Murder at Half Moon Gate (Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #2)

PROLOGUE

A thick mist had crept in from the river. It skirted around the man’s legs as he picked his way through the foul-smelling mud, drifting up to cloud the twisting turns of the narrow alleyways. He paused for a moment to watch the vapor ghosting through the gloom.

A shiver of gooseflesh snaked down his spine.

Shifting, he peered into the darkness, trying to spot the wrought iron arches of Half Moon Gate. But only a shroud of black-on-black shadows lay ahead.

He was unfamiliar with London, and must have confused the directions.

From Red Lion Square, he had taken three—or was it four?

—turns, only to find himself lost in a maze of unlit alleyways.

Squat warehouses, all sagging slants and filthy brick, were squeezed along the crooked turns, while the boarded-up rookeries rose up at drunken angles, blocking out all but the smallest slivers of sky.

A glance up showed only a weak dribbling of moonlight playing hide and seek within the overhanging roofs.

“Logic,” he murmured. “There’s no conundrum that can’t be solved by logic.” Turning in a slow circle, he sought to get his bearings.

Left, he decided. Heading left would quickly bring him back to the cobbled streets of the Square, where he could start over.

He set off again, sure that he’d soon see a glint of light. And yet, the shadows seemed to darken and creep closer. He tried to draw a calming breath, but the stench made him gag.

“Logic,” he reminded himself. Just another turn or two would bring him—

He stopped abruptly.

So, too, did the scuff of steps behind him. But not quite quickly enough. By the laws of physics, it couldn’t have been an echo.

“Who’s there?” he called sharply. His wife had warned him to ignore the note requesting a meeting. He’d intended to do so, but the second missive had been impossible to ignore. So much depended on making the right decision . . .

There was no response, save for the rasp of rusted metal swinging in the breeze.

He chided himself for being too jumpy. The crooked walls and overhanging roofs distorted sounds, that was all.

He resumed walking, turning left, and then right, and then left again—only to have the sinking sensation that he was walking in circles.

There was no flicker of light anywhere. The shadows seemed to darken and creep closer.

From out of nowhere came a low, rasping laugh.

He quickened his pace.

Steady, steady, he told himself. The Square had to be just ahead.

And yet, his boots seemed to have a mind of their own. Faster, faster . . . Behind him, the echo seemed to be gaining ground. It seemed to be coming from the right—he must head left!

Slipping, sliding, he lost his footing as he turned the corner of a deserted warehouse and hit up hard against the soot-dark brick. Pain lanced through his shoulder.

“Hell’s bells.” He braced his back against the wall, drawing in a shaky breath. No educated, intelligent man of science should let himself be spooked by nonexistent specters. Logic . . .

And yet, against all logic the pursuing steps were growing louder. And then, out of the shadows rumbled a taunting voice.

“You may be brilliant in the laboratory, but here in the stews there’s no fancy formula for escape, Mr. Ashton.”

Pushing away from the wall, Ashton took off at a dead run.

What devil-cursed hell had he stumbled into?

Straight ahead, a wall loomed out of the blackness. He hesitated for an instant, and then the sound of pursuit once again drove him to his left. After skidding through yet another turn he tried to summon an extra burst of speed. But a slip sent him sprawling.

He hit the ground with a thud, rolled through the ooze and was halfway up on his feet when a gloved hand—black as Lucifer—shot out and caught hold of his collar. His assailant swung him around and slammed him against an iron grate.

Instinctively, he threw up his arm to parry the blow aimed at his skull. His assailant rocked back, and Ashton heard the whisper of steel kissing leather as a knife slipped free of its sheath.

He was no longer young, but he’d spent most of his life shaping iron with hammer and chisel. His arms were still muscled, his hands still strong. He had no intention of giving up without a fight.

Throwing his weight to one side, he broke free of the other man’s hold and lashed out a hard punch, taking grim satisfaction in feeling his broad knuckles crack against the other man’s skull.

A grunt of pain, a vicious oath. Shifting the knife from hand to hand, his assailant retreated a step, then pivoted and moved in more warily.

The moon had once again broken through the clouds, allowing a dappling of light to reach the slivered alleyway.

It slid along the razored steel now cutting slowly back and forth through the night.

Ashton fished out his purse and threw it down. “Here, take my money. I’ve nothing else of value with me.”

His assailant let out a nasty laugh. A mask hid his face, but a malevolent glint showed through the eye slits in the silk.

“I don’t want money. I want the drawings.”

How did a common footpad know about the drawings? “W-What drawings?” he stammered.

In answer, the blade flashed a series of lightning-swift feints, driving Ashton back up against unyielding iron bars.

He was now trapped in the narrow gated recess between two warehouses.

In desperation, he lashed out a kick, but Evil Eyes was quick as a snake.

Dodging the blow, he smashed a knee to Ashton’s groin.

“I’m tired of playing cat and mouse games with you.”

“I don’t have—” gasped Ashton.

But a vicious elbow to the throat crushed his windpipe before he could go on.

No, no, no, he mouthed in silent agony. Dear God—not now! Not when his momentous discovery was on the cusp of changing the world.

“Please, just let me live,” he managed to whisper.

“Let you live?” The knife pierced the flesh between Ashton’s ribs. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.”

There was no pain, just an odd tickling sensation. How strange, he thought. Steam was always so pleasantly warm, but the silvery mist caressing his cheeks was cold as the Devil’s heart.

“You see, Mr. Ashton, letting you live would ruin everything.”

* * *

Evil Eyes let the lifeless body drop to the ground. A search of Ashton’s pockets turned up nothing but a pencil stub, a coil of twine and a scrap of wire. Uttering a low oath, he wrenched open the dead man’s coat and set to slitting open the lining with the still-bloody knife.

Nothing.

Trousers, boots, stockings—the blade sliced through the garments and still not a scrap of god-benighted paper was to be found.

As disbelief gave way to fury, Evil Eyes slashed a series of jagged cuts through the pale flesh of Ashton’s exposed belly.

“Damn you to hell! Where are they?”