The Wedding Night Affair--An Historical Mystery, L.C. Sharp [beach books .TXT] 📗

Ash perched his backside on the hard chair and rested his folder on the desk. He glanced at the sheet. The Daily Ransom, an up and coming journal, but these things rose and fell like the tides on the Thames.

He spotted something, and paid it more attention. Fielding passed him a magnifying glass, but his eyesight was good enough to read the blurred print.

“‘A horrible crime was committed in the dead of night, and an upstanding member of society murdered in his bed—by his wife!

“‘Lady Juliana Christianson, the only daughter of the Earl of Hawskworth, has been a stalwart member of society for some time. Her status as an heiress prevented her sinking into spinsterhood, and she was reputed to be an obedient woman of modest demeanor.’”

Perfect wife material, Ash imagined. Except for him. When he married, it would be to a woman of spirit and intelligence, not a woman described as obedient and modest. He continued to read.

“‘Yesterday she married the second son of the Marquess of Urmston, to general rejoicing. After a lavish wedding breakfast, the married couple retired to their chamber to celebrate their nuptials in the usual way.

“‘This morning Lady Juliana was discovered covered in blood, stark naked, lying next to her husband. She had driven a dagger through his heart. The man was stone dead. She had spent the night by his side, no doubt gloating over her crime.

“‘As yet, no motive has been given for this terrible act—if such a dreadful crime can even claim to have a motive attached to it. We expect matters to be made clearer, but we owe our readers the information.

“‘The lady was heretofore quiet, her manner modest, but who knows what evil lies beneath her genteel surface?’”

He scanned the rest of the piece. The article went on, but what followed was sensational speculation and an invitation to buy the next edition, where they would set out the reasons for the lady’s actions. There were no interesting facts listed. Ash thrived on facts. Paying close attention to what had actually happened, instead of making instant suppositions always paid dividends.

He scanned the account, lurid imagery and all, and then read it again. The only thing that distinguished this case was the status of the participants. The woman had likely taken umbrage at something her husband had said, and stabbed him. He tossed the paper aside.

“Surely the lady has been arrested? Isn’t this a clear-cut case of murder, and a society scandal? What does it have to do with me?”

Fielding cleared his throat and folded his hands over his waistcoat, which was green if one didn’t count the snuff stains. “The lady is the daughter and sole heir of the Earl of Hawksworth. It’s common knowledge that whoever marries her will in all likelihood be awarded her father’s title after his demise.”

That part was vaguely interesting. “You mean the title descends through the female?” That was almost unheard of.

Fielding shook his head, his bob wig catching on a button on his coat. Impatiently, he tweaked it free and resettled the offending object on his head. “No, sir, it does not. There is no male heir to the title. But the current earl has petitioned the Crown to allow the earldom to be bestowed on his daughter’s husband after his own death as a new creation. In short, he has greased the palms of a number of officials at the Crown Office and at court. Naturally, they must approve of the candidate, but they’d award the title to a monkey if the money was good enough.”

A little more interesting, Ash had to admit. “So whoever married the lady had the promise of the earldom, too. She is not only a considerable heiress, but has a title in her grasp.” He frowned. “And the woman stabbed her new husband, who will not, it appears, receive the title. Is she a spoiled, rich aristocrat? Or did she have another reason for killing him?” He tapped the gossip sheet where it lay draped across two neat piles of documents.

Fielding raised a graying, sandy brow and shifted in his chair. It creaked under his considerable weight. “I have no idea, sir.” He harrumphed, then flourished a handkerchief and coughed into it. “Lord knows I have enough to do without a society murder. This new ruffian has increased my work considerably.”

“Which ruffian?” Ash asked. “Lord knows there are any number of them in London.”

“The Raven.”

“Ah.” That one. The Raven—nobody knew his real name, if he had one—had risen from the mud of the rookeries. Every now and again someone rose up, had a few glittering, notorious years of control, and then met his end ingloriously, either from his compatriots or at Tyburn Tree on hanging day.

“His sense of the dramatic does not obscure the damage he is doing to the good citizens of London. He’s binding separate gangs in the underworld into a dangerous threat. And he has the audacity to send his castoffs to me. Of course I have to deal with them.”

“Ah, yes, a regular thief taker.” This was not the first time London had seen someone style himself king of the underworld. Usually their attempts ended in abject failure, but this one was wily and careful, two things rarely found in a notorious criminal. His little squiggle of a bird and a scattering of black feathers were appearing all over the city.

At least the Raven would not be involved in the killing of a marquess’s son. That seemed to be a straightforward case, but Ash would help Fielding to straighten out the details. The woman would face the screaming crowd at Tyburn in a month.

Fielding continued. “Her father will be desperate to keep her away from a trial and conviction.”

“Has the lady been arrested?”

“She will be. At present, she is in her father’s house, but I have sent some likely men to ensure she is not spirited away from under our noses.”

That was a