Chapter 18
The earl had counseled everyone not to jump to conclusions, and while Charlotte heartily agreed with the strategy of keeping lurid speculations in check, she couldn’t help but believe that Raven’s assertion might well be true.
She knew enough about art to recognize that Jack MacArthur possessed an extraordinary talent for drawing. And Archie Campbell’s son had clearly been a child prodigy …
Are they one and the same?
Sighing, Charlotte picked up her pen and though it was almost midnight, she resumed inking in the details of her next drawing for Mr. Fores.
The question, she hoped, would soon be answered.
Raven had wasted no time in arranging for Scratch and Muffin, along with several other of their urchin friends, to keep watch on the warehouse at night, and the plan was to confront MacArthur and his compatriots as they were at work on whatever activity demanded such secrecy.
The warehouse had remained deserted the previous night. Perhaps tonight—
“M’lady, m’lady!” Raven flung open her workroom door without knocking. “I just came from checking the rendezvous spot! Scratch was there and said that the dastards have shown up at the warehouse! You need to hurry so that we can catch them red-handed in their criminal activity.”
“Remember, we don’t know that they are guilty of anything yet,” chided Charlotte, as she rose and grabbed up her tattered jacket, having already dressed as Magpie to save time.
Ignoring the statement, Raven quickly added, “Hawk has run to alert Mr. Sheffield.”
Wrexford had thought it best not to inform Griffin about the discovery at the warehouse until they were certain that it had any connection to Campbell’s murder.
Instead, he had decided that he and Sheffield, accompanied by Charlotte and Tyler— would have no trouble taking the conspirators by surprise and marching them to Bow Street if need be.
“I still say I ought to be allowed to come along,” challenged Raven, as Charlotte tucked her pistol into her pocket. “Wrex’s arm—”
“No,” she shot back without hesitation. “Wrex’s arm will not hamper him. So, like the others, you are to stay here, inside the townhouse.” A pause. “And that order leaves absolutely no room for interpretation.”
Raven’s black scowl indicated how deeply unfair he found her words.
“You know exactly why it’s imperative that MacArthur and his companions don’t suspect that you, or the other Weasels, are anything other than—”
“Pampered little aristocratic prigs,” interjected Raven.
“Yes. Precisely.” Charlotte eyed him with a steely stare. “Our family secrets depend on all of us being willing to make small sacrifices in order to protect them.”
He looked about to argue but then seemed to think better about it.
Though under no illusion that the rebellion against the house rules had been permanently quelled, Charlotte hurried to join Wrexford and Tyler, her attention now focused on the task at hand.
The valet finished checking the priming of his two lethal-looking dueling pistols and slid them into the deep pockets of his greatcoat. “Mr. Sheffield will meet us in the mews.”
The waiting carriage journeyed quickly through the deserted streets and dropped them close to their destination. The earl led the way down the darkened lane and after signaling the others to halt, he gave the hoot of an owl, drawing Raven’s urchin friends out of their hiding place.
After a short exchange, they scampered away, and he warily approached the main entrance doors while Charlotte and her companions remained hidden.
She could hear a faint rhythmic clatter and humming resonating from inside the building.
At the earl’s signal a few minutes later, the three of them crept across the cobbles to join him.
“Joseph Bramah was kind enough to show me some secrets to opening his less complicated locks last year before he passed away,” said Wrexford softly, once they were crouched beside him.
“I took a peek inside, and there’s an entrance foyer—the door to the main work area is slightly ajar, but we should be able to slip inside without being seen. ”
He paused and tapped Tyler on the shoulder. “Come with me. There’s one additional entrance on the side of the building. I’ll open it and let you inside. We’ll coordinate the timing to take them by surprise.”
Charlotte drew her weapon and heard the whisper of wool as Sheffield did the same. Two men had been murdered, so this was no parlor game …
Wrexford wasn’t gone long. After a glance at his pocket watch he closed the case and eased the door open just wide enough for them to sneak in.
“Cock your pistols,” he whispered. “On the count of ten, we’ll see what Mr. MacArthur has to say for himself.”
She thumbed back the hammer, the cold steel sending a shiver down her spine as the clack-clack of the machinery grew louder.
On the earl’s signal, they all rose as one and burst into the room.
“Hands on your head!” shouted Wrexford, brandishing his weapons as Tyler appeared behind MacArthur’s group to cut off any thought they might have of escape. “One false move, and I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”
Two men were fiddling with the machinery, while McArthur and an older gentleman were consulting a set of diagrams spread out on one of the worktables. All four of them froze in shock and then quickly did as they were ordered.
“L-Lord Wrexford,” stammered MacArthur. “I—I don’t understand …”
“Don’t play the fool with me. I’ve dealt with far more vicious criminals than you, Mr. MacArthur,” snarled the earl. “Or should I say, Mr. Campbell?”
MacArthur went pale as a ghost, and while his mouth moved, no words came out.
“Please, sir, might I be allowed to explain, before any blood is needlessly shed?” said the older gentleman.
He had a distinctive nasal accent. American, from around Boston, thought Charlotte. She recognized it because one of the frequent attendees of Lady Thirkell’s bluestocking soirées was from that area.
Wrexford gave a curt nod.
“Given recent events, I don’t blame you for thinking the worst. Yes, Jack MacArthur is the son of Archibald Campbell.
He was smuggled out of Britain by a trio of his uncle’s trusted friends, and as he was handed off to the couple who agreed to take him to America, he was told it was best to adopt his mother’s maiden name in order to keep himself safe.
” The gentleman paused. “That in itself is a rather long story, but one that can wait until later. Right now, I simply want to assure you that our business here in London is completely legitimate. However, we had reason to fear that our lives might be in danger if we didn’t take precautions to protect our invention—”
“I—I was gobsmacked when Mr. Egg mentioned that you occasionally undertake clandestine investigations for the government after we first met, milord.” MacArthur had finally found his tongue.
“I—I confess that when I learned that the younger Master Sloane’s deceased drawing teacher was my uncle, I tried to have a look around your workroom to discern whether you were involved in looking for his murderer.
But the elder Master Sloane saw me and, well, I didn’t dare ask you outright. ”
“We’ll get to that in a moment,” said Wrexford, “but first of all, you’ll have to convince me that you’re here for legitimate reasons.”
“Fair enough, milord. I’ll begin by introducing myself.” The gentleman flashed a genial smile. “My name is Jacob Perkins.”
“Jacob Perkins!” exclaimed Sheffield. Lowering his weapons, he inclined a welcoming nod.
“Please forgive our less-than-cordial welcome, sir.” He quickly turned to Wrexford.
“Remember Ainsley explaining to us that Mr. Perkins has a sterling reputation in America for technical innovations in both design and printing banknotes? And he also mentioned the fact that he and a colleague at the Bank of England have been corresponding with Mr. Perkins for over a year about the possibility of coming to London and offering his expertise to our government, but—”
“But Sir Joseph Banks is adamantly opposed to the idea of a damn Yankee involved in our currency,” finished the earl.
“Correct, milord,” said Perkins. “However, I have been in contact with a long-time English friend and fellow printer about combining our talents and partnering in a business venture that would perhaps be more acceptable to Sir Joseph.”
He gestured for one of the men wearing an ink-stained apron—and a look of abject terror—to step forward. “Allow me to introduce Charles Heath, a very well-respected engraver and publisher here in London.”
Heath bobbed a nervous bow. “I—I can prove who I am, m-milord, if need be. A-And I do vouch for my two American friends, who I have known for years. They are much admired in their country for their work in advancing new printing technology.”
“Our third associate is Gideon Fairman,” added Perkins, “a fellow American with whom I’ve partnered on numerous projects.”
Wrexford released a sigh after Fairman touched a hand to his brow in a tentative salute and uncocked his pistols. “Forgive us for frightening you, gentlemen.”
At his signal, Tyler put away his weapon, as did Charlotte … who, knowing MacArthur’s discerning eye for detail, discreetly withdrew into the shadows of the adjoining entryway.
“We understand, sir,” replied Perkins. “We’re all aware that the man who Sir Joseph appointed to run the day-to-day activities of the Royal Society’s committee for overseeing the Inimitable Banknote Competition recently passed away.
So I can well imagine that the situation concerning the project is a bit fraught. ”
Wrexford had a feeling that the man was telling the truth, and yet there were still too many unanswered questions for him to lower his guard. Turning to MacArthur, he demanded, “Any idea of who would want your uncle dead?”
“No, milord,” came the immediate response.
“I was devasted to learn of his murder when I arrived in London.” MacArthur swallowed hard.
“I—I offered to accompany our machinery on the sea voyage here from Boston ahead of the others and arrange for it to be transported to London in secrecy in order to finally be reunited with Uncle Fletcher—”
“Why the secrecy?” interrupted the earl.
“Because I had been receiving warnings over the past year that a dangerous enemy was seeking to learn Jack’s whereabouts.
” It was Perkins who answered. “And before you ask, I know the names of neither the villain—as I assume he had some nefarious purpose for seeking Jack—nor of Jack’s guardian angels, though I can tell you that the Angels who occasionally brought me warnings had Scottish accents. ”
There were a great many more questions on the tip of Wrexford’s tongue, but he decided to think more about the new revelations before pressing for additional information.
“Where are you currently lodging, Mr. Perkins?” was the only query he voiced.
The American named a small but respectable out-of-the-way hotel within walking distance of the warehouse.
“I would suggest keeping to yourselves for the time being,” counseled Wrexford. “I will be in touch.” To MacArthur, he added, “You should also maintain your current routine.”
The young man hesitated. “Including coming to Berkeley Square to give Lady Eddylina and Master Sloane art lessons?”
“They would be very disappointed if you decided that you no longer wish to serve as their teacher,” said Wrexford.
“No!” he stammered. “I—I mean, yes. Yes. I would like to continue.”
“Excellent.”
As the earl turned to go, Sheffield hesitated, his gaze lingering on the machinery. “At some point, Mr. Perkins, I would very much like to have a closer look at your innovations.”
Wrexford looked back at the American. “Mr. Sheffield has just been appointed to the Royal Society’s committee on banknotes, so it’s not simply idle curiosity.”
“I would be happy to have you do so, sir,” said Perkins, his eyes coming alight with enthusiasm.
“By next week, Asa Spencer, the last member of our group, should arrive from America. He developed a process called stereotype printing, which aids in making banknotes difficult to counterfeit, and then sold the patent to me. But like us, he’s excited about the possibility of winning a contract from the Bank of England, so he’ll be working with us to refine the final examples that we will submit to the committee. ”
“Kit, let us confer and decide how best to coordinate our dealings with Mr. Perkins and his compatriots before making plans,” suggested the earl.
Sheffield nodded in understanding. “Mr. MacArthur will be visiting Lord Wrexford’s residence in Berkeley Square on a regular basis. I shall arrange a time with him to come learn more about your work.”
Wrexford gave one last nod before he and Sheffield joined Charlotte in the darkened entryway. Quickening his steps, he led the way into one of the side alleyways where Tyler was waiting and continued to thread through the maze of footpaths for several minutes before coming to a halt.
“An interesting turn of events,” said Sheffield.
“Indeed,” murmured Charlotte as she studied the earl’s profile.
He was aware of her scrutiny but wasn’t quite ready to respond.
Truth and lies.
This investigation seemed so tangled in intrigue and innuendo that Wrexford wondered whether there were any clearcut answers to what had really happened.
“Would you like me to double back and follow Mr. Perkins and Mr. Fairman back to wherever they go for the night?” asked Tyler.
“I think that would be wise,” he responded.
“You don’t trust them?” asked Sheffield, once the valet’s footfalls faded into the night sounds.
“I think that for now, we shouldn’t trust anyone.”
Perhaps not even our own inner circle, he added to himself, on recalling the mention by Perkins of strangers with Scottish accents.