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

forward to take my arm, leading me into the narrow close, which proved to be merely a gap between two buildings. The hill behind these two buildings began to rise too precipitously for more abodes to be built, and a hundred yards or more above rested the terrace on which Regent Road had been constructed into the side of Calton Hill. Its traffic clattered past, and on particularly dry days must have cast up a plume of dust and debris over these dwellings.

The buildings on either side of the close were made of dark stone with slate roofs—the same as much of the city—with narrow dormer windows along the roofline. Gage guided us to the left around a wooden barrel positioned to catch rainwater from the roof. A rutted lane extended along the base of the hill between the structures and the slope—a spot which I imagined flooded during heavy rains from the runoff from the hill. Dried mud coated much of the lower steps of the staircase leading to the story above, seeming to prove this. Even the rails were covered with mire, as if tenants attempted to wipe away the worst of the grime before ascending.

Mr. Heron’s rooms were at the top of the house at the back of the building, facing the hill, so he’d probably not witnessed our meeting in the road with Maggie. A fact which seemed to bear out when his eyes flared wide at the sight of us standing outside his door.

“Mr. Gage, Lady Darby,” he spluttered. “What brings you here?”

“Good day, Mr. Heron,” Gage replied genially. “May we speak with you?”

“O-o’ course.” He stepped back. “Come in.”

In terms of abodes, it certainly wasn’t the most lavish I’d seen, but it was also far from the meanest. What furniture there was appeared to be good quality, and the space was clean and tidy, but for the boxes stacked along the far wall, presumably cleared from Mr. Rookwood’s office.

“I assume the men I sent were helpful in extracting Rookwood’s things?” Gage asked, noting them as I had.

“Oh, aye! Thank ye. I dinna ken if you’ve been by to see the office, but the window was smashed just as ye predicted.” He turned away, his profile troubled. “I hadna the heart to look inside and see what other damage they’d wrought.”

“It isn’t the first time we’ve seen it happen. Nor will it likely be the last.”

Mr. Heron turned back toward us, and as if just now realizing we were still standing, he offered us seats. “Can I get ye somethin’ to drink?” he asked me.

“No, thank you,” I replied, choosing the armchair near the window so that I would have leverage to help me rise again. “But I do believe we may have met an acquaintance of yours along the road.”

He straightened, nearly choking on his next word. “Oh?”

“Miss Maggie Kincaid?”

He shifted in his seat. “Nay, I dinna believe I ken anyone o’ that name. Wait, isna that Bonnie Brock Kincaid’s sister.” He shook his head. “Nay, I . . .” He coughed. “I definitely dinna ken her.”

Except it was perfectly obvious he did. And why lie about it unless there was a reason he didn’t wish the association to become known? Or perhaps Maggie was the one who didn’t want their relationship revealed?

Either way, his connection to Maggie, Rookwood, and the publication of The King of Grassmarket was suspicious. However, I didn’t press the issue. Not yet. Not until I knew more.

“No? My mistake, then,” I replied breezily.

“Once you began sorting through Rookwood’s things, did you find anything of interest?” Gage said, switching topics before Heron could dwell too long on how much we knew.

His gaze shifted to the side as he sifted through his memory. “No’ that I recall. Nothing that would suggest why . . . why someone would harm him anyway.”

“What of the sequel to The King of Grassmarket?”

He frowned in confusion. “I thought ye believed that was what was taken from Rookwood when he was . . . killed?”

“We did. But we’ve since learned Mr. Lennox, the printer, possesses it.”

Deep grooves scored Mr. Heron’s forehead. “But Mr. Rookwood rejected the sequel.”

Gage and I looked at each other in surprise.

“You’re certain?” he clarified.

“Aye. Rather emphatically, I might add. Told me it was mostly a diatribe o’ Kincaid’s crimes and faults. A personal vendetta. That it wasna even disguised in story form. No’ successfully anyway. And that much o’ it wasna even based in fact.”

“Did you read it?”

He shook his head. “Nay, I only ken what I just told ye. But I’m certain Rookwood wouldna changed his mind. He was that adamant aboot it.”

Then why did Lennox have a copy? Or did he? After all, we hadn’t been allowed to see it. Perhaps he was only claiming to possess it. But why?

Whatever the case, I knew who we were going to be visiting next. But Gage still had one more question.

“Have you accounted for all your time during the afternoon Mr. Rookwood was murdered? Have you forgotten to inform us of anything?”

Mr. Heron stiffened. “I didna do it.”

“We aren’t saying you did, but if we can definitively rule you out, that makes all of this easier.”

He glowered at Gage, clearly not believing him, and clearly still withholding something from us. “I may o’ stopped for dinner. But it wasna an errand.”

That this was an obvious thing he should have mentioned earlier made the corner of Gage’s jaw tick, but he managed to reply calmly. “And where did you stop?”

A sudden sharp twinge in my back made me miss the answer. I pushed to my feet and turned toward the window, ignoring the men’s looks. Pressing against my back, I breathed deep as another pain stabbed through me there. After a moment, the ache eased, and when another didn’t replace it, I turned to face the men again. Gage was taking leave for us, and I added my farewell before exiting onto the landing.

“Is anything wrong?” Gage asked as we descended the stairs.

I glanced up at his concerned expression. “Oh, no,” I