CHAPTER 7
Wrexford leaned forward in his chair. “What marks?”
Jeannette bit at her lip and looked away. “I dunno—mebbe it’s best te leave the dead te rest in peace.”
Wrexford bit back a sardonic comment. His views on the Hereafter were admittedly heretical.
It was Sheffield who quickly responded, “It may help us find his killer and bring him to justice.”
“Well, seeing as ye put it that way . . .” She blew out her breath.
“There were some strange sores and a series of small cuts—made by a knife is my guess—on his breast and around his rib cage.” Her mouth puckered in puzzlement.
“Along with a few small spots of blackened flesh. They looked like burns, though God only knows how a gentry mort would get ’em. ”
God—or the devil. That was the trouble with murder, thought Wrexford.
All too often, the moment of Death wasn’t the end of Evil, it was merely the beginning.
Like a stone hitting water, its impact could ripple out, bringing secrets to the surface that were best left submerged. And suddenly there were more victims.
Wrexford felt his gut tighten. He feared that Charlotte’s sense of honor and loyalty might hurt her in ways she hadn’t imagined.
“Did you ask Chittenden about the marks?” inquired Sheffield.
The earl shook off his brooding and forced himself to focus on Jeannette’s answer.
She lifted her bare shoulders in a shrug. “Aye, but he mumbled some humble-bumble that made no sense te me. Don’t see how hurtin’ yerself can bring ye te some higher plane o’ knowledge.” A wry grimace. “But then, I ain’t got a fancy brainbox like you educated gentlemen.”
Pain. For some, it was a way of exploring the dark side of one’s nature.
The earl rose abruptly. “Thank you.” He gave a tug to the silken bellpull, then placed a few more coins on the bedcover-ing. “Don’t tell anyone else about what we’ve discussed. If there’s a dangerous killer on the loose, he won’t hesitate to strike again.”
Her eyes widened. Lifting a hand to her mouth, she made a quick pantomime of turning a key. “Oiy, me lips are locked right and tight, milord.”
Matron Plum appeared a moment later. She led them through a side corridor and down a dark stairwell to an iron-studded door that opened into an unlit alleyway next to the mews.
Wrexford and his friend stepped out into the fog-misted night. Without a word, the woman drew it shut, and through the thick oak, the earl heard the rasp of the bolts being thrown back in place.
The air felt cold as ice against his face after the warmth of the brothel. He started walking.
“I can think of several establishments where Chittenden might have acquired such marks,” murmured Sheffield after they had traversed a connecting passageway and emerged on the adjoining street.
“As can I,” growled Wrexford. London catered to all manner of vices and obsessions. “None of them are pretty.”
They walked on in silence for several strides. “I can make some inquiries, if you like,” added his friend. “Not that I’m familiar with the world of pleasure and pain, but I know of one or two people who would be willing to talk.”
Already the ripples were spreading, churning up waves in an ever-widening circle.
“My thanks, Kit. We can’t afford to overlook that possibility,” he replied. “But there’s also Westmorly and the gambling debts. We need to know more about those, too.” As for his own next steps . . . a sudden thought came to mind, spurring Wrexford to quicken his pace.
“I’ll set both inquiries into motion tonight,” promised Sheffield as he hurried to catch up. “Where are you racing off to?”
“I want to pay a visit to the morgue. But first, I need to rouse Henning. If anyone can make a corpse talk, it’s him.”
* * *
“Bloody, bloody hell.” Slapping down her pen in frustration, Charlotte gave up trying to sketch a satire on the Prince Regent and his latest peccadillo. Lust and gluttony seemed such paltry sins compared to murder.
She rose and began to pace the perimeter of her workroom. Shadows stirred, their dark shapes dancing just out of reach of the flickering lamplight. The draperies were closed, but still she could sense the black-fingered gloom of the moonless night pressing against the windowpanes.
Pausing, Charlotte peeked through the folds of fabric, trying to spot any sign of movement in the street. Yet another sign her wits were out of kilter. It was far too early for the boys to be returning. As for dawn, it seemed an eternity away.
She resumed her pacing, suddenly aware of how impatient she was to show Wrexford the tobacco flakes. In the meantime, there must be some other lead to follow. But another turn around the small space only exacerbated the sense that she was spinning in circles.
As she came to an abrupt halt and stared at the fast-dying coals of the banked fire, Charlotte fisted her hands and felt a clench of impotent fury take hold of her. She hated feeling so helpless. A passive bystander, while the earl and the boys were out searching for clues.
In her previous home, a ramshackle structure squeezed up against the stews, she had been a nameless nobody, free to come and go as she pleased. The move to a nicer neighborhood had not come without consequences.
There were times when she questioned whether she had made the right decision.
Charlotte repressed a grimace, reminding herself of the aphorisms learned in long-ago schoolroom lessons.
Virtus tentamine gaudet—strength rejoices in the challenge.
At the time, such pompous platitudes had made three unruly adolescents snicker behind the tutor’s back.
Strange how they had stuck with her over the years, providing unexpected steel for the spirit in times of doubt.
She wondered if Nicky was lying on his miserable cot, using them as a talisman to keep the blackness at bay.
A gust of wind rattled the glass. The shadows shivered and slipped deeper into the dark corners of the room.
“I’ll go mad if I stay in here any longer,” whispered Charlotte. She drew in a ragged breath—and then spun around to blow out the desk lamp’s flame.
Within minutes, she had stripped off her skirts and donned her urchin’s garb. After penciling a quick note so McClellan and the boys wouldn’t worry if they discovered her absence, Charlotte tucked her boots under her arm and tiptoed for the stairs.
* * *
“Auch, you had better be prepared to buy me a very ample breakfast—and a bottle of whisky to fortify my coffee.” Henning’s irascible grumble echoed within the slivered alleyway.
“Why is it all my friends think my purse is ripe for the plucking?” retorted Wrexford, pausing to peer through the swirls of silvery mist floating up from the muck beneath their boots.
“Because it is,” replied the surgeon. He shifted his leather satchel from hand to hand, setting off a snick-snick of metal.
“Sssshhh,” warned the earl.
“And be advised, I’ll expect a generous donation to the clinic in return for rousing me out of bed at this ungodly hour.” Henning ran a hand over his unshaven jaw. “Is there a reason we’re slithering through the night like a pair of feral rats?”
“At this hour, the morgue’s guard is likely slumbering off his midnight gin. I’d prefer he remain in the Land of Nod while we make our little visit.”
A raspy chuckle stirred the air. “Tsk, tsk. You mean to say we don’t have official permission?”
Wrexford ignored the sarcasm. Henning was happiest when he could thumb his nose at Society’s rules.
“This way,” he whispered, leading the way across a narrow rutted cart track to the back of the stone building.
Double doors, wide enough to allow the mortuary wagons’ entrance, were set in the center of the grimy brick.
The earl drew a thin-bladed knife from his boot and made quick work of the lock.
Once inside, they moved quickly over the stone-flagged unloading bay and slipped into an unlit corridor. Up ahead, a lone candle was framed in an open doorway, its flame fluttering wildly in the gasp-and-wheeze rhythm of rattling snores.
Henning tapped his shoulder and silently signaled for them to turn down a connecting passageway. The sickly-sweet stench of decay grew more pronounced as they came to a weighty door of iron-banded oak. Setting his shoulder to the rough planks, the surgeon gave a hard shove.
It swung half open with a mournful groan.
Wrexford reeled back a step as a fresh wave of smells assaulted his nostrils.
“The perfume of death takes some getting used to,” murmured Henning as he slipped inside the morgue.
Shallowing his breathing, the earl followed.
“Close the door.”
He heard the surgeon fumbling around inside his satchel. A moment later, sparks flew as flint struck steel and the wick of a small metal lantern flared to life. Henning opened the shutter and handed it over before lighting a second one.
The beams illuminated a row of stone slabs, each draped with a length of stained canvas. Light and shadow slid over the heavy cloth, accentuating the macabre contours beneath the shroud.
Seemingly oblivious to the clammy cold, Henning removed his coat—the earl wasn’t sure why, seeing as it was already spotted with a number of noxious-looking substances.
“Thank God we know what we’re looking for,” quipped the surgeon as he rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Faces can bloat and twist out of recognition, but I daresay there will only be one poor sod with a cod cut off.”
After a quick look under the first covering, Henning moved on to the next slab. “Keep up with me, laddie. I’ll need the extra light when we find our man.”
Wrexford shuffled closer.
“Seeing as you wish to keep our visit a secret, it would be best not to spill your guts.”
“You needn’t worry. I’ve a strong stomach,” shot back the earl, though the mingled fumes of putrefaction and carbolic acid were enough to turn a cast-iron pot upside down.
“Hell’s bells, I hope you guessed right and they brought the body here,” muttered Henning after checking under another shroud.