A Wicked Conceit by Anna Huber (e novels to read TXT) 📕

Mr. Heron shrugged. “I delivered a letter to Mr. Murray, the manager. I dinna ken what it contained.”

Didn’t know or wouldn’t tell us?

“And his solicitor?” Gage asked.

“Same. A sealed letter.”

Gage nodded before asking for more specifics about the businesses he’d visited on behalf of Rookwood, as well as their locations, so that we could follow up with them. “Would you mind showing us Rookwood’s office?”

His eyes were stricken. “It’s no’ been cleaned.”

“I didn’t expect it would.”

He rose to his feet shakily before crossing toward Rookwood’s door and opening it. The scent of stale tobacco smoke assailed us, smothering some of the more unpleasant smells left behind. I pressed my mantua sleeve against my nose and followed the men inside.

Rookwood’s body had, of course, been taken away, but I could see the outline of his head on the blotter where blood and other matter had pooled. I fought down a wave of nausea, my nose being more sensitive and my stomach more prone to queasiness in my condition, and turned away. As there was no corpse to examine where I might use the knowledge I’d acquired from my first husband, Sir Anthony, I elected to allow Gage to search that side of the room, while I surveyed the other.

As far as I could tell, most of the office appeared undisturbed. The chairs had been moved, but that was probably the work of the police. Mr. Heron still hovered to the side of the door, eyeing the desk as if a snake perched atop its surface, ready to strike.

“I understand the window was propped open?” I queried, hoping to distract him, as well as gain more information.

“Aye.” He turned to face me. “Wi’ a bronze bird.”

“Like in the book?”

He nodded. “I didna immediately notice the connection. No’ ’til the police asked me aboot it.”

I moved closer to the now closed window, discovering that a pool of water still sat on the floorboards directly below it. Muddy footprints trailed away from the window toward the desk, crossing back and forth over each other, but curiously never venturing farther into the room. Had the killer scaled the building with the aid of a rope or a ladder and, finding Rookwood asleep at his desk, climbed through the window and snuck up behind him to deliver the fatal blow? That was the only explanation I could think of for why Rookwood hadn’t risen from his seat or at least shown some sort of alarm at the intruder’s entrance, as well as why the footprints didn’t extend farther into the room.

Unless it was all a ruse, and the killer hadn’t entered through the window.

I found that scenario far more likely for a number of reasons. For one, surely someone would have noticed a man scaling the wall in broad daylight, even in a dark close like Carrubbers. The killer would have been taking a terrible risk that the alarm wouldn’t be raised by his actions. Two, we had seen for ourselves just days before how difficult this window was to open, and Rookwood was unlikely to have propped it open himself in the cool, damp weather. And three, the theatricality of the evidence and the way it pointed a finger at The King of Grassmarket and Bonnie Brock Kincaid was far too calculated.

As we’d entered, it was perfectly obvious to me that Rookwood’s killer had come through the door—either the front or the back. I could tell from Gage’s measured scrutiny and the cynical twist of his lips as he examined the evidence that he was of the same opinion. The question that remained was whether Rookwood had been aware of their arrival or if he had fallen asleep as Mr. Heron claimed he’d done in the past. But the answer to that query would not be found here but on the body. The location of the wound on Rookwood’s skull would reveal the position of his head when he was struck.

I wondered how we might obtain this information, whether Sergeant Maclean could be convinced to share it with us. Sometimes the newspapers relayed detailed information about the autopsies of murder victims to the public, but that was not guaranteed. Especially in the case of a respected member of society like Mr. Rookwood.

In any case, that was a matter to be addressed later, and Mr. Heron was once again beginning to look rather green about the gills, so I rejoined him near the door. “Is the back door to the office normally kept locked?”

“No’ during business hours. Some o’ our staff and suppliers enter that way.” He paused, glancing behind him toward the front of the office where outside the crowd was gathered. “Today was different.”

I nodded in understanding. “What of Mr. Rookwood’s assets? Do you know who stands to inherit?”

He shook his head. “I believe he has a sister who lives near Aberdeen, but I’ve ne’er met her.”

“And the publishing assets? What will be done with them?”

“Well, I . . . I’d hoped we could make an arrangement where I might buy the business from him in installments.” His shoulders sank and he turned away. “But I s’pose ’tis too late for that noo.”

He looked so dejected, so lost, my heart ached for him.

“Whatever the state of Rookwood’s will, may I make a suggestion?” Gage said, clasping the other man on the shoulder. “Hire a few men to help you pack up and clear out of these premises. Before it’s too late.” He glanced past him toward the windows, where outside a mob still gathered. “Or else you’re liable to return tomorrow and find the windows smashed in and the contents looted by souvenir hunters.”

Mr. Heron stiffened, his eyes wide with alarm.

“I can recommend a few good men. I can send them to you within the hour, if you like.”

He exhaled in relief. “Aye. Aye, I would.”

“You’ve got some unsavory-looking fellows loitering in the close behind here, so I don’t recommend leaving until they arrive. And ask anyone who tries to gain entry what my wife’s favorite