CHAPTER 20
Wrexford cursed as a brewer’s wagon clattered through a turn, splashing his boots with muck. “Oh, to be an indolent aristocrat,” he grumbled, dodging a dray cart to cross the street, “whose only thoughts are of earthly pleasures, rather than bloody abstractions like right and wrong.”
It had been past midnight by the time he arrived back in London, and though he had managed a few hours of sleep, a sense of urgency had roused him from his bed to seek out first Griffin and then Henning.
Alas, the note he had dispatched to Bow Street had come back with the unwelcome news that the Runner was presently occupied with a robbery on the south side of the river.
Which accounted for his current foul mood.
Deciding that there was time for a quick visit to the surgeon before seeking out Griffin, he had left his townhouse without breakfast.
After turning down a muddy lane, he followed it to the end, where a ramshackle dwelling stood beside a fenced-in patch of bare ground, with a small stone outbuilding pressed up against its far end.
The wooden stairs groaned as he took them two at a time, and then began thumping a fist on the front door.
“The devil take it! Stop that infernal pounding!” came a querulous cry from inside after a minute or two had passed. The door flung open, revealing the bleary-eyed surgeon, who looked even more disheveled than usual. “Are you trying to wake the bloody dead?”
“Apparently yes.” Wrexford stepped inside and eyed his friend’s unshaven face and rumpled attire. “You look like a corpse—save that a dead man is usually laid out in relatively clean clothing.”
“Stubble the witticisms. I’m in no mood for humor at this hour of the morning,” said Henning, gesturing for the earl to take a seat in the small parlor off the entrance foyer. “It is morning, isn’t it?”
Seeing the satchel filled with medical instruments that had been dropped by the doorway, Wrexford asked, “A long night?”
“An outbreak of influenza in one of the rookeries near Monmouth Street. Three children are dead, as well as their mother.” The surgeon ran a hand through his tangled hair and slouched into one of the chairs by the unlit hearth.
“It’s decent food they need, not medicine.
I’ve had a batch of nourishing broth sent to the sufferers.
Perhaps that will send the Grim Reaper looking elsewhere. ”
Wrexford nodded grimly, making a mental note to increase his donation to his friend’s clinic for the poor. “I’m sorry.”
Henning made a wry face. “I’m assuming death must have crossed your path, too, else you wouldn’t be here at such a god-benighted hour.”
“Correct.” He took the knife from his pocket and unwrapped it. “Any chance you might remember the corpse Griffin sent to you last week? I’m curious whether this blade might have been used to slit the poor fellow’s throat.”
“It would have helped to have this when I had the body at my disposal,” groused Henning.
“It was discovered only recently.”
Expelling a snort, Henning examined the fancy hilt and then had a close look at the blade.
“There’s a bit of dried blood embedded in the silver chasing,” offered the earl.
“I have eyes, laddie.” The surgeon tested the knife’s sharpness against his thumb.
“No, this isn’t the murder weapon. The death slash cut cleanly through muscle and sinew.
This blade is far too dull. It feels to me like it’s been used as a letter opener.
Paper has a certain way of taking the edge off of steel. ”
“Thank you.” Wrexford rewrapped the weapon. “I thought as much, but I wished to have you confirm it.”
“I can’t help but wonder why both you and Griffin are interested in the murder of a clerk. From what I’ve heard, he was an ordinary fellow.”
“An ordinary fellow who happened to work in accounting for one of the directors of the East India Company,” replied the earl.
The surgeon’s jaw tightened as he ran a hand over his bristled chin. “Is there mischief afoot among those pompous prigs?” Henning had very revolutionary ideas about wealth and the ruling class.
“More than mischief, Baz. Lady Charlotte and I have reason to believe there’s a diabolical scheme of financial fraud and currency manipulation that reaches the very top. We’re looking for proof—”
“And if you find it, the scandal would rock the very foundations of Britain’s economy. And that would in turn have political repercussions.” An unholy glint lit in Henning’s eyes as he smoothed at a wrinkle in his cuff. “How can I help?”
“Let us not set up a guillotine in your yard just yet,” said the earl. “There are other ways to bring the miscreants to justice.” He thought for a moment. “If you truly wish to help, see what you can learn about a barmaid named Annie Wright, who works at the Ship’s Lantern in the dockyards.”
“I’ll make some inquiries,” replied the surgeon. “I have a number of friends in the area who owe me favors.”
“You might also ask around among your acquaintances as to whether any of the smaller private banks in Town are known for not asking too many questions about the movement of money in and out of a client’s account.”
A rusty chuckle. “Are you implying that I consort with the wrong sort of people?”
“I devoutly hope that you do.” The earl rose. “I must be off and see if I can find Griffin. If you discover anything, send word, or come around yourself. Tyler has recently purchased some very fine Scottish malt.”
The wind was gusting as he made his way back to the main thoroughfare and flagged down a hackney. As it crossed Blackfriars Bridge and dropped him off several streets east of Astley’s Amphitheatre, the leaden clouds turned even more ominous, promising rain at any moment.
After consulting the note from Bow Street, he turned down Mason Street, hoping he wasn’t wasting his time on a wild goose chase. But thankfully, he spotted his quarry up ahead.
Quickening his steps, the earl caught up with Griffin just as the Runner was climbing into a waiting hackney.
“Milord,” said Griffin, his shrewd eyes narrowing in interest. “Tyler said you were out of Town. And yet here you are.”
A spattering of drops began to fall. The earl turned up the collar of his coat. “Might I have a word with you?”
“I’m on a case and need to report to the magistrate on my progress. However, you’re welcome to join me for the ride back to Bow Street.”
Wrexford slid onto the well-worn seat and slammed the door shut.
“A pity I don’t have more time,” added Griffin. “Otherwise I’d invite you to breakfast.”
The earl uttered a rude word.
A chuckle rumbled in reply.
Before going on, Wrexford took the cloth-wrapped knife from his pocket and passed it over.
Leather whispered as the Runner sat up a little straighter.
“Have you learned whether Lord Woodbridge did indeed kill Henry Peabody?” he demanded.
“Granted, my superiors dislike it when a member of the aristocracy is guilty of a heinous crime. Be that as it may, I think you know I’ll do my best to see that justice is served. ”
“Actually, I’m quite certain he’s innocent of murder.
Henning has confirmed the knife is far too dull to have been the murder weapon,” replied the earl.
“However, your superiors are going to dislike the alternative even more.” He took a moment to carefully consider his next words.
“Tell me, have you or any of your men heard any whispers around the wharves or from Mr. Peabody’s fellow clerks in accounting about any .
. . irregularities concerning the East India Company’s finances? ”
Griffin remained silent, but all of a sudden, the still air within the hackney seemed to be crackling with unseen electricity.
“Perhaps concerning the movement of funds between departmental accounts, or the bookkeeping methods used for the financial ledgers,” added Wrexford.
More silence, amplified by the hackney’s rattling as it turned onto Westminster Bridge.
When the reply came, it was barely audible. “No, I have not.” Griffin shifted, and his beefy bulk blocked out what little light oozed in through the tiny window. “Have I missed something, milord?”
“It’s a pity you don’t have time for me to fill your gullet with an expensive breakfast,” drawled the earl. “But even then, I fear you’ll find that my answer will stick in your craw.”
The Runner let out an unhappy sigh. “Bloody hell. Have you any idea what a dangerous accusation you’re making?”
“I haven’t made any accusations,” replied Wrexford. “Not yet.”
The gallows humor drew no smile. “I can keep my ears open, milord. But I can’t make any inquiries into the Company’s business unless you can give me compelling evidence that there is a reason to do so. And even then, my superiors would be . . .”
“Would be terrified to approve any official action,” finished Wrexford. “Yes, I know that.”
“When I said it was dangerous, I didn’t use the word lightly,” said Griffin. “Your title and your money won’t protect you if it’s decided you represent a threat.”
“Then I shall just have to rely on my wits.”
“I’m serious, milord. This is no jesting matter.”
“Indeed not. To think that you might go hungry if I were to stick my spoon into the wall is nothing to laugh about.”
A snort.
“I’ve no desire to meet my Maker quite yet, so I intend to be careful,” said Wrexford. “I can, on occasion, exercise discretion.”
“You’ll need more than discretion.” Griffin pursed his lips. “I’ll do what I can to help, but I must tread very carefully. It would help if I knew what you’re looking for.”
“For one thing, I’m interested in knowing of any private banks here in Town that might be willing to work with a client who needs to bend the rules to suit his needs.”
“There are some small establishments around the Exchange who are said to be less than scrupulous about their paperwork. I can compile a list.”
“Please do,” replied the earl. “I had intended to press the Honorable David Mather about certain loans Hoare’s Bank has made. But he has apparently left Town.”