A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,60

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.

Chapter 12

If Daniel Heron had gotten any sleep the night before, he certainly didn’t look like it. His wide eyes were shadowed by dark circles and his skin pallid. His prematurely silver-white hair was disheveled, standing on end in places, as if he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. When he spoke, his voice trembled slightly, from either residual fright or the effects of too many cups of tea. “Come this way.”

He led us down the corridor and into the larger front room filled with mostly bare desks, save his cluttered bureau. When we’d visited previously, the blinds had been open, allowing light to spill across the gleaming wood. Now they were closed, so only the barest sliver filtered through from the leaden skies outside. I couldn’t blame him for keeping them shut, not with the noise of the crowd gathered outside, practically pressed against the glass, penetrating through the cracks and crevices.

An oil lamp burned on Mr. Heron’s desk, and he moved it to the empty desk farthest from the windows, casting a small circle of light around the space. Gage helped him move two chairs closer to the table so that we could all be seated while I propped the dripping umbrella against the desk. Unlike last time, Mr. Heron did not offer to take our outer garments, and I was glad of it. A draft of chill air had found its way inside my mantua, and I draped my ermine boa tighter around my throat.

“I s’pose you heard aboot what happened to Mr. Rookwood?” he began, glancing distractedly toward the windows.

“Yes, and first of all, let me say, we’re terribly sorry for your loss,” Gage replied.

Heron turned to stare at him rather goggle-eyed and then swallowed, making his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “I found him, you ken. And yet . . . and yet it hasna really sunk in that he’s . . .” He swallowed again. “He’s dead.”

I noticed his brogue was more pronounced this morning than it had been two days before, but that was understandable. After all, many merchants and businessmen affected a more polished English accent similar to the aristocratic tones the upper class were taught to perfect from an early age, no matter whether they were Scottish, Welsh, or Irish. My brother-in-law Philip’s accent was as crisp as any nobleman’s, except when he was tired or had too much to drink. Then his Highland brogue rounded his speech.

“That’s not an uncommon reaction,” I assured him. “It can be difficult to accept something so tragic, so final.”

He nodded, his gaze drifting toward the door to Rookwood’s office. Until a loud bang at the front of the building made him start. His round eyes swung toward the disturbance.

“I don’t expect they’ll gather for long,” Gage said. “Not when they realize they won’t be allowed to tour the premises. Not in this weather.”

“You think so?”

The corners of Gage’s mouth lifted in a heartening smile. “Most of them must already be soaked and freezing, and not all of them have the resources for coal and a fire to warm themselves by. Poor chaps.”

Mr. Heron inhaled a deeper breath than the shallow ones he’d been taking thus far, seeming to derive some hope from Gage’s words. Then he spread his hands flat on the desk between us. “I s’pose you heard aboot it from the police, then.”

Gage didn’t correct him. “Tell us in your words what happened.”

“Mr. Rookwood sent me oot to run a number o’ errands for him. ’Twasn’t uncommon. His gout had started to flare up more often o’ late, and so he would send me in his place.”

I wondered if Rookwood had also been grooming him to take over, but if Mr. Heron held similar aspirations, they didn’t reflect in his voice or demeanor.

“I . . . I didna finish ’til late, and I expected Mr. Rookwood to be gone. He usually left aboot six o’clock. But I noticed the light under his door, so I knocked to see if there was anythin’ he wanted. When he didna answer, I thought maybe