Page 29 of Murder on Black Swan Lane
“Anthony Sloane was a brilliant artist. He craved recognition for his talents.” Henning tapped his pipe against his boot, sending a shower of burnt ashes over the muddy ground. “But I’ve seen his wife’s paintings. She possesses an even greater talent. I can’t help but wonder if that drove him mad.”
“Mad?” The earl raised his brows. “That sounds rather gothic. Like something out ofThe Castle of Otranto, what with its clanking chains, supernatural curses, and tortured villains.”
“Aye, well, Sloane’s behavior turned awfully erratic in the weeks before his death. He was always a sensitive soul. Perhaps too sensitive. He started having inexplicable mood swings, uncontrollable tremors, and terrible headaches.” The surgeon’s expression hardened. “I had the feeling that his wife was forced to take on all the responsibilities of running the household and finances as well as to minister to Sloane’s increasingly irrational behavior.”
It wasn’t an uncommon story within the less prosperous parts of London. Hardship seemed to suck the life out of men, while the women found the strength and resilience to survive.
“At the end, he was muttering to me about guilt and shame—about what he wouldn’t say,” went on Henning. “Delusions, no doubt. Indeed, I suspect that he might have deliberately taken too great a dose of laudanum to silence the devils in his head. But I did not say so to Mrs. Sloane.”
Wrexford suspected that if that were true, she would know it without being told. Nor would the damning knowledge crush her.
“She seems a very resourceful woman,” he said aloud. “It was clever of her to think of taking over her husband’s trade.”
“Aye, Mrs. Sloane is sharper than a scalpel. But a hard life hasn’t dulled her elemental kindness. Despite her own straitened circumstances, she comes regularly to my clinic, where she teaches women from the rookeries to read.”
Yet another facet to the widow. Which only made her more of an enigma.
“I wouldn’t have taken her for one of the selfless women who dedicate themselves to doing good works.”
Henning let out a low snort. “She claims it’s not out of simple Christian charity. She believes knowledge is power, and reading is a skill that helps her fellow females fight back against those who would take advantage of them. It’s also a way to find a decent job, rather than be forced to toss up their skirts in order to survive.”
“Educated women?” The earl gave a mock grimace. “It makes a man shudder to think about it.”
“Auch, laddie, they couldn’t do worse than us at running the world.” The surgeon tucked his pipe into his pocket. “I better get back to work. I have to run a clinic for wounded war veterans later this afternoon, and I need to have that slab o’ meat inside ready for the mortuary wagon before then.”
Making a mental note to send a generous donation to the surgery, Wrexford cocked a quick salute and turned for the gate leading out to the alleyway.
“Wait!”
He looked around.
“I just remembered an odd bit of news I heard from my local apothecary last week,” called Henning. “Apparently there have been a rash of robberies at apothecary shops over the last fortnight. The only thing taken was mercury. Quite a lot by the sound of how many shops were struck.”
Mercury was a prime ingredient in a number of common medicines, but Wrexford didn’t see how that would make it a valuable commodity for a thief.
“Any idea as to why?” he asked.
“Not a bloody clue,” answered the surgeon cheerfully. “You’re the curious cat looking to sniff out answers.”
* * *
“Owwff.” Hawk rolled onto his back and looked longingly at what remained of the buttery chunk of cheese in his hand. “It’s so good, but I can’t eat another bite.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Charlotte. “You and Raven already finished off two kidney pies and an eel pasty.”
“And a wedge of apple tart,” volunteered Raven. He, too, was lying on the rag rug by the stove, peeling an orange.
Oh, the tart, thick with creamy custard, had been gloriously good. Charlotte couldn’t remember the last time she had indulged in such a luxury. “We can save the cheese, along with the rest of the food, for tomorrow.” She rose and gently pried it from Hawk’s sticky fingers. He was already half asleep, and though his face was liberally caked with crumbs, she didn’t have the heart to wake him and insist that he wash himself.
Stepping over Raven’s outstretched legs, she watched him pop several slices of the fruit into his mouth. “I vow, we’ve enough food left over te feed a regiment.”
He grinned. “His Lordship was daft enough to give me that much blunt for vittles, so I figgered there was no harm in spending it.” He fished out some coins from his jacket. “We tried, but we couldn’t gobble it all up.” A sigh. “Do we have to give it back?”
“I don’t think Lord Wrexford expects it. You keep it, so that you and Hawk may purchase pasties when you are hungry.”
“Naw, you keep it. Mebbe next week we can have another feast.”
“An excellent suggestion.” Charlotte carefully selected two shillings from the remaining coins and handed them back. “Still, I would rest easier knowing you have these in your pocket.”
