What am I missing?As of now, the only telltale clue was the handwriting. But given that London’s present population was over two million souls, the odds of identifying the author were . . .
“Virtually nil,” muttered the earl.
“Nil?” repeated Sheffield as he strolled into the room. “Good God, it’s far too early in the day to be reading Latin.” Helooked around and let out a mournful sigh. “Why are you here and not the breakfast room? I’m famished.”
“I’m thinking—a concept with which you are unfamiliar.”
His friend contrived to look injured. “I do, on occasion exercise my brain.” A pause. “But never on an empty stomach.”
Ignoring the hint, Wrexford reached for the magnifying glass.
Another sigh. “Pray, what’s so interesting that it’s caused you to forsake those lovely silver chafing dishes full of shirred eggs and gammon?” Sheffield moved around for a look.
“It involves last night’s murder.” The earl stared through the lens, willing himself to see something—anything—that might serve as a clue.
“Hmmm. That’s odd,” murmured his friend.
He turned in his chair. “Kit, I’m in no mood for your bacon-brained jesting—”
“It’s just that I recognize the writing.”
Wrexford went very still. “You’re sure of that?”
“Quite sure,” replied Sheffield. “Just look at the curlicues. I’ve seen enough of the fellow’s vowels to be very familiar with them. He’s the only man who loses at the gaming tables more regularly than I do.”
“Do you, perchance, know his name?” asked Wrexford slowly.
“Yes, of course. The Honorable Robert Gannett.” His friend raised a brow. “Why?”
‘Because you may well have given us the identity of Elihu Ashton’s killer,” he replied. “Forgive all my earlier slurs on your intellect. You’re brilliant.”
Sheffield grinned. “No, just lucky.” A pause. “Nowwill you offer me some breakfast?”
“In a moment. Any idea where we might find Mr. Gannett?”
“That will cost you one of your excellent Indian cheroots,” quipped Sheffield. Catching the earl’s scowl, he ceased hisbantering. “We can start by making the rounds of the gaming hells in Southwark. He’s been avoiding the more exalted environs of Mayfair because he owes people there too much money.”
“Excellent.Nowyou may go help yourself to breakfast.” Wrexford leaned back and gave a grim smile. “Then come back again around midnight, and I’ll make sure Cook has a lovely rare beefsteak ready for you to enjoy before we head off to capture a killer.” He allowed a small pause. “Then again, perhaps it’s better to keep an empty stomach, in case we have to put a bullet in the bloody dastard.”
* * *
Charlotte penned a quick missive to the earl, explaining what she had learned the previous night. As to her suspicion concerning Ashton’s mutilation . . .
As soon as the boys peltered off to deliver the note, she gathered her cloak and set off to pay a visit to a friend.
“Come to bid me a last farewell, Mrs. Sloane?” Looking up from the worktable of his mortuary shed, Basil Henning ran a hand over his jaw, leaving a dark oily streak on the stubbled whiskers.
Charlotte didn’t dare try to identify the substance. The surgeon had a deep interest in the workings of the human body, and often did autopsies for the authorities, along with the care he offered to London’s living poor.
“I’m moving to a different neighborhood, Mr. Henning, not the backside of the moon,” she replied with a smile. “I still intend to continue my fortnightly class for women who wish to learn to read. So I daresay we won’t become total strangers.”
His face, which resembled a slab of Highland granite that had been shaped with a dull chisel, softened ever so slightly. “Auch, I’m glad to hear it, lassie. However it’s not Tuesday night, and seeing as our paths tend to cross when dead bodies start turning up, I have mixed feelings about seeing you on my threshold this morning.” A chuckle rumbled deep in his throat. “Nonetheless, your presence always brightens my day. Would you care for a cup of tea?”
She quickly averted her gaze from the pan on the table, thankful that the flickering lamplight left it wreathed in shadow “Tea would be lovely. Shall I put a kettle on the stove in your office, while you tidy up here?”
His laugh became more pronounced as he picked up a grimy rag and wiped his hands. “You don’t fancy boiled kidneys?”
“You have an even more peculiar sense of humor than Wrexford,” she chided. “As for dead bodies . . .”
