“Thank you.” Charlotte added another few notes to her paper, then offered the earl her pencil. “Do me a favor and draw the distinctive Z-shaped slashes that you just described.”
“Why?”
“Because visuals help stimulate my thoughts about a crime.”
He made a face but circled back to the table and did as she asked.
She stared at the sketch, feeling unaccountably unsettled by the image.
“My apologies for lacking your artistic skill,” he said. “It’s crudely rendered but relatively accurate.”
“It’s not that. I simply find it macabre a murderer would take the time to carve up the flesh of his victim.”
Charlotte quickly shrugged off the thought and turned her attention to the facts she’d just heard. For now, it was difficult to see any pattern that might help them start piecing the puzzle together.
“You said the authorities are involved. What does Mr. Griffin of Bow Street have to say about all this?”
“Nothing. At least not as of yet,” responded the earl. “Another Runner was assigned to the crime, and he told Mrs. Ashton that there is virtually no hope of capturing the culprit. But I intend to have a private talk with Griffin this evening and get his opinion on how best to proceed.
“Assuming he believes there’s reason to proceed,” pointed out Charlotte. At first blush, Griffin—who had handled the murder investigation involving Wrexford—gave the impression of being a slow, methodical plodder. But they had both come to respect his tenacity and commitment to ensuring that justice be done.
“True,” conceded Wrexford. “The widow may be seeing specters where there are none. However, she did not strike me as a woman given to fanciful delusions.”
“Just one more question, milord.”
He stopped pacing.
“You still haven’t explained why you came to me in the first place. What is it you want from me?”
“Your network of observers and informants is by far the best in the city,” answered Wrexford. “Can you make inquiries as to whether any of the footpads in St. Giles might have been responsible for the crime? If, in fact, it does turn out to have been a random robbery turned violent, then we need not expend any further thought on it.”
“But you don’t think that is the case?”
“No. I have a feeling that when we dig a little deeper into the muck of St. Giles, we’ll find a serpent’s nest of intrigue.”
Charlotte felt a chill snake down her spine. “As do I,” she said slowly.
The earl’s footsteps beat a grim tattoo on the bare wood floor as he made his way around a stack of corded boxes. “Unless you have any other questions, I’ll take my leave and start tracking down Griffin.”
“I’ll make the inquiries among my sources, however they won’t be up and about until midnight,” she said in reply. “I’ll send word as soon as I learn anything.”
“Thank you.” Wrexford halted at the door to the entryway and turned to face her. The wall lamp was not yet lit, so his features were wreathed in shadows.
“By the by,” he said softly, “I do wish you well in your new abode, Mrs. Sloane. It would be entirely understandable if you have reservations about the decision. Change is never easy. But for whatever it’s worth, I think it a wise idea. I admire your intelligence—and your courage—to make the change. Expanding one’s boundaries allows for greater freedom of choices.”
Praise from Wrexford? His words were so unexpected that Charlotte found herself momentarily speechless.
The earl set his hat on his head and pulled the brim to a rakish angle. “Good hunting, m’lady.”
He was gone before she could muster a reply.
“Choices, choices,” she muttered as she rose and moved to her work desk. The sight of her paints and pens helped calm her mind. Through art, she had the confidence to express her thoughts and observations with a cutting clarity.
While conversing with Wrexford seemed to arouse naught but a tangle of indefinable emotions.
He enjoyed keeping people off kilter, she told herself. Most likely because his own equilibrium veered to all points of the compass.
Taking out a fresh sheet of watercolor paper, Charlotte set to work on a preliminary sketch of Ashton’s murder. As she had told the earl, the people she needed to speak with wouldn’t be awake until well after dark, so she might as well use the time for something constructive, rather than brooding.
Imagination slowly took precedence over intellect, and as the lines and textures took shape, Charlotte lost herself in the creative process. Though she wouldn’t show them in the final drawing, she had copied the distinctive Z-shaped slashes drawn by Wrexford onto her sketch of Ashton’s body, just to give herself a sense of the actual scene.
And it was then that the realization suddenly dawned on her.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered.
They weren’t just random cuts. The lines formed a crudely drawn symbol.
One that Charlotte was fairly certain she had seen very recently.
* * *
Spotting a flicker of red through the beery haze of tobacco smoke, Wrexford turned back to the bar man and purchased two tankards of ale. The tavern was crowded, forcing him to take a roundabout path to the far side of the taproom.
Griffin slowly looked up from his kidney pie as the earl set the drinks down on the table. His expression gave nothing away, but Wrexford had learned that the Runner’s beefy body and shuffling movements belied the sharpness of his wits.
“Another dead body, milord?” Griffin took a long draught of the earl’s gift. “I would have thought that you’d had enough of the Grim Reaper’s company.”
“A chance encounter,” he replied.
The Runner’s grunt was noncommittal.
Wrexford took a seat. “I imagine Bow Street is no more happy than I am about the discovery of the corpse. The murder of a well-known gentleman never reflects well on the authorities responsible for keeping the criminal element in check.”
Another grunt. Griffin didn’t waste words.
“Your compatriot, Mr. Fleming, is of the opinion that it’s simply a random robbery,” went on the earl. “But I have reason to believe it isn’t.”
The Runner put down his fork and wiped his fingers on his sleeve. “According to Fleming’s account, Mr. Ashton was stabbed and his purse was nowhere to be found. It is, alas, a more common occurrence than we would like when a gentleman makes the mistake of straying into the stews.”
“Did his account also mention the state of Ashton’s clothing and the fact that his body was mutilated?” asked Wrexford.
Griffin took another swallow of ale. “Those details do raise certain questions.”
He made a rude sound. “An understatement, if ever there was one.”
The greasy lamplight caught the sharpening of the Runner’s heavy-lidded gaze. “And you, milord, have answers?”
“That depends on what you’re willing to ask.” Wrexford held the other man’s eyes for a long moment before continuing. “Fleming seems stubbornly set on ignoring all signs that this was no ordinary attack by footpads. Ashton’s widow has offered him both a compelling motive and a list of possible suspects who would profit from her husband’s death. And yet he chooses to ignore them.”
“Have you any evidence that this was a premeditated murder. Or merely conjectures?”
Wrexford swore under his breath. “At least agree to hear me out.”
That brought a rare smile to Griffin’s lips. “Very well. But it will cost you another ale.”
The earl waved a brusque signal to one of the barmaids, then edged his chair a little closer to the table. “Let’s begin with motive. I happen to have been acquainted with Ashton. He was a brilliant inventor, and according to his wife, he was in the final stages of finishing a new technological device that would have been worth a fortune.”
“How so?” Griffin’s expression remained neutral, but a slight inflection in his voice indicate
d his interest was piqued.
“Are you familiar with patents?”
“I’m a humble thief-taker, not a fancy aristocrat,” responded the Runner. “I’ve heard the term, but how a simple piece of paper magically begets bags of blunt is a mystery that only you wealthy toffs can comprehend.”
Wrexford chuffed a low laugh. “Actually it’s a mystery that only the damnable barristers and solicitors can understand. Nonetheless, I shall endeavor to make a brief explanation.”
“For that I’ll need a wedge of Stilton and an apple tart.”
“A small price to pay for justice to be served,” he murmured as he counted out a few more coins.
“And another ale while you have your purse open,” murmured Griffin.
“Very well,” acquiesced the earl. “Now, pay attention. To understand patents and profits we need to go back to 1602 and the Case of Monopolies, which was about a patent for playing cards.”
“A case that is no doubt near and dear to your heart, milord.” A pause. “And that of your friend, Mr. Sheffield.”
“There is, I admit, a certain irony to the fact that we discovered the body on our way home from a gaming hell. But let us not digress.”
The Runner nodded absently, his attention momentarily diverted by the arrival of his cheese and tart.
“The idea of patents was not new,” continued Wrexford. “King Henry VI issued the first letter patent in 1449 to a glazier for his special formula for making colored glass. It took another hundred years for the second one, again for a glass-making technique.”
“Then, in 1598, Queen Elizabeth issued a patent to Edward Darcy, one of her courtiers, for a monopoly on the import and sale of playing cards. Darcy then sued a merchant who was doing the same thing. The defendant in turn challenged the patent in court by right of common law.”
Griffin broke off a morsel of Stilton. “And what happened?”
“Fierce arguments were presented by both sides to the chief justice. The crux of the merchant’s defense was that the Crown couldn’t grant a patent merely for the personal gain of an individual. Only an idea that created some actual improvement to the making of playing cards could be protected,” explained Wrexford. “In other words, a patent was for some new invention or unique innovation, not merely for commerce.”
“I wonder how many Runners have the privilege of getting an Oxford education along with their supper,” murmured Griffin through a mouthful of custard and apples.
Wrexford found the parsing of intellectual concepts endlessly interesting but was wise enough to recognize that not everyone shared his sentiments. He could see that he was in danger of losing the other man’s interest.
“Bear with me—I’m almost done,” he said. “Darcy’s patent was thrown out by the court and in 1623 an Act was drafted to clarify the rules of patent grants. Known as the Statute on Monopolies, it still serves as the basis of our modern day patent laws.”
“I take it you are now going to explain to me why Ashton was about to become a very rich man.”
The earl smiled. “Yes.”
Griffin leaned back in his chair and unfastened the bottom two buttons of his scarlet waistcoat. A low belch ended with a twitch of his lips, which may—or may not—have been meant as a smile. “Do try to make this quick, milord. Unlike you, I must eventually rouse myself from the table and go back to earning my living.”
“Very well, but to fully understand the laws today, there’s one other key concept that comes into play,” explained Wrexford. “It’s based on the ideas of the philosopher John Locke concerning property.”
“I’m a pragmatist, not a philosopher.”
“Which is why it behooves you to listen just a moment longer,” replied the earl. “Locke believed the concept of property rights was derived from man’s labor. To whit—a farmer possesses the right to his harvest not because he owns the land but because by the sweat of his brow, he’s created the crops.”
The Runner’s expression of boredom altered.
“Locke’s thoughts on property, labor and the accumulation of wealth were very influential around the turn of the last century. In 1710, the Copyright Law was passed, which was in a sense a complement to the Statute of Monopolies. In a nutshell, it said that in addition to hard goods, ideas were property too, and could be protected by law.”
Griffin let out a grunt. “It’s hard enough for me to protect the silver and jewels possessed by the beau monde. Now I must also worry about what goes on inside the heads of you fancy aristocrats?”
Despite the quip, Wrexford could sense he had the man’s full attention.
“The Engravers Act was passed in 1735 protecting the work of artists,” added the earl. “And now, we come to the heart of the matter. In the past, inventors, along with a great many other intellectuals, were often very secretive—they were loath to share their discoveries or innovations for fear of them simply being stolen. But now, with the right to protect their ideas, such valuable information flows more freely to the public. And in the case of practical inventions, they offer ways to stimulate the economy and create wealth for both the creator and the people who will use the innovation.”
The lamplight flickered as a draft stirred the smoke-filled air. Wrexford set his elbows on the table and leaned in a little closer. “For example, imagine an invention that makes steam engines more powerful. All manufacturers of engines will want to add it to their products because everyone who owns a steam engine will want the latest model. And they will have to pay for the right to use the inventor’s patent.”
The Runner was now sitting up straight. “Every steam engine in the country?” he mused. “That would be—”
“A bloody lot of engines,” finished Wrexford. “And a bloody lot of money.”
Griffin pursed his lips and gave a thoughtful nod. “So,” he murmured after several long moments. “I concede you’ve spelled out a compelling motive, but have you a shred of proof to give me?”
“I’m not paid to solve crimes,” retorted Wrexford. “You and your compatriots are.”
A glint of wry humor lit in the Runner’s eye. “Yes, well, as your friend Mr. Locke points out, labor and wealth are connected. Bow Street won’t assign a Runner to do more than a rudimentary investigation unless there is some proof it’s not a waste of time and effort.”
“I’ll hire you to follow the clues,” said the earl. Runners could be hired privately for those wealthy enough to do so. “Mrs. Ashton is sending me the note that lured her husband to his death, along with a list of people who knew about his work. With a methodical—”
Griffin held up his hand. “I’m presently engaged in a case, Lord Wrexford. And to be frank, even though you’ve piqued my interest, unless you can bring me more than conjectures, I’ll not waste your blunt. Trying to track down the villain with only what you mention would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“You’ve sharp eyes, as I well know,” answered the earl.
“As do you, sir.” The Runner’s chair scraped back over the rough planked floor. “If you find a trail—even a faint one—I’m willing to talk again.” He rose and patted his belly. “Preferably over another excellent supper.”
* * *
Charlotte darted a glance up and down the crooked lane before stepping out from the slivered alleyway. Not that she needed to check for trouble—she was sure that Raven and Hawk were lurking somewhere in the shifting shadows, keeping watch over her.
But this was a particularly rough part of St. Giles, and even though she had taken the precaution of disguising herself as a tattered street urchin, the threat of danger was not something to be taken lightly.
Quickening her steps, Charlotte darted through a narrow opening between the sagging buildings on her right and made her way to the back of the gin house. Set deep within a recessed nook was an iron-banded oak door, black with age. She rapped out a private signal—three sharp taps, three fisted thumps—and waited.
The shadows shuddered
as the fitful breeze blew through the cracks in the rotting fence, stirring the fetid smells of decay.
Charlotte felt a shiver slide down her spine. A scent of hopelessness pervaded the area, thick and viscous as the foul mud beneath her boots, and she offered up a prayer of thanks that Fate had offered her a way of escape.
But Fate, as she knew, was fickle. And cruel.
She drew in a steadying breath. Wrexford’s description of the murdered inventor must be unsettling her thoughts. That brilliance could be snuffed out in an instant—
The door opened a crack, cutting off such musing.
Charlotte hurriedly slipped inside. A man—short, fat and dressed in a greasy coat that was threatening to split at the seams—relocked it and turned to face her. The spattering of weak light flitted over his bulbous nose and unshaven cheeks, catching for just an instant the alertness of his beady black eyes.
“Wotcha need, Magpie?”
It was Charlotte’s street name. A bird had seemed apt, given the boys, and what better species than a sly one who darted to and fro, stealing shiny bits and baubles to take back to its nest.
“Information on the footpads near Red Lion Square, Sam,” she uttered in a raspy growl that hid her true voice. “A toff was brutally murdered. Any word on who might have turned violent?”
Sam scratched at his bristled jaw. “Naw, nuffink like that. Bad fer business te poke a stick up Bow Street’s arse.”
She held up a purse. “You’re sure?” He knew that payment would dry up if his information wasn’t accurate.
“Aye, Roger the Razor was in here earlier, nabbering about how they’s all madder ’n hornets that sumbody fouled their nest.”
“They have any idea who? A rival gang from one of the other rookeries, perhaps?”
“Naw,” he said again. “They has their way ’o hearing iffen that were true. Ain’t no cutpurse what did the dirty deed.” A nasty smile spread over Sam’s face. “Must be anudder toff what got blood on his lily-white ’ands.”
Charlotte was satisfied that her informant was telling her the truth—and indeed, given her knowledge of the mutilation done to the murdered man, she had expected no less. She would confirm it with several other people, but her gut instinct was that Sam was right.
Murder at Half Moon Gate Page 5
