A Wicked Conceit by Anna Huber (best young adult book series txt) 📗

for keeping them shut, not with the noise of the crowd gathered outside, practically pressed against the glass, penetrating through the cracks and crevices.

An oil lamp burned on Mr. Heron’s desk, and he moved it to the empty desk farthest from the windows, casting a small circle of light around the space. Gage helped him move two chairs closer to the table so that we could all be seated while I propped the dripping umbrella against the desk. Unlike last time, Mr. Heron did not offer to take our outer garments, and I was glad of it. A draft of chill air had found its way inside my mantua, and I draped my ermine boa tighter around my throat.

“I s’pose you heard aboot what happened to Mr. Rookwood?” he began, glancing distractedly toward the windows.

“Yes, and first of all, let me say, we’re terribly sorry for your loss,” Gage replied.

Heron turned to stare at him rather goggle-eyed and then swallowed, making his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “I found him, you ken. And yet . . . and yet it hasna really sunk in that he’s . . .” He swallowed again. “He’s dead.”

I noticed his brogue was more pronounced this morning than it had been two days before, but that was understandable. After all, many merchants and businessmen affected a more polished English accent similar to the aristocratic tones the upper class were taught to perfect from an early age, no matter whether they were Scottish, Welsh, or Irish. My brother-in-law Philip’s accent was as crisp as any nobleman’s, except when he was tired or had too much to drink. Then his Highland brogue rounded his speech.

“That’s not an uncommon reaction,” I assured him. “It can be difficult to accept something so tragic, so final.”

He nodded, his gaze drifting toward the door to Rookwood’s office. Until a loud bang at the front of the building made him start. His round eyes swung toward the disturbance.

“I don’t expect they’ll gather for long,” Gage said. “Not when they realize they won’t be allowed to tour the premises. Not in this weather.”

“You think so?”

The corners of Gage’s mouth lifted in a heartening smile. “Most of them must already be soaked and freezing, and not all of them have the resources for coal and a fire to warm themselves by. Poor chaps.”

Mr. Heron inhaled a deeper breath than the shallow ones he’d been taking thus far, seeming to derive some hope from Gage’s words. Then he spread his hands flat on the desk between us. “I s’pose you heard aboot it from the police, then.”

Gage didn’t correct him. “Tell us in your words what happened.”

“Mr. Rookwood sent me oot to run a number o’ errands for him. ’Twasn’t uncommon. His gout had started to flare up more often o’ late, and so he would send me in his place.”

I wondered if Rookwood had also been grooming him to take over, but if Mr. Heron held similar aspirations, they didn’t reflect in his voice or demeanor.

“I . . . I didna finish ’til late, and I expected Mr. Rookwood to be gone. He usually left aboot six o’clock. But I noticed the light under his door, so I knocked to see if there was anythin’ he wanted. When he didna answer, I thought maybe 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