Chapter 11
Rookwood is dead,” Gage announced without ceremony once Bree, Anderley, and Jeffers were all gathered with us in the drawing room of our town house.
“The publisher?” Anderley clarified as Bree sank into one of the giltwood chairs, her eyes round with shock.
“Yes. Coshed over the head in his office sometime this afternoon or evening, and the scene set to look like a chapter from The King of Grassmarket.”
“Then you’re thinking it’s not the work of Mr. Kincaid,” Jeffers intoned, his manner as unflappable as ever.
“Unfortunately, no.” Gage’s mouth curled wryly. “Not when he’s already under increased scrutiny because of the book and plays, and this is certain to add to it.” He looked to me. “I should mention that we are also under suspicion, in light of the fact that we might have held a grievance with Mr. Rookwood.”
“Weel, that’s just ridiculous. I never heard so much gibberish in my life,” Bree protested.
“No, it’s only logical. After all, we did pay him a visit the day before, and we were certainly irritated with him, at the least, for his publication of The King of Grassmarket. But Maclean is no fool. He’ll ascertain soon enough we’re not the culprits.”
From his furrowed brow I could tell he wasn’t as sanguine as he wished to appear. He respected Maclean, and the pair of them had a rapport that had served them both well. So I knew this morning’s tiff between us all in Mrs. Duffy’s tea shop, and then Maclean’s treatment of us outside Rookwood’s office, must have been weighing heavily on his mind.
In any case, none of us were going to sit around waiting for Maclean to come to the right conclusion when we could help him to it faster by uncovering the truth ourselves. There was no need to even broach the question. Our most trusted staff had already made their way to the same conclusion we had.
“Then who do you think did it?” Anderley asked, perching on the rounded arm of a bergère chair. A stance which earned him a pointed glare from Jeffers.
When Gage settled on the arm of the sofa in much the same posture, I thought our butler was going to throw his hands up in exasperation, but he remained stoic.
“We don’t know,” Gage admitted, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not yet. But we have a number of suspicions. Beginning with a rival publisher. Or someone else who had been besmirched in Mugdock’s book.” He didn’t propose outright that the police were a possibility, but he must have known that his inclusion of this category encompassed them. “Either way, it’s even more crucial we uncover who this Mugdock is, once and for all.”
“Ye think he might be next?” Bree asked.
“Maybe. But even if not, I think we’ll find him wrapped up in this conundrum, whether his book was the cause of his publisher’s murder or not.”
“We also need to take a closer look into his personal life,” I said. “I know Rookwood is a widower, but I’m not certain whether he has children, and if he does, where they’re located. Either way, we need to know who stands to inherit his considerable assets and those of his publishing business. The motive for his death may lie there.”
Gage nodded in agreement. “You and I need to pay a visit to Mr. Heron tomorrow to find out what he knows. Since he was the one to discover Rookwood, it will be killing two birds with one stone.”
Bree cringed.
“My apologies,” Gage corrected. “Poor choice of words.”
“And what of us?” Anderley leaned forward eagerly. “What do you want us to do?”
“I need you to find out who was seen entering and exiting Rookwood’s office today after his assistant departed around midday. The entrance to the markets is across the road, so there shouldn’t be any shortage of witnesses. I’m sure the police will be questioning them as well, but some of them may hesitate to share what they saw with them. I’m hoping you can convince them to speak to you instead.”
Anderley scratched his chin and nodded, perhaps already plotting his approach.
“There was an oyster cart and a ballad-seller near the entrance yesterday with clear views of Rookwood’s door,” I told him helpfully. “Perhaps they usually set up in those spots.”
“What o’ me?” Bree asked, sliding forward in her seat.
“We need you to speak to Rookwood’s staff,” I supplied. “Find out what they know.” I sat taller, having a sudden inspiration. “And find out who cleans Rookwood’s publishing office. It’s a small enough establishment that I wouldn’t be surprised if one of his household staff maintains the office as well.”
“Aye. Shouldna be a problem to convince ’em to talk.”
I didn’t doubt either of them for a moment. Anderley possessed good looks and charm, and the chameleonlike ability to conform to whatever social strata he found himself within, while Bree was so friendly and empathetic that it was impossible not to find yourself pouring your heart out to her.
“Be careful,” Gage cautioned them. “Don’t draw too much attention to yourselves, and be aware of your surroundings. The cholera may be decreasing, but that doesn’t mean it’s gone. Beware the food you eat from any carts, or better yet, don’t consume any, since the Board of Health suspects that is the likeliest source of contamination.”
They both promised to be vigilant, rising from their seats as he dismissed them.
“Jeffers, I have a different matter I need your help with,” Gage declared, turning to our butler.
But I was still focused on Bree and Anderley, who shared a flirtatious glance in the doorway as he allowed her to proceed him through the door. I was pleased to see they seemed to be in accord again, but I couldn’t halt the unsettling feeling, born of experience, that it wouldn’t last.
“You are acquainted with Sir Phineas Riddell, are you not?” Gage asked, reclaiming my attention.
“I am,” Jeffers replied, moving several steps nearer.
Lord Phineas was known to be a friend of Lord Drummond, who was Jeffers’s previous employer, so it had seemed a safe assumption that Jeffers knew him.
“Apparently, Sir Phineas was the victim of a housebreaking a short time ago. Their jewelry was stolen from their safe,” Gage explained, reminding me that there had been no time to discuss what he had learned from the Riddells at Imogen’s ball. Just as there had been no time for me to arrange with Lord Henry Kerr when it would be best for him to inform Gage that he was his half brother.
“I believe I heard mention of that somewhere,” Jeffers replied evenly.
Of course he had. The best butlers were always well informed. And Jeffers was undoubtedly one of the best.
“See what you can find out about the matter from their staff.”
“Anything in particular?”
Gage frowned at the fire burning low in the hearth. “I want to know if they believe a theft actually occurred.”
Jeffers bowed his head. “Will that be all?”
“Yes. Mrs. Gage and I will retire shortly,” he added distractedly.
Jeffers bowed again before exiting the room.
I shifted closer to where Gage perched on the opposite arm of the settee. “You think Sir Phineas is lying?”
He didn’t speak at first, forcing me to grasp his hand and repeat myself in order to pull his thoughts from whatever unhappy place they’d gone.
“Yes. At least I’m fairly certain of it.” His gaze dropped to my hand, his long fingers skimming over the skin of each of my knuckles. “When I spoke to him at the ball he suggested perhaps I had something to do with it. Said that Kirkcowan had told him that we were responsible for the theft of his jewels last year.”
I flushed in acknowledgment that at least part of that statement was true. “What did you say?”
“I questioned why he would believe such an assertion when he must know what an inveterate gambler Kirkcowan is. And not a very good one at that.” His eyes lifted to meet mine. “Most surprisingly, Lord Drummond agreed with me.”
My eyes widened. “He did?”
There had been no shortage of animosity between me and Lord Drummond a year ago when I had insisted that his wife had met with foul play, and subsequently proved it and unmasked her killer. For a time, I had even believed him to be the culprit, for he had been brutish to her, and his first wife’s death from a fall down the stairs still struck me as suspicious. But perhaps time had mellowed his hostility toward me.
“He did.” His mouth pursed briefly. “Little good it did. Sir Phineas merely countered with the argument that Kirkcowan never seems to be short of funds.”
It was my turn to pucker as if I’d tasted something sour. “You know, he’s right. Kirkcowan does always seem to get his hands on money from somewhere. I was just wondering earlier today how he’s able to keep his town house here in Edinburgh. Surely it’s not entailed. Not like his estate, which his wife told me last year was mortgaged to the hilt.”
Gage brushed his fingers over my palm, sending pleasant tingles through my body. “I don’t know. But truthfully, I don’t wish to discuss any more of this tonight.” He hoisted me to my feet, positioning me so that I stood between his legs. With him perched on the high, rounded arm of the settee, our heads were almost the same height. His hands shifted to gently cradle my rounded abdomen between them. “You must be more exhausted than I am.”
“I admit, I am looking forward to lying down.” I glanced down at my stomach. “Though this little one now makes it difficult to rest.”
He smiled tenderly at me before bending his head. “Are you pecking at your mother in there, little Branok?”
I heaved a playfully aggrieved sigh. “Not another of your relatives’ names.” This was a familiar refrain, his suggesting we name our child after one of his Cornish great-grandfathers, and me demurring.
“No. But Branok means ‘raven’ or ‘crow,’ so it seemed apropos.”
“Only if you want our child to arrive with raven-dark hair. Personally, I’m hoping he or she looks astonishingly like you.”
His pale blue eyes softened with empathy. “That would put an end to all the spiteful gossip, wouldn’t it?”
“You would think the known facts about gestation would have already done that,” I remarked drolly. “But people seem happy to either live in or feign ignorance.”
Gage’s arms slipped around my waist, pulling me closer. “Forget them,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my lips. “And they’ll forget their ridiculous speculation in time, as well. We won’t let it blight our happiness at Meryasek’s birth, no matter what he looks like.”
I smiled at his persistence in slipping these Cornish names into our discussions about the babe. “What do Meryasek and—what’s the other name you’ve mentioned? Casworan? What do they mean?”
“I believe Meryasek means ‘sea lord,’ after the founder of Brittany. And Casworan has something to do with a warrior or a battle hero.”
I chuckled. “Your father would be pleased with either of those.”
“Well, don’t let that turn you against them.”
I laughed aloud at this quip, and he grinned broadly, a sight that was certain to make me weak in the knees. Skimming my hands up his broad chest, I began to pick at the folds of his cravat, suddenly hesitant to voice my own suggestion. “Actually, if our child is a boy, I wondered if we might name him Will. Well . . . William.” I snuck a glance up into his eyes, uncertain what I would see reflected there.
“After William Dalmay?” he asked softly.
I swallowed past the lump that had gathered at the back of my throat at the memory of my friend. “Yes.”
William Dalmay had been an old family friend and had served as my drawing instructor one formative summer when I was fifteen. That is, before he had suddenly disappeared. He’d served as an officer during the Napoleonic Wars and had struggled to forget the horrific memories of his time fighting in the Peninsular campaigns, so most of us who had been close to him had believed he’d simply run away, too embarrassed to continue to battle his demons in front of those he loved. But the truth had been much darker. His own father had locked him away in a lunatic asylum for nearly ten years. Only upon his father’s death had his younger brother been able to discover the truth and demand his release. But Will had known too much about the terrifying things that occurred at the asylum, and the fanatical doctor who ran it had been determined to silence him. In the end, Will had given his life to save me and others from the doctor’s same machinations, and to avenge the woman he’d loved.
I had grieved for Will deeply, and Gage knew this. But he had also accused me of being in love with Will, blind to the fact that I was already in love with him. He should have realized the truth by now, but that didn’t mean he would want his son to be named in Will’s memory.
He brushed his knuckles along my jaw. “I think that’s a fine idea.”
“You do?”
“Yes, it’s a good sturdy name. Very British. And nothing nearly so fanciful as Sebastian.”
I smiled at the sight of his wrinkled nose. “I like Sebastian.”
He gazed deeper into my eyes. “I like it when you say it. But otherwise . . .” He shrugged.
“Why did your parents choose it?”
“My mother was enamored with Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.”
“Ah,” I exhaled.
“And I believe she convinced Father by referring to St. Sebastian, the patron saint of soldiers. But what about you? I’m not sure I’ve ever asked why you were named Kiera. After a relative?”
“My grandmother named me.” I tilted my head to the side in fond remembrance of her. “My mother’s mother.”
“She was from Ireland?”
“Yes. She always told us that she had the blood of ancient Irish kings flowing through her veins, and I believed it. She was quick-witted, and unique, and beautiful. She had this presence about her. As if she knew exactly who she was and precisely where she was supposed to be, and nothing you could do or say would change that. Because of that, she was keener to accept people as they were. Including me. It was a . . . relief not to have to pretend in her presence.” I looked up to find his pale blue eyes studying me intently, the silver flecks near the pupils glinting in the firelight.
“It sounds like you inherited a great deal from her.”
I warmed at the compliment. “She attended at my birth, and the moment she saw my crown of dark hair, she insisted I be named Ciera, which means ‘little dark one.’ My father wanted to name me after his mother, Anne, but my grandmother prevailed, though my father got his way in spelling it with a K rather than a C. And Anne became my middle name.”
“But your hair isn’t so very dark,” Gage said, twirling one of my side curls around his finger.
I laughed. “No, it fell out soon after I was born and grew back chestnut brown. Something my father never ceased to remind my grandmother of. But she never wavered in her belief it suited me.” I shook my head. “I’m not sure I’ll ever know what she meant by that. But she was rumored to have the second sight.”
The clock on the mantel softly chimed, recalling me to the lateness of the hour and the fact that I had never gotten an opportunity to sample the delectable fare at Imogen’s ball. My stomach growled and Gage grinned. “Go on up. I’ll ask Jeffers to have a cold tray sent to our bedchamber.”
I nodded. “But no red wine.” I pressed a hand to my chest, imagining the burning sensation. “I’ll never be able to rest tonight if I drink it.”
“Noted.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, sending me off while he crossed toward the bell-pull.
I slept late the following morning. Much later than I intended, for by the time I emerged from my toilette, Sergeant Maclean had already come and departed.
“Perhaps that was for the better,” Gage remarked as our carriage set off for Rookwood’s office, in hopes of locating Mr. Heron. “As it was, Maclean was hardly forthcoming with what he knew.” He frowned. “He was more interested in questioning me.”
“You think he honestly suspects you?” I asked in genuine shock.
“I think he wants me to think he does. As to whether he actually does, I don’t know. But he certainly has Kincaid at the top of his list.”
“What of me?”
Gage turned away from the view outside the window, where the dreary weather from the evening before had turned downright dreich. Anyone with any sense or choice in the matter would have remained curled up in front of the fire and out of the damp, blustery, miserable conditions. “I gather he doesn’t believe a woman in your condition could have slipped into the office unnoticed or climbed through the window, if that is, in fact, how they gained entry.”
I adjusted the capote of terry velvet covering my head, contemplating the distance from the close below Rookwood’s office to the window ledge above. “I think I could make it with a ladder.”
He stared at me in disbelief.
“Not in this ensemble, of course.” I gestured to my mantua of bright cerise gros de Tours fabric. The full shape hid much of my form and all but the bottom hem of my aventurine merino walking dress beneath. “But something dark and less voluminous.”
“Well, don’t go about informing people of that,” he groused. “I considered it a blessing that, at least, he’d crossed you off his suspect list.”
I glowered. “I’m not daft, Gage. I’m not informing other people. I’m informing you.”
“Well, regardless. Let’s not test it out.”
I rolled my eyes. “Maclean must have interrogated you in earnest if you’re determined to be this stern.”
He tapped his fingers in agitation against the head of his walking stick propped beside his leg. “No, not really. I’m more aggravated that he wouldn’t share what he knew. Though I suppose I shouldn’t fault him for wanting everything in his investigation to be aboveboard. And corroborating with any suspect, even me, isn’t that.”
“What are you planning to do with that?” I nodded toward his walking stick, which he rarely carried. “Drive away any encroachers?” I knew well that walking sticks often doubled as weapons for gentlemen. I suspected that was why Lord Gage had developed the affectation of carrying one. But Gage usually eschewed this traditional accessory in favor of a pistol tucked into his greatcoat or the back waistband of his trousers.
“Don’t worry,” he replied, correctly interpreting my thoughts. “I’ve got my gun, too.”
We were venturing into the edge of Old Town, and there were bound to be curious bystanders gathered about the place where a murder had so recently occurred, but his decision to carry two weapons seemed a trifle excessive. Particularly as I also had my Hewson percussion pistol concealed inside my reticule, where I always carried it.
“Well, let’s try not to use either, shall we?” I responded tartly.
His brow darkened and he opened his mouth to argue but then stopped, perhaps realizing I was imitating the insulting obviousness of his earlier statement.
However, I was soon grateful for his extreme foresight when I saw the crowd gathered on North Bridge Street. It was worse than the evening before, with people loitering twenty to thirty deep, obstructing traffic, even in the chill rain. I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised. The populace’s macabre fascination with murder, along with the victim’s connection to the spectacularly popular The King of Grassmarket, ensured that the crime would capture the public’s interest.
But Gage had the forethought to direct his carriage to approach the office from Calton Low and Leith Wynd, driving past Trinity Hospital and into the old Physic Gardens. On this backside of the row of tenements where Rookwood Publishing stood, there were still a few inquisitive onlookers, but far fewer than on the bridge. Since our carriage could only traverse so far without getting stuck in the narrow lanes, Gage and I soon had to set out on foot.
We picked our way over the slick and uneven cobblestones that paved the steep slope of Carrubbers Close. The walls of the tenements on either side closed around us, leaving only a thin slice of leaden sky overhead, making the umbrella I carried so that Gage’s hands remained free to grip his walking stick and steady me almost unnecessary. This close had long been a refuge for Jacobites—those loyal to the exiled King James II and VII and his Stuart descendants. While the quest to restore the Stuart line to the throne was now extinct, the stones still bore the traces of the past, including the image of an oak leaf and acorns etched into the wall near the entrance to a wool merchant’s shop.
A pair of men, roughly dressed, idled in the doorway, and Gage stepped between me and them, guiding me toward the rear entrance to the building in which Rookwood’s office was located. I could feel their gazes following us as we stepped inside.
The rear of the building being several floors below that of the level facing the bridge, we climbed two dimly lit flights of stairs before approaching the likeliest door. Gage tried the latch, but it would not open, and we soon heard a voice call out from inside. “Go away! I’m no’ lettin’ any o’ you vultures in here. No’ if I have any say.”
Gage and I shared a speaking glance. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones who had attempted to gain entry in this manner. After witnessing how the infamous London Burkers’ home had been plucked apart as souvenir hunters descended upon the place after their arrest for the murder of the Italian Boy, even stripping the single tree in their garden of all its bark, I was more resigned to the fact than startled. Had the Burkers’ victim had a home, let alone a definitive identity, I suspected it would have been plundered as well.
“Mr. Heron, this is Mr. and Mrs. Gage.” Gage turned his ear toward the door to listen. “We were hoping to speak with you.”
For several moments these words were met with silence, and I began to think Rookwood’s assistant would turn us away. But then his voice replied louder this time, closer to the wooden barrier between us. “Are you alone?”
Gage glanced behind us to be certain. “Yes.”
We heard the metal screech of a bolt being thrown back and then the click of a lock before Mr. Heron peered out at us through a narrow crack in the door. His round, stricken eyes searched the shadows behind us until he must have been content we were telling the truth. Then he pulled the door wider, urging us to enter hurriedly. Gage had barely slipped past him before he slammed it shut again, fumbling as he refastened the locks.