Coffee—thankfully as dark and scalding as boiling pitch. Blowing away a cloud of steam rising from the cup, Wrexford took a quick swallow, hoping its burn might jolt him fully awake. He had slept for a goodly number of hours—a glance out his work room windows showed that dusk was already falling—and yet his brain still felt muzzy. He needed to get his thoughts in order.
And quickly.
Riche had left a note on his blotter informing him that Griffin had stopped by earlier. The Runner couldn’t afford to be patient much longer. The government was likely pressing him for answers about the radical group’s involvement in Ashton’s murder.
Wrexford reread his butler’s missive. Griffin would be heading to Henning’s surgery later that evening after finishing his official duties, and expected the earl to be there. The 10 o’clock rendezvous time was clearly an order, not a request.
Damnation.He had been hoping to have an idea or two about who might have murdered Kirkland to offer Griffin. Butunless any of the others had a suggestion . . . He rubbed at his temples, then took another swallow of coffee.
Still no inspiration.
He decided there was nothing to lose by paying another visit to Mrs. Ashton. Between her husband’s business and her own personal problems, she had been in the thick of the plot. Surely she must have some conjecture, now that she had had some time to think on it.
After finishing his coffee, Wrexford shuffled through the documents he had on the investigation, and then jotted down a few more notes. His overcoat and hat were still on the armchair where he had tossed them, and perhaps the short walk in the brisk air would help clear his head.
He exited his house and circled around from the elegant square to the alleyway behind the mews, following the way through several sharp turns before it intersected with an even narrower passageway. Overhead, clouds scudded over the rising crescent moon and scattering of stars, dimming what little glow was left by the fading twilight.
As he ducked through the opening, the earl heard the pelter of footsteps up ahead. They were coming towards him, and at a dead run. On instinct, he closed his hand around the butt of his pistol and moved quickly to take cover within the crevasses of the uneven buildings.
A small black blur came flying out of the gloom.
“Weasel!” called Wrexford as the boy took shape, feeling a spurt of alarm at his obvious agitation. His first thought was of Charlotte and how vulnerable she was.
“M’lord! m’lord!” Raven skidded to a stop and hurriedly grabbed a paper from inside his jacket. “Look! Look!”
The clench in his chest relaxed. A note from her meant there was no reason to panic. The boy would never have left her alone if she were in any danger.
“What is it, lad?” Wrexford asked, the rush of relief sharpening his voice.
“The answer!” The boy waved the paper as he gasped to catch his breath. “The answer!”
A cryptic reply, considering how many lethal mysteries they were facing.
“Slow down,” he ordered. “What has Mrs. Sloane discovered?”
“Not m’lady,” responded Raven in rush. “Me!”
Wrexford found the paper thrust right under his nose.
“Look,sir! Mr. Tyler was right—the numbers are a code! M’lady left the copy ye gave her on her desk, so I borrowed it and began te play to with the patterns he showed me.”
The earl grabbed both the paper and the boy, then hurried to a spot in the passageway where a weak dribbling of light from an overhead window afforded a bit of illumination.
“Ye see, Mr. Tyler said he thought it was some sort o’ Vigenère Square, so I just decided te make some tries with the diagram he showed me,” explained the boy. “Ye use a keyword to encrypt the message, otherwise it will just come out as goobledy-gook. Then ye got to convert the numbers te letters of the alphabet—A equals 1, B equals 2 and so on.”
Raven paused to gulp in a breath. “Mr. Tyler had been trying a passel of words, likeAshtonandsteam. But m’lady told me the murdered cove who wrote the note saidnumbers—the numbers reveal everything.” Another gulp of air. “So I triednumbers.”
Good God—the simple insight of a child. Wrexford heard no more. He was too engrossed in reading what Raven had decoded.
Nevins—I’ve been duped and set up to appear
Ashton’s killer. I know who the real culprits are.
The earl swore on reading the names, as all the topsy-turvey pieces of the puzzle finally fell into place.
And I can guess why—I’ve learned from a friend that Ashton truly did plan to use the profits from a patent to better the lives of his workers rather than line his own pockets. I think the miscreants intend to take the inventions for themselves. You must unmask them for the blackguards they are, for they’ve made our group appear guilty of the heinous crime.
He looked up to find Raven watching him expectantly. “Did you show this to Mrs. Sloane?” he demanded.
