“Did he know? Or was it just an educated guess?”
“Even an educated guess requires prior knowledge.”
“True.” She halted on the pavement and glanced at the list of names and addresses he still held.
He folded the sheet and tucked it into his coat pocket. Should he assume and head straight for Scotland Yard or…?
Louisa headed for her carriage. “As we’re already on this side of the river, I suggest we check at those addresses first. Who knows? We might learn more from their wives. Not all men are as tight-lipped as you.”
She halted beside the carriage door and swung to face him; he hadn’t moved.
He studied her; she’d barely glanced at the list. “Where are you going?”
Her smile grew edged. “First to Swanston Street, then to Gilray Close, and finally to Milton Avenue.”
He swore beneath his breath and went after her.
She turned to the carriage, and her footman opened the door. She called up to her coachman, giving the first address, which wasn’t all that far away.
His jaw clenched, Drake waved the footman back, gripped her hand, and helped her into the carriage, then followed and sat beside her.
The footman closed the door, then clambered up behind as the carriage started rolling.
Drake waited until he was sure he had his temper under control before, with what he felt was commendable evenness, stating, “This is not a game.”
Her response came in decidedly clipped accents. “Obviously. It sounds as if we have three more men dead.” She shot him a glance from very green eyes. “Regardless of whether the wives have had the deaths confirmed or not, you will do very much better with me than without.”
He hadn’t thought of that. Dealing with grieving women…definitely wasn’t his forte.
He slumped back against the seat. He was in no way resigned to her dogging his every step. Unfortunately, he was helpless to prevent her—Lady Wild—doing precisely as she pleased.
For a nobleman of his ilk, that grated.
CHAPTER 5
He hated killing in daylight—the risks associated with hiding the bodies were, to his mind, unacceptable. Unnecessary. So much easier to strike at night and slip his victims into the waiting river.
The river confused things, too. No telling where a victim had been killed, and consequently, less chance of a body being identified rapidly. All of that worked to his advantage.
Not today. Luckily, the area near the yard included pockets of near-slum. He left his second body of the morning under a pile of rubble sheltered by the remains of a ramshackle stable in the minuscule yard of a dwelling that appeared deserted. Good enough. With luck, the body would remain undiscovered for at least a few days.
He didn’t want anyone realizing where his latest victims worked, not until the gunpowder was well away.
But if the old man’s third stage was going to succeed—if he, Bevis Griswade, was going to make himself the old man’s sole heir—then he needed to make sure of all four men Lawton had recruited to make the critical transfer. Thank God he’d been curious enough to check on Lawton’s Monday night activities. If he hadn’t been there and seen the men’s faces, he wouldn’t know who among the large body of workers he needed to remove.
As usual, the old man’s foresight in sharing Lawton’s instructions with him smacked of near-omniscience. That, or a canny understanding that transcended the norm.
Walking steadily, he made his way back to the larger lanes. As he drew within sight of the yard gates, presently set wide, the city’s bells started pealing. Ten o’clock. The other two men would be in the yard and hard at work by now. He would have to deal with them later. Even if he had to scour the neighborhood, he would find them. He knew where they worked; they wouldn’t escape him.
Now, however, the fading echoes of the bells reminded him that he needed to be on his way. The old man would be waiting for his report, and he had no intention of disappointing.
Before he’d silenced his latest victims, he’d confirmed that the gunpowder was safely stored as planned, and the transfer had gone without a hitch.
He would ride into Berkshire, make his report, and then learn what the old man’s plans were for the last and final stage in his thus-far remarkably ingenious plot.
CHAPTER 6
By the time they reached the third address on Beam’s list, the one in Milton Avenue, Drake was exceedingly thankful that Louisa had insisted on accompanying him.
The wives of the men who had lived at the first and second addresses had been notified that morning by Scotland Yard that bodies believed to be those of their husbands had been found in alleys not far from their homes. Apparently, they’d been killed on Saturday evening, but separately, at quite different locations.
Both women had only recently returned from identifying the bodies and were in no fit state to be questioned.
Despite that, Louisa had won the trust of the females manning both doors and had learned that there was nothing known by either wives or friends of any matter that might conceivably explain the deaths.
“Other than,” Drake had grimly observed as he’d handed Louisa back into the carriage, “each dead man having led one of the local Chartist militias.”
With no great hope, he trailed Louisa up the short path to the door of the third militia leader’s house.
But when the door opened, it was instantly obvious that it was the wife—a Mrs. Neill—who faced them. She wore her anxiety openly; she scanned their faces in hope, but that swiftly faded. Tremulously, she asked, “Yes?”
Louisa lowered and softened her voice. “We’ve been speaking with the London Working Men’s Association. We’d hoped to talk with your husband, but I can see he’s not yet back.” She hesitated a heartbeat, then ventured, “I take it he’s still missing?”
Mrs. Neill nodded. She gripped the door as if it could absorb some of the strain. “Just like the other two—the other leaders, I mean.” She scanned their faces. “Have you heard about them?”
Her expression grave, Louisa nodded. “We’ve already called at their homes.”
Mrs. Neill drew breath, then blurted out, “I’m hoping Bill wasn’t caught up in it. Whatever it was. He was here on Saturday night, just as usual. I heard the other two never made it home that night, but Bill did.”
“When did you last see him?” Louisa asked.
“Sunday morning, about eleven. After church. He set off to walk to the Association.”
Drake kept his voice low, his tone undemanding. “Did he often go in on a Sunday?”
“Aye. Quite a few of the men gather there to play cards or darts of a Sunday afternoon.”
“I wonder,” Louisa said. “We’ve been asked by the Association’s head to look into a certain matter. Did your husband mention anything about some secret effort for the cause?”
Mrs. Neill looked troubled. “I know he went with the other two leaders to meet with some man last Thursday night. He came back in a good mood—happier than he’s been for some time. He said as how things were finally under way. I asked what he meant, but he said he didn’t actually know—it wasn’t anything he needed to do himself, just a matter of sitting back and watching what happened.”
“He didn’t have any idea what was supposed to happen?” Drake asked gently.
Mrs. Neill shook her head. “No—he said it was a secret.” She looked at Louisa. “Like you mentioned.”
Louisa nodded and thanked her for her time and tendered their sincere hopes that her husband might turn up hale and whole soon.
Mrs. Neill smiled wanly, bobbed, then shut the door.
Louisa turned and, inwardly grimacing, walked beside Drake to the carriage.
Drake murmured as he opened the door, “Neill’s body will most likely turn up in some ginnel near the Association’s office.”
She glanced at him. “So it’s off to Scotland Yard?”
From across the river, the bells started their long peal for midday.
Drake’s gaze grew distant, then he focused on her face. After a moment of studying it—of reading her resolution, or so she hoped—he said, “Let’s head back over the river and get something to eat. After that…don’t you have calls to make? People to interrogate over the teacups as to Chilburn’s friends and acquaintances, not to mention his address.”
She tipped her head and considered the prospect, then shook her head. “I’ll almost certainly do better on that front this evening. There are two major balls, and the Hawesleys are sure to be at one or the other. Hawesley at least will know his son’s address.” She met Drake’s eyes. “But we can’t call at Scotland Yard in the evening, so I suggest we head there once you’ve satisfied your appetite.”
Drake swallowed a comment regarding appetites—no need to encourage her. He handed her into the carriage. “Aren’t you going to eat, too?”
Her lips curved. “Not on your scale. I’ll nibble.”
He directed her coachman to take them across the river to Whitehall, to a lane on which lay a small public house with an excellent menu, then followed her into the carriage and sat.
He wasn’t going to waste energy attempting to put his foot down over a duke’s daughter venturing into the halls of Scotland Yard. Scotland Yard would just have to cope.
CHAPTER 7
“L et me get this straight.” Inspector Crawford leaned forward, clasped his hands on his blotter, and fixed Sebastian and Antonia, seated before his desk, with a level look. “You believe the killing of Boyne in Kent is linked to the deaths of two carters who, shortly after, were found garroted and floating in the Thames. On top of that, you say that some blighter, possibly a gentleman, tried to kill your brother and, perhaps unsurprisingly, wound up dead, and you want to know if he—the dead gentleman—was Boyne’s killer.”
Antonia nodded decisively. “That’s correct.”
The inspector looked faintly harassed.
“Do you have a description of the man in Kent?” Sebastian asked.
Crawford frowned and started searching through a pile of stacked papers. “We didn’t get much, I’m afraid. An ostler and a stableman saw the man we think must have been Boyne’s killer. He was riding a good-looking hack and stopped to water it—truth be told, we’ve a better description of the horse than of him.”
“If it’s any help,” Antonia put in, “the dead gentleman had a scar on his face, from the corner of his lips to the point of his jaw—possibly a sword cut. If the ostler and stableman were at all close or spoke to the man, they would have noticed.”
Crawford glanced up. “Is that so?” He drew out a page covered with tiny writing, placed it before him, and read, then he grunted. “It seems the ostler spoke with our man—received a penny for fetching a bucket of water for the horse—and as a rule, ostlers are sharp-eyed. His description of the man would fit thousands—nothing remarkable about his face at all.” Crawford humphed. “Seems to me the ostler would have remembered a scar like that, so it appears your dead gentleman wasn’t Boyne’s killer.”
Sebastian exchanged a grim glance with Antonia. “So we have at least two killers.”
Crawford looked up. “As to that, I should mention that while finding bodies floating in the river is no great surprise, the ones we find are rarely garroted. That’s not a common method of killing. Our surgeon tells us that the men were stunned first, then strangled.”
“That,” Sebastian admitted, “is a point we haven’t dwelled on. But if Boyne’s killer is also the one wielding the garrote…” He focused on Crawford. “Would you say your description of Boyne’s killer is that of an Englishman?”
Crawford glanced at the page before him. “He couldn’t rightly be anything else—the locals down that way are quick to note foreigners of any stripe, and the point about the description was that it would fit millions of Englishmen and, consequently, was no real use.”
“But if we hypothesize that Boyne’s killer is the garrote-wielder and he’s English, then where did he learn to use the garrote? As you say, it’s not a common form of killing in this country.”
“Hmm. They do sometimes see it on the Continent,” Crawford said. “But if you gave me that clue—a garrote-wielding Englishman—then I’d be looking for a gentleman who’d spent time in the east. Or…” He picked up the page and scanned it. “Yes—I thought they’d said that. Both the ostler and the stableman mentioned that although the man wasn’t in uniform, he had guardsman stamped all over him.”
“So,” Antonia said, “possibly a guardsman who served in India.”
Crawford nodded. “They use the garrote a great deal over there, or so I understand.”
“That’s interesting,” Sebastian said. “Our dead gentleman carried a cavalry saber and knew how to use it, so there may be a connection between the two men via the army.”
Crawford harrumphed. “I suppose there’s no reason I shouldn’t tell you that the River Police hauled another body from the river yesterday morning—garroted like the first two. After that tip-off from Lord Michael, we had the clerk from that warehouse in Morgan’s Lane around, and he said it’s their missing foreman right enough.” Crawford met Sebastian’s gaze. “Can I leave it to you to pass the word to your brother?”
Sebastian nodded. “We’re all working together on this, albeit on different aspects.”
“I thought as much. I have to tell you these garroting murders are all the talk of the higher-ups around here. That’s not something they want the public getting wind of—too likely to cause a panic.”
Sebastian glanced at Antonia. “We should go. Thank you for your help.” He picked up his cane and rose. He gave Antonia his hand, and she came to her feet.
Crawford hurriedly got to his. “I don’t suppose you know who your dead gentleman is?”
Sebastian hesitated. “We do have some notion, but as the matter is rather sensitive at the moment, and as you know, this is all a part of a mission Winchelsea’s running, I’d prefer to leave it to him to make any disclosures.”
Crawford frowned, but nodded. “Quite. Quite. I’ll walk you out.”
He followed Sebastian and Antonia out of his small office, and they started down the corridor.
They reached the main stairs leading to the ground floor just as another group descended from the upper floor—Louisa, Drake, and a uniformed individual with braid on his shoulders.
Louisa smiled, transparently delighted. Her gaze passed over Sebastian and Antonia and fixed on Crawford. Her smile brightened. “Inspector Crawford, I presume?”
Her husky contralto sounded entirely out of place in the gruff, rather bleak halls of the Yard.
Smoothly, Drake stepped in and made the introductions. “Lord Sebastian Cynster, Lady Antonia Rawlings—allow me to present Assistant Commissioner Chartwell.”
Sebastian shook hands, then introduced Crawford to Louisa and Drake. Sebastian then gave Drake—and perforce Louisa, given she was standing beside Drake and avidly listening—a concise report of what he and Antonia had learned from the inspector and what they’d deduced.
“So the foreman has been found dead, garroted like the two carters,” Drake summarized. “And Boyne’s killer wasn’t our dead gentleman, but we don’t yet know if Boyne’s killer is the man wielding the garrote.”
Sebastian stirred. “Boyne was facing his killer. If it was as we suspect and Boyne was working with the man, and was agitated and pleading to be spirited away, then there might not have been time for the killer to have calmed Boyne sufficiently to let him get close enough behind Boyne to use the garrote.”
“No, indeed.” Drake nodded. “When killing Boyne, from the murderer’s point of view, time was definitely of the essence. Much faster to simply shoot Boyne. So he did.”
Chartwell shifted uneasily. “That suggests that there’s no reason to discount the possibility that Boyne’s murderer and the man garroting people and slipping their bodies into the Thames are one and the same.”
A second’s pause ensued, then Drake l
ooked at Sebastian. “Two of the three leaders of the local Chartist militias have been found murdered in alleys in the area around the London Working Men’s Association. A third body, most likely that of the third leader, is awaiting identification.” A constable had already been dispatched to summon Mrs. Neill by the time Drake and Louisa had arrived at the Yard. “All separate killings—two on Saturday night and the other on Sunday.” He glanced briefly at Louisa, then returned his gaze to Sebastian. “I’m on my way to the morgue to speak with Sir Martin Cranthorpe, the surgeon who examined the bodies. Care to join me?”
“Ah—perhaps,” Assistant Commissioner Chartwell said, “the ladies would prefer to wait in my office.”
To Drake’s ears, Chartwell sounded faintly desperate.
Predictably, Louisa and Antonia exchanged a swift glance, then both turned sweet smiles on Chartwell. Louisa patted the man’s forearm. “Thank you for the kind offer, Assistant Commissioner, but actually, Lady Antonia and I would much prefer to hear what Sir Martin has to say directly.”
Chartwell sent a helpless look at Drake, which Drake ignored in favor of exchanging a resigned glance with Sebastian.
Crawford read the exchange correctly. He waved down the stairs. “The morgue’s in the basement.”
“Actually, Crawford,” Chartwell said, “I was intending to speak with you about this case. As it seems all these murders are connected in some way, and as you were the investigator for the first of the deaths, it might be best were you to continue as investigator-in-charge of our activities in unraveling this….” Chartwell gestured vaguely.
“Plot,” Drake dryly supplied.
“Indeed.” Chartwell bowed to Drake and Louisa, and to Sebastian and Antonia. “I will leave you in the inspector’s capable hands.” His gaze flicked to Crawford. “Needless to say, you may be assured of having the full resources of the Yard at your disposal in this matter.”