A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,61

he’d fallen asleep o’er a manuscript. He’d done so a time or two, and I always roused him. And sure enough, there he was, hunched o’er his desk.” His face paled. “But when I stepped closer, I could see the blood and . . . and his Louis XVI ormolu clock. The one wi’ the globe at the top that rested on his fireplace mantel.”

I recalled seeing the distinctive piece on our previous visit.

“It was lyin’ on the floor behind him.” He raked his hands through his hair. “I . . . I tried to see if he was breathin’, but he was cold to the touch.”

I studied his drawn features, his agitated movements, and it was clear to me that Mr. Heron was still suffering from shock. If he had anything at all to do with his employer’s demise, he evidently hadn’t expected to find his employer killed in such a manner.

“I apologize for making you relive it all, but every detail could be important,” Gage told him. His expression was sympathetic, his posture unthreatening, but I could tell by the way he’d laced his fingers together over his flat stomach that he was intently observing Rookwood’s assistant. He often adopted such a stance when he was seriously questioning someone, and the manner in which he suppressed his inflection confirmed it. “What errands did Mr. Rookwood ask you to run yesterday?”

“Weel, ahh . . . Mostly the usual.” He squinted, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “The bank, the tobacco shop, our printer . . .” He broke off, glancing at Gage in suspicion. “Why are you askin’? Dinna tell me you suspect me . . .” He pressed a hand to his chest, his voice strangled as he struggled to find the words. “. . . o’ . . . o’ . . . harmin’ Mr. Rookwood?”

That he’d avoided saying the word murder spoke volumes.

“I don’t think anything,” Gage replied calmly. “But the tasks Mr. Rookwood sent you to perform might give us some insight as to what was on his mind, and subsequently who might have killed him.”

Mr. Heron’s chest rose and fell with each breath as he weighed the candor of Gage’s response. He must have found it truthful, for his shoulders slumped and he pressed a hand to the side of his head. “As I said, the bank, the tobacco shop, our printer, a handful o’ bookshops, his solicitor, the Theatre Royal.” He scowled. “And I had to track doon one o’ our authors oot in Leith who’s late wi’ a manuscript.”

If he’d truly visited all those places, I could understand why it might have taken him half a day.

“And you departed here sometime at midday?” Gage clarified.

“Aye. At a quarter after twelve.”

“Why the Theatre Royal?”

That location had leapt out at me as well. Particularly as Rookwood had told us that Mugdock had refused to endorse their play.

Mr. Heron shrugged. “I delivered a letter to Mr. Murray, the manager. I dinna ken what it contained.”

Didn’t know or wouldn’t tell us?

“And his solicitor?” Gage asked.

“Same. A sealed letter.”

Gage nodded before asking for more specifics about the businesses he’d visited on behalf of Rookwood, as well as their locations, so that we could follow up with them. “Would you mind showing us Rookwood’s office?”

His eyes were stricken. “It’s no’ been cleaned.”

“I didn’t expect it would.”

He rose to his feet shakily before crossing toward Rookwood’s door and opening it. The scent of stale tobacco smoke assailed us, smothering some of the more unpleasant smells left behind. I pressed my mantua sleeve against my nose and followed the men inside.

Rookwood’s body had, of course, been taken away, but I could see the outline of his head on the blotter where blood and other matter had pooled. I fought down a wave of nausea, my nose being more sensitive and my stomach more prone to queasiness in my condition, and turned away. As there was no corpse to examine where I might use the knowledge I’d acquired from my first husband, Sir Anthony, I elected to allow Gage to search that side of the room, while I surveyed the other.

As far as I could tell, most of the office appeared undisturbed. The chairs had been moved, but that was probably the work of the police. Mr. Heron still hovered to the side of the door, eyeing the desk as if a snake perched atop its surface, ready to strike.

“I understand the window was propped open?” I queried, hoping to distract