The footpads and cutpurses of London weren’t the villains in this particular crime.
“Thank you.” She handed over the purse.
With a few quick flicks of his fingers, Sam undid the lock. “Any time, Magpie.”
Charlotte slipped back out into the night, the damp air feeling even chillier after the stuffy warmth of her informant’s lair. She turned to make her way to the next stop on her list.
But her mind was already at work on how to learn more about the symbol that had been carved into Elihu Ashton’s flesh.
CHAPTER 5
“Damnation,” muttered Wrexford as he booted shut the door to his workroom. Ignoring the crucible and neatly aligned bottles of chemicals on the center table, he took a seat at his desk and set down his cup of coffee, trying to tamp down his rising frustration. It was nearly noon and still no package had arrived from Isobel, leaving him naught to do but stew in impatience.
Priestley’s scientific magnum opus lay open to the section on “dephlogisticated air,” and yet much as the earl was interested in reading the early experiments on oxygen, he couldn’t bring himself to concentrate.
Damnation. Something was bothering him about the whole affair, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was.
“Milord.” His valet’s entrance kept his brooding from turning any darker. He brought over a thin parcel. “The information from Mrs. Ashton was just delivered.”
“About bloody time,” muttered the earl as he ripped off the paper wrapping.
Packed between two pieces of protective pasteboard was the short note to her late husband and a sheet of floral-scented stationery with a list of eight names, each followed by a short explanation of how the individual was connected to Ashton.
Wrexford cleared a spot on his blotter and carefully laid them out.
Tyler came around to stand by his shoulder. “Perhaps we could examine the note under the microscope,” he murmured. “The composition of the ink may give us some clue.”
The earl frowned. “The odds against that are astronomically high, but I suppose it’s worth a look.” He leaned in closer. “Hmmph.”
“What?” asked his valet.
“Whoever penned the note has a distinctive style,” said Wrexford, after making a closer study of the handwriting. “Take a look at the curlicue looping of the letters f and g.”
Tyler took a moment to fetch a magnifying glass from the worktable and make a more thorough study. “You’re right.”
And yet, the discovery only caused Wrexford’s frown to deepen. “It’s too good to be true to think that any murderer would be daft enough to leave such a calling card.”
“Unless,” mused Tyler, “he didn’t intend to kill Ashton.”
A reasonable explanation, he conceded. It was possible that Ashton and the self-proclaimed Kindred Spirit in Science had quarreled over partnering in the new invention and things had turned violent. However, all the earl knew about Ashton argued against such a scenario. The inventor was well-known to be an altruist. Wrexford couldn’t quite imagine him involved in any havey-cavey dealings.
But then, everyone had faults they wished to keep secret. A fancy polished veneer could hide a core of rot.
“I suppose we must consider that,” he finally said aloud.
“But you don’t believe it, milord?”
“No,” replied Wrexford flatly. “I don’t. However, as a man of science I must keep an open mind and base my assumptions on facts.” He smoothed a finger over a crease in the paper. “Let us set up the microscope and see what the murderer’s note can tell us.”
As Tyler began to rummage in the storage cabinets, the earl slouched back in his chair, still wrestling with the strange prickling at the back of his mind. Perhaps it was merely the murder of an acquaintance—and a horribly foul one at that—that had him feeling unsettled. And yet, that was too glib an answer. His friends would cheerfully vouch for the fact that he was not the sort of fellow prone to tender sentiments.
Understanding the physical world and how it worked was the sort of intellectual conundrum he enjoyed solving. Chemistry was all about logic. One could puzzle out answers through empirical observation and analysis. Murder was all about emotion. It defied the clockwork laws of the universe. Which, conceded the earl, offended his orderly mind.
So why the devil had he been moved by the lovely widow’s appeal for help?
Wrexford shifted uncomfortably. Beneath her grief and uncertainty had been some elemental quality that intrigued him. No milk and water miss, like most of the well-born ladies of the beau monde, Isobel had radiated a steely strength of character, a sense of calm resolve. Indeed, he had never met any woman quite like her.
Save for . . .
He chuffed a sharp exhale, forcing the image of Charlotte Sloane’s face from his mind.
Bloody hell, it wasn’t like him to allow thoughts of women to bedevil his brain.
Perhaps it was a sign that he needed to choose a replacement for the diabolically lovely Diana Fairfax, with whom he had parted ways a number of months ago. The beautiful—and pragmatic—courtesans of London understood the rules that governed such liaisons. Money had its privileges, he thought sardonically. It helped ensure there were no complications or complexities of feelings to confuse the relationship. As for more personal entanglements . . .
“Milord,” called Tyler. “The lenses and lights are all adjusted. Would you care to come have a look?”
Wrexford rose, happy to have a practical problem shove away his brooding. “Anything of interest?” he asked as his valet relinquished his spot at the worktable.
“Not that I could see at first glance.” Tyler leaned in and made a slight adjustment to the reflector. “But perhaps you’ll have better luck.”
The earl squinted through the eyepiece at the note that had lured Ashton to his death. But luck was proving as mercurial as his mood.
“No,” he muttered after taking a few moments to confirm his first impression. “There’s nothing unusual about the ink or paper.”
Tyler shrugged. “We expected as much.”
“True. But at the moment, I can’t think of anything else to try.” Wrexford rubbed at his temples. “You might as well attend to other things. I’m simply going to do a bit of reading on Priestley.”
However, after his valet quitted the room, he took the note from beneath the microscope’s lens and placed it on his desk, the pale, crinkled paper standing out in stark relief against the dark leather of his blotter. Wrexford shifted his empty cup, and after ringing for a fresh pot of coffee, he sat down and leaned in for yet another searching look.
What am I missing? As of now, the only telltale clue was the handwriting. But given that London’s present population was over two million souls, the odds of identifying the author were . . .
“Virtually nil,” muttered the earl.
“Nil?” repeated Sheffield as he strolled into the room. “Good God, it’s far too early in the day to be reading Latin.” He looked around and let out a mournful sigh. “Why are you here and not the breakfast room? I’m famished.”
“I’m thinking—a concept with which you are unfamiliar.”
His friend contrived to look injured. “I do, on occasion exercise my brain.” A pause. “But never on an empty stomach.”
Ignoring the hint, Wrexford reached for the magnifying glass.
Another sigh. “Pray, what’s so interesting that it’s caused you to forsake those lovely silver chafing dishes full of shirred eggs and gammon?” Sheffield moved around for a look.
“It involves last night’s murder.” The earl stared through the lens, willing himself to see something—anything—that might serve as a clue.
“Hmmm. That’s odd,” murmured his friend.
He turned in his chair. “Kit, I’m in no mood for your bacon-brained jesting—”
“It’s just that I recognize the writing.”
Wrexford went very still. “You’re sure of that?”
/>
“Quite sure,” replied Sheffield. “Just look at the curlicues. I’ve seen enough of the fellow’s vowels to be very familiar with them. He’s the only man who loses at the gaming tables more regularly than I do.”
“Do you, perchance, know his name?” asked Wrexford slowly.
“Yes, of course. The Honorable Robert Gannett.” His friend raised a brow. “Why?”
‘Because you may well have given us the identity of Elihu Ashton’s killer,” he replied. “Forgive all my earlier slurs on your intellect. You’re brilliant.”
Sheffield grinned. “No, just lucky.” A pause. “Now will you offer me some breakfast?”
“In a moment. Any idea where we might find Mr. Gannett?”
“That will cost you one of your excellent Indian cheroots,” quipped Sheffield. Catching the earl’s scowl, he ceased his bantering. “We can start by making the rounds of the gaming hells in Southwark. He’s been avoiding the more exalted environs of Mayfair because he owes people there too much money.”
“Excellent. Now you may go help yourself to breakfast.” Wrexford leaned back and gave a grim smile. “Then come back again around midnight, and I’ll make sure Cook has a lovely rare beefsteak ready for you to enjoy before we head off to capture a killer.” He allowed a small pause. “Then again, perhaps it’s better to keep an empty stomach, in case we have to put a bullet in the bloody dastard.”
* * *
Charlotte penned a quick missive to the earl, explaining what she had learned the previous night. As to her suspicion concerning Ashton’s mutilation . . .
As soon as the boys peltered off to deliver the note, she gathered her cloak and set off to pay a visit to a friend.
“Come to bid me a last farewell, Mrs. Sloane?” Looking up from the worktable of his mortuary shed, Basil Henning ran a hand over his jaw, leaving a dark oily streak on the stubbled whiskers.
Charlotte didn’t dare try to identify the substance. The surgeon had a deep interest in the workings of the human body, and often did autopsies for the authorities, along with the care he offered to London’s living poor.
“I’m moving to a different neighborhood, Mr. Henning, not the backside of the moon,” she replied with a smile. “I still intend to continue my fortnightly class for women who wish to learn to read. So I daresay we won’t become total strangers.”
His face, which resembled a slab of Highland granite that had been shaped with a dull chisel, softened ever so slightly. “Auch, I’m glad to hear it, lassie. However it’s not Tuesday night, and seeing as our paths tend to cross when dead bodies start turning up, I have mixed feelings about seeing you on my threshold this morning.” A chuckle rumbled deep in his throat. “Nonetheless, your presence always brightens my day. Would you care for a cup of tea?”
She quickly averted her gaze from the pan on the table, thankful that the flickering lamplight left it wreathed in shadow “Tea would be lovely. Shall I put a kettle on the stove in your office, while you tidy up here?”
His laugh became more pronounced as he picked up a grimy rag and wiped his hands. “You don’t fancy boiled kidneys?”
“You have an even more peculiar sense of humor than Wrexford,” she chided. “As for dead bodies . . .”
Henning stopped laughing.
“You’re right about why I’m here.”
Despite his disheveled clothing and less than fastidious personal habits, the surgeon was sharp as one of his scalpels. Frowning, he fixed her with a searching stare. “Your latest print implied Elihu Ashton’s death was the result of an unfortunate encounter with footpads.”
“That is what Bow Street believes,” she said carefully.
“But you have reason to think otherwise?”
Charlotte considered her promise to Wrexford, but quickly set it aside. Henning had become a trusted confidant during the investigation into Holworthy’s murder. If the earl wished to ring a peal over her head for sharing the secret, so be it.
“Wrexford does,” she answered. “It was he and Mr. Sheffield who stumbled upon the body.” Charlotte told him about the slashed clothing and the fact that the killer had carved a crude symbol on the inventor’s belly.
Then, after drawing a measured breath, she added, “I’m hoping you can tell me something about the pamphlet I saw here last week when I came to give my lesson.”
Henning’s expression turned even grimmer. A shiver of silence flitted between them before he turned abruptly. “Follow me.” He blew out the lamp’s flame and led the way across a muddy yard to his office. Once they were inside, he bolted the door and looked at the stove in the corner of the room.
“I’ll stir the coal and put on a kettle. It may take a few minutes for the water to boil.
“We needn’t go through the motions of social conventions,” said Charlotte softly. “In any case, I daresay you’d prefer a dram of Scottish malt.”
Henning’s eyes lingered for a moment on the bottle of amber-dark whisky sitting atop one of the bookshelves. “Aye. But I’d better keep a clear head.” Chuffing an irascible sigh, he dropped heavily into his desk chair. “You’re putting me in a devilishly difficult position, Mrs. Sloane. You know my sentiments on the privileged classes and how they exploit those who work their fingers to the bone for wages that wouldn’t feed one of their fancy hounds or horses.”
Charlotte nodded. A flinty Scot with radical notions on social equality, the surgeon was outspoken about his contempt for the English aristocracy—though he did make the occasional exception. He and Wrexford recognized each other as kindred souls who shared a healthy skepticism for conventional rules.
“I know that, Mr. Henning, and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t feel it was in the best interest of everyone, rich or poor, to make sure that Ashton’s murder doesn’t turn into the spark that ignites the powder keg of labor unrest in this country.”
She drew an unhappy breath. “My natural sympathies are much the same as yours.” For more years than she cared to count, she, too, had been among those cobbling together a hand-to-mouth existence. Things were a bit better now, but Charlotte knew how quickly that could change.
“Violence will only beget a more crushing violence,” she went on. “The radicals who preach death to those in a position of power will be crushed by the government—and countless innocent poor will suffer even more misery.”
Henning grimaced. “Auch, I know that in my head, lassie. But my heart doesn’t like it.”
“You’ve told me on numerous occasions that you don’t have a heart,” she murmured.
A reluctant smile ghosted over his lips. “I was planning on cutting it out. But I’ve not yet figured out how to use my long-winded diatribes against injustice as an internal steam engine for circulating blood through the body.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” she murmured.
“Aye, you’re very good with secrets.” The tension broken, he rummaged around in the welter of books and papers on his blotter—his desktop was as unruly as his appearance—and located a crudely printed pamphlet sewn together with coarse brown thread.
“I take it this is what you’re looking for.” He slid it across the desk.
Charlotte took it up and studied the cover. MACHINES WILL BE THE DEATH OF US! announced the title. Below it, in boldface type, was an exhortation to join the Workers of Zion. Its symbol was based on the letter Z and featured a distinctive arrangement of lines to create the image.
There was no doubt in her mind—it matched Wrexford’s sketch.
“What do you know of the Workers of Zion?” she asked.
“Enough to comprehend that they’re preaching some very radical ideas,” replied Henning tightly. “They make the followers of Ned Ludd look like cherubic choirboys.”
Charlotte’s flesh turned cold. According to legend, Ned Ludd was a weaver who in 1779 had smashed stocking frames in protest over the new technology stealing his livelihood. Whether the story was true or not, his name had become a byword for radicals who, over th
e few years, had taken to sabotaging new mills that were using steam power to improve production. The Luddites, as they had come to be called, were currently sparking some serious trouble up north. But the objects of their wrath were confined to machinery.
As for the Workers of Zion . . .
She skimmed over the rest of the contents, growing more unsettled with each turn of the page. “Good God,” she whispered. “This isn’t just dangerous. It’s madness. I, too, sympathize with the plight of the working poor. But smashing machinery and murdering mill owners will only bring down the wrath of the government, not meaningful change. The uprisings will be crushed, the ringleaders hung, the laws tightened—and countless families will suffer the dire consequences. Surely no rational person can see such actions as a solution.”
“Desperate people don’t think rationally,” said the surgeon.
“Which is why you can’t allow the group to distribute their pamphlets here in your surgery,” reasoned Charlotte. “Your patients are poor, and they’re vulnerable and afraid. Allowing the Workers of Zion to incite them to violence would destroy them and their families.”
A war of conflicting emotion played across Henning’s grizzled face.
“Your conscience knows I’m right,” she pressed. “You must tell me what you know about the group and its leaders, so Wrexford can pass on the information to Bow Street. These men must be stopped from stirring up chaos.”
And death.
“Yes, we need change to improve the conditions of workers,” she went on. “But it must be done through lawful means.”
Henning took a long moment to find his pipe and fill it with tobacco. A plume of pungent smoke rose up as he struck flint to steel, obscuring his expression. “Freedom and change are often bathed in blood.” Puff, puff. “Look at the revolutions by the French and the Americans.”
Charlotte remained silent, trusting that his innate sense of right and wrong would bring him to the right decision.
He exhaled a vaporous sigh. “However, much as I hate to admit it, you’re right about the terrible suffering that results from ill-conceived protests.” Puff, puff. “The fellow who left the pamphlets is tall, dark-haired, and has a mole on his left cheek. He calls himself the Archangel Gabriel.” Puff, puff. “More than that, I can’t tell you.”
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