CHAPTER 4
Charlotte rose abruptly and went to put the kettle on the hob. “I feel in need of some tea. Would you care for some as well?”
“I would prefer brandy, but tea is probably a wiser choice.”
She had noticed the dark hollows beneath his eyes and the taut lines etched around the corners of his mouth, but refrained from comment. The earl’s moods were best described as mercurial. However, his personal life was none of her business.
After adding several heaping spoonfuls of Lapsang souchong leaves to the pot, Charlotte turned and set a hand on her hip. “Nebulous as they are, I agree to your terms, milord.” A sigh. “Though likely we will clash incessantly over their interpretation.”
A glint of amusement lit in his eyes. “That goes without saying.”
“You speak as if that is . . . entertaining.”
“My valet tells me that I am a very difficult fellow to live with when I am bored,” he replied. “You never bore me, Mrs. Sloane.”
The kettle began to hiss, sending a cloud of steam into the air. “No, I drive you to distraction.”
“Let us just say you challenge me. Few people do.”
“I’m not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a castigation.”
“Yes you do,” murmured Wrexford.
Impossible man. At times she was sorely tempted to strangle him. And yet, a smile curled at the corners of her mouth as she carried the tea tray to the table.
“Enough of verbal sparring, sir.” Charlotte passed him a cup. “You’ve come here to discuss business.”
A plume of steam rose up, blurring the sharply chiseled planes of his face. And yet, even when softened by the silvery vapor his features radiated an elemental strength.
Or perhaps stubbornness was a better word. Charlotte ducked her head to hide another smile. Birds of a feather. Honesty compelled her to concede that she saw the same unyielding expression every time she glanced in the looking glass.
The earl took a sip of the scalding brew, then set it aside. “Ashton’s widow is convinced her husband was murdered because he was on the verge of a momentous discovery.” He pursed his lips. “I’m inclined to give her suspicions credence because of the state of the body.”
Charlotte went very still. “How so?”
He raised a brow. “The lads didn’t describe it to you in gory detail?”
“No. They merely said you had stumbled upon a body and were of the opinion that it was a quarrel among thieves.”
“Don’t look daggers at me,” he replied. “That was what I thought at the time. Given the information I have now, I see things differently.” The earl took up a spoon and turned it slowly between his fingers.
“Ashton’s clothing was ripped at the seams—clearly his murderer was searching for something.
And his belly was slashed, indicating rage at not finding it. Logic says it wasn’t a random crime.”
“What was the murderer after?”
“Presumably technical drawings or a description of the invention. According to Ashton’s widow, a patent on it would be worth a king’s ransom.”
Patents. While researching her latest print series, she had become aware of how powerfully profitable they were.
That ideas were, like estate lands and Old Master paintings, valuable property whose rights could be owned had been an unfamiliar concept.
But she could well understand how a new technological innovation—and the riches it would generate—might be a motivation for murder.
“I take it you found no clues at the scene.”
“No. I heard someone racing away from the body, but it was too dark to see anything. However, I do know that Ashton was lured to the area by a note from a so-called kindred spirit in science who wished to discuss a special partnership.”
“In St. Giles?”
He made a face. “Both Ashton and his wife are unfamiliar with London. He had no idea that he was heading into the very heart of the city’s darkness.”
Charlotte felt a welling of anger at such deadly deceit. It seemed horribly wrong that a man’s brilliance should cost him his life.
“Does she have any idea who the culprit could be?”
“I asked her to send me a list of those who knew of the invention.” He shifted on the stool. “She was very careful not to make any outright accusations, but she did suggest any questioning ought to begin with his secretary and laboratory assistant.”
“Did she say why?”
“Not in so many words. But it was obvious that there is no love lost between the three of them.”
Interesting. But first things first. “Getting back to the actual murder—describe the corpse and its surroundings as precisely as you can.”
His mouth tightened.
“For God’s sake, milord, the lads saw the scene—and I daresay they can tell me every bloody detail even more accurately than you can!”
“I don’t doubt it.” Wrexford chuffed a grunt.
“What I was about to say is, I’m hoping you won’t show the slashed clothing or mutilation in your drawing.
If the murderer doesn’t suspect that the crime is being seen as anything other than a random act of violence in a dangerous part of the city, it will make it easier to investigate and learn the truth. ”
“I’m aware of that, sir,” she said softly. “Just as I’m aware that my livelihood depends on being one step ahead of my competition. I survive by feeding the public’s need for speculation.” A pause. “Misery loves company.”
Wrexford rose and began pacing the perimeter of the room. He was a big man and his long-legged stride made the space seem even smaller than it was.
“I realize that I am asking a great sacrifice on your part,” he said. “I would offer recompense for your loss of earnings—if I didn’t think you’d hurl it back in my face.”
“Taking a bribe to suppress facts would be the first step down the road to perdition.” Charlotte expelled a sigh. “Which is not to say I won’t act on moral principles, even if it means starving.”
“You’re the most popular satirical artist in London,” he murmured. “I daresay you won’t starve.”
“An exaggeration. My stock in trade.” Charlotte stilled the twitch of her lips. “I asked about the details only to decide how else to frame my drawing. The angle of the building, the lighting, the depth of the muck. I’d at least like to get some of the scene depicted correctly.”
Acknowledging her reasoning with a curt nod, he went on to describe the setting without further protest. His eye, as she well knew from their previous encounters, was just as sharp as his sarcasm.
“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.