CHAPTER 17 #2
“Westmorly is a damnably difficult fellow to track down,” announced his friend.
“But I’ve located his current lodging. He’s taken room at a small hotel just off Russell Square.
” Spotting Charlotte, he gave a nod. “Good evening, milady,” he added, politely ignoring the fact that she was dressed in the grubby togs of an urchin.
“Mr. Sheffield,” ackowledged Charlotte as she uncrossed her booted legs and slid down from her perch on his desk.
Wrexford glance at the mantel clock. “Given the hour, we may find him at home.”
“Unless he’s gambling at one of the less salubrious spots in Town,” said Sheffield.
“I’m willling to take a chance on that.” He rose. “If you’ll excuse us, Lady Charlotte—”
Her eyes darkened. “I’ll play the lady within the mansions of Mayfair, Wrexford. But don’t think I mean to surrender my independence outside of the gilded cage.” She tugged at the brim of her hat. “I’m coming with you.”
Charlotte watched a scowl take hold of his features. “It might be useful for me to look around the area,” she added quickly. “Perhaps one of the street sweeps has noticed Westmorly’s nocturnal movements and whether he’s accompanied by any companions.”
A glimmer of understanding flashed in the earl’s eyes. She released a silent breath, grateful that he grasped how much it chafed her to feel helpless while he and the others were pursuing promising leads.
“That makes some sense,” he allowed. “Come, we’ll go through the mews and take my carriage as far as Montague Place.”
The ride passed with little conversation. Sheffield was unnaturally silent, noted Charlotte, as she watched him from beneath the brim of her hat. He looked pensive rather than angry. But given her own unsettled state of mind, she didn’t dare hazard a guess as to why.
Shadows flitted around them as they descended from the carriage.
Most of the windows of the houses lining the narrow street were dark, and the few widely spaced streetlights cast naught but a weak aureole of light.
Sheffield led the way, cutting through a back alley and approaching a squat grey granite building through the small swath of unpruned garden that sat at its rear.
“Westmorly has a set of rooms on the top floor,” he whispered, pointing up at a pair of dormer windows set in the slate tiling of the lower slope.
It looked black as Hades behind the mullioned glass.
“It looks like he’s either out or asleep.” Wrexford moved to the scullery door. Pulling a thin metal probe from his boot, he made short work of opening the lock.
Charlotte followed him and Sheffield inside. “I should come with you. If he’s in, I’ll simply slink away,” she explained. “If he’s not, it’s important that I have a look around. My eyes see things that yours don’t.”
The earl didn’t argue.
“The main stairs are this way,” indicated Sheffield. “There’s no one on duty at the front desk at this hour. The residents all have keys, so they can come and go during the evening.”
A single sconce was burning in the corridor, its lone flame doing little to lighten the gloom. It was quiet, thought Charlotte, cocking an ear and listening for the sounds of movement on the floors above. Too quiet. She felt a prickling at the back of her neck.
The reception area was deserted. Wrexford paused only long enough to pick up a candlestick and strike a spark to the wick. Cupping the flame, he started up the treads, taking them two at a time.
As Charlotte reached the next landing, she heard a scrabbling behind one of the closed doors and a bolt being thrown into place.
Up they climbed, the darkness wrapping around them like a shroud. The air turned thick and seemed to stick in her lungs.
On reaching the top floor, Sheffield wordlessly pointed to the door on the left.
Wrexford fisted his gloved hand and knocked.
The echo died away, leaving the landing quiet as a crypt.
He rapped again, and waited, impatiently shifting his weight from foot to foot. On getting no response, he tried the latch.
The door swung open.
Raising the candle, he crossed into the darkness. After several steps, Charlotte heard him halt and swear a low oath.
She smelled it, too—a mix of burnt gunpowder and the coppery scent of fresh-spilled blood.
Wrexford had found a lamp on the side table. Glass and metal rattled as he hurriedly coaxed a flame to life. The flare of light skittered across his cheekbones, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes.
Darting forward, Charlotte followed her nose to one of the side chambers, and pushed the door open.
“Ye gods,” Sheffield hissed through his teeth as he came up behind her.
The lamp’s glow had not yet penetrated the darkness, but a blade of moonlight cut through the windowpanes, illuminating the grisly scene at the writing desk.
A man—his head half blown away by the force of a pistol shot—was slumped back in a slat-back wooden chair.
Blood and bits of brain spattered his coat and shirtfront.
The weapon, still grasped in his lifeless hand, had fallen—
She caught Wrexford’s sleeve as he started to push past her. “A moment, sir,” she said. “Let me study the details a little longer before we do anything to disturb the scene.”
He went very still. “What do you see?”
Charlotte didn’t answer. Her gaze moved slowly over the floorboards and the worn carpet covering half the room. “Angle the light there.” A curt wave indicated an area by the fringed side closest to them.
Crouching down, she took another long moment to examine the fibers. “I’ve seen enough. You may go closer now.”
Wrexford, to his credit, didn’t press her for an explanation. Moving lightly, he paced a methodical circle around the dead man, pausing every few steps to make an observation. Only then did he approach the desk.
“There’s a note,” he said, looking down at the single sheet of paper on the blotter. “I can’t live with the shame of my actions any longer,” he read aloud. “Forgive me.”
Sheffield swallowed hard as the lamplight flickered over the ruined face, then averted his eyes from the corpse.
“If you’re going to be sick,” murmured Charlotte, noting that he had gone a little green around the gills, “kindly step out to the entrance foyer.”
“No, no, I won’t embarrass myself,” came the choked reply.
“There’s no shame in a visceral reaction to violent death.” She moved closer, studying the gruesome patterns of blood and brains.
“Do you think . . .” Sheffield made himelf look at the dead man. “Is it possible he’s confessing to a more serious crime than cheating?”
“The words,” said Charlotte, “are conveniently cryptic.”
The earl exhaled a low grunt. “Your mind is as devious as mine.”
“W-What do you mean?” asked his friend.
The wind gusted, pelting rain against the window glass.
Avoiding the blood dripping from the desktop onto the carpet, Wrexford squatted down and made a close inspection of the weapon. Charlotte picked her way close to the corpse, forcing aside emotion to see the tableau as a puzzle.
And something wasn’t fitting together.
She waited until Wrexford straightened before asking him to hold the lamp closer to the dead man’s chest. Picking up the letter opener from the top of the blotter, she shifted one side of the unbuttoned coat open a fraction wider, revealing more of the shirtfront.
The earl leaned in closer. “How the devil did you see that?”
“I merely suspected something of the sort.”
He shook his head and muttered something under his breath about unholy magic.
“It’s logic, not magic, Wrexford,” countered Charlotte.
“Look at the blood on his shirt. It’s saturated around the left breast, and yet it’s the right part of his head that’s blown away.
” She straightened. “When you analyze the spray of blood and fragments from that wound, it’s clear they couldn’t have caused that much volume. ”
“Then what did?” asked Sheffield. He shuffled forward, curiosity overcoming his squeamishness.
Charlotte touched the tip of the letter opener to a tiny tear in the linen. “A narrow blade pierced the heart. My guess is, that was the cause of death, for by the amount of blood, his vital organ was still pumping.”
“Much as I’d like to argue, I think you’re right,” muttered Wrexford. “The hand shows no sign of power residue. Whoever this is, he didn’t fire the shot that spattered his brains to Kingdom Come.”
Sheffield hitched in a breath. “So you’re saying this wasn’t self-murder.”
“No.” She carefully set down the letter opener and looked to the earl. “Cedric was killed by a single stab to the heart. Can you arrange for Henning to examine the body? He might be able to tell whether the same weapon was used for both crimes.”
Wrexford nodded. “Kit, take the carriage and go to Bow Street. Leave word for Griffin to come here as soon as possible. Then head to Henning’s surgery and bring him back here.”
“Of course.”
“Lady Charlotte and I need to look over a few other things—” The earl’s words were suddenly cut off by the sound of thumping on the stairs and agitated voices coming from the landing.
Charlotte darted to the entranceway and ducked behind the door as it flung open.
A burly man burst in, followed by two companions brandishing cudgels and lanterns.
“Well, well,” drawled Griffin, skidding to a halt.
Charlotte cringed and tugged her hat lower.
She and the Runner had encountered each other on several occasions during the past murder investigations, and she knew very well that his lumbering movements and untidy clothing disguised a very sharp mind.
So far, he hadn’t discerned that the ragged urchin he knew as Phoenix was not . . .
“Another dead gentleman?” added the Runner. “Why does it not surprise me to find you here, milord?”
“Because you realize what a kindhearted fellow I am,” replied Wrexford. “Count yourself fortunate, for when it comes to the twisted minds of the ton, you know that you need my help in unraveling the truth.”
“It looks to me like self-murder,” said Griffin. “One of the other residents alerted the watchman, and reported hearing naught but a single shot fired.”
“It’s meant to look that way,” replied the earl. “But come, I have something interesting to show you.”
As the three men trooped toward the desk, Sheffield shifted his stance, blocking the view of the door.
Charlotte seized the moment to slip out of the room.
Griffin whirled around just in time to catch a flutter in the shadows. “Was that Phoenix?” he demanded. “Damnation—call him back!”
“For what reason?” inquired the earl.
“To offer him a position at Bow Street,” growled the Runner, after casting an unhappy look at his men. “It seems the grubby little street rat is always two steps ahead of us! How the devil does he know what evil is lurking in every nook and cranny of London?”
Ha! thought Charlotte as she turned for the stairs. At present, she was simply praying that her feet didn’t get hopelessly tangled in all the half-truths and deceptions demanded by her chosen path.
“Never mind Phoenix,” came Wrexford’s reply. “If you want answers to this particular crime, I suggest you send one of your men to fetch a mortuary cart and take the body to Henning’s surgery.”