CHAPTER 7
Wrexford leaned forward in his chair. “What marks?”
Jeannette bit at her lip and looked away. “I dunno—mebbe it’s best te leave the dead te rest in peace.”
Wrexford bit back a sardonic comment. His views on the Hereafter were admittedly heretical.
It was Sheffield who quickly responded, “It may help us find his killer and bring him to justice.”
“Well, seeing as ye put it that way . . .” She blew out her breath. “There were some strange sores and a series of small cuts—made by a knife is my guess—on his breast and around his rib cage.” Her mouth puckered in puzzlement. “Along with a few small spots of blackened flesh. They looked like burns, though God only knows how a gentry mort would get ’em.”
God—or the devil. That was the trouble with murder, thought Wrexford. All too often, the moment of Death wasn’t the end of Evil, it was merely the beginning. Like a stone hitting water, its impact could ripple out, bringing secrets to the surface that were best left submerged. And suddenly there were more victims.
Wrexford felt his gut tighten. He feared that Charlotte’s sense of honor and loyalty might hurt her in ways she hadn’t imagined.
“Did you ask Chittenden about the marks?” inquired Sheffield.
The earl shook off his brooding and forced himself to focus on Jeannette’s answer.
She lifted her bare shoulders in a shrug. “Aye, but he mumbled some humble-bumble that made no sense te me. Don’t see how hurtin’ yerself can bring ye te some higher plane o’ knowledge.” A wry grimace. “But then, I ain’t got a fancy brainbox like you educated gentlemen.”
Pain. For some, it was a way of exploring the dark side of one’s nature.
The earl rose abruptly. “Thank you.” He gave a tug to the silken bellpull, then placed a few more coins on the bedcover-ing. “Don’t tell anyone else about what we’ve discussed. If there’s a dangerous killer on the loose, he won’t hesitate to strike again.”
Her eyes widened. Lifting a hand to her mouth, she made a quick pantomime of turning a key. “Oiy, me lips are locked right and tight, milord.”
Matron Plum appeared a moment later. She led them through a side corridor and down a dark stairwell to an iron-studded door that opened into an unlit alleyway next to the mews.
Wrexford and his friend stepped out into the fog-misted night. Without a word, the woman drew it shut, and through the thick oak, the earl heard the rasp of the bolts being thrown back in place.
The air felt cold as ice against his face after the warmth of the brothel. He started walking.
“I can think of several establishments where Chittenden might have acquired such marks,” murmured Sheffield after they had traversed a connecting passageway and emerged on the adjoining street.
“As can I,” growled Wrexford. London catered to all manner of vices and obsessions. “None of them are pretty.”
They walked on in silence for several strides. “I can make some inquiries, if you like,” added his friend. “Not that I’m familiar with the world of pleasure and pain, but I know of one or two people who would be willing to talk.”
Already the ripples were spreading, churning up waves in an ever-widening circle.
“My thanks, Kit. We can’t afford to overlook that possibility,” he replied. “But there’s also Westmorly and the gambling debts. We need to know more about those, too.” As for his own next steps . . . a sudden thought came to mind, spurring Wrexford to quicken his pace.
“I’ll set both inquiries into motion tonight,” promised Sheffield as he hurried to catch up. “Where are you racing off to?”
“I want to pay a visit to the morgue. But first, I need to rouse Henning. If anyone can make a corpse talk, it’s him.”
* * *
“Bloody, bloody hell.” Slapping down her pen in frustration, Charlotte gave up trying to sketch a satire on the Prince Regent and his latest peccadillo. Lust and gluttony seemed such paltry sins compared to murder.
She rose and began to pace the perimeter of her workroom. Shadows stirred, their dark shapes dancing just out of reach of the flickering lamplight. The draperies were closed, but still she could sense the black-fingered gloom of the moonless night pressing against the windowpanes.
Pausing, Charlotte peeked through the folds of fabric, trying to spot any sign of movement in the street. Yet another sign her wits were out of kilter. It was far too early for the boys to be returning. As for dawn, it seemed an eternity away.
She resumed her pacing, suddenly aware of how impatient she was to show Wrexford the tobacco flakes. In the meantime, there must be some other lead to follow. But another turn around the small space only exacerbated the sense that she was spinning in circles.
As she came to an abrupt halt and stared at the fast-dying coals of the banked fire, Charlotte fisted her hands and felt a clench of impotent fury take hold of her. She hated feeling so helpless. A passive bystander, while the earl and the boys were out searching for clues.
In her previous home, a ramshackle structure squeezed up against the stews, she had been a nameless nobody, free to come and go as she pleased. The move to a nicer neighborhood had not come without consequences.
There were times when she questioned whether she had made the right decision.
Charlotte repressed a grimace, reminding herself of the aphorisms learned in long-ago schoolroom lessons. Virtus tentamine gaudet—strength rejoices in the challenge. At the time, such pompous platitudes had made three unruly adolescents snicker behind the tutor’s back. Strange how they had stuck with her over the years, providing unexpected steel for the spirit in times of doubt.
She wondered if Nicky was lying on his miserable cot, using them as a talisman to keep the blackness at bay.
A gust of wind rattled the glass. The shadows shivered and slipped deeper into the dark corners of the room.
“I’ll go mad if I stay in here any longer,” whispered Charlotte. She drew in a ragged breath—and then spun around to blow out the desk lamp’s flame.
Within minutes, she had stripped off her skirts and donned her urchin’s garb. After penciling a quick note so McClellan and the boys wouldn’t worry if they discovered her absence, Charlotte tucked her boots under her arm and tiptoed for the stairs.
* * *
“Auch, you had better be prepared to buy me a very ample breakfast—and a bottle of whisky to fortify my coffee.” Henning’s irascible grumble echoed within the slivered alleyway.
“Why is it all my friends think my purse is ripe for the plucking?” retorted Wrexford, pausing to peer through the swirls of silvery mist floating up from the muck beneath their boots.
“Because it is,” replied the surgeon. He shifted his leather satchel from hand to hand, setting off a snick-snick of metal.
“Sssshhh,” warned the earl.
“And be advised, I’ll expect a generous donation to the clinic in return for rousing me out of bed at this ungodly hour.” Henning ran a hand over his unshaven jaw. “Is there a reason we’re slithering through the night like a pair of feral rats?”
“At this hour, the morgue’s guard is likely slumbering off his midnight gin. I’d prefer he remain in the Land of Nod while we make our little visit.”
A raspy chuckle stirred the air. “Tsk, tsk. You mean to say we don’t have official permission?”
Wrexford ignored the sarcasm. Henning was happiest when he could thumb his nose at Society’s rules. “This way,” he whispered, leading the way across a narrow rutted cart track to the back of the stone building. Double doors, wide enough to allow the mortuary wagons’ entrance, were set in the center of the grimy brick.
The earl drew a thin-bladed knife from his boot and made quick work of the lock.
Once inside, they moved quickly over the stone-flagged unloading bay and slipped into an unlit corridor. Up ahead, a lone candle was framed in an open doorway, its flame fluttering wildly in the gasp-and-wheeze rhythm of rattling snores.
Henning tapped his shoulder and silently signaled for them to turn down a connecting passageway. The sickly-sweet stench of decay grew more pronounced as they came to a weighty door of iron-banded oak. Setting his shoulder to the rough planks, the surgeon gave a hard shove.
It swung half open with a mournful groan.
Wrexford reeled back a step as a fresh wave of smells assaulted his nostrils.
“The perfume of death takes some getting used to,” murmured Henning as he slipped inside the morgue.
Shallowing his breathing, the earl followed.
“Close the door.”
He heard the surgeon fumbling around inside his satchel. A moment later, sparks flew as flint struck steel and the wick of a small metal lantern flared to life. Henning opened the shutter and handed it over before lighting a second one.
The beams illuminated a row of stone slabs, each draped with a length of stained canvas. Light and shadow slid over the heavy cloth, accentuating the macabre contours beneath the shroud.
Seemingly oblivious to the clammy cold, Henning removed his coat—the earl wasn’t sure why, seeing as it was already spotted with a number of noxious-looking substances.
“Thank God we know what we’re looking for,” quipped the surgeon as he rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Faces can bloat and twist out of recognition, but I daresay there will only be one poor sod with a cod cut off.”
After a quick look under the first covering, Henning moved on to the next slab. “Keep up with me, laddie. I’ll need the extra light when we find our man.”
Wrexford shuffled closer.
“Seeing as you wish to keep our visit a secret, it would be best not to spill your guts.”
“You needn’t worry. I’ve a strong stomach,” shot back the earl, though the mingled fumes of putrefaction and carbolic acid were enough to turn a cast-iron pot upside down.
“Hell’s bells, I hope you guessed right and they brought the body here,” muttered Henning after checking under another shroud.
“So do I,” said Wrexford, taking care to breathe through his mouth. The stench was appalling.
The surgeon’s shuffling steps sounded unnaturally loud in the cryptlike silence. Somewhere close by, the steady drip of liquid splashed against stone.
“Ah. Eureka.” Henning peeled back the canvas and let it slip from his fingers. It slithered to the floor with a flaccid sigh. “Bring your lantern closer. Let’s not linger here any longer than necessary.”
Death was not a pretty picture, mused Wrexford as the beam fell on Chittenden’s face. It robbed a man not only of his soul, but also of his dignity. The young man’s once-handsome features were distorted, and decay was already ravaging the flesh. If Locke were the murderer, he ought to be made to confront the ghastly portrait of what he, too, would look like when the Grim Reaper came for him.
A reminder that we are, for all our hubris, ultimately food for the flies and maggots.
“Shift the light,” ordered Henning, indicating a spot on the baron’s chest. Crouching down, he pulled a magnifying lens from his satchel and carefully examined the flesh.
“Hmmph.” The surgeon moved methodically over the corpse’s torso, pausing here and there to palpate a spot, though Wrexford was finding it hard to discern any injuries from the overall mottling.
Sliding a hand over the left side of the rib cage, Henning let out another grunt and reached for a pair of tweezers. “Well, well, what have we here?” he muttered, withdrawing a tiny fragment from a small incision between the bones.
“What is it?” demanded Wrexford.
“I’ve not a clue,” replied Henning as he dropped it into a tiny glass vial from his bag and replaced the cork. “I’ll need to look at it more closely at my surgery.”
After another few pokes and prods at the discolored flesh, Henning shifted his attention down to where the baron’s scrotum had been severed.
The earl gave a pained wince. “Must you?” he muttered, averting his gaze as a primordial shudder snaked down his spine.
“Since when have you developed such delicate sensibilities?” Angling his head, Henning leaned in even closer. “It’s not out of ghoulish interest. I’m looking at how the cut was made.” Lamplight winked off the magnifying lens. “Hmmph. It was done with precision, and the blade was razor-sharp . . .” He finally looked up. “I’m wondering whether the Bloody Butcher’s other victims showed the same style. It’s a question worth asking.”
“Very clever,” conceded Wrexford.
“Which means I shall feel free to order a beefsteak to go along with broiled kidneys at breakfast,” came Henning’s cheerful reply. Looking satisfied, he set aside the lenses and rose.
“Help me turn him over.”
Together, they managed to reverse Chittenden’s deadweight.
A muffled sound caught Wrexford’s ear. He spun around and listened for a moment. “We better hurry,” he murmured. “I think I hear the sound of a cart entering the back courtyard.”
“Hold your water, laddie. We won’t have another chance with His Lordship, and I imagine you’d prefer that I don’t miss anything.”
Wrexford shuffled his feet in impatience, but kept his mouth shut.
Finally, after several long moments had slid by, a rough growl rumbled against the stone. “There’s nothing else of interest. Let’s put everything back in order.”
Thump-thud. The body rolled back in place—and not a moment too soon. There were voices coming from somewhere in the building, and they were getting louder.
Wrexford snatched up the canvas. “Damnation, stop fiddling with his privates and snuff out your light.”
“We need to leave him as we found him,” retorted the surgeon. He finished arranging the body parts, then signaled for the earl to throw on the shroud. As Wrexford extinguished his lantern, Henning grabbed up his satchel and they both hurried through the darkness for the door.
Too late. Just as the earl caught hold of the latch, the clatter of hobnailed boots came to a halt on the other side of the age-dark oak. In another instant . . .
Grabbing Henning’s arm, he bolted to his left, praying that the jog in the wall he had noticed earlier would afford enough of a hiding place.
* * *
Leaning back against the warehouse wall, Charlotte closed her eyes and tilted her face to the clouded sky. The rough bricks dug into her shoulder blades, but the pain felt good. Perhaps it would rouse her from the strange somnambulant fugue that was holding her in thrall. Her rush of restlessness had worn itself out in aimless wandering, leaving her aware that she couldn’t keep running and hiding from her demons.
She must face her fears. Cowardice was crippling. It would slowly grind her into dust.
Fortes fortuna adiuvat—fortune favors the bold.
Ah, those aphorisms again. This one tugged a wry quirk to her lips.
“For better or for worse, I seem to have spent my life spitting in the eye of caution.” A few fat drops of rain splashed against her cheeks and ran in chill rivulets down the line of her jaw.
Charlotte started walking again. Still too unsettled to return home, she wove her way through the maze of alleyways toward Lincoln’s Inn Fields, hoping to intercept the boys. Their regular route should bring them along the northern side of the square.
A short while later, from her vantage point within a small copse of trees behind the iron fence, she spotted them, flitting dark-on-dark shapes that would have eluded her eye if she hadn’t known what to be looking for.
Two quick hoots—the tremulous call of a tawny owl—alerted the boys to her presence. In an instant, they appeared from out of the shrubbery, stirring naught but a whisper of the leaves.
Raven’s features were drawn taut. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, his hand sliding down to his boot, where he carried a deadly-looking knife given to him by the earl.
“Nothing,” she assured him. “I—I simply felt the need for a breath of fresh air.”
“It’s dangerous to be wandering the streets at this hour,” chided Hawk.
Out of the mouths of babes, she thought wryly.
“Without us,” he added hastily, realizing that path of argument might quickly trip him up.
“I’m always careful,” she responded. “But never mind that now—how did your inquiries go?”
“We’ve spread the word to our friends,” replied Raven slowly. He was still watching her with a wariness beyond his years. “If a rat so much as scratched his arse near the murder scenes, we’ll soon know of it.”
“Don’t be vulgar,” murmured Charlotte.
Hawk snickered, earning a swift cuff from his brother.
“We did hear something interesting tonight,” continued Raven. “Dunno if it means anything, but . . .”
Charlotte heard the note of suppressed excitement in his voice.
“But you can decide for yourself.”
“I’m all ears,” said Charlotte, coming instantly alert.
A grin flashed across his face. “You’re going to need your peepers as well,” he began, only to spin around at the rustling of leaves from somewhere in the shadows behind them.
“Though we should return home first,” added Raven in a low whisper. “And then Hawk is going to show you his drawing.”