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

information, for one never knows where it will lead you,” Gage explained. “Do you mind telling us what the contents of the letter were?”

A spark of levity lit Murray’s eyes. “Aye, is tha’ what yer really after? Rookwood wanted to ken if anyone had visited me in the last fortnight, complainin’ aboot the play.” My puzzlement must have shown, for Murray shrugged. “He dinna explain why he wanted to ken. And I dinna have the chance to ask.”

“And had anyone?” Gage prompted.

He scrutinized Gage, perhaps still uncertain if we were trying to gather information to use against him. “Aye, there’s been plenty o’ complaints. Most o’ ’em outraged at the supposed immorality o’ the play, though that disna stop ’em from comin’ to see it. We’ve had packed houses every night. We also published a note on the broadsides just for the likes o’ ’em, proclaimin’ that ‘depravity, even masked by daring, is certain to result in guilt and imprisonment.’”

I suspected this was a quote he had been forced to repeat more times than he wished to count.

“Though I s’pose the fact that Kincaid hasna yet been made to pay for his crimes does a great deal to contradict that sentiment,” he added under his breath.

While that was in some regards true, I also knew that Bonnie Brock had paid for his crimes in other ways. In truth, the law which had so failed his thirteen-year-old self and his sister had made him into the criminal he’d become. So if there was guilt to be handed out, it went both ways. But no one was going to punish the law or the police for those failures. No one in authority anyway.

“Have all of the complaints been about the morality of the play?” Gage asked, clearly following the scent of something I hadn’t caught. “Has there been anything different?”

Murray rubbed his chin. “Aye, there was one fellow. Cornered me in the midst o’ one o’ the performances to complain aboot the discrepancies between the book and the play. Accused me o’ deliberately makin’ Kincaid into a hero rather than a villain. And o’ course he was right. I ken what plays well to an audience, and makin’ Kincaid into a villain is no’ it. No’ to mention the fact that no one could make heads nor tails o’ the hodgepodge o’ accusatory nonsense made in the book. ’Twas best to leave it oot and shape the script as we did.”

“Did you tell him that?”

“Aye, and he accused me o’ bein’ in Kincaid’s pay,” he scoffed. “I had ’em tossed oot. Havena seen him since.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

Murray shook his head. “’Twas too dark backstage. But he was tall and had an upper-crust accent—or he feigned it.” This was a theater, after all.

We thanked him and then made our way back down the corridor the way we’d come.

“Rookwood told us that Mugdock refused to endorse the Theatre Royal’s rendition of The King of Grassmarket because it was inaccurate,” I murmured so that only Gage could hear me. “He said he was so furious about it that he turned down the money they offered.”

“Rookwood must have suspected that his author had gone directly to Murray to complain. But why decide to confirm it? Why would it matter?”

I considered his questions and everything we knew thus far. “Maybe . . . maybe he thought Mugdock was stirring up trouble. And maybe he was worried he would suffer in the repercussions.”

Was that why he’d been murdered? Because of something Mugdock had done other than write the book? If only we knew the author’s real identity. Then we might be able to answer that. Because whatever the truth, Rookwood had clearly been punished for something, whether justly or unjustly.

Gage and I returned to our carriage and traveled the short distance to Lennox’s shop. Here, too, people were gathered outside in front of the broadsides plastered to the side of the building—placards presumably printed by Lennox. Though curious, I didn’t inch closer to see what they advertised. I kept my veil over my face and allowed Gage to hustle me inside the building before anyone could approach us. Including the brawny man leaning against the wall just beyond the broadsides, whose eyes followed us into the shop.

Lennox was absent from the main room where the printers ran, throwing off their pungent scent and clinking noises. I wondered if they ran day and night, if they were ever given a rest. Gage led us toward the office, where he knocked on the door.

“Come in!” a voice shouted, which proved to be Mr. Lennox’s when Gage opened the door. “Mr. and Mrs. Gage,” he declared, pushing to his feet. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” His expression was a curious jumble of emotions, but chief of them was definitely not pleasure. He forced a smile. “I thought I’d answered all your questions.”

“Some information has come to light that we need to ask you about,” Gage replied.

“Of course.” He gestured for us to take a seat, but my husband declined.

“This shouldn’t take long. During our last discussion you told us you’d last seen Rookwood when he visited you here two days before his murder. However, you were overheard arguing with him at Rookwood’s office only the day before his death.”

Lennox looked away, scraping a hand through his copper red hair.

“What do you have to say to that?”

“It was the maid, wasn’t it?” He sighed, shaking his head. “I knew I should have told you, but I thought it would only make me look suspicious.” He held his hand out. “And you would jump to just this sort of conclusion.”

“Your decision to omit it makes you look far more suspicious.”

He nodded, staring broodingly down at his cluttered desk. “I can see that now.”

“Why were you arguing?” I pressed.

He grinned shamefacedly. “It seems silly now, but I was angry because I’d found out he recommended another printer to a colleague of his. A big job, too.”

“Then he cost you a