Page 36 of Murder on Black Swan Lane
“Help me lift him,” commanded the earl.
There was a tiny rent in Drummond’s coat, just below the left shoulder blade.
“Some sort of blade, I would guess,” he muttered. “Shoved in with enough force to penetrate straight to the heart.”
“From what we’ve heard, the man had his fair share of enemies,” said Tyler.
“Yes,” mused Wrexford. “We know he was an odious little sneak. But for someone to murder him and seek to destroy his books and papers seems to indicate a far more serious transgression than simply annoying his fellow members.” He rose and looked around at the disarray for a long moment. “The murder weapon . . . the murder weapon . . .”
Tyler shook his head. “There won’t be a trace of it—”
“Aye, I’m sure there won’t be,” interrupted a loud and unpleasantly familiar voice from just outside the doorway.
The pot of strong coffee and a leisurely breakfast was now looking even more appealing, thought Wrexford with an inward oath.
The Runner appeared, a dark-on-dark shape framed by the fluted white molding. “Your lackey may have disposed of the evidence, but no matter.” Eyes narrowing to the sharpness of a razor’s edge, Griffin allowed a ghost of a smile to flit over his lips. “It seems this time you’ve been caught red-handed, Lord Wrexford.”
CHAPTER 8
“Don’t be daft, Griffin,” snapped Wrexford. “Your cockloft can’t be that empty. If I had murdered the man, I would hardly be so stupid as to send for help and then linger to fight the fire.”
“So it would seem at first blush,” replied the Runner. “And yet, it might also be interpreted as the diabolically clever actions of a cunning killer.” A pause. “Especially when a suspect just happens to be looming over the corpse with the victim’s blood dripping from his hands.”
Tyler wordlessly handed Wrexford a small towel from one of the overturned drawers.
His temper flared, but the earl quickly tamped down the spark. A shouting match would serve no good purpose save to spew more smoke and vitriol into the room.
“A closer look at the empirical evidence will show that I can’t be guilty of the crime. The watchman will testify that no more than eight or nine minutes passed between our entering the building and my valet’s rushing to raise the alarm.” Wrexford gestured at the ransacked room. “Look at the mayhem and the advanced state of the fires—not to speak of the dead man. I may be the Devil Incarnate, but even Lucifer himself could not have created all this in such a short space of time.”
“As for the murder weapon, I did not exit the building, so it’s either in here or somewhere in the corridor,” pointed out Tyler.
“Hmmph.” Griffin entered the laboratory and made a slow circle through the work space, stopping every few steps to examine the damage.
“As you see,” murmured Wrexford once the Runner had returned to the doorway, “there is no weapon. Which proves I didn’t kill him.”
“What’s to say you—or your lackey—don’t have it on your person?” countered the Runner.
The earl stripped off his coat and tossed it on the counter. Tyler quickly followed suit. “You are welcome to search us.”
Griffin cracked his meaty knuckles. “Which I shall do, milord.”
And the fellow made quite a thorough—and rough-handed—job of it, thought the earl, though he managed to remain impassive throughout the process. In the cat-and-mouse game of nerves, he was not going to be the one to flinch.
“Now that you are done,” he said with deliberate politeness after the Runner had finished pawing over Tyler, “I assume we are free to have a closer look around.” He made a show of dusting his coat before putting it back on. “Just in case we see something you miss.”
“Nay,” replied the Runner. “I’ll not have the two of you mucking things up before I have a chance to study the scene.”
“But—”
“Lord Wrexford, the only reason I’m not arresting you is because there’s no weapon. But you can be sure I’ll be lookingveryclosely at the rest of the evidence.”
“Do,” said Wrexford calmly, though he couldn’t help adding, “However, what you’ve seen so far does not inspire me to have much confidence in your ability to find the real culprit.”
“Get out,” snarled Griffin. “Milord.”
A tactical mistake, conceded the earl. He had wanted to make a more thorough examination of the half-burned papers. A clatter in the corridor announced that the watchman and his bucket brigade were about to arrive, and once they set to work, the details were likely to be destroyed.
“Just one last thing,” murmured Wrexford. “Might I inquire how you happened to arrive here so quickly?”
