Murder at the Merton Library

Book 7: Wrexford & Sloane Mystery

by Andrea Penrose

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Historical Mysteries; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Responding to an urgent plea from a troubled family friend, the Earl of Wrexford journeys to Oxford only to find the reclusive university librarian has been murdered and a rare manuscript has gone missing. The only clue is that someone overheard an argument in which Wrexford's name was mentioned.



At the same time, Charlotte—working under her pen name, A. J. Quill—must determine whether a laboratory fire was arson and if it's connected to the race between competing consortiums to build a new type of ship—one that can cross the ocean powered by steam rather than sails—with the potential to revolutionize military power and world commerce. That the race involves new innovations in finance and entrepreneurship only adds to the high stakes—especially as their good friend Kit Sheffield may be an investor in one of the competitors.



As they delve deeper into the baffling clues, Wrexford and Charlotte begin to realize that things are not what they seem. An evil conspiracy is lurking in the shadows and threatens all they hold dear—unless they can tie the loose threads together before it's too late . . .

Release date: September 26, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

A rumbled roar shattered the night, as if the deepest pit of Hell was tearing free from the underworld. Flames shot up, red-gold against the black velvet sky, and in the next instant a section of the building’s roof collapsed in a cacophony of splintering wood and brick. A joist snapped, throwing up a shower of sparks that shimmered with a terrifying beauty as they floated back to earth.

So delicate. And so deadly . . .

Charlotte, Countess of Wrexford—though hardly a soul on earth would recognize her dressed as she was in rags rather than fancy silks—winced as a bank of windows exploded in a blinding flash of light. The blast forced her back into the shadows of an alleyway bordering Cockpit Yard, a cluster of brick buildings just south of the Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury.

Shouts collided with screams as the onlookers shied away from the conflagration. A wagon filled with sloshing buckets rumbled past her, its wheels bouncing over the cobblestones. Slipping and sliding over the smoking debris, the band of men pulling at the ropes managed another few steps and stopped to heave a wave of water over the flames before retreating for another load.

Gasping for air, Charlotte swiped a hand over her face, adding another layer of gritty soot to her brow. She had received word just an hour ago about the fire and had immediately resolved to see it for herself after changing into her second—or was it third?—skin. Raggle-taggle urchin . . . high-and-mighty countess . . . London’s most popular satirical artist....

She turned her gaze from the shadows, forcing herself to focus on her reason for being here. Working under the nom de plume A. J. Quill, she kept the public informed of the current scandals, politics, and serious social issues of the day with her colorful satirical drawings.

Fires ravaged through London every day. But this was no ordinary one. The burning building housed the laboratory of—

A flicker of movement caught Charlotte’s eye. A group of men with wet rags wrapped around the lower part of their faces was fast approaching the flames. A whoosh of smoke suddenly knocked the hat off one of the leaders, revealing a flash of guinea-gold hair.

Her breath caught for an instant in her throat.

Ye gods—why is Kit here?

Christopher Sheffield had been her husband’s closest friend since their days at Oxford, and Charlotte had formed an equally strong bond with him over the course of a half dozen dangerous investigations.

A friendship forged by fire, thought Charlotte with a wry smile.

Sheffield suddenly looked her way. He hesitated for just a heartbeat as she moved in the shadows. Smoke hazed the air, but he had seen her enough times dressed as a ragged urchin to recognize her silhouette. A subtle gesture—a tiny flick of his hand—acknowledged her presence, and then he kept moving. Glass crunched underfoot as the men rushed for the far end of the building, which had not yet burst into flames, and hurriedly kicked their way through the side door.

Hell’s teeth—are there poor souls trapped inside?

Fear rose in her throat as she watched them disappear into the black maw. Charlotte spun around and darted out of her refuge, intent on edging around to where Sheffield and his companions had disappeared. The thunder of snapping timbers and crashing walls was growing louder—the very air crackled with warning.

Damnation, Kit—it’s too dangerous to be caught within such a raging inferno.

The smoke thickened, slowing her steps. She paused to pick out a path through the swirling embers and started forward—

Only to be stopped short by the clatter of iron-shod hooves on stone and the screech of another water wagon skidding around the corner of the street.

Drawing a steadying breath, Charlotte retreated and chose a more roundabout route that skirted the worst of the falling debris and frantic flailings to douse the flames. In the past she might have ignored the blatant danger, but her recent marriage had brought not only profound joy but a heightened awareness of her responsibilities to her loved ones. Not that she would ever give up her passions—

She ducked low and took cover in the opening of an alleyway as a jumble of crisscrossing lantern beams swept over the yard.

“Oiy! Oiy! Move off, ye little gutter rats,” bellowed a group of night watchmen, trying to make themselves heard above all the noise and confusion. Waving their truncheons, they began to herd back the street urchins who had crowded the cobbled carriageway to gawk at the fire.

Charlotte crept into the shadows snaking along the edge of the carriageway and under the cover of darkness stealthily made her way to the far end of the building.

A conventional wife I am not, she thought, pausing to make a swift assessment of the surroundings. A fact that on occasion drove her husband to distraction.

Her lips twitched. So be it. Wrexford might not always agree with her passions, but she knew that he admired them, heart and soul. Which was why, despite the outward differences—reason versus intuition—they made a perfect pair.

For an instant, Charlotte wished that Wrexford was here by her side. If Sheffield—

A shuddering crack pulled her thoughts back down to earth.

She moved closer to the smashed doors. Framed by the splintered moldings and creaking hinges, the opening seemed to glower with menace through the ghostly flutters of smoke. It was black as Hades....

Charlotte thought she saw a tiny flicker of light, but it was gone in an instant.

Hell’s bells. Sheffield was family—perhaps not in a traditional sense, but in every way that mattered. Be damned with the dangers—she couldn’t simply walk away.

She was about to start forward when the light winked again, then grew stronger. As the wind gusted, setting off a chorus of moans through the buckling roof slates, she squinted through the clouds of choking vapor and whirling ash. A jumble of dark-on-dark shapes materialized into a group of men, tripping and stumbling as they wrestled with a load of crates.

Craning her neck, Charlotte spotted a gleam of golden hair. “Thank God,” she whispered.

Harried shouts broke out to her right. Tongues of red-gold fire suddenly licked up from a gap in the outer wall.

“Make way, Make way!” A bucket brigade trundled closer, and a wave of water doused the threat.

She retreated to the alleyways just as Sheffield and his companions stumbled free of the building and started across the carriageway with their loads.

“More water!” cried the man next to Sheffield, waving desperately at the fire wagons. “If we work fast, I think we can keep the blaze from spreading to this part of the building.”

Charlotte recognized him despite the whirling light and shadows—it was Henry Maudslay, the brilliant inventor whose engineering wizardry had made him famous throughout Britain’s scientific community.

And these days, his name was becoming more familiar to the public—thanks to her series of drawings on Progress.

Maudslay set down the crate he was carrying and rushed off to help the bucket brigade. The others followed his lead.

Save for Sheffield, who hesitated and glanced around the yard.

Keeping well back in the shadows, Charlotte let out a low whistle.

He walked across the cobbles to her side of the yard and turned, as if intent on assessing the scope of the damage. “There’s no reason for you to linger. All that’s left to do is get the remaining flames under control,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear. “Go home. I’ll join you there as soon as possible and explain what I know about what’s happened here.”

“Oiy,” acknowledged Charlotte, then added, “Be careful,” before slipping off into the gloom. Sheffield was right. She had seen what she needed to see for any potential artwork. There was nothing left for her to do....

Save to wonder whether it was merely an unfortunate accident that Henry Maudslay’s new research laboratory was going up in smoke.

“Here I go out for a quiet evening of scholarly discussion over port and brandy, and . . .” Expelling a martyred sigh, the Earl of Wrexford cast a baleful look at Charlotte, who despite having changed into more conventional attire still had a streak of soot on her face and ashes in her hair.

“And all hell breaks loose,” he finished as Sheffield entered the earl’s workroom.

Tactfully ignoring her husband’s grumbling, Charlotte hurried to help their friend out of his sodden overcoat. She gave it a shake, sending up an acrid fug of burnt wool and stale smoke, then draped it over one of the work stools.

“Shall I pour you a whisky or a brandy?” she asked, offering Sheffield a wet cloth soaked in lavender-scented hot water.

He took it and gave her a grateful look before wiping the filth from his face. “I’m happy to quaff anything as long as it’s liquid,” he mumbled through cracked lips. The bright lamplight showed that his face was raw and red from the heat of the fire.

As their friend brushed a tangle of hair off his brow, Wrexford saw it was singed in several spots.

“Sit down, Kit,” said the earl, reaching out to steady Sheffield’s stumble. After settling him in one of the armchairs by the hearth, he added, “You look like bloody hell.”

Charlotte hurried to bring Sheffield a glass.

A good choice, noted Wrexford. Scottish malt was stronger than French brandy.

“How did you know about the fire?” she asked.

Sheffield closed his eyes for an instant and took a long swallow of the amber spirits before replying. “One of our clerks was drinking with friends at a nearby tavern when it started.” Sheffield and his fiancée, Lady Cordelia Mansfield, were partners in a very profitable shipping company—secretly, of course, as the strictures of the ton didn’t permit aristocrats to sully their hands in trade. “He sent word to me right away, knowing of my interest in Maudslay’s work.”

Wrexford frowned. Maudslay’s expertise in engineering didn’t seem to align with the practical demands of moving goods from here to there as swiftly as possible.

“What, precisely, is your interest?” he asked.

Henry Maudslay was famous throughout the scientific world for creating innovative lathes that had greatly improved both the speed and accuracy of mass-producing interchangeable parts for steam engines, looms, and a myriad of other important mechanical devices. It might sound mundane to most people, mused the earl, but in truth it was revolutionizing a great many industries.

“He’s been working on a special project involving an innovative new design for a steam engine,” replied Sheffield.

Wrexford was still puzzled. “What does that have to do with your business?”

Sheffield pressed his fingertips to his temples. “A great deal, actually. He’s working on a radical idea that would revolutionize the transportation of goods and people around the globe—a marine propulsion system utilizing a steam engine.”

The answer took Wrexford aback. “But that’s hardly new or revolutionary. Lord Stanhope, a talented man of science despite his other eccentricities, was tinkering with steam-powered boats at the end of the last century. And I seem to recall that a Scottish engineer launched a commercial steamboat—I believe it was called Charlotte Dundas—in 1803. To my knowledge, it’s proved very successful in hauling barges along the canals of Scotland.”

“And the American, Robert Fulton, launched the first successful river steamboat seven years ago in New York City,” offered Charlotte. “Granted, the Americans appear to be far more advanced in their marine steam engine technology than we are, but I also remember hearing of another steamboat innovation in Scotland. Henry Bell launched the PS Comet two years ago, and it’s been running regular passenger service on the River Clyde—”

“Maudslay’s marine propulsion system isn’t meant for canals and rivers,” said their friend.

Charlotte blinked in surprise. “You mean it’s for . . .”

“For crossing oceans,” confirmed Sheffield.

“That would be revolutionary, indeed.” Wrexford did some quick mental calculations. “The size, the weight, the amount of fuel needed for such a long journey . . .” He pursed his lips. “Surely the practical limitations make such a dream impossible. . .”

Sheffield coughed, which made him wince. “New technological ideas always seem impossible—until someone figures out a way to do them.”

“Fair enough,” conceded the earl.

“As you pointed out, we have boats powered by steam, but the current technology isn’t capable of conquering the rigors of ocean travel,” continued Sheffield. “So there is, in effect, a great race going on to see who will figure out a way to overcome the challenges—and the winner will possess unfathomable power.”

He tapped his fingertips together, his expression turning very solemn. “Think about it. The ramifications are profound—economically, politically, militarily—so it’s no surprise that a number of groups are working on developing a successful model. It’s not just the steam engine that needs redesigning. The current mode of propulsion is paddle wheels, and they simply can’t stand up to the storms and waves of the oceans.”

“What’s the alternative?” asked Wrexford.

Sheffield made a face. “If I knew the answer to that, I would be a very rich man.”

He let out a long breath. “The competition is fierce. First and foremost are the Americans, who have the most experience and expertise in marine engines and propulsion systems. Cordelia and I have heard from our business agent in New York that there are several steamboat companies competing with each other to come up with a viable oceangoing ship.”

“I would imagine that our government, which believes that our powerful navy and our trade with the East are the lifeblood of our nation, is also engaged in the race,” said Wrexford.

“That would make sense,” mused Charlotte. “Though I vaguely recall hearing a talk given by some of the Royal Navy’s top engineers . . .” She frowned in thought. “And the fact that while they expect great innovations to be made in nautical technology, they feel that those discoveries still lie over the horizon.”

“The Royal Navy is not the only entity in Britain working on the challenge,” replied Sheffield. “Eight months ago, a consortium led by the Earl of Taviot announced its involvement in marine propulsion. Word is they have a leading luminary in the field as their technical director, a fellow who has been working for some years in America with the leading steamboat designers.”

He paused to take a long sip of his whisky. “In addition, Taviot and his partners are beginning to approach some very prominent names about investing in their company. Money is key, as innovation doesn’t come cheaply.”

“Given his genius for innovation and his experience in engineering, surely Maudslay holds the advantage in this country,” said Wrexford.

“Tonight’s fire is a huge setback. A number of his precision lathes and milling machines were damaged by the extreme heat. Given how long it will take to retool them, he might fall too far behind the others to catch up.” Sheffield frowned. “Maudslay had, in fact, been talking to me about investing in his project. But of late, he has been expressing some reservations about the prospect of success. He is quite sure someone will come up with a theoretical design that works. However, he worries that at this point in time we simply don’t have the capability to fabricate the sophisticated machinery needed to make an actual working model.”

Sheffield ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “That said, Maudslay seemed upset at not finding his latest set of technical drawings with the crates we salvaged. He was quite sure that he had placed them in that section of the laboratory, which wasn’t touched by the flames.”

“Paper is awfully fragile,” pointed out Charlotte. “An errant spark might have blown in and set them ablaze.”

“Perhaps,” said their friend. But his expression remained troubled.

Wrexford said nothing.

“In any case, it’s likely there are others at work on the challenge,” mused Sheffield after a lengthy silence. “I’ve heard rumors that Tsar Alexander of Russia is desperate to become a naval power and expand his ability to establish trade routes around the world.”

“The Russians have only one major port on the island of Kotlin, just west of St. Petersburg,” said Charlotte. “It seems wishful thinking for them to aspire to be a naval power, especially as the Baltic Sea has such unpredictable weather.”

“All the more reason for wanting oceangoing steamships. It’s said that the tsar has offered Robert Fulton a monopoly on all commercial river routes in Russia if he will come to St. Petersburg and develop steamboat technology,” growled Sheffield.

Charlotte frowned in thought.

“But that said, you are right,” he added. “I don’t see the Russians being a factor in the race. My money is on the Americans.”

Wrexford noted that his friend’s voice had taken on a brittle edge.

“In their country a man is free—indeed, he is encouraged—to develop his skills and talents, unconstrained by the strictures of social standing. While we remain in thrall to traditions of the past and forbid our aristocracy to take advantage of a changing world and profit from building the future. It makes absolutely no sense!”

“I couldn’t agree more, Kit—” began Wrexford.

Sheffield was too agitated to pay him any attention. His voice rose as he forged on. “The Industrial Revolution has created so many innovations, which in turn have opened up so many new business opportunities. New companies are starting up all over the country. Investment opportunities abound. And a new type of men is emerging to take advantage of it all. The French have a word for them—entrepreneurs, deriving from entreprendre, which means to undertake. We need to have that spirit here in Britain.”

“You’ve made yourself into that sort of man, Kit. And it’s something of which you should be very proud,” pointed out Wrexford. “An entrepreneur, whose aspirations to start up a business and investment acumen are a perfect example of what you have described.”

“Yes, but I’m still so bloody limited in what I can do. I must hide the fact that I’m involved in running a business and pretend to be naught but an indolent wastrel. It’s . . .” He muttered an oath. “It’s damnably frustrating.”

“I sympathize with your sentiments,” responded Charlotte.

“Ye gods, I’m very aware that intelligent and capable women like you and Cordelia must feel even more angry.” Sheffield fixed her with an apologetic grimace. “The rules that corset what you can and cannot do are impossibly restrictive.” A sigh. “It makes no sense to assume that half the populace are naught but featherbrained widgeons.”

“Perhaps with intellectuals like Mary Wollstonecraft writing manifestos about the rights of women, their arguments will eventually bring about change,” she replied. “But I won’t hold my breath waiting for it to happen.”

Wrexford leaned back in his chair. “It’s true. If we don’t alter our attitudes, we shall find ourselves left in the dust by progressive-thinking countries like America.”

“As I said, the world is changing.” Sheffield drank the rest of his whisky in one swallow. “And by God, we had better change with it.”

The earl rose and moved to the sideboard. “Let me pour you another drink.”

Sheffield waved him off. “Steam engines may be forged out of iron, but I am made of flesh and bone.” A grunt. “Every particle of which is aching like the devil right now. So I think I shall bid you goodnight and toddle off to my bed.”

“Let us summon the carriage for you, Kit,” said Charlotte.

“No, no.” He waved off the offer. “It’s only a short walk to my lodgings, and I need some fresh air to clear my lungs.”

Wrexford walked with him to the front door and then, lost in thought, slowly made his way back to Charlotte.

“Why the black face?” he asked as she looked up from straightening the books on his desk. “Aside from the smudges of soot on your chin.”

She forced a smile, but her gaze remained troubled. “I’m not quite sure.” A hesitation. “It’s just that . . . I had a bad feeling about the fire from the moment I set foot in Cockpit Yard.”

“Are you speaking from facts?” he asked. “Or intuition?”

The two of them had often argued over whether reason should overrule emotion. They still disagreed—often sharply—but Wrexford had come to respect her belief that logic didn’t always have an answer for the complexities of human nature.

“Let’s just say that I sensed an unseen specter of Trouble lurking in the shadows. And I fear that we haven’t seen the last of it.”

Taking the steps of the back stairwell two at a time, Raven—the older of the two former street urchins who were now officially the wards of Charlotte and Wrexford—reached the top landing and headed for the schoolroom, where his brother Hawk and their friend Peregrine were waiting.

“I think m’lady and Wrex are hiding something from us,” he announced, after quietly shutting the door.

The large iron-grey hound who lay sprawled on the rug beside the two boys pricked up his ears and let out a low woof.

“What?” asked Hawk, Raven’s younger brother.

“Dunno,” muttered Raven as he placed a book on one of the desks and joined them on the floor. “M’lady told me the fire was nothing to fret about when she returned home . . .”

It was Raven who had learned about the blaze while visiting with one of his urchin friends who swept a street corner near Cockpit Yard. He had quickly brought the news back to Berkeley Square, but Charlotte had forbidden him to come along with her when she went to see it for herself.

“But from what I heard just now, I have a feeling that something havey-cavey might be afoot.” Raven scowled. “She’s trying to protect us from the sordid things in life,” he went on. “As if we haven’t seen the worst of human nature.”

He and his younger brother had once been homeless orphans, fending for themselves in the squalid stews of London. But after a chance encounter with Charlotte, she had taken them under her wing.

“Oiy,” agreed Hawk. “She and Wrex ought to know that we’ve no intention of turning into proper little aristocrats.” As for their first meeting with Wrexford, it hadn’t gone well—he had dubbed them the Weasels because Raven had stabbed him in the leg and Hawk had thrown a broken bottle at his head. He had long since forgiven them because they had thought he was threatening Charlotte. But to everyone’s amusement, the moniker had stuck. It was now a source of mirth and, for the Weasels, a badge of honor.

“By the by, how do you know there’s trouble lurking?” inquired Hawk. “Were you eavesdropping?”

“No . . . not precisely,” answered Raven. “As I was looking for a certain book on mathematics in Wrex’s library, I couldn’t help but overhear Mr. Sheffield mention something suspicious about the fire.”

“Why does this particular fire concern m’lady and Lord Wrexford?” asked their friend Peregrine—or rather, Lord Lampson. Raven and Hawk had taken the orphaned heir under their wing when Wrexford and Charlotte had been drawn into a harrowing murder investigation involving Peregrine’s uncle and a devastating family betrayal.

Their bond forged—quite literally—by fire, the three boys had become the best of friends, and with things fraught among his own relatives, Peregrine had become an honorary member of their family, a situation that suited everyone. He was spending the month of August with them before it was time for him to return to his schooling at Eton.

“Because,” answered Raven, “the building that burned down was Henry Maudslay’s laboratory.”

“Maudslay?” Peregrine’s eyes widened. “The brilliant inventor and engineer?”

“Oiy. Mr. Sheffield found it odd that some technical drawings seemed to have disappeared from a part of the building that was untouched by the fire. And we all know . . .” Raven made a sympathetic sound before continuing. “We all know that inventors can be a tempting target because of jealousy or greed.”

Peregrine’s late uncle, who had specialized in designing advanced mechanical devices, had been murdered by someone who wished to steal his revolutionary innovation and sell it for a fortune.

Hawk gave a solemn nod and glanced at Peregrine before responding.

“So what are we going to do about it?”

“I think,” answered Raven, “that tomorrow night we should do a little sleuthing on our own around Cockpit Yard and see whether we can discover any helpful information.”

Despite the long night, Charlotte awoke early, only to find that Wrexford had already risen. Perhaps he, too, had been plagued by unsettling dreams.

She dressed in a rush, unsure why a feeling of misgiving still plagued her thoughts. The fire, however unfortunate, didn’t spark a reason for A. J. Quill to bring it to the attention of the public. As for the so-called race to discover an oceangoing marine propulsion system, she didn’t know nearly enough about the subject to make an informed commentary.

Not yet. She had already done a series of prints on steam engines and their momentous effect on society. But if this new development was as revolutionary as Sheffield had implied, perhaps it merited a closer look.

The ambrosial scent of fresh-brewed coffee drew her to the breakfast room. Wrexford wasn’t there, so after pouring herself a cup, Charlotte headed to the rear of their townhouse.

She paused in the doorway of his main workroom. He was sitting at his desk, head bent, his face half in shadow. She guessed that he hadn’t heard the whisper of her slippers in the corridor, for he didn’t look up.

Charlotte took a moment to study his profile. Even hazed in the half-light of early morning, she could recognize all the little subtle shades of his expression, all the tiny fissures and angles of his face that had become so inexpressibly dear to her....

“What’s wrong?” she asked softly. “Have you learned something more about the fire?”

“No, no.” He gave a wry grimace. “I doubt Kit will rouse himself from sleep until suppertime.”

Yet there was an undertone of agitation in his voice that stirred a frisson of alarm. “Then what’s troubling you?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” confessed Wrexford, still staring at his desktop.

Spotting what looked to be a letter lying on the blotter, Charlotte moved to his chair and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Would you care to explain?”

In answer he handed her the single sheet of paper. “This arrived in the early morning post.”

It was a short missive, written in a neat hand and punctuated with a looping signature. “Lord Wrexford, I beg you to come visit me in Oxford at your earliest convenience,” she read aloud. “I have something of the utmost importance that I wish to discuss with you—and given its momentous significance, I dare not commit it to paper.”

Charlotte looked up. “Who is Neville Greeley?”

“A fellow I knew only slightly at Oxford, when we were both students at Merton College, and later encountered briefly in Portugal during the war.”

He paused, but Charlotte refrained from asking the obvious question. She sensed there was something more complicated lurking beneath the earl’s simple explanation. And so she waited, leaving it up to him to decide whether to tell her what it was.

“However, he was—” Wrexford looked away, but not before Charlotte saw a darkness ripple beneath his lashes. “—my brother’s closest friend.”

Ah.

Her heart clenched in sympathy. The earl’s younger brother, Thomas, had been killed during a reconnaissance mission in Portugal when his cavalry detachment had been caught in an ambush set up by the French. The two of them had been very close, and she knew that Wrexford, however unreasonably, blamed himself for not being able to keep Thomas safe.

“In fact,” added the earl, “Greeley was part of the detachment that rode into the French ambush. He was badly wounded but survived—the only man who did so, I might add.” Wrexford paused to draw a breath. “However, from what I’ve heard, he’s never fully recovered from the horrors of seeing his comrades slaughtered.”

“How awful.” She pulled over a chair so she could sit beside him.

“I helped arran. . .