Drake murmured their thanks, and after another bow, Chartwell withdrew, turning and ascending the stairs.
Crawford grunted and shot a look at Drake and Sebastian. “I’m not sure if being in charge of this one will be a good thing or not. But”—he gestured onward—“we may as well see what Sir Martin will deign to tell us.”
Crawford led the way. Sebastian and Antonia followed, with Drake and Louisa bringing up the rear.
“Somehow,” Louisa murmured, “I feel as if I’m walking into a lion’s den. Knowing more about Sir Martin might be helpful.”
After a moment, Drake replied sotto voce, “He’s an experienced surgeon and the Yard’s chief pathologist. He considers the morgue his domain and all those who enter little more than students. He’s often irascible and difficult, but he misses very little.”
“Ah—I see.” Louisa’s lips curved. “One of those.”
Drake refrained from asking for clarification; he doubted any answer she gave would be intelligible to a male.
They continued down the stairs to the basement. Crawford led them along the tiled corridor to the heavy swinging doors of the morgue; even from outside, the smell of the various fluids used by Sir Martin and his acolytes was strong.
Crawford held open the door and waved them in. Louisa wrinkled her nose, but without hesitation, followed Antonia into Sir Martin’s domain.
Sir Martin was seated at his desk to one side of the large chamber. He glanced up as they entered, his usual contemptuous snort of greeting halfway to utterance, but the sight that met his eyes momentarily froze him.
Drake hid a smile as Louisa, a distractingly gracious smile on her lips, swept forward.
“Sir Martin?” She halted as Sir Martin, a large man, hastily clambered to his feet, then she held out a gloved hand. “I’m Lady Louisa Cynster.” She looked on approvingly as Sir Martin bowed over her hand. As he straightened, she waved toward the rest of them. “I understand you’re acquainted with Lord Winchelsea and, of course, Inspector Crawford. The other gentleman is my brother, Lord Earith, and the lady is his fiancée, Lady Antonia Rawlings.”
Sir Martin bowed to Sebastian and Antonia.
Her expression turning expectant, Louisa swung her gaze over the room. “I believe you have some dead bodies to show us. I confess I’m intrigued by what deductions you can make from the manner of their killing.”
It took effort to keep his grin from his lips; Drake almost felt sorry for Sir Martin as that redoubtable martinet blinked and battled to come to grips with a situation he could not possibly have foreseen.
Unsurprisingly, Sir Martin’s gaze eventually shifted to Drake in something close to appeal. “Ah—yes.” As if the sight of Drake had given him some recognizable rock to cling to, Sir Martin more briskly said, “We have several that I believe will be of interest. One brought in dripping yesterday morning—that one’s from your garrote-wielder. His signature hasn’t varied.” Having found his stride, Sir Martin enthusiastically demonstrated on an imaginary victim, his actions mirroring his words. “He stuns his victims first with a blow to the head, struck from behind, right-handed blow, then he uses a wire garrote to finish them off, and it’s into the river, all neat and tidy. We’ve now got three to his score. However,” Sir Martin had steadied and continued in his lecturing voice, “yesterday we had two others brought in, with another found this morning, and they were quite different to the garrote killings.”
Sir Martin rounded on Drake. “Are you interested in the latest three as well?”
“It seems so,” Drake replied. “The first two—the ones from yesterday—have already been identified as the bodies of two men we were seeking to question.”
“In relation to the same plot?” Sir Martin’s brows beetled as he looked searchingly at Drake.
“Yes. What can you tell us about the actual killings?”
Sir Martin humphed. “Of those first two—they were killed separately, but within a few hours and in the same area, a few blocks apart. Very definitely killed by the same man—his signature is almost as definite as the garrote-wielder.”
“How so?” It was Louisa who asked.
“It’s the angle of the thrust.” Again, Sir Martin demonstrated, with his right hand thrusting an imaginary knife sharply upward, angling the phantom blade a little to the right. “He uses a dagger of some sort—longish, smooth-edged, double-sided blade, wider than a stiletto—and he stands in front of his victim. The tricky part is that he has to be close to send the blade up under the lower edge of the ribs, straight into the heart. He has to be well practiced—such strikes have to be very quick and absolutely precise. The other difference is that our dagger-wielder leaves his victims more or less where he kills them. Oh, he might stuff them in the nearest dark nook, but he doesn’t bother with the river or, indeed, trying to conceal the bodies as such. I suspect he only sticks them somewhere so they remain out of sight long enough for him to make himself scarce. Just his luck that in this case, it’s taken a few days for someone to stumble over them.”
“And the third body?” Drake asked. “The one found today?”
Sir Martin stroked his chin. “I’d say that one was killed on Sunday, possibly around noon.”
Louisa glanced at Drake. “Mrs. Neill said her husband left home at about eleven to walk to the Association office.”
Sir Martin humphed. “That fits. His body was found a few blocks from the Association building. Saturday’s two—and I think they were killed early evening—were in the same general area.”
“Most likely as they left the Association offices.” Drake looked at Sir Martin. “Would there have been any blood on the killer’s clothes? Either of our killers?”
“Little to none,” Sir Martin replied. “With the garrote, none, of course, and as for the dagger-wielder, that’s one of the advantages of the way he strikes. There’s little bleeding outside the body and no reason the killer would have been wearing any blood.”
After a moment, Sir Martin grunted. “One thing I can add is that this dagger-wielder is extremely coolheaded. There might not have been many people about on the streets in that area on Saturday early evening or on Sunday before noon, but there would have been some. Yet he killed in the open street—we’ve found the actual spots in all three cases—and his aim didn’t waver an inch. More, he had to have known his victims—he was close when he struck, and none of them even suspected. There was no sign they fought or resisted in any way. Whoever he is, they thought he was a friend.”
Drake exchanged a glance with Sebastian. From the corner of his eye, he saw Louisa and Antonia glance at each other, too.
He looked at Sir Martin. “Thank you. We’ll need to know if”—he broke off, then faintly grimaced—“when other bodies killed in the same way turn up.”
Sir Martin frowned. “Are you telling me there’ll be more?”
“Sadly, yes. There are at least two other men we know of who’ve been lured into this plot and have, therefore, however unwittingly, signed their own death warrants. We haven’t yet identified who the pair are, but they drive carts, possibly for a living, so you might find the usual calluses on their hands.”
Sir Martin and Crawford exchanged a look, then Sir Martin asked, “Same killer?”
Drake paused, then said, “I think we’ve removed one of them. If I had to guess, I would say the one we’ve eliminated was the dagger-wielder. That said, we can’t be sure he hadn’t killed others before we stopped him, but he definitely didn’t have time to kill the two cart drivers. They were still alive when he…wasn’t.”
Sir Martin humphed.
Crawford grunted. “I’ll get the word out to keep all eyes peeled for more bodies killed by either means.”
Drake had already started steering Louisa toward the door. She paused to bend a regal look on Sir Martin and the inspector and say, “Do be sure to let us know immediately if—or when—you find any.”
With that and an inclination of her head, she passed through the d
oor Drake held open.
After bestowing a similarly regal nod, Antonia followed.
Leaving all four men to exchange speaking glances, then Drake and Sebastian followed the two ladies. Still resigned. Still holding their tongues.
CHAPTER 8
M ichael followed Cleo into the office of the Inspector General of Gunpowder. As Michael understood it, the purpose of the office was to examine and approve the quality of the gunpowder sourced to supply Her Majesty’s forces from the many gunpowder mills scattered around the country. Now that almost all the mills were in private hands, the Admiralty and the army considered such checks critical in assuring the performance of gunpowder dispatched to the various outposts of empire.
As was fast becoming their investigative modus operandi, Michael used his title to gain immediate attention, then stepped back and let Cleo use her knowledge to extract the information they required.
In this case, they quickly found themselves seated before the desk of a Mr. Crimmins, who, they were assured, was the most experienced of the office’s testers.
Her hands clasped on her reticule, set in her lap, Cleo explained, “We are assisting the authorities in a rather complicated matter, and the question has arisen of whether it’s possible to transport gunpowder in some container—be it barrel or bag—other than a barrel expressly manufactured for that purpose.” She fixed bright eyes on Mr. Crimmins, a small, neat man of indeterminate years. “We hoped you—or at least this office—would be able to give us valuable insight into the possibilities.”
Mr. Crimmins all but preened. “Well, as to that, Miss Hendon, I can say with certainty that in all my years of assessing gunpowder, I have never come across a satisfactory means of transporting it—especially over any distance and even more if water is to be crossed—other than by sealing it within barrels specifically made for the purpose. You see”—Crimmins leaned forward, using his hands to demonstrate—“the staves from which gunpowder barrels are constructed must be not just overlapping but perfectly fitted and, indeed, airtight. Virtually all other barrel types fall into two categories—they are either for storing and transporting liquids or for storing and transporting powders and solids that do not need to be kept airtight. The latter type of barrel is obviously useless for your purpose—exposure to air, and the moisture air inevitably carries, very quickly degrades gunpowder. I’ve known breached barrels to become useless in just a few days if there’s a body of water anywhere near.”
“What about barrels made for storing liquids?” Michael asked. “I would have thought they would be airtight.”
Folding his hands before him, Mr. Crimmins nodded earnestly. “Indeed, so one would think. However, such barrels—for instance, those used for storing and transporting beer, wine, or spirits—are not constructed as airtight. That sort of barrel relies on the liquid itself to soak into and swell the staves. That’s what creates the seal and makes those barrels airtight. And that’s why gunpowder barrels are made by specially trained coopers—the staves have to be made to a much higher standard of fit to create a seal that’s entirely airtight without the benefit of any later swelling.”
“What if,” Cleo asked, “one were to use old wine casks emptied of wine and dried out? Could those be used to transport gunpowder without ruining it?”
Mr. Crimmins’s smile was patronizing. “Oh, dear me, no. That has been tried. For instance, it’s certain that the famous Guy Fawkes plot, even had the perpetrators not been betrayed, would have come to naught—or as we in the trade say, would have merely fizzled—because they had thought to disguise their gunpowder in beer kegs in order to smuggle it into the cellars beneath Parliament and, thus, had ruined the gunpowder. No matter how well dried the barrel, once it has been used to store liquid—any liquid—there will always be too much residual dampness in the wood. Or alternatively, if the barrels truly are fully dried out, the gaps between the staves will open, and the barrels will no longer be airtight. Either way, that’s not a useful way to proceed—not if one wants the gunpowder to perform to any acceptable standard.”
Cleo exchanged a glance with Michael. She and he had spent the morning checking with the numerous Cynster footmen in the cordon encircling the neighborhood in which the ten barrels of gunpowder had gone to ground. They’d made a list of the different types of containers that their watchers had seen being moved out of the area on drays, carts, barges—any possible alternative to gunpowder barrels that might conceivably be used to disguise the gunpowder and move it onward, presumably to the intended target site.
Mr. Crimmins’s experience seemed to negate that possibility.
She looked again at the clerk and stated, just to be sure, “So there’s no other way of transporting gunpowder other than in specially made gunpowder barrels.”
Mr. Crimmins nodded. “I would say that’s so—unless, of course, one was merely transporting small amounts. Then old-fashioned skins might be employed—the type musketeers used to carry their powder in days gone by.”
Cleo wrinkled her nose. “We’re looking into the transport of multiple barrels’ worth, so it can’t be that.” She stifled a sigh and rose. “Thank you, Mr. Crimmins. You’ve been most helpful.”
Beaming, the clerk rose. They shook hands all around, then Cleo led the way out.
CHAPTER 9
G riswade stood at ease in the upstairs parlor of the old manor house—a house he was starting to view through the eyes of pending ownership. Facing the old man sunk in his Bath chair, he stated, “All is in readiness exactly as you’d planned. The gunpowder has been efficiently transferred and is now safely stored, correctly labeled, and awaiting delivery. I confirmed that with two of the men involved in the transfer before I silenced them.”
The old man’s head, which now appeared overlarge for his shrunken frame, bobbed on his wrinkled, scrawny neck. “So Lawton succeeded in executing his part of the plan…well, all except removing the men he’d used. Still, it’s a pity he was caught.”
“Has he been caught?” Griswade hadn’t heard anything of that.
“Oh, I think so.” The old man looked up and met Griswade’s eyes. “He would be here instead of you if he hadn’t been.”
Griswade acknowledged that was true and that Lawton vanishing of his own accord made no sense. Yet…
Through shrewd, calculating eyes, the old man had been watching Griswade’s face. Now, a slight smile curved his lips. “Assuming Lawton is still alive—and we have no reason to think he isn’t—then I seriously doubt he will reveal anything at all about our plan. There would be no point, and Lawton is cunning enough to realize that. As long as he remains silent, what can they possibly charge him with? Breaking and entering? But he had the keys. And what did he steal? As far as anyone knows, nothing is missing from that warehouse. In short, there is no charge on which they might hold him, at least not beyond a few days.”
Although he’d thought of the possibility of Lawton being captured, Griswade had largely discounted it; being taken up for burglary or stealing in that area of Southwark didn’t seem all that likely to him. More likely to his mind was that Lawton had fallen foul of someone and been killed, but either way, he, Griswade, was in the box seat regarding the third stage of the old man’s plan. “So,” he asked, “what’s next?”
That, more than anything else, was what he’d ridden into Berkshire to learn.
Speaking slowly and clearly, the old man laid out the details—exactly what was to happen, how each step would play out, and most importantly, why. Griswade had to admit that every little step that moved the gunpowder nearer to the target was masterly in concept and in proposed execution. There was very little that could go wrong.
Despite the old man’s fervor, Griswade felt no personal attachment to the end result, yet if that was what the old man wanted to happen in exchange for his estate and fortune, Griswade was more than happy to transform the old man’s dream into reality.
After dwelling for some minutes in silent appreciation of the final
act—the explosion and the chaos it would cause—the old man refocused on Griswade and rather querulously snapped, “Any questions?”
Griswade didn’t let the old man’s tone disturb him; now he was about to embark on the final stage, no doubt the old man was feeling a touch anxious. Griswade took his time going over the entire third stage in his mind, looking for potential problems, for gaps in the progression—anything he wasn’t clear about, or the old man’s orders failed to cover…
Eventually, he shook his head. “No—not about your plan. But I assume that with Lawton unable to act, I should silence the other two men who helped with the transfer?”
“Indeed, you should,” the old man replied. “Even at this stage—especially at this stage—we cannot risk leaving any source of possible clues.”
Griswade hesitated, then felt he should ask, “Clues for whom? Is it likely I’ll encounter any opposition?”
The old man grunted. “I have long found it helpful to think ahead and, metaphorically speaking, spike every pistol that might be pointed my way.” His gaze shifted to the chessboard on a nearby table. “Between your earlier efforts implicating the Young Irelanders and Lawton’s seeding of rumors about the Chartists, I believe that those who might otherwise interfere will have too much on their plates to find any true thread and follow it sufficiently rapidly to catch up with your movements—at least not in time.”
Griswade was relieved. He preferred—indeed, had expected—a relatively trouble-free path to his inheritance. Murder was one thing. Battling the authorities was something else again. “One other point.” Griswade met the old man’s still-sharp eyes. “What about Badger? I assume it was he who sent you word that Lawton hadn’t returned home.”
“Yes.” The old man studied Griswade. “You haven’t been to Lawton’s lodgings yet?”
Griswade suspected the question was a test. He opted for honesty. “I thought it wiser to check with you first.”