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

“I don’t know the specifics, of course. But he said there were some wrinkles to be smoothed out. I assumed he meant the author was giving him trouble on the terms or perhaps a bit of editing. Authors can be rather temperamental, you know. Glad I don’t have to deal with them.”

“And yet he brought you the manuscript.”

A slight furrow formed between Mr. Lennox’s brows. “Yes. But it’s not as if his actions were unheard of. I can recall at least one other occasion when he brought me a manuscript before he was heading out of town, asking me not to print it until I’d received word from him to do so.”

Perhaps, but the printer’s puzzled expression made it clear that Rookwood’s behavior was also far from customary. Had Rookwood intended to leave Edinburgh? To go see the author, Nathan Mugdock, in person? I had been operating under the assumption that Mugdock lived in Edinburgh because of his subject matter, but maybe I was wrong.

Or had Rookwood given Lennox the manuscript for another reason? One much less innocuous. Maybe he had known someone was determined to have it and so had passed it along for safekeeping. If so, things didn’t look good for Bonnie Brock, who we all knew had been threatening the publisher.

And yet Rookwood had seemed genuinely vexed by the ramifications of his publication of The King of Grassmarket, despite the money it had brought to him. I would not have wagered on his desire to publish a sequel. But perhaps his frustration had all been a ruse for our benefit. Perhaps he was wary of telling us the truth, lest we cause him as many problems as Bonnie Brock.

“Have you read it? The sequel?” Gage clarified.

Mr. Lennox’s lips pursed. “No. At least not past the first two or three sentences.”

“It sounds like you’re not an admirer.”

He turned his head to gaze up at the lone picture on the wall—a rather mediocre landscape of a field dotted with flowers and a hazy, jumbled set of ruins looming in the background. “Not everyone who lives or works along Cowgate is an admirer of Bonnie Brock Kincaid.” He nodded toward the main room of his shop. “And what with my prosperous business, I doubt Kincaid is an admirer of mine either.”

I found it interesting he had chosen to focus on the subject of the book and not the author as being the topic of Gage’s question.

“But then again, I’ve hardly the time to read everything that comes into my shop to be printed. And I don’t have to agree with something in order to be happy to profit from it.” He offered us a self-deprecating smile, perhaps trying to ameliorate the bitterness that had tinted his last words.

“Do you know who Mugdock is?” Gage queried lightly.

“I don’t. And I didn’t want to know. Well, no. I suppose that’s not precisely true,” he amended, spreading his clasped hands before pressing the palms back together. “I admit I am curious. But I didn’t ask Rookwood. I know when it’s my business to know something, and when it’s not.”

“If the police come here asking for the sequel, will you give it to them?”

Lennox scoffed. “Not unless they have a warrant. For I can wager what they’ll do with it.”

Gage nodded, tapping the crown of his hat where it rested in his lap. “Thank you for taking the time to speak with us. I have just one more question. Who do you think killed Rookwood?”

Mr. Lennox’s eyes narrowed slightly at the corners, and he inhaled a deep breath before speaking. “Well, it seems perfectly obvious to me that it’s Kincaid, and just as obvious you don’t wish to hear that, but it’s true. And I warn you, if I find my shop and my safe broken into, I’ll be sending the police to speak to you.”

“We are not Kincaid’s informants,” Gage replied crisply, pushing to his feet. “Rest assured, if he is the killer, we will just as surely see him brought to justice as anyone else.”

“Yes, you might. But . . .” He broke off even as he glanced my way, making it clear what he had been about to say before he’d thought better of it.

I arched a single eyebrow in disdain as I joined the others in standing. “Was there something you wished to say to me, Mr. Lennox?”

His gaze met mine squarely through the covering of my veil, and for a moment I thought he was actually going to insult me to my face. But then he swallowed, visibly relenting. “No. No, there isn’t.”

I nodded once. “Good day to you.” Turning sharply on my heel, I marched toward the door and opened it without waiting for Gage.

Though he quickly caught up, lacing my arm through his as we made our way back through the noise and stench of the shop, and then hurried to escape out of the rain and into our carriage.

Sinking back against the squabs, I lifted my veil and pressed a hand to my forehead, feeling the mild beginnings of a headache from the shop’s fumes. It seemed as if the stink lingered about us, permeating our clothes. How did the employees stand it? I supposed there were worse jobs, but the manner in which the scorched ink seemed to sting one’s nostrils was most unpleasant.

“Well, I suppose we now have confirmation that a sequel exists, and where it is.” I frowned. “But if Lennox has had it since the day before Rookwood’s murder, then what papers did the murderer rip from Rookwood’s hands, leaving only the corners of a few pages behind?”

“Maybe there was more than one copy. Or maybe they only thought it was the sequel.” He scowled down at his walking stick. “Or maybe they weren’t after the sequel but something else entirely.”

Something we had no suspicion of. At least, not yet.

Disheartened, I turned to stare through the mist of rain outside the window and down