A Wicked Conceit Anna Huber (learn to read activity book TXT) 📖

He tapped his fingers in agitation against the head of his walking stick propped beside his leg. “No, not really. I’m more aggravated that he wouldn’t share what he knew. Though I suppose I shouldn’t fault him for wanting everything in his investigation to be aboveboard. And corroborating with any suspect, even me, isn’t that.”

“What are you planning to do with that?” I nodded toward his walking stick, which he rarely carried. “Drive away any encroachers?” I knew well that walking sticks often doubled as weapons for gentlemen. I suspected that was why Lord Gage had developed the affectation of carrying one. But Gage usually eschewed this traditional accessory in favor of a pistol tucked into his greatcoat or the back waistband of his trousers.

“Don’t worry,” he replied, correctly interpreting my thoughts. “I’ve got my gun, too.”

We were venturing into the edge of Old Town, and there were bound to be curious bystanders gathered about the place where a murder had so recently occurred, but his decision to carry two weapons seemed a trifle excessive. Particularly as I also had my Hewson percussion pistol concealed inside my reticule, where I always carried it.

“Well, let’s try not to use either, shall we?” I responded tartly.

His brow darkened and he opened his mouth to argue but then stopped, perhaps realizing I was imitating the insulting obviousness of his earlier statement.

However, I was soon grateful for his extreme foresight when I saw the crowd gathered on North Bridge Street. It was worse than the evening before, with people loitering twenty to thirty deep, obstructing traffic, even in the chill rain. I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised. The populace’s macabre fascination with murder, along with the victim’s connection to the spectacularly popular The King of Grassmarket, ensured that the crime would capture the public’s interest.

But Gage had the forethought to direct his carriage to approach the office from Calton Low and Leith Wynd, driving past Trinity Hospital and into the old Physic Gardens. On this backside of the row of tenements where Rookwood Publishing stood, there were still a few inquisitive onlookers, but far fewer than on the bridge. Since our carriage could only traverse so far without getting stuck in the narrow lanes, Gage and I soon had to set out on foot.

We picked our way over the slick and uneven cobblestones that paved the steep slope of Carrubbers Close. The walls of the tenements on either side closed around us, leaving only a thin slice of leaden sky overhead, making the umbrella I carried so that Gage’s hands remained free to grip his walking stick and steady me almost unnecessary. This close had long been a refuge for Jacobites—those loyal to the exiled King James II and VII and his Stuart descendants. While the quest to restore the Stuart line to the throne was now extinct, the stones still bore the traces of the past, including the image of an oak leaf and acorns etched into the wall near the entrance to a wool merchant’s shop.

A pair of men, roughly dressed, idled in the doorway, and Gage stepped between me and them, guiding me toward the rear entrance to the building in which Rookwood’s office was located. I could feel their gazes following us as we stepped inside.

The rear of the building being several floors below that of the level facing the bridge, we climbed two dimly lit flights of stairs before approaching the likeliest door. Gage tried the latch, but it would not open, and we soon heard a voice call out from inside. “Go away! I’m no’ lettin’ any o’ you vultures in here. No’ if I have any say.”

Gage and I shared a speaking glance. Apparently, we weren’t the only ones who had attempted to gain entry in this manner. After witnessing how the infamous London Burkers’ home had been plucked apart as souvenir hunters descended upon the place after their arrest for the murder of the Italian Boy, even stripping the single tree in their garden of all its bark, I was more resigned to the fact than startled. Had the Burkers’ victim had a home, let alone a definitive identity, I suspected it would have been plundered as well.

“Mr. Heron, this is Mr. and Mrs. Gage.” Gage turned his ear toward the door to listen. “We were hoping to speak with you.”

For several moments these words were met with silence, and I began to think Rookwood’s assistant would turn us away. But then his voice replied louder this time, closer to the wooden barrier between us. “Are you alone?”

Gage glanced behind us to be certain. “Yes.”

We heard the metal screech of a bolt being thrown back 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