Their soft-soled shoes made no sound as the boys dropped down to the cobblestones from the slow-moving carriage and slithered into the shadows of the brick and stone outer wall of the school.
A moment later, Wrexford’s carriage rolled through the main entrance.
“Follow me,” whispered Peregrine, rising to a crouch and leading the way along the Long Walk. “There’s a wooden gate set into a recessed niche by Corner House that’s used for the night-soil cart. It affords some easy handholds for scrambling up and over to a narrow ledge. From there we can crawl to the corner and drop down into Church Yard.”
One by one, the three of them scaled the age-dark planking and pulled themselves up to the stone outcropping. “Hawk, once we cross the yard, there’s a way to jiggle open the old lock at the base of the left bell tower. Inside is a circular staircase that will take you up to a vantage point overlooking the Schoolyard.” A silvery mist rose from the nearby river. The crescent moon flickered in and out of the scudding clouds, leaving the school wreathed in darkness. The Weasels hurried across the deserted yard and crept up to the front of the chapel.
“That’s the provost’s lodge,” said Peregrine, indicating the stately brick and Bath stone building to his right. “In the center, rising up from the entrance archway, is Lupton’s Tower.” He pointed to the glow of golden lamplight illuminating the tower’s top two banks of mullioned windows. “That is the private quarters of the provost of Eton. Wrex is meeting with him in there.”
He deftly worked open the lock of the door to the bell tower.
“Raven and I will be searching the Lower School, which is straight ahead, and the Upper School, which is to your left,” he continued. “You keep an eye on the yard and its surroundings. M’lady has given us strict orders that at the first sign of trouble you are to blow the whistle and then scarper.”
“Oiy,” acknowledged Hawk.
“Then up you go,” said Raven.
As Hawk slipped into the stairwell, he turned to Peregrine. “Where do we start?”
“The Lower School is topped by the Long Chamber, which is where the King’s Scholars sleep,” answered Peregrine. “So I doubt any important documents are hidden there. Still, let us have a quick look around, and then we’ll take a special shortcut from there to the locked section of the Upper School near the Ante-Chapel, where I think Mr. Valencourt has his lair.”
* * *
The imposing entrance door to Lupton’s Tower swung open before Wrexford could give a second rap with the knocker.
“Lord Wrexford.” A courtly-looking gentleman with a carefully coiffed mane of salt-and-pepper hair greeted him with a genial smile. “How nice to finally make your acquaintance. I’ve heard a great deal about you.”
“Then it’s a wonder that you agreed to meet with me, Lord Fenway” said the earl.
A polite chuckle. “I prefer to form my own judgment regarding both people and the decisions that my position in Society require me to make.” The provost gestured for him to enter.
“Excellent, as I am looking to get your thoughts and opinions on several highly important matters.”
“Then let us proceed to my study without delay. Serious subjects are best discussed over a glass of fine brandy.” Fenway started up the circular stairs, the flames from the branch of candles in his hand casting a skittery light over the ancient stones. “Forgive the informality of the evening. Given the lateness of the hour, I saw no need to keep my servants on duty when I’m perfectly capable of pouring libations.”
“That suits me perfectly,” answered Wrexford. “What we have to discuss is highly confidential.”
“I confess, sir, you have piqued my curiosity.” The provost led the way into a tastefully appointed room paneled in dark wood. Carved bookshelves dominated the walls, interspersed with a number of fine landscape paintings—the earl recognized several Constables and a quartet of smaller canvases by Thomas Girtin.
“Do have a seat,” continued Fenway, indicating a pair of leather armchairs by the hearth. The glow of the banked coals warmed the dark burgundy hues of the oriental carpet to mellower shades of red. He poured two glasses of amber-colored brandy and passed one to Wrexford. “Mr. Wheeler indicated that you might wish to speak with me, though he did not elaborate.”
“Is Wheeler not still here?”
“No.” Fenway settled into his seat and clicked open the cedarwood box on the side table beside his chair. “Would you care for a cigar or cheroot?”
“Thank you, but not at the moment.” Wrexford took a sip of brandy, which was indeed superb.
“Wheeler has kindly consented to take over a bridge project for crossing the River Thames at Dorney Reach, and so is spending a few days at the site in order to give me his assessment of when the work can be finished,” explained the provost. “He has also agreed to investigate why a smaller bridge just a stone’s throw from here is taking so long to complete.”
“I imagine a grand undertaking like the Bristol Road Project has a great many complex logistics to oversee.”
“That is putting it mildly, milord. But I don’t imagine you came here to discuss my problems.”
Though we will touch on them shortly, thought Wrexford.
“Please tell me your concerns,” went on Fenway, “and what it is that I can do to be of help.”
Wrexford had already decided not to dance in circles around his reasons for requesting the meeting. “I am hoping that you might identify the men you feel are the best bridge designers involved in the Bristol Road Project,” he replied. “And who among them might be capable of murder.”
