CHAPTER 4 #3
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.
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.