Chapter 12 #3
Another rumbled cough. “I am deeply concerned about our mutual friend, Baz.”
A part of her bristled at his using the informal moniker that Henning permitted for only his closest comrades-in-spirit. However, Charlotte maintained a bland expression and waited for him to continue.
After hesitating for moment, Murray did so.
“I stopped by for a visit last evening and found him sunk deep in melancholy—aided by several bottles of Scottish malt. He’s always been brooding by nature and vulnerable to attacks of the blue devils.
And when they get their pitchforks into his peace of mind …
” A sigh. “Well, as I said, I worry. This bout seems particularly troubling.”
“The close bond between Henning and my husband was formed during their shared experiences during the brutal Peninsular War, so he and I are well aware of Henning’s mercurial moods and his propensity for self-medicating with whisky,” said Charlotte slowly.
“I will, of course, mention your concern to Wrexford.”
She paused. “But seeing as you know Henning so well, you’re aware that he’s more apt to listen to advice when he seeks it out, rather than the other way around.”
“True,” answered Murray. He lowered his voice a notch. “However he seems disconsolate over your questioning his judgment concerning a recent death. Apparently, you viewed the body—”
“You must have misunderstood him,” she quickly corrected. “Surely he didn’t imply that I saw the body.”
No matter how upset, Henning would never have revealed her secret involvement in their inner circle’s investigations of murder and intrigue.
Would he?
“Forgive me—I most certainly didn’t mean to lump you together with your husband, as if you have no existence on your own,” apologized Murray.
But his words still left her feeling uneasy.
“My tongue appears to be as clumsy as my work-roughened fingers,” he added. “What I’m trying to say is that Baz has some incidents in his past of which he is not proud. You and your husband might wish to be a bit gentle with him right now.”
“What incidents?” asked Charlotte.
“I am really not at liberty to say,” he murmured.
Which is clearly meant to imply that the subject is rife with innuendo and intrigue. A very clever way to sow seeds of doubt and confusion.
“I understand. Loyalty goes hand in hand with friendship.” Charlotte reached for her reticule. “As I said, I will pass on your message to Wrexford. And now, if you will excuse me, my relatives and I really must be going.”
Murray rose and inclined a polite bow. “Between the three of us, I devoutly hope we can keep Baz from falling victim to the worst demons of his nature.”
Do you? wondered Charlotte. Or was the real objective of the encounter something entirely different?
The late afternoon sun was still strong enough to warm the chill from the breeze as Charlotte and her two companions exited the tea shop and headed for the central garden of Berkeley Square to make the short walk home.
Eddy, her arms cradling a trio of gaily colored paper sacks stuffed with the sweets she had selected for her fellow Weasels, forged ahead, but Charlotte offered her arm to the dowager and deliberately slowed their pace.
“What did that jackanapes want?” demanded Alison.
“I’m not entirely sure, though the main message seemed to be that Wrex and I should back away from any further investigation into whether Lord Langdon’s death was from foul play.” She quickly recounted the gist of the conversation.
“Why would Langdon’s death concern Mr. Murray?
” mused Alison. “From what I’ve gleaned from the gossip in the drawing rooms, he’s a very wealthy merchant who is trying to buy his social entrée into the highest circles of Society by being a generous patron to the institutions and charities that appeal to the aristocracy. ”
“A good question,” responded Charlotte, though Murray’s presence at Ibbetson’s demonstration of his geometric lathe only exacerbated her suspicions.
They crossed the pavement and turned down one of the garden’s graveled walkways that circled around to the other side of the Square.
“I wonder if you might pay a call on your good friend, the dowager Baroness of Keith,” she said over the faint crunch of stones. “As I recall, she’s a font of knowledge on Scotland and its scandals.”
“Indeed, she is,” answered Alison, her eyes taking on a speculative gleam. “And she possesses a very impressive collection of books on both the Scottish peerage and the clans. I take it you would like me to do a little sleuthing regarding Mr. Duff Murray.”
Charlotte smiled. “You know his full name.”
“Of course I do, my dear,” replied the dowager, with a jaunty wave of her cane. “I take it as a point of honor to keep abreast of all the sinners and scoundrels circulating through the beau monde.”
“Excellent. Then I shall look forward to a full report on whether he has any skeletons lurking in his cupboard.”
“Mr. Murray may be innocent of any wrongdoing,” said Alison, “but if he isn’t, we shall teach him a lesson about underestimating a little old lady who walks with a stick.”