The Sign of the Raven

by L. C. Sharp

  “Have you made any progress?” Stanton asked Ash.

  “A promising amount,” Ash said, not allowing a pause to fall. He wanted to display utter confidence. “I have no doubt I’ll be apprehending the culprit shortly. Most of London knows the baron had some serious debts in dangerous quarters.” They did now, after he’d given Ransom permission to relate it in his infernal rag. “The murder was made to look as if the debt collector had killed him, perhaps by accident.” He sighed and waved his hand in a gesture of helplessness. “But I fear that was not so.”

  “No?”

  Ash was sure Stanton had not wished that word to come out quite so high pitched, or loud.

  A hush fell over their part of the room. Ash sipped his coffee, aware that two spies were in their places. He needed to continue to rile the man, perhaps scare him a little, too. Drive him into a panic so he made a mistake. “No,” he said, putting his cup down in its saucer with a decided click that sounded loud in the now hushed room. “The murderer tried to feign a robbery, but he left some items that a thief would have been sure to take.”

  “What if he was a debt collector for the Raven?”

  “I could not see why the Raven would kill someone who owed him money.” He raised a brow, glancing at Abercorn. “After all, such debts die with the debtor. The ruffian is a businessman of sorts, albeit one that nobody here would do business with.”

  A few grunts of agreement came from the audience.

  “He would threaten, no doubt, but leave the man to collect the money any way he could. When I ventured to Coddington’s favorite haunts, I found that he’d been banned from every one, pending his repayment of debt.”

  He’d only asked in a couple, but the Raven had given him an idea of how deep Coddington had been playing.

  “Hard for a corpse to gamble,” Abercorn put in, “but I have met men who would make the attempt. Some would succeed.”

  “As long as they had a long spoon, they’d be fine,” Ash answered, referencing the saying about taking care when supping with the devil.

  Abercorn obliged him with a laugh, but Stanton only managed a tight smile. “Very good,” he murmured.

  Ash went on. “Suspicion is falling in other places. Oh, I have no doubt that the Raven is capable of such a deal, but he is a practical man, or so his actions say. Apparently, several people spoke to Coddington before his death. Some were not too happy with him. We have several suspects.” He allowed himself to shoot a bland smile at Stanton, who did his best to smile back, but failed miserably.

  While Ash couldn’t mention his near-certainty that Lady Coddington had taken a lover, and his close suspicion that the lover was sitting at this table, glaring at him, he could hint at it.

  “We know much more about Lord Coddington than we did a few days ago,” he added helpfully. As if the two events were unrelated, he went on smoothly, “You visited her ladyship shortly after her husband’s murder, did you not?”

  “Many people did,” Stanton said. “We’re virtually neighbors, so it would have been crass not to go.”

  “But unlike everyone else, her ladyship let you in.” Then and today, Stanton had come in through the back door. “I came here today to ask you about that visit. Are you sure you said nothing to her ladyship that would arouse her suspicions?”

  “What? No, of course not, God damn you!” Stanton said. Ash and the duke had worked him into a fine old temper.

  “I merely asked,” Ash said mildly.

  “And I merely answered you. Am I to insinuate...” He left his question hanging.

  “You may insinuate whatever you wish. I can’t stop you.” Ash lifted a shoulder in a light shrug. “We have been speaking to everyone who visited her. Sometimes the villain likes to revisit the scene of his crime. Or the place where his victim lurks.”

  Abercorn’s lips twitched, but he showed admirable control when his mouth flattened once more. “Indeed, Ash has questioned me. I visited her ladyship, but I only left some flowers and my condolences. Lady Coddington wasn’t receiving that day. I did not expect her to.”

  “So you’re under suspicion too!” Stanton said triumphantly. He grinned, evidently pleased with his conclusion.

  “Not at all,” Ash said. “His grace did not enter the house. However, a few people did. Her intimates and her family. We are looking at them more closely.”

  “Very few people did. I understand that you stayed for some time.”

  “Twenty minutes or so,” Stanton admitted.

  Ash had him now. Would he bluster, lie, or both? He leaned forward, arms on his knees. “And last night?”

  “I cannot stay here and listen to such appalling foolishness!” Suiting actions to words, Stanton pushed to his feet. “If you continue to insinuate such insults, I will demand satisfaction or an apology from you, sir! I am a friend of the family, no more. Do not disturb her ladyship with your unwarranted suspicions, I beg of you!”

  “I’ll be visiting her later today,” Ash murmured, as the earl strode out of the club. Every eye in the place tracked his journey. The earl had done himself no good, storming out like that.

  But Ash had rattled him. He hadn’t mentioned that the earl had been seen.

  “What an idiot,” Abercorn murmured, too low for anyone except Ash to hear. “Now everyone will suspect him.”

  “So they should. My associate saw him.”

  Abercorn lifted his gaze from the coffeepot and met Ash’s directly. “Even if he was her lover, that doesn’t mean he was involved in the murder.”

  “I find a thread, I pull it.”

  Abercorn glanced down at his coat sleeve, sighing in mock relief. “My valet is too good to leave threads.” He lifted the pot. “More coffee?”

  Ash had intended to allow Col to do his job, but someone standing in the street below drew his attention. A broad-shouldered, squat man in nondescript clothes eased forward. As Stanton crossed the road and headed up the street to the corner, the man fell into step behind him. Not a footman. Not anyone Stanton was aware of. An urchin got in his way, and Stanton was forced to step around him.

  That gave Ash the time to murmur his excuses to the duke and leave the club, not bothering with appearances. He ran down the stairs and headed for the front of the house.

  Col had managed to keep Stanton busy, giving Ash a clear view of him.

  The man went past Stanton, forced to by the child’s delaying tactics, but he paused just short of the corner, and stared into the window of a shop. A shop that sold expensive trinkets for women, Ash recalled. He doubted the man wanted to buy anything on display.

  Ash stood outside the coffeehouse. Just as he recognized his quarry, he heard something that made his blood run cold and put wings on his feet.

  A shot.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Racing past the crumpled body, Ash pursued the man. The devil put on a turn of speed once the shot had been fired. This time the ruffian would not get away, Ash was determined on it.

  He thought he heard footsteps behind him, but he didn’t stop to discover if he was right. The man had nearly reached the corner, but Ash took a flying leap and landed on the man’s back, bringing him down to the ground.

  The man rolled to face him, but Ash was ready. He had the blade in his hand, the thin, deadly weapon Jack had given him.

  The ruffian sneered. “Think that can stop me?”

  Slowly, Ash shook his head. “No. I know it can.”

  The man scrambled to his feet, wincing as he realized something Ash had known the minute he’d brought him to the floor. With a shriek, he crumpled. As Ash watched, blade at the ready, his opponent cast around and found a hole in the wall behind him where a piece of the brickwork had fallen out. He shoved his hand into it and hauled himself up. Ash was gentlemanly enough to let him. But that was the extent of it.

  “It could be broken,�
� Ash pointed out, referring to the man’s leg. “Or maybe you’ve merely put it out of joint. Either way, you can’t run.”

  Now he’d heard the man’s voice, suspicion hardened into certainty.

  People had gathered around, but nobody stepped forward to help him. They wanted the spectacle.

  The ruffian dipped his hand in his pocket and came up with a dagger, thicker and bulkier than the one Ash held. The man lunged, but Ash was ready. As his opponent stabbed at Ash’s belly, Ash stepped aside, and brought his own blade up, taking care where he aimed it. He didn’t want his opponent to die. He wanted a few words with him first.

  The weapon sliced through coat and shirt, drawing blood along the length of the man’s upper arm. His opponent shrieked loud enough to wake the dead. Using his advantage, Ash locked his arm around the man’s throat.

  His attacker brought his weapon up in an effort to catch Ash’s throat. He froze when the click of a pistol being cocked sounded loud in the sudden hush.

  “Drop it,” said the Duke of Abercorn. “I have no doubt Ash can avoid your clumsy attempts, but I’m growing spectacularly bored by this display. You’re done, man. Give it up.”

  Staring into Abercorn’s steady, stone-dead eyes, the man dropped his dagger.

  “I have a carriage waiting,” Abercorn continued, lowering the hammer of his pistol at the ground as he did so. He spoke as if they were late to a social function. “We should drop this devil off at Bow Street, should we not?” He shuddered. “Although I would rather be anywhere else, but we must show ourselves willing.”

  Ash clamped the man’s hands behind his back. Someone tossed him a length of twine, which he used to secure the bond. Unlike the way he’d been treated by this ruffian, he took care not to cut off the circulation.

  Abercorn picked up the dagger, and tucked it into his pocket. His attention went to the blade Ash held. “Interesting. May I?”

  Ash handed it over.

  Ash walked the man to the carriage. A footman opened it and let the steps down. So civilized. Considering the state of his prisoner, and himself, after rolling on the London streets, he was relieved to find the cushions were leather. He’d hate to have to pay the bill for recushioning the luxurious carriage.

  He kept hold of the man’s wrists, but the man seemed done. He sat there, head down, arms pinioned behind him, a perfect picture of misery.

  Abercorn joined them. He returned Ash’s blade. “Interesting. May I ask where you got it?”

  “One of my disreputable friends.” He jerked his chin to the weapon strapped to the duke’s side. “I’m not allowed a sword in the city. Only aristocrats have that privilege.”

  The duke smiled. “I find firearms have a better effect in most cases. That doesn’t seem to have hampered you. Nice use of the knife.”

  “Thin enough not to be noticed. I went into the Raven’s lair and out again with it. Had they stripped me first, they’d have found it. But they didn’t. It’s Italian, I believe, but the steel is the highest quality. Not easy to break, as this man seemed to think.” He slid the weapon into its sheath and dropped it into his coat pocket. “Was anyone hurt by the shot?”

  The duke’s expression turned grim. “Stanton. He’s dead. I left a footman with him until the authorities arrive.”

  Ash closed his eyes. “Damn.”

  The carriage set off, rumbling along the streets past a dozen or so gawking bystanders. They’d be the talk of the town by dinnertime. Ransom would be annoyed he wasn’t here to witness the latest scandal, Ash thought wryly. He’d give him an accurate account. A deal was a deal, after all.

  “Precisely. A shame, but it happened.” The duke raised a brow. “Do you know this man? You appeared to recognize him from the upper window of the club.”

  “This—” Ash gave the man’s wrists a yank.

  The man grunted.

  “—is the Raven. Or that is what he’d like us to believe.”

  Abercorn said nothing.

  Ash sighed, and in as few words as possible, brought him up to date. “I will handle this in my own way, if you please. This ruffian here is not the Raven, though no doubt he wishes he were.”

  The man moaned. “You’ve killed me, guv’nor.”

  Ash gave him a dispassionate glance. “Not yet I haven’t. The chances are that you’ll hang, so maybe then.”

  They swung into the confines of Bow Street. When the coachman would have stopped at the corner, Ash urged him on to stop outside the residence of the Fieldings. Bidding the duke to stay in the carriage with the prisoner, he knocked on the door. A few minutes later, he came back. “We’re taking him here. The Fieldings have a fortified room where they keep special visitors. Until he’s tried and put in the condemned cell, I want this man here. And his wounds tended to. The last thing I want is for him to die of gaol fever in Newgate. Or for the Raven’s men to get to him there.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought you’d care, after what he did to your wife.”

  Ash tightened his expression. “Time enough for that after I’ve talked to him.” He turned to the man. “What do we call you? Apart from unfortunate, that is.”

  “William Rivers,” the prisoner answered.

  It didn’t matter if that was his real name. It would serve.

  A guard came out from the house, and when Ash stepped aside, he hauled the man out of the carriage. Rivers yelped in pain and collapsed. The guard shot him an exasperated glare. “Get a barber surgeon to look at him,” Ash said. “I may have broken his ankle.”

  “Coulda gone for his arm,” the guard grumbled, and in a quiet but impressive movement, picked Rivers up, tossed him over his shoulder and carried him indoors.

  “Well,” said the duke. “That was interesting.”

  Ash got back into the carriage. There would be no doing anything for an hour or two. Better to go home and change. The street had done his fine coat no favors.

  The duke leaned more comfortably into his seat and crossed his legs. “I should tell you,” he said, “that your man there did not kill Stanton.”

  Ash took a moment to digest the information. “Who did, then?”

  Abercorn shrugged. “I have no idea. Someone short, dressed in a coat too large for him and the biggest cocked hat I’ve ever seen. Ran around the corner, shot Stanton, ran back while your man was creating the distraction he needed. Some people noticed, but when you ran out of the club with the most impressive turn of speed and roared at Rivers, they turned to you. You created more interest, and the murderer got away. I saw it all from the window. Yes, I’ll testify to that fact. You might find a witness or two, but from my vantage point, all I could see was the hat. And the shoes, which were dainty, for a man.”

  “Dainty?”

  Abercorn waved his hand in dismissal. “Small, then.”

  “So this man could have been a boy?”

  “Could be. I did not get an adequate sighting. He dropped the pistol and fled. I retrieved the weapon.” He pulled the gun out of his pocket and handed it over. “This one. The one I used to threaten Rivers.”

  Ash turned the weapon over in his hand. Not a cheap pistol, this. “So it was not loaded?”

  Abercorn gave his distinctive one-sided grin. “You’re right, it was not. But I had another about me. It was just more convenient to use the one in my hand. It stopped him long enough for you to drop him.”

  Ash grinned. “Yes, it did.” That had been particularly satisfying. “But the man is not the Raven.”

  “Are you so sure he is not?” the duke asked.

  “Almost entirely, unless he’s playing a game so deep there is no end to it. During our captivity, Rivers kept checking with a man at the back of the room, the one who loosened my bonds without asking first.”

  “Ah. And the Raven has a fearsome reputation. He does not tolerate disobedience, or so the legend has it.”


  “He has climbed to the top of his profession, and now he has to do the difficult part. He has to keep it. We shall see.” Glancing out the window, Ash saw they were turning into Lincoln’s Inn Fields.

  He leaped out at the house, thanking the duke for the ride, and went indoors to change.

  * * *

  Juliana followed her husband into his bedroom. Ash shrugged off the figured velvet coat as he outlined the events she’d missed.

  “You’ve ruined this coat,” Corbett muttered as he bore off the offending object to the dressing room.

  “If anyone can bring it back to life, it’s you,” Ash replied, watching his valet toss the offending item to the floor with the disdain that only a valet could produce.

  Corbett returned with a more serviceable coat in deep rust red cloth. “Ah yes. I like that one,” Ash said. “Lots of pockets.”

  “Indeed, sir,” said the valet, holding it out for his master, or rather, his employer. Juliana wasn’t sure who was the master here, or who would win the battle of wills currently taking place.

  He made do with his gold-striped waistcoat, since the street filth had not reached that far. This time Ash left the knife in its slim sheath on his dressing table. Juliana was glad of it, since the sight made her shudder. A secretive weapon, one that could be slid between a man’s shoulder blades and kill him before he knew what was happening.

  Ash met her eyes and smiled. That was happening more and more. His support gave her confidence she hadn’t known she lacked.

  By mutual consent, they didn’t discuss anything until they were out of the house and walking to Bow Street. “You’re sure that was the man masquerading as the Raven?” she asked.

  Ash touched his cheek. “He has that scar.”

  They walked into the magistrates’ house, across the road from the court, close to the theatre, in perfect accord.

  Henry Fielding met them in the hallway. “I put your man in the small room on the other side of the house. Why you want such a ruffian here beats my understanding. Let him enjoy the notoriety of the Condemned Cell for a few weeks.” He rubbed his hands together as if relishing the prospect. Of course he would lead the trial, and his reputation would grow.