CHAPTER 3 #2
“Principled?” Cradling the warm cup in her hands, Charlotte took a sip.
“More likely buffle-headed.” She blew away a wisp of steam.
“Both the victim of the recent murder and the man accused of the crime are very dear to me. If I am to find the real killer and see that justice is done, there’s a good chance that I must step out of the shadows.
Which means I will have to tell the boys, and you, and all my friends—about my past.”
“That includes Wrexford, I imagine,” murmured McClellan.
Charlotte drew in a deep breath. “Wrexford already knows.”
The other woman’s expression didn’t change.
“I asked him to keep it a secret until I felt ready to take the momentous step.”
“And you don’t really wish to?”
“Let’s just say it will change everything,” Charlotte replied carefully.
Grease sizzled as the meat slapped against hot cast iron. “How so?”
“I . . . I suppose secrets are like a comfortable cloak. They hide all the warts and imperfections that we prefer for our friends not to see.” Charlotte gave a wry grimace. “Or perhaps it’s merely the illusion of having our vulnerabilities covered that provides the comfort.”
“It seems to me that Wrexford doesn’t look at you any differently.” Taking up a fork, McClellan shifted the fried meat to a plate and added eggs to the frying pan. She didn’t elaborate on the statement.
The smell of food was unexpectedly welcome. Charlotte hadn’t expected to feel hungry.
“I’m not so sure,” she replied. “The earl can be mercurial.” And unpredictable. “His moods make him—”
A sudden rapping of the front door knocker interrupted her words. Charlotte tensed. The early hour meant it wasn’t a social call.
“I’ll go see who it is.” McClellan wiped her hands on her apron and hurried down the corridor—though not before slipping a kitchen knife into one of the pockets.
She returned shortly with a missive bearing the earl’s crest.
Charlotte quickly broke the wax wafer and scanned the contents.
Wrexford had somehow worked magic overnight.
“It seems the earl has arranged permission to visit Newgate, but it must be done before the night guards go off duty. He’ll be here shortly.
” Which meant the moment of reckoning was coming even sooner than she expected. “I must hurry and dress.”
* * *
The wide brim of Charlotte’s oversized hat curled down to hide her eyes, making impossible for Wrexford to read her face. Dark on dark, shadows dipped and darted beneath the drab brown wool. She had smudged dirt on her face, making her expression even more impenetrable.
In his note, he had suggested that she dress as a street urchin, a disguise she wore like a second skin. A lady seeking entrance to Newgate would draw too much attention, something they wished to avoid.
“Mrs. Sloane,” he said, reluctantly interrupting whatever thoughts were swirling in her head. “I must remind you to let me do all the talking with the officials. Once we are in the cell, I shall defer to you.”
“Yes, yes. I’m not a complete widgeon, milord,” she replied.
“No, but your nerves are on edge, and we can’t afford to have you make a careless slip. Newgate runs by its own rules. A wrong move will cut off any access to Locke, even with Griffin calling in favors.”
She nodded, but made no reply. Another sign that Charlotte wasn’t herself.
He leaned back against the squabs, content to let the rest of the journey pass in silence. She would need all of her strength for the ordeal ahead.
After a last jolting turn, wheels clattering over the uneven cobblestones, the carriage finally rolled to a halt.
The grey day felt even darker with the oppressive stone bulk of the prison looming over them.
Wrexford didn’t dare shoot a glance at Charlotte to catch her reaction.
He passed through the main portal with quick, confident strides and demanded of the first gaoler he spotted to be taken to the warden on duty.
“Stay right behind me, lad,” he barked at Charlotte.
“Oiy, there’s many in here who wud snatch up a pretty cully like ye,” said the man with a nasty leer before turning to lead the way into a dark corridor reeking of urine. “And even iffen His Nibs found ye, he wouldn’t want what wuz left of ye.”
The stench grew even more overpowering as they made their way deeper into the bowels of the prison.
The gloom grew thicker, and from some unseen block of cells, a cacophony of screams and demented laughter reverberated against the unyielding stones.
Wrexford had known what to expect. He wondered if Charlotte fully understood the horrors that lurked within these walls.
Another turn brought them to a small windowed office overlooking one of the inner courtyards. The warden, a greasy-haired fellow with a beaky nose and reptilian eyes, read over the papers from Bow Street that the earl thrust into his hands.
“Locke, eh?” He looked up with a sniff.
Smelling the scent of money, no doubt.
“Now,” snapped Wrexford, curling a hand around the purse in his pocket.
“Doesn’t say anything here about two visitors. Why’s the lad with you?”
In answer, the earl slowly lifted up the soft chamois bag. The weight of gold guineas made a very distinctive ring. “Take me to Locke.”
The warden smiled, revealing two missing teeth, and plucked the purse from Wrexford’s palm. “Burley,” he bellowed, “escort these gentlemen to the Golden Beauty’s cell.”
More darkness, more filth, more screams.
At last, the gaoler stopped in front of a heavy iron door and shoved a massive key into the lock. Metal scraped against metal, and the mechanism released with a groan.
“I’ll be back in a quarter hour,” warned the gaoler as he pushed the door open with his boot. “Be ready te move yer pegs quick-like. Ye can’t linger.” Once the two of them entered the cell, he slammed it shut and relocked it.
Charlotte waited until the footsteps were swallowed by the other prison noises before taking a step toward the narrow cot, where a figure lay curled like a hedgehog, a threadbare blanket pulled up over his head and shoulders.
“Nicky?” she said softly.
A pitiful moan shivered through the ragged wool. “Be damned with you, Lucifer—stop plaguing me with such devil-cursed dreams!”
“Nicky.” Charlotte crouched down and pulled the blanket down, revealing a tangle of pale gold hair. “Come, rouse yourself. It’s no dream. I need to talk with you and we haven’t much time.”
Wrexford watched as a pair of muck-encrusted boots scrabbled free of the blanket. After slowly twisting up to a sitting position, Nicholas Locke slumped back against the stone wall and blinked in confusion. “C-C-Charley? Oh my God, i-is it really you?”
She gripped his shoulders and gave him a shake. “Yes!” Leaning closer, she spoke with a rapid-fire urgency, punctuating her words with a light slap to his cheek.
The earl kept his distance, allowing her a private exchange with the prisoner before they began their questioning. Charlotte hadn’t yet clarified her relationship to Locke, and much as he was curious, he wasn’t going to ask.
He didn’t hear what she said, but Locke seemed to shake off his lethargy. His gaze became more alert.
“Come join us, sir.” Her brusque wave indicated the lone stool set near the sliver of window.
As Wrexford shoved it closer to the cot and took a seat, Charlotte added, “I assume I have you to thank for the amenities. Be assured I shall pay you back.”
Ah, so she did know the sordid details of Newgate. Prisoners had to pay through the nose for even the barest necessities, otherwise they slept on the cold stone, half-starved and surrounded by their own filth. For those without money, incarceration could be a death sentence in itself.
“The wheels of graft move slowly at first.” Wrexford gave a sardonic smile. “By evening, Mr. Locke will have better furnishings, along with decent food and drink.” A pause. “We shall settle up accounts after he’s released, but for now, let’s not waste our breath on such trivialities.”
Charlotte nodded. Steeling her features, she looked back at Locke. “We can’t afford to shilly-shally, Nicky, and in order to help you, I must know the truth, however grim. So I must ask you straightaway—did you kill Cedric?”
“God in heaven, no!” His face crumpled in anguish. “As if I could ever do such a horrific thing! C-C-Cedric was my best friend.”
And yet, in a moment of mad rage, thought Wrexford, love could turn to murderous hate. Life was littered with the ugly proof of it. Charlotte knew that as well as he did. Whether she could put aside her emotions remained to be seen. Whatever her connection to Locke, it was clearly a close one.
“How do you explain the bloody knife and bits of flesh found in your rooms?” he demanded, assuming the role of the devil’s advocate to spare Charlotte from having to ask such painful questions.
“I can’t,” replied Nicholas helplessly. “I’ve no idea how they got there.”
“You’ll need a better answer than that if you wish to save your neck,” he shot back. “The evidence is damning. And you have a compelling motive. With your brother dead, a title and fortune are suddenly yours.”
Nicholas’s face, already ashen, turned bloodless.
“I’ve all the money I need! Cedric is—was—exceedingly generous.
As for the title, it means nothing to me.
It’s more trouble than it’s worth.” He sucked in a shallow breath.
“The fact is, Cedric had the better temperament for all the responsibilities, and we both knew it.”
Charlotte placed a hand on his thigh. “That may be, Nicky, but the Runner investigating the murder has statements from several members of the Royal Institution saying some very emotional arguments had taken place between you and Cedric recently. And one of the porters at Kensington Palace overheard a very ugly exchange as you were leaving the Duke’s soiree. ”
“Yes, Cedric and I had the occasional disagreement,” exclaimed Nicholas. “What brothers don’t?”
“This one went far beyond a brotherly brangle. You were heard ranting about the unfairness of Cedric getting everything, simply by virtue of being born a few minutes before you were,” said Wrexford. “Fate played a cruel jest on you. The question is whether you sought to repay the favor.”
“We never quarreled over the inheritance,” insisted Nicholas. “I was drunk, and in a foul mood about . . . other things. Cedric was generous, and kind, and . . .” Taking his head in his hands, he choked back a sob. “And I—I c-can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Alcohol and anger are a volatile mix,” pointed out the earl. “Perhaps you simply lost control—”
“I didn’t kill him!” Nicholas’s whole body began to tremble uncontrollably. He looked at Charlotte, tears running down his cheeks. “I swear by all that is holy, I’m innocent, Charley.”
“Then we must prove it,” she replied softly.
By now, Charlotte’s hell-bent idealism shouldn’t surprise him, reflected Wrexford. When roused by injustice, she would charge headlong into hellhole conundrums, where even the most avenging of angels should fear to tread. No matter what demons lay in wait.
He must have made an exasperated sound, for she turned to spear him with a scowl.
Thinning his lips, Wrexford held his doubts in check.
Charlotte looked back to Nicholas. “But to do so, Nicky, you must be entirely forthcoming with me.” Her voice hardening, she went on, “I need to know everything—everything—that might give a clue on who might have had a motive to murder Cedric. Do you understand? Holding anything back, no matter how embarrassing or unpleasant, puts your own life in jeopardy.”
“I . . . I’m not sure w-what to say,” rasped Nicholas. “We all know how innocent exchanges can be twisted to look incriminating.” He suddenly looked ill. “Oh, Lord, I suppose I’ll be painted a ravening monster by A. J. Quill’s satirical pen.”
“Never mind Quill,” said Charlotte. “Satire may cut at your pride, but it’s hard evidence that will send you to the gallows. Right now, the authorities have items that incriminate you in Cedric’s murder. Unless I can find the real culprit, you will hang.”
“But how can you possibly find—” began Nicholas.
“Leave that to us,” snapped Wrexford. “You heard Mrs. Sloane. You had better start focusing what wits you possess on coming up with some possible suspects or motives, no matter how unlikely.”
Nicholas nodded, looking miserable and frightened. “I-I will try to wrack my brain.”
“You had damn well better,” said Wrexford. Their time was nearly up, and he doubted the warden was the sort of fellow who gave away anything for free. “Think! There must be something you can give us now,” he pressed. “No one is a saint. Cedric must have had some enemies.”
Shoulders slumping, Nicholas shifted uncomfortably.
“Nicky!” Charlotte grabbed hold of his open shirtfront and gave him a hard shake.
“Come, let’s not waste any more of our time,” snarled Wrexford in disgust. “Clearly, Mr. Locke would rather keep his delicate sensibilities intact instead of his neck.”
“It’s probably nothing,” mumbled Nicholas as the earl rose, “but a few weeks after Cedric and I arrived in London, we were invited to join the Eos Society.”