Chapter 3 #2
“So why was he imprisoned?” asked Wrexford.
“Because he refused to answer any questions about the gang and its inner workings,” answered the surgeon. “He was rambling a bit by then, and I didn’t press him to elaborate.” A pause. “After all, we’re entitled to our own personal secrets.”
The surgeon swirled his glass and watched the amber liquid spin in a slow vortex.
“However, this morning I just learned something interesting from a friend of Campbell who stopped at my clinic. He said that Campbell’s brother Archibald—though everyone called him Archie—had a young son, and as the fellow paid little attention to raising him, Campbell was really the father figure in the boy’s life.
Perhaps sensing that things were likely to go bad for the gang, Campbell apparently created a set of four matching pewter signet rings engraved with some sort of secret symbol—I know not what—right around the time of the Lisbon Conspiracy and gave three of them to a trio of friends he trusted implicitly, who swore a blood oath to help him get the boy away to a safe life if things went bad. ”
Wrexford shifted in impatience. “This is all a sad story, but what in the devil does it have to do—”
“Patience, laddie. I’m about to explain,” said Henning. “As I was washing Campbell’s body in preparation for wrapping it in a shroud, I noticed a band of pale flesh on the pinkie finger of his left hand. Yet all the rest of his exposed skin was burned dark by the sun.”
“You think Campbell was wearing one of the special signet rings?” asked Charlotte. “It would make sense …”
“Dunno,” said Henning. “Indeed, I never noticed whether or not he wore a ring.”
“Look, to a desperate thief—and heaven knows there are far too many of them roaming the stews, a small bit of pewter may have looked like silver in the moonlight and so would have been worth something,” pointed out Wrexford.
“What is it that you’re implying? That Campbell’s murder wasn’t a random crime? ”
The surgeon shrugged. “I’m simply stating the empirical facts as I know them. And to me, they indicate that there may be more to this murder than meets the eye.” He picked at a loose thread on his cuff. “Though I don’t have a clue as to what it might be.”
Charlotte looked to Wrexford …
Who closed his eyes for an instant and released a sigh before giving a reluctant nod. “I’ll have a word with Griffin about looking into the murder. But without a speck of evidence to indicate who might have committed the crime, we can’t expect him to work miracles.”
The quality of the men hired as Runners by the Bow Street magistrates was notoriously uneven, but Griffin had earned the reputation of being the best of them.
His outward demeanor— he was plodding in both speech and movement—fooled many people into thinking he was dim-witted.
They soon learned to revise their assumption.
“It will, of course, cost me dear,” groused the earl. Griffin preferred to talk business over a meal—a very large meal—for which Wrexford was expected to foot the bill.
Charlotte smiled, a small glimmer of humor to lighten the fraught mood. Although their first encounter with the Runner had been adversarial, they had since forged a strong friendship, and he had assisted in a number of their past investigations.
“Yes, but it will be worth every farthing,” she said.
“Ha! Griffin’s tastes are measured in guineas, not farthings!”
“Stop bellyaching, laddie,” quipped Henning. “He’s saved your bacon on several occasions.” A pause. “In addition to Griffin’s sniffing around, I will also make some inquiries at the London Institution and my clinic to see if anyone might know more about Campbell’s past life.”
Then setting aside his empty glass, the surgeon rose. “Speaking of bacon, I think I’ll pay a visit to the kitchen and see if Mac can rustle up a late supper for me.”
Raven and Peregrine were waiting impatiently for Hawk to return to their eyrie and explain what secrets were swirling through the household.
“Mr. Campbell was murdered?” Peregrine’s eyes widened, shock mingling with sympathy after Hawk revealed the grim news about his drawing teacher. “When? Why? Who—” he sputtered before Raven waved him to silence.
“Last night.” Hawk drew in a deep breath, his gaze moving to the half-dozen whimsical sketches that his drawing teacher had made during their lessons, which were spread out beside him on the schoolroom rug. “Dunno why, and dunno who did it.”
He looked up. “I didn’t mention it before now because m’lady asked me not to reveal the news until we informed Wrex in private. But the two of them are now discussing the crime with Mr. Henning, who has had a look at the body.”
“Well, then, it will likely be solved in a trice,” said Peregrine with a forced certainty.
Raven said nothing. Shadows flitted over his face as he turned his gaze to some faraway spot in the darkness outside the moon-dappled panes of the schoolroom window.
Hawk shifted, watching his older brother intently.
“Are you thinking—” began Peregrine.
“Shhh,” hissed Raven. “Yes, but keep your voice down,” he added in a whisper. “It wouldn’t hurt for us to ask around among our urchin friends about the murder and learn if anyone saw anything.”
He listened for any sound in the corridor before adding, “However, we can’t alert Eddy as to what we’re up to. She’ll want to come along.” A pause. “And on no account can we let that happen. Wrex has absolutely forbidden us to let her be part of any foray into the stews.”
A look of trepidation skittered across Peregrine’s face. “Heaven forfend you ask me to pass on that message to her!” Another shudder. “She would likely respond by casting one of her magical Gaelic spells—and turning me into a cockroach.”
“It’s no jesting matter, Falcon.” Raven swallowed hard. “Wrex lectured me in great detail about all the horrid things that can happen to a girl in the stews.” He let his words sink in before adding, “This rule can’t be broken or bent. Understood?”
“Oiy,” answered the other two Weasels.
“Then let us fetch our boots—quietly, mind you—and slip out from the window of Falcon’s bedchamber.”
“Where are we going?” asked Peregrine, once they had crept out of the schoolroom and made their way to the appointed egress.
Raven raised a questioning brow at Hawk.
“First to Finbury Circle,” responded his brother. “Carrot-Top’s gang may have noticed whether Mr. Campbell ever met up with any friends when he left the London Institution’s gardens. Then onto Threadneedle Street, where the crime occurred.”