A Wicked Conceit (Lady Darby Mysteries #9) - Anna Lee Huber Page 0,88
proof they did have.
The fact of the matter was that Rookwood would never have allowed Bonnie Brock or any of his men to stand behind him, not after the threats Brock had made. And he certainly wouldn’t have sat complacently while they picked up the ormolu clock from his mantel. The location of Rookwood’s wound was confirmation for me that not only had the murder scene in his office been staged, but he had been killed by someone he knew and trusted.
Maclean appeared ready to continue arguing this point when there was another rap on the door.
“This just arrived for Sergeant Maclean,” Jeffers informed us, stepping forward to hold out the silver salver on which rested a missive.
Maclean picked it up with equanimity, though I doubted he was often confronted with so pretentious a presentation. He unfolded it, reading quickly before rising abruptly to his feet. “My apologies. Somethin’ urgent has come up.”
“Come now, you’re not going to leave us without telling us what it is,” Gage protested.
Maclean appeared as if he wanted to do precisely that, but then he relented. “Lord Kirkcowan was attacked. He was found unconscious in his home.”
Chapter 18
How bad is it?” I asked several hours later as I settled into our carriage next to Gage.
“Bad,” he replied grimly. “The physician isn’t sure he’ll recover.”
I blanched, turning to gaze out the window at the green of the Queen Street Gardens as we rolled past. “I don’t like Kirkcowan. He’s odious. But . . . no one deserves to be attacked like that.”
Gage didn’t reply, but I could tell he was in agreement.
He had departed earlier with Maclean, insistent he inform him of our dealings with Kirkcowan the evening before, and his fraud and blackmail schemes. Maclean must have then allowed him to accompany him into Kirkcowan’s residence on St. Andrews Lane, for it was now midafternoon. Until Jeffers had told me my husband was waiting for me outside in our carriage, I hadn’t known when he would return.
I watched as the carriage turned right onto Hanover Street. “Where are we going?”
“We still need to find out what was contained in Rookwood’s letter to Mr. Murray with the Theatre Royal.”
I’d noted that Gage hadn’t included that on the list of Heron’s errands that he’d asked Anderley to verify.
“And I think we should find out why Lennox failed to mention his argument with Rookwood the day before he was murdered.”
Even though Gage seemed to be avoiding looking at me, the fact that he’d returned for me when he could have conducted these interviews on his own gave me hope. So I sat quietly, gazing out the window at the smart Georgian architecture and elegantly landscaped streets, determined not to give him any more reason to be angry with me.
Silence had never been a problem for me. I was perfectly content to pass the time wordlessly observing the world around me. During the years I’d been wed to Sir Anthony, I don’t think I spoke more than two dozen sentences a day, and most of those were to our staff.
When we arrived at the Theatre Royal, I turned to find that Gage was looking at me. For how long he’d been doing so, I didn’t know, but he didn’t look particularly pleased. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if I’d done something wrong, but I was worried that would only provoke another argument about my failure to tell him about Henry’s relation to him. So I kept my mouth shut, hoping he would explain his irritation without my having to ask.
Instead he climbed from the carriage as if he couldn’t wait to escape the confines, though he did reach up to help me descend rather than leave the duty to our footman. I suspected he’d only done so for appearance’s sake, for the pavement in front of the Theatre Royal was thronged with people. A number of them gathered around a broadside advertising the theater’s rendition of The King of Grassmarket, chattering about the play.
Gage escorted me around the building to the stage door, where he asked for Mr. Murray. We were then ushered down a corridor whose walls were plastered with old playbills, which smelled strongly of the chalk and lampblack the actors used for their stage makeup. It still being the middle of the afternoon, there were few people about, so a deserted hush seemed to fill the passages which hosted a flurry of activity every night.