CHAPTER 7
Releasing a harried sigh, Charlotte took a seat at her worktable and lit the lamp, grateful that supper was over. Dusk was fast giving way to night, and as darkness curtained the windows and the neighborhood settled into slumber, she finally had an interlude for quiet contemplation.
Choices, choices. She had struggled all day to keep her mind on household matters. The questions of how to deal with family and friends were demanding such difficult decisions. And yet . . .
“And yet I’ve no clue of what to do.” Saying it aloud only exacerbated the sense of uncertainty churning inside her chest. Sheffield’s hurt feelings, Cordelia’s disappearance, her own brother’s request for a family meeting . . .
Thank heavens that Raven hadn’t added to her worries. She had feared that he might hare off on his own and attempt to learn more about Cordelia’s mysterious absence. A dangerous undertaking for a boy, no matter how clever . . . God only knew what nefarious doings were afoot.
Charlotte dipped her pen in ink and began to draw the stark, sinuous outline of a slithering serpent. She had long ago learned that the aristocracy’s glittering facade of civility hid a dark core writhing with fanged vipers....
But to her relief, Raven had gone without protest to his afternoon lessons with Mr. Linsley, and he and his brother had retreated to their attic aerie after finishing supper, grumbling about how much work the tutor had assigned for their next session.
The soft creak of the floorboards overhead drew a fleeting smile to her lips.
They seemed settled into their studies, and a shuffling across the corridor indicated McClellan had retired to her bedchamber.
As for herself, Charlotte set her pen down, the act of sketching having helped to clarify her own thinking.
A complex conundrum often unknotted itself when one could find a thread to follow. And the more she pondered it, the more the murder at Queen’s Landing seemed tied in some way to why Cordelia and her brother had disappeared.
“I’m good at unraveling secrets,” she murmured, and as luck would have it, a tavernkeeper near the wharf was part of her extensive network of eyes and ears around London. “So perhaps it’s time to do a little nocturnal sleuthing around the docklands.”
A short while later, dressed in ragged male clothing and with her hair tucked up under a wide-brimmed slouched hat, Charlotte slipped out of the house and instinctively assumed the quick-footed lope of “Magpie,” her street persona.
She hurried through the back byways that led down to the river, carefully avoiding the rougher streets, where trouble often spilled out from the ramshackle gin houses pressed cheek by jowl among the rookeries.
On approaching the East India Company docks, Charlotte cut around to the rear of a small tavern that catered to the workers at the wharves and warehouses. A special knock, thumped on a side door, quickly drew a response.
“Oiy, ain’t seen ye in a while, Magpie.” The door cracked open, just enough for Charlotte to sidle inside a small room that was bare, save for two slat-back chairs and a small round table. “But I wondered whether the murder would bring ye flying.”
“What do you know about it?” she asked, keeping her face hidden despite the fuzzed light.
“What’ll ye pay for it?” countered the tavern owner, a portly fellow with dark hair greased back from a bulbous forehead. His breath reeked of fish and stale beer.
“Don’t humbug me, Squid. You know I’m generous when it comes to accurate information. But feed me a farididdle and we won’t be doing business together in the future.”
“Oiy, it’s true. Ye’s always fair.” Squid hitched up his canvas pants. “Wot’s ye looking fer?”
“Did the murdered man meet regularly with anyone around here?” asked Charlotte.
Squid scratched at his unshaven chin. “He thought hisself high above our touch, but I happen te know he often had a chin-wag with a gentry cove over at Stubb’s fancy Lantern.”
Charlotte knew the place. The Ship’s Lantern was a slightly more genteel tavern that catered to ship captains and merchants who traveled on the East India Company vessels.
“Do you know the name of the gentry cove?”
Squid leaned in closer. His fetid breath blew under the brim of her hat and tickled against her cheek. “Mather.”
She kept herself from recoiling. “And does Mr. Mather have a Christian name?”
The tavernkeeper hesitated. Wondering, no doubt, whether he could squeeze a few extra pennies by playing it coy.
Charlotte took a few side steps and dropped a small purse on the table.
Squid cocked an ear. She imagined he could gauge the amount inside right down to the farthing just by the chink of the metal. It was a generous sum.
His smile revealed several missing teeth. “David. And he be the Honorable David Mather.”
So, not just gentry, but a member of the aristocracy.
“That ain’t all, Magpie. Word is, he works at a bank.”
A bank. Her pulse kicked up a notch. “Which one?”
“Lemme think.” The tavernkeeper rubbed at his jaw, anxious to keep any extra coins from slipping through his fingers. A moment later, he let out a guttural laugh. “Oiy—I remember it now! Whore’s Bank.” His jowls were now quivering with mirth. “Ye think they keep cunnies locked up in their vault?”
“No,” she answered. “Too many places for a whore to hide away a handful of guineas.”
Squid was now laughing so hard it brought tears to his eyes. Charlotte was smiling, as well. The clue was worth its weight in gold. C. Hoare & Co. was an old and respected private banking establishment, whose clients included Lord Byron and Eton College.
“My thanks. You’ve been a great help.” She made a show of turning for the door. “Oh, one last thing.” Charlotte slid her hand back into her pocket. “Is there anyone else I should know about?”
“Well, now that ye mention it, the murdered man was thick as thieves with a barmaid at the Lantern. A pretty blonde.” He pantomimed a pair of buxom breasts.
“I imagine that be valuable information. Bow Street don’t know it, as Annie begged the others to keep mum about it.
She must have a reason fer not wanting te draw the attention of the Runners.
Anyone wid harf an eye can see she’s got something te hide. ”
Charlotte withdrew another coin but kept her hand fisted. “Annie’s full name?”
Squid licked his lips. “Annie Wright.”
“What’s she hiding?”
“Dunno,” he muttered, shooting a greedy look at her fist. “But you’re a clever cully, Magpie, and are good at uncovering all the little secrets that people wish te keep hidden.”
Satisfied that she had gotten all she could out of him, she tossed a guinea down beside the purse, setting off a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, and then shoved back the massive deadbolt on the inside of the door to let herself out.
“Always a pleasure doing business with ye, Magpie,” he called softly as the age-black oak closed behind her with a thunk.
Yes, she had paid through the nose, but Charlotte felt she had gotten the best of the bargain. She now had two names.
Ones that only deepened the mystery surrounding the murder.
* * *
Raven let out a soft cry of a nightingale, then went very still. A moment later came the warble of a dove.
“Nobody’s coming. Let’s go,” he murmured, rising from his crouch among the bushes rimming the back terrace of Woodbridge’s townhouse and creeping toward the side window.
Sheffield followed, trying to mimic the boy’s fluid stealth. “How—”
“Ssshhh,” warned Raven as he pulled a knife from his boot and slid the blade between the iron-framed sashes. Hawk rejoined them an instant later.
“What’s he doing?” whispered Sheffield.
“Feeling for the latch,” answered Hawk. “Once you position the point of the knife just so, you can force it to release.”
“How do you two know—”
“Ssshh!”
A breeze ruffled through the ivy framing the mullioned panes of glass. The twittering of a nightingale—a real one—floated out from the dark branches of a chestnut tree by the garden wall.
And then a tiny metallic snick.
Raven tucked the knife back in his boot and slowly eased one of the window sashes open a crack. “Hawk, you go first and make sure there’s nobody around.”
His brother slithered up and in without a sound. Several moments later, he peeked up from the gloom, just long enough to give a quick nod.
“Now you, sir.” Raven laced his hands together.
Sheffield hesitated, earning a muttered “Quickly!” Gingerly positioning his foot for a boost, he braced his palms on the sill, only to be catapulted up and into the slivered opening. His shoes scrabbled against the mortised stone, then Hawk seized his coat collar and hauled him inside.
Raven followed in a flash. After pulling the window shut, he dropped down to the carpet beside the others.
“Try to make a little less noise, sir,” he counseled. “I really don’t fancy being transported to the Antipodes for burglary.”
“We’re not planning on stealing anything,” pointed out Sheffield.
The boys ignored the protest. It appeared they were in a small parlor, and after a glance around, Raven gestured to the door leading out to the corridor. “Follow me. We need to find Lord Woodbridge’s study. And do try to stay light on your feet, Mr. Sheffield.”
They crept along in single file, with Hawk bringing up the rear. After several halts for Raven to dart ahead and make a quick reconnaissance, they made their way to a wood-paneled room at the rear of the townhouse, a room redolent with the masculine scents of leather and cigar smoke.
Sheffield reached for a candle and struck a spark to the wick.
Hawk scrambled over to blow out the flame. “Not yet!” he whispered. “We need to draw the draperies first.”
“Oh, er, right.”
“You’re not very good at this,” observed Raven. “It’s lucky we came with you.”
“Pay attention, and we’ll teach you how to keep your arse out of Newgate,” chimed in Hawk.
“Dare I ask how you two Weasels acquired your expertise?”
The boys exchanged sniggered laughs.