Wrexford fished out a guinea from his pocket. “My thanks, lad.”
Pudge gave an awestruck grin. “Anytime, Yer Nibs.” The coin disappeared into his pocket, and in the next instant the wraith-like urchin was gone, too.
“There’s the entrance.” Raven pointed to a shadowed doorway.
“Wait here, lad.” The earl didn’t bother giving orders to Charlotte and Sheffield. He knew they would do whatever they damn well pleased.
He hurried across the uneven ground, unsurprised to hear the light-footed tread of steps behind him. On reaching the portal, he found it slightly ajar.
Drawing his pistol, he waited for the others to join him. “I’ll go first,” he whispered. “Mrs. Sloane, stay right behind me. Kit, cock your weapon and bring up the rear.”
The hinges creaked as the door swung open. The dank scent of decay immediately assaulted his nostrils. Wrexford stepped inside, crumbled mortar from the bricks crunching under his boots. An air of abandonment pervaded the place. The windows were tightly shuttered, allowing no light to dribble in, and the utter silence as he halted amplified the impression of emptiness.
Empty, save for a lingering aura of evil.The sensation was palpable, sharp as a knifepoint prickling against the back of his neck. He felt the tension in Charlotte as her shoulder brushed up against his.
Whatever reason had brought Kirkland to this spot, its malevolence still swirled, blacker than the shroud of shadows. Shifting his stance, Wrexford hit up against a hard object on the planked floor. A lantern, by the feel of glass and metal.
“Have you a match?” he whispered to Sheffield. Stealth seemed pointless.
A flare of phosphorous pierced the darkness. His friend quickly lit the wick, and with an oily sputter, a flame came to life, casting a weak aureole of light.
Nothing.
Wrexford ventured another step deeper into the murk and lifted the lantern higher.
Charlotte let out a shivering gasp.
Kirkland lay face up, his sightless eyes gleaming with a pale pearlescence in the fluttery light. His once-white cravat was now stained a rusty red, and dark-fingered rivulets were snaking out from the pool of viscous liquid forming beneath his ravaged neck.
“Ye god,” uttered Sheffield. “Another slashed throat.”
“Yes,” said the earl, “Our villain, whoever it may be, appears to have an unholy skill with a blade.”
Charlotte crouched down for a closer look. “Given his height and bulk, I don’t think it could have been Mrs. Ashton. She couldn’t have managed the reach and angle—not to speak of the fact that this sort of damage would require a goodly amount of strength.”
“You’re likely right. But perhaps it’s time we take the offensive and find out for sure.” Wrexford felt a sudden surge of fear as he glanced at the pooling blood. Charlotte was in mortal danger until the murderer was apprehended.
She looked up and met his gaze through the hazy light. “You’re suggesting we pay a call to her townhousenow?”
“Surprise is a weapon unto itself,” he replied. “If we can knock Mrs. Ashton off balance, she may make a fatal slip.”
Her expression turned troubled.
“It doesn’t matter who wielded the knife,” he explained. “If the widow is conspiring with the murderer, then her own neck is in danger from the hangman’s noose. By striking hard and fast, we may be able to frighten her into betraying her cohort by offering her a choice between life and a very unpleasant death.”
“Choices, choices,” responded Charlotte in a tight voice. “Why is it that women are, more often than not, the ones caught between a rock and a stone? We seem to be damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”
Sheffield cleared his throat with an uncomfortable cough.
“With the rules of society weighted so heavily against us, it’sno wonder we are forced to rely on cunning and guile,” she added softly.
Wrexford eyed her intently, but said nothing.
“What about him?” ventured Sheffield after the silence stretched out for a moment longer. Kirkland’s gaping wound looked ghoulish in the sickly yellow light cast by the cheap oil lamp.
“Leave it to me,” said the earl curtly. He turned away and snuffed out the rancid-smelling flame. “Let’s be off.”
* * *
