Chapter 7
“Halloo? Anyone home?” Christopher Sheffield, Wrexford’s longtime friend, poked his head into the earl’s workroom. “Ye gods! Are you sleeping at this hour? It’s nearly noon.”
Wrexford opened his eyes and straightened from his slouch in the armchair. “I am merely thinking.”
“A process with which I am ill-acquainted,” came the cheerful reply. “Thank heaven.”
“Arse,” grumbled the earl, though in truth the interruption was most welcome. He wasn’t having any luck in making sense out of the events of the last few days.
Sheffield made himself at home in the facing armchair and propped his booted feet up on the brass fender of the hearth. “What has you sunk in such deep contemplation?”
“A murder.”
“A murder?” All traces of good-natured humor immediately vanished from his friend’s face.
“I saw nothing in the newspapers about a violent death that would attract our attention.” As part of the family’s trusted inner circle, Sheffield and his wife Cordelia had been intimately involved in a number of previous murder investigations.
“In the eyes of the newspapers, the man in question was merely a number on a magistrate’s report—one of the nameless victims of violence who die each day in our city. However …” Wrexford fisted his hands in his lap and went on to explain about Campbell having his throat cut.
“Holy hell,” muttered Sheffield.
“You haven’t yet heard the worst of it. The fellow was an acquaintance of Henning—that’s how he came to be connected to Hawk and our family—and apparently …
” The earl explained about hiring Campbell, the possible complications regarding the missing ring from the dead man’s finger and how the Weasels had stumbled into a very dangerous situation the previous evening.
His friend’s expression had turned even more troubled. “I assume you’ve alerted Griffin?”
“I sent a note late last night asking him to look into the crime. However, I wasn’t aware of the complication with men posing as officers of the Royal Horse Guards until an hour ago. I’ve sent off an update, but I have no idea when he’ll receive it.”
Frowning, Sheffield leaned back to ponder what he had just heard.
His own self-deprecating comment on thinking couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Though he had gone through a troubled time of reckless behavior several years ago, marriage to the brilliant Lady Cordelia Mansfield had encouraged his own intellectual talents to blossom.
“Well, then, it seems the best course of action is to wait for a meeting with Griffin before instigating an investigation of your own.” He then shook his head in disgust and added, “How long will it take for the government to create a professional policing force? It’s shameful how few crimes are solved here in London.
We’ve over one and a half million people living here and only 450 constables and 4,500 watchmen—not to speak of no coherent system of sharing information or coordinating efforts to apprehend criminals. ”
“The wealthy can pay for Bow Street Runners or other private agents,” responded Wrexford. “The government doesn’t much care about the unwashed multitudes, who have no real voice.”
“Not yet—but they damn well should.”
After a grunt of agreement from the earl, Sheffield quickly added, “Rather than sit here and stew about the situation, why not come along with me to a demonstration by a fellow named John Holt Ibbetson of his new invention at the Society for Mechanical Progress. It starts in little more than an hour and promises to be quite interesting.”
“What sort of invention?” asked Wrexford, his scientific curiosity stirred in spite of his worries.
“A special type of lathe known as a geometric lathe. It’s capable of creating a decorative pattern called a guilloche.”
Wrexford raised his brows. “Which is?”
“A very intricate and very precise repetitive image.”
A shrug. “That sounds more like a parlor game, rather than something having practical scientific applications.”
Sheffield smiled. “On the contrary, Ricardo thinks this particular type of lathe may be a very revolutionary invention.”
The earl sat up straighter. Their mutual friend David Ricardo, a genius in the world of finance—and now likely the richest man in the nation after having rescued Britain’s economy from a nefarious French plot—was not one to exaggerate.
“Why?”
“You’ve heard of the ￡20,000 prize being offered by the Bank of England, in conjunction with the Royal Society for the Encouragement of Arts, Manufactures, and Commerce— commonly known as the Royal Society of Arts—haven’t you?”
Wrexford shook his head. “I don’t pay as much attention to the financial world as you do.”
“You don’t have to,” quipped his friend. “Even without what you earned from your investment in Ricardo’s risky plan, you were already a very wealthy fellow.”
Sheffield’s grin gave way to a more thoughtful expression.
“Be that as it may, pay attention.” Once he was sure of the earl’s full attention, he continued.
“Given the rapid growth of industry and commerce, both here and around the world, it’s becoming less and less practical to be using actual coins for financial transactions.
Granted, we have bills of exchange and other financial documents, but those are geared to a specialized business-to-business market.
What the country at large needs is a standard paper currency—”
Wrexford sat up a little straighter. “But my understanding is that banknotes are notoriously easy to copy.”
“Indeed, that’s my point!” answered Sheffield.
“To that end, the Bank of England has asked the Royal Society to form a committee, headed by Sir Joseph Banks, to investigate options for creating banknotes that are impossible to counterfeit—it’s called the Inimitable Banknote Competition—and it’s thought that geometric lathes will be a key technology in achieving that goal.
A prize of ￡20,000 will be awarded to the person who solves the challenge. ”
“That’s quite an incentive,” observed the earl. “Why—”
But before he could finish his question, a loud thump reverberated against the door, followed a moment later by a long shadow as Griffin’s bearlike bulk entered the room.
“Riche assured me that you wouldn’t mind being interrupted,” announced the Bow Street Runner.
He acknowledged Sheffield with a gruff nod and then turned his attention back to the earl with a pained grimace.
“And here I had thought that for once, you had asked me to investigate a simple, straight-forward case of murder.”
“Hope springs eternal,” murmured Sheffield, which earned him a scowl from Wrexford.
“That’s not amusing, Kit,” muttered the earl.
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
Griffin moved to warm his hands by the fire. The weather had turned unnaturally chilly for September. Quelling his impatience, Wrexford refrained from barking out a question and waited for the Runner to speak.
“You’re right, milord.” Griffin finally turned away from the banked flames. “There is nothing remotely amusing about this crime. Especially for me.”
A sigh. “Were you aware that I was part of the investigation into the Lisbon Conspiracy, the terrible banknote scandal ten years ago that landed your murder victim in prison?”
Wrexford decided not to mention Henning’s revelation about Campbell’s past, and merely shook his head. “So, you’re familiar with Campbell’s history.”
“Correct,” replied Griffin. “Your murdered acquaintance, Fletcher Campbell, was by all accounts an honest laborer. However, his brother, Archie Campbell, was far more notorious, as he was the ringleader of the gang.”
The earl remained silent.
“There was great pressure on the authorities to track down the culprits,” continued the Runner.
“Through sweat and toil, along with squeezing every informant who owed us a favor, we were able to apprehend the ten members of the gang and they were hanged after a swift trial. And a short while later, a dozen of the men who served as the soldiers were tracked down and followed the others to the gallows.”
Griffin chafed his palms together. “The government was satisfied, but I’ve always had a niggling suspicion that the real mastermind of the crime was never brought to justice.
I’m still of the opinion that Archie Campbell, though a very clever fellow, couldn’t have orchestrated such a complex plan.
When I interviewed him in prison, trying to put together all the pieces of the puzzle, there were too many holes in his account. ”
He made a face. “He could never give me a plausible explanation for how the gang knew about the existence of the Bank of England’s shipment of high-denomination banknotes, which was supposedly a very closely guarded secret, how they got a specimen to copy, and how they learned exactly where in the huge building complex the real banknotes were being kept under lock and key. ”
“I’m surprised Archie Campbell didn’t try to broker a deal for saving his neck by offering up an even bigger prize,” mused Sheffield.
“I would have thought so, too, but he was oddly coy about it,” replied Griffin. “He did once allude to a mastermind’s existence, but when I pressed him on it, he claimed that he had never set eyes on the fellow, merely conversed with him through a closed door.”
“One can’t hang a mere specter—assuming there was one,” said Wrexford. “Archie Campbell may just have been taking perverse delight in playing with your sense of justice.”
“Perhaps. He clammed up after that and would never discuss it again,” said Griffin softly.
He rubbed at his jaw before adding, “I confess, the uncertainty still bothers me. The government was all afire to ensure that every one of the culprits was put to death, and I even heard vague rumors that a special secret investigation headed by Lord Langdon had been appointed by the prime minister to look into the matter. But assuming that investigation existed, it was no more successful than us Runners in identifying a mastermind.”
“Which likely means there was none,” mused Sheffield. “Notorious crimes spawn all sorts of wild rumors that take on a life of their own.”
Griffin nodded, but his expression turned even more troubled. “It also bothers me that a member of the gang tried to gain a reprieve from the hangman’s noose by revealing that it was Archie Campbell’s young son, not his father, who was the genius behind engraving the counterfeit copper plate.”
“Are you saying that they hanged a child along with the others?” demanded Sheffield.
“It’s a far too common occurrence, Kit,” responded Wrexford.
“Unfortunately, it is, milord,” agreed Griffin. “But I reviewed the records of the case before coming here, and I’m quite sure that no child was hanged along with the men.”
The Runner looked away for a long moment before continuing.
“As I said, there was no evidence that Fletcher Campbell was involved in the actual crime, but still, he was sentenced to ten years in prison for keeping silent about his brother’s perfidy in the hope that he would relent and name the mastermind.
However, he never made a peep, and I suspected that was because he had somehow helped the boy elude capture. ”
“Did you think there was any truth to the rumor that the boy was the artistic genius behind the counterfeit engraving?” asked Sheffield.
The Runner lifted his shoulders. “I wish I could answer that. Yes, there were rumors … but common sense says they can’t be true.”
“Truth sometimes defies logic,” said Wrexford softly. However, he decided not to mention the rumor of the four signet rings until he spoke further with Henning about the situation.
Griffin chuffed a snort.
“Things are bloody complicated enough, but alas, a new development has come to light since the message I sent to you last night,” added the earl, and then explained about the men dressed in fake uniforms of the Royal Horse Guards attacking the urchins he had sent to sniff around for any clues at the scene of Campbell’s murder.
“Counterfeit soldiers?” muttered Griffin.
“Like ten years ago,” said Sheffield under his breath.
A tiny jaw muscle twitched as the Runner clenched his teeth for an instant. “Dare I hope your raggle-taggle band learned something before they nearly ended up gutted like pigs?”
Secrets and subterfuge. Like wraiths, their unseen presence seemed to cast a chill over the conversation.
Wrexford drew in a measured breath. Griffin had become familiar with the earl’s urchin network over the course of previous investigations. But he had no idea that Raven and Hawk—and later Peregrine—had anything to do with the forays into London’s slums.
“Their informant gave them a vague description of the murderer.” Until he had time to examine the key and ponder its significance—if any—to the case, Wrexford decided not to reveal its existence.
“Nothing that might identify the individual, but enough to indicate that he was a gentleman and not simply a random footpad.”
“A gentleman,” repeated Griffin. “I suppose that narrows down the possible suspects—but not nearly enough to be helpful.” He blew out a harried sigh.
“I had better take my leave and get back to work.” A pause.
“But before I do so, milord, I shall visit the kitchen for some sustenance—and have McClellan fix a tray heaped with every expensive delicacy in your larders.”