“Stop at once!” A bespectacled gentleman dressed in a dark frock coat and buff-colored breeches pushed the door all the way open. “What are you doing in here, sir?” Behind the round lenses, his eyes were narrowed in suspicion. “This is Mr. Greeley’s private office, and I was told that nobody was permitted to enter it before the local magistrate arrived to take charge.”
So, word of Greeley’s murder had spread.
Wrexford shoved the drawer closed and opened the one below it. He wasn’t in the mood to argue with some stiff-rumped university administrator. “Consider me a higher authority.”
The gentleman appeared confused. “Is not ‘magistrate’ a high authority here in England?”
“It is,” agreed Wrexford. The gentleman spoke flawless English, so at first he hadn’t noticed the slight but now unmistakable Germanic accent. Rather than try to explain his sarcastic comment to a foreigner, he merely said, “However, I’m here at the personal behest of the Reverend Mr. Vaughan, Warden of Merton College, to investigate the crime.”
The Warden’s name elicited a grim smile. “For the sake of justice—which the good soul of Mr. Greeley richly deserves—I am glad to hear that the Reverend decided to take what I told him seriously.”
Wrexford went very still. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, sir, that he seemed hesitant to believe me when I told him what I had seen and heard last night.”
“You were here in the library last night?”
“Yes.”
“At what time?” pressed Wrexford.
A guilty flush colored the gentleman’s cheekbones. “After working all day in the archives downstairs, I left for supper. But I suddenly had an idea on where to look for several books that might confirm a surmise I had for the historical paper I am writing.” He made a wry face. “I’m afraid that we scholars sometimes find ourselves caught up in the passions of the hunt . . .”
Wrexford had spent too many late nights hunkered over his microscope to disagree. “So you returned.”
“I did,” answered the gentleman. “Mr. Greeley had said that I was welcome to work at night if he was staying late. I saw the light in his window . . . and found the side door of the West Wing open.”
His mouth thinned for an instant. “I fetched my candle lantern from the Lower Library archives—I had permission from Greeley to possess a light for nighttime study—and came up to the South Wing, which contained the items I wished to consult.”
Permission to carry a flame was not given lightly, reflected the earl. An errant spark among all the dry-as-tinder paper and vellum was a librarian’s worst fear. Which meant that the gentleman was someone Greeley considered trustworthy . . .
“Go on,” said Wrexford, deciding not to press the gentleman for his identity just yet.
“After arriving, I worked for perhaps an hour, and then had a question for Mr. Greeley. I left my lantern in the stall—the moonlight coming through the windows was enough to illuminate the way—and made my way to his office. But as I approached, I heard raised voices coming from within. Mr. Greeley sounded agitated—”
“Did you perchance get a look at the person who was with him?” interrupted the earl.
The gentleman shook his head. “The door was shut, and I did not think it my place to intrude on a private altercation. However, I—I couldn’t help but hear what Mr. Greeley was saying before I withdrew.”
A pause. “It was a name. As I told you, he seemed upset and angry—”
“Bloody hell, just tell me the name!” demanded the earl, his patience dangerously close to snapping.
Startled, the gentleman flinched. “W-Wrexford,” he stammered. “Greeley was shouting about someone called Wrexford.”
CHAPTER 4
“Iwould rather not,” replied McClellan. “Tell you, that is.”
Charlotte waited, giving the maid time to compose her thoughts. But no further explanation was forthcoming.
Outside in the entrance hall, she heard the noisy clatter of the boys returning from their fencing lesson.Hoots of laughter, good-natured chatter—the sounds of everyday friendship in play. While a sidelong glance at McClellan showed her features—always stoic to begin with—now looked as if they had been chiseled out of Highland granite.
“Why?” she finally asked.
In answer came a loud slurp of tea.
Sitting back in her chair, Charlotte folded her hands in her lap and drew in a measured breath. The refusal hurt, but she tried not to show it. She had thought their bond of trust went far deeper than a mere casual friendship between mistress and servant.
