He made a face but circled back to the table and did as she asked.
She stared at the sketch, feeling unaccountably unsettled by the image.
“My apologies for lacking your artistic skill,” he said. “It’s crudely rendered but relatively accurate.”
“It’s not that. I simply find it macabre a murderer would take the time to carve up the flesh of his victim.”
Charlotte quickly shrugged off the thought and turned her attention to the facts she’d just heard. For now, it was difficult to see any pattern that might help them start piecing the puzzle together.
“You said the authorities are involved. What does Mr. Griffin of Bow Street have to say about all this?”
“Nothing. At least not as of yet,” responded the earl. “Another Runner was assigned to the crime, and he told Mrs. Ashton that there is virtually no hope of capturing the culprit. But I intend to have a private talk with Griffin this evening and get his opinion on how best to proceed.
“Assuming he believes there’s reason to proceed,” pointed out Charlotte. At first blush, Griffin—who had handled the murder investigation involving Wrexford—gave the impression of being a slow, methodical plodder. But they had both come to respect his tenacity and commitment to ensuring that justice be done.
“True,” conceded Wrexford. “The widow may be seeing specters where there are none. However, she did not strike me as a woman given to fanciful delusions.”
“Just one more question, milord.”
He stopped pacing.
“You still haven’t explained why you came to me in the first place. What is it you want from me?”
“Your network of observers and informants is by far the best in the city,” answered Wrexford. “Can you make inquiries as to whether any of the footpads in St. Giles might have been responsible for the crime? If, in fact, it does turn out to have been a random robbery turned violent, then we need not expend any further thought on it.”
“But you don’t think that is the case?”
“No. I have a feeling that when we dig a little deeper into the muck of St. Giles, we’ll find a serpent’s nest of intrigue.”
Charlotte felt a chill snake down her spine. “As do I,” she said slowly.
The earl’s footsteps beat a grim tattoo on the bare wood floor as he made his way around a stack of corded boxes. “Unless you have any other questions, I’ll take my leave and start tracking down Griffin.”
“I’ll make the inquiries among my sources, however they won’t be up and about until midnight,” she said in reply. “I’ll send word as soon as I learn anything.”
“Thank you.” Wrexford halted at the door to the entryway and turned to face her. The wall lamp was not yet lit, so his features were wreathed in shadows.
“By the by,” he said softly, “Idowish you well in your new abode, Mrs. Sloane. It would be entirely understandable if you have reservations about the decision. Change is never easy. But for whatever it’s worth, I think it a wise idea. I admire your intelligence—and your courage—to make the change. Expanding one’s boundaries allows for greater freedom of choices.”
Praise from Wrexford?His words were so unexpected that Charlotte found herself momentarily speechless.
The earl set his hat on his head and pulled the brim to a rakish angle. “Good hunting, m’lady.”
He was gone before she could muster a reply.
“Choices, choices,” she muttered as she rose and moved to her work desk. The sight of her paints and pens helped calm her mind. Through art, she had the confidence to express her thoughts and observations with a cutting clarity.
While conversing with Wrexford seemed to arouse naught but a tangle of indefinable emotions.
He enjoyed keeping people off kilter, she told herself. Most likely because his own equilibrium veered to all points of the compass.
Taking out a fresh sheet of watercolor paper, Charlotte set to work on a preliminary sketch of Ashton’s murder. As she had told the earl, the people she needed to speak with wouldn’t be awake until well after dark, so she might as well use the time for something constructive, rather than brooding.
Imagination slowly took precedence over intellect, and as the lines and textures took shape, Charlotte lost herself in the creative process. Though she wouldn’t show them in the final drawing, she had copied the distinctive Z-shaped slashes drawn by Wrexford onto her sketch of Ashton’s body, just to give herself a sense of the actual scene.
And it was then that the realization suddenly dawned on her.
“Bloody hell,” she whispered.
