serving treachery that would spark Charlotte’s outrage. He must ask her if she had a copy of the published print.
“Lyman sailed for the West Indies soon after that, likely to allow things to cool down on this side of the Atlantic. He returned around eight months ago, and has done nothing to attract attention. As far as I can gather, his only activity is to do occasional runs to the north and the Baltic states.”
Wrexford was still trying to grasp the thread that tied the three deliveries from Quincy’s ship together—and how they connected to Becton’s murder. He slowly sorted through the papers his friend had given him, but the manifests didn’t offer any answers.
“You’ve done an excellent job of sleuthing, Kit.” He squared the papers in his lap into a neat pile and sat back. “I’m all agog to hear how all the information ties into Becton.”
Sheffield’s expression pinched to a wry grimace. “Actually, I haven’t got a clue.”
“Then why the devil—”
“My point is, there are three very disreputable and dangerous men who have recently crossed paths—however obliquely—with the victim,” interjected his friend. “DeVere, Quincy, and Lyman have all shown they’re willing to do whatever it takes to get what they want—even if it requires others to die.”
Wrexford couldn’t argue the point.
“You and Lady Charlotte are stepping into a nest of vipers, Wrex,” continued Sheffield. “I just want both of you to be damnably careful as to how you tread through the tangle of forked tongues and fangs.”