The earl gave no reaction as Fenway relieved him of both his full-sized rifled pistol and the miniature one in the hidden breast pocket of his coat.
“Check his boots as well,” cautioned Wheeler. He smiled when Fenway fished out the thin-bladed knife from its sheath. “Boots are handy places in which to hide a blade.”
He gave a flick of his pistol, indicating for Wrexford to turn around and face the door to the corridor. “Go ahead of us and unlock the portal of our guest’s quarters, Hugo.”
“With pleasure.”
“Move, Lord Wrexford—but do so slowly,” ordered Wheeler. “As I said, I’ll shoot you now if I have to, but I’d prefer to take a stroll on the roof with you.”
Wrexford responded with a nonchalant shrug and walked into the corridor as directed.
Fenway had the door to the Lockbox open—it was a slab of thick oak with an ingenious faux front of stone tiles that blended into the outer walls. “Enjoy your stay, Lord Wrexford.”
“It’s not personal, milord. It’s merely business.” A push from Wheeler propelled him through the narrow opening into the chamber. The door slammed shut with a thud, and the earl heard a locking mechanism click into place.
A hollow silence settled over him. Fenway was right—no sound reached his ears from the outside. The only hint of life was the faint beating of his own heart.
And then Wrexford began to chuckle.
* * *
“Fawwgh!” Raven expelled a sharp snort through his nose as he and Peregrine emerged from the passageway. “That was even more disgusting than the sewers of St. Giles.”
Peregrine plucked a tangle of silvery strands from a spiderweb out of his hair and scraped a smear of ooze from his coat sleeve. “Trust me, there are even more noxious tunnels under the chapel. But never mind that now. We need to get into the locked lair and discover if Mr. Valencourt is working with Milton’s killer.”
He cracked open the door to the storage room and peered up and down the corridor. The shortcut had brought them to within spitting distance of the door that gave entrance into the mysterious part of the building. “The watchman has finished his rounds, and I don’t imagine that we’ll encounter anyone at this hour of the night—”
“Still, better to be safe rather than sorry,” counseled Raven. “You keep watch at the corner of the corridor while I attack the lock.”
He quickly approached the door and pulled a set of three slender steel picks from his boot, each with a different-shaped hook at its tip. From his coat, he took a tiny candle and quickly struck a spark to its wick. After inspecting the keyhole and giving a few experimental pokes, he blew out the flame and set to work.
Snick, snick.A precious minute passed. And then another. Swearing under his breath, Raven switched hooks, aware that his fingers were growing slippery with sweat.
From his vantage point, Peregrine turned with a nervous look.
Swallowing hard, Raven flexed his hands and tried again.
Snick.
On hearing the latch release, he felt a rush of relief and hissed for his fellow Weasel to join him.
CHAPTER 30
Wrexford dug into the secret pocket hidden in the lining of his coat and extracted a tiny glass vial and packet of thin wooden sticks topped with a chemical compound—an experimental source of illumination that he and Tyler had recently developed.
“Let us hope these work outside the laboratory,” he muttered, as he removed the wax seal from the vial and quickly dipped the chemical tip in and out of the vitriolic acid.
A flame whooshed up, the fire-gold light catching the curl of the earl’s smile.
Holding up the brightly burning stick, he turned in a slow circle, getting his bearings within the stone chamber. For all their evil genius—Wrexford readily conceded that Fenway and Wheeler were intellectually gifted—the two villains had ignored a basic scientific principle.
“Forming a conclusion without knowing all the facts often leads to an erroneous conclusion,” he murmured, after aligning his back with the doorway and moving in a straight line to the opposite wall. Fenway and Wheeler had overlooked a small but key element in the earl’s educational background.
It was an understandable mistake. Wrexford never talked about the term—or rather, the three-quarters of a term—that he had spent at Eton.
His father had thought that he and his younger brother, Thomas, might enjoy the camaraderie of other boys after undergoing a rigorous course of study for a number of years with their private tutor. And so he had arranged admission to the elite school for his sons.
The earl’s smile stretched a touch wider as he began to tap his fingers over the rough blocks of mortised stone.
