CHAPTER 13
The stench and shrieks within Newgate seemed to grow worse with every visit.
Keeping her head down, Charlotte stayed close on Wrexford’s heels as he followed their gaoler escort through the winding stone corridors.
Thank God the blackness hid the filth beneath their boots.
If only it could deaden the pitiful cries coming from the cells.
Even at this ungodly early hour—she had climbed into the earl’s carriage just after dawn—the prison pulsed with desperation.
The primal misery of the place was like an iron fist, threatening to squeeze the air from her lungs.
At last, the gaoler halted. A lock released with the rattle and groan of rusty metal and then the door clanged shut behind them.
Charlotte let out a silent breath, and steeled her nerves for the coming confrontation.
During the ride to Newgate, Wrexford had given her a terse explanation of his meeting with Hollister.
He had seemed tired and snappish, his temper dangerously frayed.
She sensed he was in no mood for self-pity and prevarications.
Which didn’t bode well for her cousin. But they needed more than mumbled half-truths if they were to save his neck.
Locke was awake, and sitting at the small table set in the center of the cell.
Charlotte was gratified to see that he had shaved and was wearing a clean shirt.
Looking around, she saw that the earl’s purse had provided more amenities—blankets, clothing, a hamper of decent food, and even a few bottles of brandy and wine.
Hardly luxurious, but a world of difference from the terror of bare stone and starvation.
“Thank you for your generosity, Lord Wrexford—” began Locke.
“Stubble the pleasantries,” snapped the earl. “Now that you scrubbed off the initial stink of terror, I expect to get more than irrational blatherings from you.” He pulled a stool over to the table and took a seat facing the prisoner.
Charlotte was too jumpy to join them. She moved a few steps to her left, where the lamplight allowed her a better look at Locke’s face.
“I’ve told you what I know—”
“The devil you have.” The earl smacked a fist to the tabletop. “Decide now—do you wish to live, Mr. Locke? Or are you happy to dance the hangman’s jig as the rope slowly strangles the life out of you?”
“Nicky,” began Charlotte.
“Let him answer for himself, Mrs. Sloane.”
She fell silent. Never had Wrexford’s expression looked so grim.
To Locke, he added, “Your cousin is about to sacrifice everything she holds dear in life in order to try to save your miserable neck. You had better prove to me that you are worth it at this meeting, or, by God, I won’t let her do it.”
To his credit, Locke faced the earl’s wrath without flinching.
“I don’t blame you for thinking the worst of me, sir.
I’ve given you no reason to think otherwise.
” He turned his gaze to Charlotte and she saw his eyes were no longer glazed with confusion.
“I’d rather die than see you hurt in any way, Charley.
If I can’t save myself by my own wits, then so be it. ”
“Then, bloody hell, show you have some,” growled the earl.
“Let’s all try to use our heads,” interjected Charlotte. “Stop bellowing at him, Wrexford, and start asking him your questions.”
He shot her a scowl, but thankfully the murderous fury had softened from his features. “Very well, but warn your dear Nicky that my patience is perilously close to snapping.”
“I daresay he’s aware of that.”
Wrexford shifted, his boots scraping against the stone. “Westmorly—tell me more about Westmorly, Locke. Beginning with your gambling debts to him.”
“We played occasionally at a gaming hell in St. Giles—Lucifer’s Lair,” answered her cousin without hesitation.
“As did some of the other members of the Eos Society. I’m a decent card player, but I had a run of bad luck one night, and Westmorly won more than I should have wagered, given the amount of brandy I had imbibed.
But as I told you, the amount wasn’t more than I could afford. ”
“Cedric knew about your losses?” asked Charlotte.
“That’s what puzzles me—I have no idea how.
Or why.” Before Wrexford could comment, Locke added, “I wasn’t misleading you, Lord Wrexford.
I don’t care what your witnesses say they saw, my brother and Westmorly were not on good terms. Granted, the breach was a recent one, and while I don’t know the exact reasons, I recall Cedric muttering something about the fellow being a yellow-livered snitch. ”
“And you’ve no idea what that means?”
“No.” Locke blew out his breath. “Have you asked Hollister? As I told you, whatever bad blood had arisen between Cedric and Westmorly, for a time the three of them were spending time together experimenting with electricity.”
“I intend to question Hollister again. Despite his avowal, I think he’s not telling me everything.”
“His explanation of the romantic rivalry may not have been truthful,” said Charlotte. To Nicholas, she explained, “He told the earl that Lady Julianna had chosen him over Cedric because she felt they connected on a spiritual plane.”
“He’s a bloody liar,” said Nicholas. “Cedric was entranced by Lady Julianna, and from what I saw of them together, she felt the same way.” A pause. “Though to be honest, I found her intensity a little frightening. It . . . well . . . it worried me.”
That a twin might resent anyone interfering with that special bond of blood was understandable, mused Charlotte. Which was all the more reason why she needed to be able to talk to Lady Julianna herself.
The earl’s unhappy expression indicated he knew what she was thinking. “As I said, I’ll question Hollister again.”
She didn’t envy Hollister the experience.
“And I’m also anxious to have a chat with Westmorly,” continued Wrexford. “I asked Sheffield to delve a little deeper into the fellow’s affairs, so perhaps he’s already uncovered something useful.”
The earl then turned his attention back to Locke. “Now, let’s talk about some of the gentlemen scholars at the Institution who have been serving as mentors to the Eos Society—starting with Justinian DeVere.”
Locke appeared puzzled. “Mr. DeVere? I don’t know what to tell you, sir, save that he encouraged us to express our opinions on the various lectures we heard, and was very patient in answering questions and providing further guidance on what books might be of interest.”
“It was DeVere who first spoke to your group about electricity, wasn’t it?” asked Wrexford.
“Yes.”
“And he talked about von Humboldt’s experiments on his own body?”
“Yes,” confirmed Locke. “Along with mention of Aldini experiments and Galvani’s work in medical electricity—that is, electrical current and the human body. At the end of his lecture, he provided a list of scientific readings on the subject.”
Charlotte frowned. She had heard of Aldini and Galvani, but it was her impression that their ideas were on the cusp of quackery.
“At our next meeting,” continued Locke, “Cedric raised a number of questions about Galvanism, which DeVere answered in great detail—and proceeded to explain why he thought both theories, while intriguing in the abstract, were fundamentally flawed.”
“So DeVere didn’t encourage further experimentation with medical electricity?” asked Wrexford.
“On the contrary, sir. As we were all leaving the study room, I heard him advise Cedric that it was a waste of time and intellect to delve any deeper into readings on Galvani.”
The earl fingered his chin, and took a moment to consider what he had just heard. “What about Lord Thornton?”
Locke appeared nonplussed. “You mean the marquess?” He pursed his lips. “He gave a lecture to us several weeks ago, but to be honest, I don’t recall the subject matter—though I’m certain it wasn’t electricity. To my knowledge, Cedric wasn’t acquainted with him.”
“John Children says otherwise,” replied Wrexford.
Charlotte watched her cousin lift his shoulders in a helpless shrug. “Then he knows more than I do, milord.” A pause. “I swear it.”
She believed him. He seemed to have shaken off the fuzzy-witted lethargy of the previous visits and now understood that his life depended on finding the real murderer.
The clack-clack of the gaoler’s hobnailed boots announced their visit was nearly over.
“You must think more about Westmorly and Thornton,” she counseled as the steps grew louder. “Anything you heard or saw of their interactions with Cedric, no matter how insignificant it might seem to you, might be a clue we can follow.”
“I—I shall try, Charley.”
Keys jangled, sending a shiver down her spine. The lock released.
Wrexford turned and left the cell without a further word, forcing her to hurry after him.
She wanted to think they were making progress, but the reptilian blackness of the corridor seemed to wrap around her like a serpent and squeeze such optimism from her bones.
They needed more than hope. They needed proof.
* * *
Lost in thought, Wrexford was unaware of Charlotte’s fidgeting until a jarring bump of the carriage wheels drew him back from his brooding. He watched her twitch at her cap and then her coat before beginning to pick at the loose threads of her cuff.
“Is something on your mind, Mrs. Sloane?” he inquired. “Or is it just that your clothing is now crawling with lice?”
“That’s not humorous, sir.”
“It wasn’t meant to be. Newgate is a cesspit of pestilence—and that’s only one of the many dangers that lurk within its walls.” Dressed in urchin clothing, she looked smaller and more vulnerable than usual. “You’re taking your life into your hands every time you go there.”
“Then just imagine how Nicky feels, trapped within its terrors and with no hope of escape until I can find a way to prove him innocent,” replied Charlotte.
“We,” corrected Wrexford. “Until we find a find way to prove him innocent.”