A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,55

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