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

rumbled forward, I reached out to clasp Gage’s hand. Though he didn’t turn to look at me or speak, he did squeeze back, holding my hand tightly until we reached Cowgate. I buttoned my pelerine to the top and draped the veil over the brim of my capote bonnet before stepping down from the carriage beside Gage. The soot-stained gray stones of the stolid building before us were certainly nothing to look at, but I noted two or three hearty souls clustered around the broadsides posted on the side of the building as Gage hustled me toward the door. A tarnished bronze plaque attached to the wall next to it was all that proclaimed its proprietor.

Inside, we were assaulted by the acrid stench of hot ink and oil, and the click and whirl of the moving metal parts from a trio of steam printing presses. A pair of men stood at each press on either side of it, feeding paper onto the belts that pulled it under the cylinders, while a fourth pair of men stood conferring off to the side. Catching sight of us, the man dressed in gentlemen’s attire, sans his frock coat, the white sleeves of his linen shirt rolled up to reveal his forearms, dismissed the man in the leather apron to approach us.

“Mr. Lennox,” Gage called out as he neared, raising his voice to be heard above the noise. “My name is Sebastian Gage.” He nodded to me at his side. “Might my wife and I have a word with you?”

Lennox gestured broadly toward a door to our right, and we followed him into an office. On first glance, it appeared as if someone had stood in the center of the room and thrown ream after ream of paper into the air so that it floated down to carpet the room. But on closer inspection, I realized the papers were actually organized in some sort of system of neat stacks of various sizes. They covered every available surface, as well as a large square footage of the floor. Even the chairs boasted piles of documents, the uppermost pages ruffling in the breeze caused by Lennox’s quick movements.

“There,” he declared with a congenial grin as he closed the door. “Now at least we can hear one another without shouting.” Although, the clacks and clinks of the presses still penetrated through the door, albeit more softly. He offered Gage his hand. “Welcome to my shop, Mr. and Mrs. Gage.” His gaze skimmed over my veil, but he didn’t remark upon it. “What can I do for you?” He gestured toward the chairs for us to have a seat, only to realize they were already occupied by the fruits of his trade. “Oh! My apologies.”

I took the opportunity to study him as he shifted the stacks of various broadsheets, brochures, and booklets. A tall man of about thirty with a long, thin nose and thick copper red hair, Mr. Lennox appeared to be a sturdy, affable fellow. While he might have hailed from the second or third generation of a wealthy middle-class family, I strongly suspected his ancestors were instead gentry forced to turn to trade. It was somehow evident in the rhythm and accent of his voice—effortless and resonant like a bell.

“We understand you do much of Rookwood Publishing’s printing,” Gage said.

“Yes, yes, I do. What a sad business,” he declared with a shake of his head. “I don’t mind telling you I was shocked and dismayed this morning to hear what had happened to him.” He plunked down the second stack on the floor and then dusted the chairs with the handkerchief from his pocket. “Is that why you’re here? Working with the police, are you?”

I turned to Gage as I settled in the nearest chair, curious how he would answer this query.

“We haven’t had a chance to consult with them yet, but that’s not uncommon.” A half-truth if ever I’d heard one. “When did you last speak with Mr. Rookwood yourself?” he hastened to ask before Mr. Lennox could dwell too long on his last statement.

“Well, let me see.” He leaned back in his seat. “He visited me here two, no, three days ago. Wanted to drop off a new manuscript and discuss some contract terms.”

“What of his assistant, Mr. Heron?”

Mr. Lennox swiveled in his seat to glance toward one of the piles of documents he’d moved from our chairs and then changed his mind and reached for one at the corner of his desk instead. “Ah, yes. He stopped by with the text for a pamphlet.” He nodded once he’d located it, but Gage shook his head, neither of us being interested in seeing it.

“And when you last saw Mr. Rookwood, what was his frame of mind?”

The printer, who had laced his fingers in front of him, gestured with his combined hands. “The same as always, I suppose.”

“Then he didn’t seem agitated? Or mention that anything particular was vexing him?” Gage asked as Mr. Lennox continued to shake his head at each question.

“Not about business. I can’t speak to his personal life, for we never discussed it. Ours was a purely professional relationship.”

Gage nodded, his gaze skimming over the piles of papers on the desk. “What of the new manuscript he brought you? Was it anything noteworthy?”

Mr. Lennox’s head tilted and a new watchfulness passed over his features. “Yes, in fact.” He paused another moment before continuing, as if debating whether to say more. “It was the sequel to The King of Grassmarket.”

I sat forward, not having expected to hear this. “You have it?”

“Yes.”

“May we see it?” Gage queried, his gaze once again dipping to the documents separating us from the printer.

Mr. Lennox weighed this question before declining. “No. I placed it in my safe, and there it shall remain until matters can be ironed out with the author. And now, I suppose, the new owner of Rookwood Publishing. Or at least, its assets.”

Gage frowned. “What do you mean, ‘matters can be ironed out