CHAPTER 4 #2
Wrexford didn’t rise to the bait. “If I learn anything worthwhile, I’ll send word to you in the morning. I trust you’ll do the same.”
A brusque nod. “Of course. Now kindly step down and let me be off.”
He did so, silently cursing her devil-benighted sense of stubborn independence.
“My thanks for your help, Wrexford. I’m aware this is not your fight.” Her words were almost lost in the whisper of wool as she brushed past him.
Steel and silk. Hard and soft. Charlotte had the infuriating ability to keep him off balance.
A frown momentarily formed between his brows as he watched her dart across the cobbled square and disappear into the maze of narrow alleyways. Like a cat. Or rather, a lioness. All feline grace, ferocious courage, and a hunter’s instinct for tracking down its prey.
Turning away, he slammed the carriage door shut and headed off in the opposite direction. The question, he asked himself, was how many of her nine lives did she have left?
* * *
Charlotte wove a sure-footed path through the slanting shadows, keeping alert to all the little sounds around her.
She didn’t need the earl’s warning to know that the scum of humanity was drawn to the environs of Newgate and Old Bailey.
Misery loves company—or perhaps it was more that depravity begets depravity.
The prison housed some of the most deranged and dangerous of London’s criminals.
Including the new Lord Chittenden.
A sudden crunch-crunch sounded behind her.
She shot a nervous glance over her shoulder, but saw nothing within the dark-as-Hades gloom beneath the overhanging roofs.
Feeling the hairs at the back of her neck stand on end, Charlotte quickened her pace.
She was feeling jumpy as a cat on a griddle.
Cedric’s murder had cut like a knife to the heart, reminding her of how cruelly and casually a loved one could be ripped from the here and now.
Raven and Hawk . . . the irascible Basil Henning and devil-may-care Kit Sheffield . . . the mysterious McClellan.
And the enigmatic Earl of Wrexford.
She had somehow gathered a mismatched circle of friends around her during the past few years. They had become very dear to her.
Once again, she was aware of how frighteningly vulnerable she felt because of it.
A solitary existence was far safer, uncomplicated by the complexities of emotions. Danger now held more consequences than the question of her own measly survival. The boys depended on her . . .
Charlotte shook off her brooding. She couldn’t afford such distractions when she was on the hunt.
After weaving her way through the putrid maze of passageways, she skirted around Lincoln’s Inn Fields and made her way up to High Holborn, where she joined the flow of traffic heading west onto Oxford Street.
No one paid the least attention to yet another ragged urchin as she cut into Hyde Park and hurried on into the neighborhood surrounding Kensington Palace.
The boys had their sources for information—the urchins who swept the dung from the streets, the flower girls, the night soil men.
But she had her own set of contacts. Men and women whose shady dealings depended on knowing everything that went on within their little world.
Her first stop was a curio shop on Church Lane, just several streets away from the main entrance to Kensington Palace.
A dreary-looking front room stuffed with nondescript flotsam and jetsam masked a hidden basement filled with purloined treasures from Mayfair.
Broad Billy had the reputation for running the best flash house in London.
Charlotte squeezed through one of the narrow aisles and approached the bored-looking clerk at the back counter. Fisting a hand, she waggled a quick signal.
A jerk of his head indicated she should pass through a closed door set halfway down a short corridor. It led into a tiny chamber where the rug had been thrown back, revealing a trapdoor that now stood open. A flicker of weak light wavered within the murky depths below.”
“Billy,” hissed Charlotte, careful to disguise her voice.
She heard the shuffling of boots and the sonorous chiming of crystal. A chandelier by the sound of it. Quite an expensive one.
“That you, Magpie?” A pudgy face appeared an instant later, the eyes two beady black dots nearly swallowed by the doughy folds of flesh.
Woe to anyone who assumed they didn’t see much. Charlotte was of the opinion that Billy could count the hairs on a flea’s arse from ten paces away.
A lamp, held aloft by a meaty hand, shifted slightly, illuminating the figure’s near-bald pate streaked with a few greasy strands of black hair.
“Aye,” answered Charlotte, quickly pulling a purse from her pocket. She had come prepared.
Broad Billy’s hearing was just as acute as his vision. He must have heard the faint chink of gold against gold for he quickly humped his massive bulk closer to the ladder. “Whacha need?”
“Whatever you might know about the murder that happened in the Palace gardens several nights ago.”
“Nasty business, that,” remarked Billy, though a low chuckle punctuated his words. “Say what they will, but the highborn swells are far more savage than us unwashed.”
Her ears pricked up. “You have reason to think it was a swell who did it, and not the madman they call the Bloody Butcher?”
A leer slowly stretched across his broad face. “Who’s saying the Butcher ain’t an aristocrat?”
Charlotte shook the purse. “Tell me what you know.”
Billy eyed the chamois bag, as if judging just how much information it would buy.
“Only that my ears and eyes on the street saw naught but the fancy gennelmun coming outta the gardens that night. The Duke o’ Sussex wuz having one of his parties. But I daresay you know that.”
Fear drove a spike through Charlotte’s chest, but she kept her reaction well hidden. “Were any of those ears and eyes close enough to Queen Anne’s Alcove to see what happened?”
“Alas, no.” Another leer. “Otherwise I’d likely have the victim’s gold pocket watch and assorted fobs and rings te add te my wares.” Billy gave a mournful exhale and shook his head. “A pity to think all those valuables were jest sitting there fer the taking.”
Scavenging was fair game in the underworld, but the thought of Cedric’s corpse being stripped of its valuables made her skin crawl.
She dropped the purse into the waiting upturned palm. “Ask around again. If you hear anything different, tell Lilly, the flower girl, and she’ll get word to me. There’ll be another purse for the efforts.”
Billy patted his protruding belly. “Oiy will. But my gut tells me ye should be looking high, not low, fer the Butcher.”
Is Nicky lying? Charlotte wondered as she quit the shop and headed north, to a tiny hole in the wall near the Kensington gravel pits. She hated to consider it, but the alternative was equally unsettling.
The Bloody Butcher an aristocrat? It seemed unthinkable.
However, her work had exposed her to the underbelly of Polite Society.
Scandal and betrayal. Greed and jealousy.
She had good reason to know that Billy’s assessment was right.
Beneath the thin veneer of civility, there lurked dark-hearted Blue Bloods whose depravity would put wild savages to blush.
O’Malley, a rag-and-bone picker who worked out of a cramped stable on Blackman Lane, often wheeled his barrow through Kensington Gardens late at night. At this hour, he would likely be sleeping. But for a few extra shillings he would gladly have it interrupted.
As she had hoped, the man was curled up on a pile of dirty straw, snoring with a shuddering volume that belied his scrawny body. The jingle of coins brought him instantly awake.
He blinked and rubbed a hand over his bristly jaw. “What sins be ye looking fer today, me fine feathered friend?”
“The sin of murder.”
O’Malley grunted. “The Palace gardens?”
“Aye. Did you see anything?”
He let out a regretful sigh, knowing “yes” would earn him more than “no.” But Charlotte never did business again with anyone who told her lies, and her informants knew it.
“Wish I could help ye, Magpie. But when I rolled me way home that night, I saw nuffink save fer a solitary mort sitting in the Alcove. Thought he was sleeping or foxed, so didn’t think anything of it.”
“When was that?” She didn’t expect the exact hour, but knew O’Malley would have a natural sense of the night, and whether it was closer to midnight or dawn.
“Business was good down by the river, so I didn’t return until mebbe an hour before the sun rose.”
So, just a short while before the gardener had found Cedric and sent word to Bow Street. It wasn’t any help, but still, she placed a generous payment in his lap.
“My thanks.”
O’Malley smiled in answer, revealing several missing teeth, and sank back down into the straw, clutching the coins to his breast.
Feeling dispirited, Charlotte turned away. Her inquiries had raised more questions than they had answered.
All of them uncomfortable.
Because they seemed to suggest that Nicky, for all his tearful denials, was guilty. She could only pray that Wrexford’s visit to the exclusive fleshpot would uncover more than a shapely derriere.
Once back on the street, she hesitated. The quickest route home was via Tyburn Turnpike, rather than cutting through the Palace gardens.
But some impulse drew her to a pathway leading into the leafy greenery.
Was it horribly macabre to feel compelled to view the murder site?
Griffin and his men were very competent. There would be no lingering clues.
Still, Charlotte found her pulse quickening as her steps crunched over the graveled footpaths.
As an artist, she often saw things differently than others.
Her eyes—and her intuition—had proved invaluable in previous investigations.
However fragile a thread it was, she clung to the thought that something at the scene might spark an idea.
Another turn brought her to a wider walkway lined with stately plane trees.
The leaves whispered softly in the gentle breeze, setting off a fluttering of dark and light greens, deep forest shades dancing with pale lime hues.
The cacophony of city sounds didn’t intrude upon the sylvan setting. It was aching peaceful.
Up ahead, a dappling of sun caught on the pale stone pediment peeking out from the trees. Charlotte paused as a twist in the path brought Queen Anne’s Alcove into full view.
Its beauty squeezed the air from her lungs.
A graceful arched opening was centered beneath the triangular top, flanked on each side by double Corinthian columns and matching wall niches sculpted of creamy marble.
The symmetry was sublime. Inside the center arch was a curved bench and high paneling made of dark, carved wood.
It looked inviting. An oasis of tranquility.
Oh, how looks could be deceiving. She, of all people, knew that elemental truth.
Forcing herself forward, Charlotte slowly approached and mounted the shallow steps.
The interior was cool, with velvety shadows softening the lines of the carved oak.
She took a seat on the center of the bench and looked up at the high-vaulted ceiling.
A profound sadness took hold of her as she thought of Cedric’s last moments, sitting here surrounded by such loveliness.
And then by death.
She closed her eyes for an instant, and then made herself focus on why she was here. Emotion must not be allowed to cloud her gaze.
Looking left and then right, Charlotte studied the curve of the bench and the grain of the wood. She rose, and, starting at one end, slowly ran her hands over the smooth surface, looking for . . .
Anything.
However, the oak yielded no hidden secrets.
After finishing her search, she got down on hands and knees and once again began to follow the curve of the bench, looking for any clues beneath it.
Had the sun not broken through the scudding clouds and speared a blade of light within the flitting shadows, she would have missed the flakes of tobacco blown up in a tiny pile against the wooden stanchion.
Her heart thumped against her ribs. A clue?
However unlikely, Charlotte quickly withdrew her handkerchief for the second time and gently gathered the bits with the tip of her finger.
A sweet, spicy scent tickled at her nostrils as she deposited them into a separate fold of the cloth.
Snuff.
Repressing a sneeze, Charlotte tucked away the evidence and continued her search. On finding nothing more, she quickly rose and retraced her steps back to the street.
Reason warned her that her findings likely had nothing to do with Cedric.
And yet, Reason was not always right. There were times when one had to trust Imagination.