CHAPTER 2 #2
“Along with the rest of the gentlemen present in the main gaming room of Lucifer’s Lair,” interjected his friend. “The gruesome news was all over Town. I heard the details at White’s, where the talk was of nothing else.”
“Hmmph.” The Runner started to jot something more in his notebook.
“Bloody hell,” muttered the earl.
But before he could go on, the breakfast room door opened yet again, admitting his valet. Tyler was cradling a thick roll of paper in his arms.
“I’ve just come from the print shop, and—” He stopped short on seeing the red-breasted Runner. “Forgive me, sir. I didn’t realize you were entertaining company.”
He waved off the apology. “Did Quill comment on the murder?”
“Indeed. Have a look for yourself.”
Wrexford quickly cleared a place on the table. Tyler unrolled the print and anchored the four corners with the breakfast plates before stepping back.
Sheffield, all trace of ennui gone, joined the earl in studying the detailed drawing. After a slight hesitation, the Runner did the same. The room fell silent, save for the slight hiss of the oil burners beneath the chafing dishes.
A minute slid by, and then another, and another.
“Look at the coloring,” murmured Wrexford, subjecting the half-severed head to closer scrutiny. “How in the name of Satan does Quill manage this?” He looked up sharply. “Is it accurate?” he asked of the Runner.
Griffin didn’t reply, but the tightening of his jaw was an eloquent enough answer. He blew out his breath and countered with a question of his own. “Why don’t you tell me, milord?”
Their gazes locked.
“You’re wasting your time here. I didn’t kill him.”
“So you say, milord.”
“As does the evidence,” replied Wrexford. “For I am assuming if you had any tangible proof of my guilt, I would already be cooling my heels in a Newgate cell.”
“The investigation is just beginning.” The Runner snapped his book shut. “At the moment, I have nothing further to ask. But I daresay you will be hearing from me again.”
Sheffield watched the man stalk out of the room. “What a tedious fellow.”
“Tedious, but no fool,” murmured Tyler. He looked to Wrexford, but the earl had already returned to examining the details of the print.
“It’s uncanny—Quill must be a demon or a djinn,” intoned Wrexford, “for the fellow certainly seems to possess unholy powers of perception. How else to explain his intimate acquaintance with every sordid secret in London?”
“A good question,” replied Tyler. “But you’re right. I assume you’re looking at the color and strange mottling on the reverend’s skin.”
“Yes. My guess is it was caused by oil of vitriol.”
“Which is?” queried Sheffield.
“A very strong acid,” answered Tyler, fixing Wrexford with a meaningful look. It’s a common ingredient in chemical experiments.”
“Ah. Well, assuming you didn’t kill him, Wrex . . .” Sheffield raised an inquiring brow.
“I did not.”
“Then it would appear that the murderer was intent on making it look like you did. And yet, having gone through all that trouble, why didn’t he leave an incriminating clue?”
The same thought had occurred to Wrexford. “You heard Robin Red-Breast. The investigation is just beginning. There may very well be one and the authorities just haven’t found it.”
“Or they have, and are keeping the information tucked inside their scarlet waistcoats for the moment,” pointed out his valet.
The earl frowned. “For what reason?”
“I have no idea, milord.” Tyler rubbed pensively at his chin. “Perhaps it would be wise for me to return to Fores’s print shop and ask a few questions about Quill and where he can be found. If anyone can tell us more about the murder scene, it is he. And that knowledge may prove useful to have.”
“Indeed,” mused Wrexford. “If for no other reason than to learn how the fellow digs up his dirt. The next time I buy a ladybird a necklace, I prefer the price to remain private. The damn scribbler cost me five hundred pounds when La Belle Serena got wind of Diana Fairfield’s gift and demanded an extra bauble not to kick up a dust over a certain embarrassing incident. ”
“Bracelets and baubles are not your primary worry, sir. The reverend had a great many followers here in London. The authorities will feel pressure to solve his murder quickly.”
“And why, pray tell, should that concern me?” snapped the earl. “I didn’t do it.”
“What Tyler is tactfully trying to tell you is that whether you are guilty or innocent is irrelevant,” said Sheffield. “It’s all about appearances, and you have to admit, you are the most likely suspect.”
Wrexford uttered a rude oath.
“Swear all you like,” retorted his friend. “But you know I’m right.”
Much as it galled him, he had to concede the point.
“Very well, very well. Tyler, return to Fores’s shop and find out Quill’s address.
I think it’s time we had a little talk with the artist.” He reached in his coat pocket and took out a purse.
The muted clink of metal on metal sounded as it slid across the table.
“Take this. Gold is an amazingly effective lubricant for even the most stubborn of tongues.”
“Very good, milord. I shall report back later today.”
“Seeing as things are well in hand, I shall toddle off to White’s and spend the afternoon drinking other people’s brandy and listening to the latest gossip,” announced Sheffield sardonically. “Would you like me to place a wager in the betting book on whether you’ll hang for the crime?”
* * *
“M’lady?”
Charlotte looked up from her sketch on the Prince Regent’s latest peccadillo.
Thank God Prinny was always a subject for satire when she was in need of subject matter for her next print.
As of yet, she had not heard any juicy tidbits on how the murder investigation was progressing.
But now that the boys had returned from the heart of Town that might be about to change.
“Do come in, Raven.” Seeing the smaller shadow behind him, she quickly added. “And bring Hawk with you.”
“I know ye don’t like to be interrupted when you’re working, but there was a fancy toff—”
“You mean a gentleman,” she interrupted. Perhaps it was a lost cause, but she was doing her best to give the boys a modicum of education. They were both very bright, and under her tutelage they had learned to read simple texts. If only she could afford proper schooling—
“Aye, a gentleman,” said Raven, cutting short her musing. “And he was arsking a lot of questions around the print shop.”
Her fingers tightened on her pen. “What sort of questions?”
“He wanted te know where A. J. Quill lived,” piped up Hawk. “But Mr. Fores told him nuffink.”
Charlotte made herself relax. There was nothing to tell.
One of the terms Anthony had negotiated with Fores was a promise never to betray his identity.
And to make sure of that, he had given the print shop owner a false name—to protect his reputation, he had told Charlotte, for when his paintings became more famous than those of Rembrandt.
It didn’t matter that those dreams had turned to dust and that Anthony was now no longer among the living. Fores didn’t know that. Even if he somehow uncovered the truth, A. J. Quill’s work was making bagfuls of blunt for the shop. He wasn’t going to risk ruining a very profitable arrangement.
“Nor will he, Hawk,” she assured him.
A look of unease still shadowed the younger boy’s face, so she quickly added, “Truly, there is nothing to worry about. The people pictured in my prints sometimes have their lackeys visit Fores with either threats or bribes to avoid further ridicule. He always sends them away with a flea in their ear.”
“Aye,” agreed Raven. “No reason te get your guts in a twist.”
“He wuz there to make trouble,” insisted Hawk. “I wuz watching his peepers. They were sharper than Bloody Jack’s razor.”
Charlotte felt a clench in her chest. The boys shied away from any talk about their past, and she hadn’t pressed them.
But she was under no illusions about the brutal realties of life on the streets.
Unspeakable horrors were rife in the twisting alleyways.
She saw the wariness in their eyes, even around her. Trust made one vulnerable.
And predators pounced on those who betrayed any hint of vulnerability.
“Even with razor-sharp eyes, he won’t find A. J. Quill.” Taking up a rag, Charlotte carefully wiped the smudges of ink from her hands. “I’m famished. Will you join me in some bread and butter, and a cup of tea?”
Hawk shot his brother a pleading look. God only knew when was the last time they had eaten. They were nowhere to be found when she had come down from her tiny bedchamber this morning.
“Yeah, I suppose that would be all right,” allowed Raven.
The boy was thin as one of her artist’s pencils, a fact made even more apparent by his having grown several inches over the last few months.
But there was a whipcord toughness to his leanness, and a sense of coiled tension ready to snap at any moment.
He brushed back a tangle of hair from his cheek. At first glance it was black as his name implied, but as he moved through a shaft of sunlight, glints of mahogany softened the darkness. “That is, if you are fixing something for yourself.”
“I am.” She set the kettle on the hob and unwrapped a chunk of dark bread, wishing she had spared the extra expense for a fresh white loaf at the market.
Ah, but if wishes were horses then beggars would ride.
On that cheerful note, she set out three cups and cut off several slices. There wasn’t much butter left, but she quickly fetched the jar of jam, which she used sparingly. She tried to feed the boys regularly, but they still were wary of accepting too much from her.
“Come sit.”
They joined her at the little table close by the stove.
“Mr. Fores sent this. He says it’s a small token of his appreciation.” Raven fished out a purse and passed it over. “The print of the murder sold out in an hour.”