CHAPTER 20 #2
“Chemicals are frequently used to test metals or temper formulas, so most of the bottles contain standard mixtures,” came the reply.
“But this . . .” Wrexford corked the vial, and as he held it up to the light, the liquid seemed to shimmer with a darker glow.
“This is a highly potent—and highly flammable—accelerant, designed to turn a tiny flame into a conflagration within the blink of an eye.”
Sheffield watched as the earl carefully sealed the cork tightly into the vial with a wad of soft wax and wrapped it in a protective layer of cotton wool. “You think it might be what was used to start the fire at Maudslay’s laboratory?”
“Tyler has analyzed the traces of the accelerant that the Weasels found in the wreckage. It’s a complex mixture, so if this is a match, it gives us actual proof that the source of the fire originated here.”
“Science is a wondrous force in and of itself,” mused Sheffield. “What a shame that it can be used for Evil as well as Good.”
“The forces of the cosmos depend on us to define the morality of their astounding powers.” Wrexford pocketed the sample. “Alas, human nature is the weak link in the chain of events.”
“Are we done here, now that we’ve found telltale evidence?”
“Not yet,” answered the earl. “I wish to find Maitland’s workroom and see whether we can discover what his damnable secret design is.”
* * *
In answer to her coded knock, Charlotte heard the iron bar slide out of its brackets and the bolts unlock, allowing the hidden back door of the tavern to inch open.
“Well, well, ain’t seen ye around here fer a dog’s age.” The words were accompanied by the pungent scent of onions and garlic. “Where ye been, Magpie?”
“Living in a mansion on Berkeley Square,” answered Charlotte.
A wheezing laugh. “Oiy—and I’ve bin invited te take up rooms at Kensington Palace.”
“Then ye and the Duke o’ Sussex ought te come by some afternoon and have tea wiv me,” she replied, provoking another rumbling of mirth.
The door opened wider, revealing a beefy man with greasy hair and hands as big as ham hocks. He took hold of her sleeve and tugged her inside the small private office, then shut the door. “Oiy’ve missed yer sense o’ humor, Magpie.”
“And my purse.”
He scratched his chin. “Well, I won’t lie . . .”
“Good,” interjected Charlotte. “Because ye know ye’ll never get another ha’penny from me if your information isn’t accurate.”
A speculative gleam lit in his eyes. “Whacha lookin’ fer?”
After leaving Berkeley Square, she and the Weasels had visited one of the rookeries in St. Giles known as a gathering place for out-of-work former soldiers.
Armed with a handful of coins, the Weasels had made some inquiries as to where they might find any friends of the murdered arsonist who had been hired to set the fire at Maudslay’s laboratory.
And the information gathered by Raven and Hawk had led them here, to a seedy tavern not far from Cockpit Yard.
“Someone who knew Joshua Wooster, the former soldier arrested for setting the recent blaze that burned down a building near here.”
“Wot for?”
“I don’t waste my breath answering questions,” retorted Charlotte, backing up a step. “Iffen ye got nothing to tell me, I’ll go find the answers elsewhere.”
“Wait!” Greasy Hair hesitated. “If I do as ye ask, do I still get my full share of blunt fer giving ye valuable information?”
“Ye know I’m always fair.” She jingled her pocket. “Bring me someone who can give me wot I want, and I’ll even pay you extra.”
He disappeared through the door behind him, the brief opening and closing allowing a rumbling of voices from the taproom to waft in, along with a skein of oily smoke.
Charlotte shallowed her breathing. The odor of onions and unwashed bodies was growing more pronounced.
As the moments ticked by, she edged over to the outer door and slid back the bolt, just in case Greasy Hair got any grand ideas about returning with several of his cronies and trying to take her purse by force.
He wasn’t one of her regular informants, and although word on the streets warned that it wasn’t wise to diddle with Magpie, some people didn’t get the message until push came to shove.
She grasped the pocket pistol in her jacket and eased the hammer to half cock.
A ham-fisted thud opened the taproom door halfway, and Greasy Hair slipped in with a ferret-faced companion in tow. The new fellow was dressed in a faded military coat that had once been red.
“Wot’s ye wanna know about Joshua?” asked Ferret Face without preamble, his voice bristling with suspicion.
“Who hired him to set the fire?” answered Charlotte. “Your friend here will assure you that I pay well—but only for accurate information.” A pause. “Diddle me at your own risk.”
Ferret Face spat on the floor. “If I knew his name and where te find him, he would be a dead man by now.”
“I know that Joshua claimed a fancy cove hired him,” replied Charlotte. “Did he say what he looked like? Or describe any detail that might identify him?”
The ex-soldier narrowed his rheumy eyes. “Why are ye asking?”
“Because I work fer someone who wants to see that justice is done.”
A mirthless laugh. “As if anyone gives a rat’s arse whether people like me and Joshua ever get a whiff o’ justice.”
Charlotte eyed him with an unblinking stare.
“Wot’s ye got te lose?” whispered Greasy Hair. “Magpie’s money can at least buy ye a mug o’ ale te raise in salute te your dead friend.”
Ferret Face dropped his gaze. “The varlet didn’t see me in the shadows—my feet were aching, and so I wuz sitting wrapped in a blanket wiv my back up against the wall. But oiy got a look at him as he left the alleyway after making his devil-cursed deal with Joshua.”
“Describe him,” said Charlotte.
“Tall. Broad-shouldered. A fancy pair o’ boots that looked soft as a doxy’s bum . . .”
That fits Taviot, she thought, feeling a flutter of excitement stir inside her rib cage.
A shrug. “Can’t say I noticed anything else.”
“What about the color of his hair?” she pressed.
The ex-soldier scrunched his face in thought. “Brown,” he answered. “A reddish shade, like strong tea.”
Damnation. “Not black, with threads of silver?”
He shook his head. “Naw. As he turned te leave, he passed through a blade o’ moonlight.” A grimace. “Brown hair . . . and Satan-dark eyes that made my blood run cold.” His mouth thinned. “I warned Joshua that no good would come of dealing with such an evil-looking cove.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte passed over payment to both men and slipped away into the night while they were still eyeing their good fortune.
She had been generous despite her disappointment.
It had, she supposed, been na?ve to expect that Taviot would have sullied his hands with wielding the actual knife that helped put gobs of filthy money in his pocket.
In some ways, that made him even more despicable.
“You may have had your co-conspirator perform the recent murders. But you are guilty as sin for both the past and present litany of deaths,” Charlotte whispered to herself.
“And it’s only a matter of time before Wrexford and I make you pay for your perfidy.”