Henning stopped laughing.
“You’re right about why I’m here.”
Despite his disheveled clothing and less than fastidious personal habits, the surgeon was sharp as one of his scalpels. Frowning, he fixed her with a searching stare. “Your latest print implied Elihu Ashton’s death was the result of an unfortunate encounter with footpads.”
“That is what Bow Street believes,” she said carefully.
“But you have reason to think otherwise?”
Charlotte considered her promise to Wrexford, but quickly set it aside. Henning had become a trusted confidant during the investigation into Holworthy’s murder. If the earl wished to ring a peal over her head for sharing the secret, so be it.
“Wrexford does,” she answered. “It was he and Mr. Sheffield who stumbled upon the body.” Charlotte told him about the slashed clothing and the fact that the killer had carved a crude symbol on the inventor’s belly.
Then, after drawing a measured breath, she added, “I’m hoping you can tell me something about the pamphlet I saw here last week when I came to give my lesson.”
Henning’s expression turned even grimmer. A shiver of silence flitted between them before he turned abruptly. “Follow me.” He blew out the lamp’s flame and led the way across amuddy yard to his office. Once they were inside, he bolted the door and looked at the stove in the corner of the room.
“I’ll stir the coal and put on a kettle. It may take a few minutes for the water to boil.
“We needn’t go through the motions of social conventions,” said Charlotte softly. “In any case, I daresay you’d prefer a dram of Scottish malt.”
Henning’s eyes lingered for a moment on the bottle of amber-dark whisky sitting atop one of the bookshelves. “Aye. But I’d better keep a clear head.” Chuffing an irascible sigh, he dropped heavily into his desk chair. “You’re putting me in a devilishly difficult position, Mrs. Sloane. You know my sentiments on the privileged classes and how they exploit those who work their fingers to the bone for wages that wouldn’t feed one of their fancy hounds or horses.”
Charlotte nodded. A flinty Scot with radical notions on social equality, the surgeon was outspoken about his contempt for the English aristocracy—though he did make the occasional exception. He and Wrexford recognized each other as kindred souls who shared a healthy skepticism for conventional rules.
“I know that, Mr. Henning, and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t feel it was in the best interest of everyone, rich or poor, to make sure that Ashton’s murder doesn’t turn into the spark that ignites the powder keg of labor unrest in this country.”
She drew an unhappy breath. “My natural sympathies are much the same as yours.” For more years than she cared to count, she, too, had been among those cobbling together a hand-to-mouth existence. Things were a bit better now, but Charlotte knew how quickly that could change.
“Violence will only beget a more crushing violence,” she went on. “The radicals who preach death to those in a position of power will be crushed by the government—and countless innocent poor will suffer even more misery.”
Henning grimaced. “Auch, I know that in my head, lassie. But my heart doesn’t like it.”
“You’ve told me on numerous occasions that you don’t have a heart,” she murmured.
A reluctant smile ghosted over his lips. “I was planning on cutting it out. But I’ve not yet figured out how to use my long-winded diatribes against injustice as an internal steam engine for circulating blood through the body.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” she murmured.
“Aye, you’re very good with secrets.” The tension broken, he rummaged around in the welter of books and papers on his blotter—his desktop was as unruly as his appearance—and located a crudely printed pamphlet sewn together with coarse brown thread.
“I take it this is what you’re looking for.” He slid it across the desk.
Charlotte took it up and studied the cover.MACHINES WILL BE THE DEATH OF US! announced the title. Below it, in boldface type, was an exhortation to join the Workers of Zion. Its symbol was based on the letterZand featured a distinctive arrangement of lines to create the image.
There was no doubt in her mind—it matched Wrexford’s sketch.
“What do you know of the Workers of Zion?” she asked.
“Enough to comprehend that they’re preaching some very radical ideas,” replied Henning tightly. “They make the followers of Ned Ludd look like cherubic choirboys.”
Charlotte’s flesh turned cold. According to legend, Ned Ludd was a weaver who in 1779 had smashed stocking frames in protest over the new technology stealing his livelihood. Whether the story was true or not, his name had become a byword for radicals who, over the few years, had taken to sabotaging new mills that were using steam power to improve production. The Luddites, as they had come to be called, were currently sparkingsome serious trouble up north. But the objects of their wrath were confined to machinery.
As for the Workers of Zion . . .
She skimmed over the rest of the contents, growing more unsettled with each turn of the page. “Good God,” she whispered. “This isn’t just dangerous. It’s madness. I, too, sympathize with the plight of the working poor. But smashing machinery and murdering mill owners will only bring down the wrath of the government, not meaningful change. The uprisings will be crushed, the ringleaders hung, the laws tightened—and countless families will suffer the dire consequences. Surely no rational person can see such actions as a solution.”
“Desperate people don’t think rationally,” said the surgeon.
