They weren’t just random cuts. The lines formed a crudely drawn symbol.
One that Charlotte was fairly certain she had seen very recently.
* * *
Spotting a flicker of red through the beery haze of tobacco smoke, Wrexford turned back to the bar man and purchased two tankards of ale. The tavern was crowded, forcing him to take a roundabout path to the far side of the taproom.
Griffin slowly looked up from his kidney pie as the earl set the drinks down on the table. His expression gave nothingaway, but Wrexford had learned that the Runner’s beefy body and shuffling movements belied the sharpness of his wits.
“Another dead body, milord?” Griffin took a long draught of the earl’s gift. “I would have thought that you’d had enough of the Grim Reaper’s company.”
“A chance encounter,” he replied.
The Runner’s grunt was noncommittal.
Wrexford took a seat. “I imagine Bow Street is no more happy than I am about the discovery of the corpse. The murder of a well-known gentleman never reflects well on the authorities responsible for keeping the criminal element in check.”
Another grunt. Griffin didn’t waste words.
“Your compatriot, Mr. Fleming, is of the opinion that it’s simply a random robbery,” went on the earl. “But I have reason to believe it isn’t.”
The Runner put down his fork and wiped his fingers on his sleeve. “According to Fleming’s account, Mr. Ashton was stabbed and his purse was nowhere to be found. It is, alas, a more common occurrence than we would like when a gentleman makes the mistake of straying into the stews.”
“Did his account also mention the state of Ashton’s clothing and the fact that his body was mutilated?” asked Wrexford.
Griffin took another swallow of ale. “Those details do raise certain questions.”
He made a rude sound. “An understatement, if ever there was one.”
The greasy lamplight caught the sharpening of the Runner’s heavy-lidded gaze. “And you, milord, have answers?”
“That depends on what you’re willing to ask.” Wrexford held the other man’s eyes for a long moment before continuing. “Fleming seems stubbornly set on ignoring all signs that this was no ordinary attack by footpads. Ashton’s widow has offered him both a compelling motive and a list of possiblesuspects who would profit from her husband’s death. And yet he chooses to ignore them.”
“Have you any evidence that this was a premeditated murder. Or merely conjectures?”
Wrexford swore under his breath. “At least agree to hear me out.”
That brought a rare smile to Griffin’s lips. “Very well. But it will cost you another ale.”
The earl waved a brusque signal to one of the barmaids, then edged his chair a little closer to the table. “Let’s begin with motive. I happen to have been acquainted with Ashton. He was a brilliant inventor, and according to his wife, he was in the final stages of finishing a new technological device that would have been worth a fortune.”
“How so?” Griffin’s expression remained neutral, but a slight inflection in his voice indicated his interest was piqued.
“Are you familiar with patents?”
“I’m a humble thief-taker, not a fancy aristocrat,” responded the Runner. “I’ve heard the term, but how a simple piece of paper magically begets bags of blunt is a mystery that only you wealthy toffs can comprehend.”
Wrexford chuffed a low laugh. “Actually it’s a mystery that only the damnable barristers and solicitors can understand. Nonetheless, I shall endeavor to make a brief explanation.”
“For that I’ll need a wedge of Stilton and an apple tart.”
“A small price to pay for justice to be served,” he murmured as he counted out a few more coins.
“And another ale while you have your purse open,” murmured Griffin.
“Very well,” acquiesced the earl. “Now, pay attention. To understand patents and profits we need to go back to 1602 and the Case of Monopolies, which was about a patent for playing cards.”
“A case that is no doubt near and dear to your heart, milord.” A pause. “And that of your friend, Mr. Sheffield.”
