CHAPTER 9 #2
Wrexford looked down his long nose at her. “Have you any idea how many variations of snuff mixtures there are in London?”
“I’m not a mathematician—large numbers befuddle my brain,” she shot back. Her shoulders slumped. “I know, I know. It’s ridiculous. I was simply grasping at straws.”
“If you’ll allow me to take the evidence with me, I’ll have Tyler examine it under the microscope and see if he spots anything useful. But I wouldn’t have high hopes about it.”
“The poor man will be cursing me from here to Hades for adding yet more work to his list of duties,” said Charlotte.
“He’s not paid to curse, but to perform whatever sartorial or scientific tasks need to be done,” replied Wrexford dryly, pocketing the items. “And be assured, it’s a princely amount. He has no cause for complaint.”
Given the earl’s mercurial moods, she thought, the valet likely earned every farthing.
His sardonic smile had already disappeared, replaced by a tight-lipped grimness. Rising, he began to pace the perimeter of the room. “You had better change into your urchin’s garb if you intend to come along to Newgate. We need to be leaving shortly.”
As Charlotte moved to the door, she heard a faint scuff.
Wrexford must have caught it, too, because he spun around, his eyes narrowing to a slitted stare.
Silence. But neither of them was fooled. The boys possessed the light-footed quickness of their namesake weasels to go along with their batlike hearing.
“As you are so fond of saying, Mrs. Sloane,” he muttered softly, “no matter how much discretion one uses to keep them well-guarded, no secret is ever safe.”
* * *
The stench, the screams, the ooze of utter despair bleeding from flesh and stone—a second visit only seemed to amplify Newgate’s horrors. Wrexford followed the gaoler through the endless turns of the grimy corridor, their thudding steps lost in the cacophony of curses and howls.
Head down, Charlotte kept pace. Whatever she was feeling, she kept it well hidden.
Thank God. He didn’t dare contemplate the consequences if she were to lose her nerve.
Nicholas’s cell was marginally less revolting. There was a small table and several straight-back chairs . . . decent bedding . . . a hamper of food and drink . . . extra clothing brought from his lodging. All of which had not come cheap.
The earl hoped the fellow was worth it.
A look at him sitting on his bed, shoulders slouched against the wall, didn’t inspire much confidence. His hair was matted, his jaw unshaved, his gaze dulled with apathy.
Or was it guilt?
“Nicky.”
Charlotte’s sharp voice roused naught but a momentary flicker of awareness.
“Go away,” he mumbled. “Don’t waste your time with me.”
During the carriage ride to the prison, Wrexford had counseled her that a show of sympathy might salve her own spirits, but it wouldn’t save Locke’s neck. To have any chance of proving him innocent, they had to rattle the truth out of him.
“Feeling sorry for yourself, are you?” Charlotte crossed the small cell in several swift strides. “Fine. You have two choices—curl up like a muckworm and wait for the hangman to put you out of your misery.” A kick to the bedstead punctuated her words.
Nicholas was suddenly sitting up straighter.
“Or pull your bloody wits together and help us figure out who murdered Cedric!”
“And then there’s a third option,” murmured the earl into the momentary silence. “You can confess your guilt here and now, and save us all a great deal of aggravation.”
A flash of fire lit in Nicholas’s eyes. An angry flush rushed to his cheeks. “I didn’t kill my brother!”
Perhaps there is a spark of hope, thought Wrexford.
“Then stop throwing sand in our eyes, Nicky.” Grabbing a chair from the table, Charlotte turned it to face him and took a seat. “No more half-truths and prevarications.”
“I didn’t—” began Nicholas.
“Westmorly,” cut in Wrexford. “You neglected to tell us you owed gambling debts to Westmorly.”
“Because it had nothing to do with Cedric!”
“You really think the fact that your brother paid off your vowels is irrelevant?” demanded Charlotte.
The color drained from Locke’s face. “Cedric paid them? I—I had no idea!”
Unless he was a consummate actor, Locke’s surprise appeared unfeigned. But then, a cold-blooded killer would be skilled at hiding his true self.
“Why?” added Locke, looking truly puzzled. “Why would he do that? I have a generous allowance.”
“You tell me,” she countered. “Word is, when Westmorly paid off his debt, Cedric asked to take your vowels as partial payment, and Westmorly was happy to comply.”
Locke did naught but lift his shoulders in reply.
“You implied there was friction between them, and yet witnesses said the two of them were quite cordial,” said Wrexford.
“I wasn’t lying,” said Locke hotly. “I don’t care what the gamesters might have seen. There was some sort of bad blood between Westmorly and Cedric.”
Charlotte leaned forward. “Just how much did you owe Westmorly, Nicky?” she asked abruptly.
Locke’s gaze slid away to a clump of dirty straw on the floor.
Her expression hardened.
Wrexford shrugged as she darted a quick look at him. “Never mind that right now. The more pressing concern is the Eos Society and their activities.”
Every muscle in Locke’s body seemed to tense. Save for a tiny tic at the right corner of his mouth.
“Your little group does more than just talk, don’t it?” went on the earl. “Given your inquisitive scientific minds, I would imagine you engage in experiments.”
“Sometimes,” came the wary reply.
Charlotte rose, setting the rancid shadows pooled on the floor to rippling across the rough stone. Locke’s breathing turned shallow, as if he were panting for air.
A step brought her closer to him.
Twitch, twitch. The quivering grew more pronounced.
“You’re no better now than you were as a child at keeping your face from giving you away, Nicky,” she observed.
A deeply feral sound—it reminded Wrexford of a wounded animal—stuck in Locke’s throat.
Her fingers spasmed. For an instant, the earl thought she might strike her cousin.
“I had a look at your brother’s body,” said the earl. “What dark games was he playing?”
It took a moment for Locke to master his emotions enough to speak “That’s just it.” His anguish was sharp as the shattering of glass. “I don’t know!”
He looked up at Charlotte. “Some things about us don’t change from childhood, Charley.
But others do. Everyone, including you, saw Cedric as the paragon of a perfect gentleman—all glittering, golden sunshine against a celestial blue sky.
But a change came over him when we came to London. He became more . . .”
“What?” prompted Charlotte.
“Secretive. Obsessive.” Locke closed his eyes for an instant. “God knows, I’ve let myself be seduced by London’s enticements, and my behavior has been less than exemplary. But for him to rake me over the coals for partaking in normal pleasures, when his own passions were taking a dangerous turn.”
“You knew about the marks on his body?” she asked.
Locke released a shuddering exhale. “I came into his room one morning as he was dressing and caught sight of his chest. He . . . He refused to tell me anything. Said I wouldn’t understand.”
“Can you hazard a guess as to what caused them?” asked Wrexford.
The question hung suspended for a moment in the sour fugue of smells before Locke gave a grim nod.
“A voltaic pile.”