“Which is why you can’t allow the group to distribute their pamphlets here in your surgery,” reasoned Charlotte. “Your patients are poor, and they’re vulnerable and afraid. Allowing the Workers of Zion to incite them to violence would destroy them and their families.”
A war of conflicting emotion played across Henning’s grizzled face.
“Your conscience knows I’m right,” she pressed. “You must tell me what you know about the group and its leaders, so Wrexford can pass on the information to Bow Street. These men must be stopped from stirring up chaos.”
And death.
“Yes, we need change to improve the conditions of workers,” she went on. “But it must be done through lawful means.”
Henning took a long moment to find his pipe and fill it with tobacco. A plume of pungent smoke rose up as he struck flint to steel, obscuring his expression. “Freedom and change are often bathed in blood.”Puff, puff.“Look at the revolutions by the French and the Americans.”
Charlotte remained silent, trusting that his innate sense of right and wrong would bring him to the right decision.
He exhaled a vaporous sigh. “However, much as I hate to admit it, you’re right about the terrible suffering that results from ill-conceived protests.”Puff, puff.“The fellow who left the pamphlets is tall, dark-haired, and has a mole on his left cheek. He calls himself the Archangel Gabriel.”Puff, puff.“More than that, I can’t tell you.”
“You have no idea where he’s living?” she asked.
“I don’t,” replied the surgeon. His mouth puckered around his pipe stem. Charlotte could almost hear the unhappy grinding of his molars. “If he returns, I’ll see what more I can learn. He sees me as a kindred soul, so that may loosen his tongue.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte knew how much the grudging agreement had cost him.
She rose, the pamphlet still in her hand. “May I take this for Wrexford? He needs to convince Griffin that Ashton’s murder was not a random attack by footpads.”
“Aye,” muttered Henning. “God grant that this sordid situation can be resolved without further bloodshed.”Puff, puff.“But as I’m a hard-bitten cynic, lassie, I doubt that will prove the case.”
CHAPTER 6
Wrexford set aside his book on Priestley’s theories, finding it impossible to concentrate on abstract mysteries of science when an all too real conundrum was tugging at his thoughts. A glance at the clock showed it would be hours and hours until Sheffield returned.
“Damnation,” he muttered under his breath. Patience was not among his virtues—the list of which would be a very short one.
The thought of lists drew his gaze to his desktop. Mrs. Ashton’s sheet of stationery lay next to the note that had drawn her husband to his death. Much as it seemed the lesser of the clues in solving the murder, he decided it would be wrong to make assumptions and ignore it.
Wrexford picked it up and reread it.Eight names.The brief notations on how each knew of the inventor’s work gave little insight into possible motivation. The widow would of course be able to elaborate . . .
He frowned, recalling her suggestion that Octavia Merton and Benedict Hillhouse—the top two names on the list—wouldbe the ones to consult about any personal conflicts that might have turned violent. She had voiced nothing negative about the pair, but he sensed that beneath all her perfectly proper words there was much left unsaid about the Ashton household.
The inventor, a longtime bachelor, had appeared wedded to naught but his work. The decision to take a bride late in life might have sparked trouble. Scientific observation proved again and again that the introduction of a new ingredient into any mix could often have volatile results.
Taking up the list, Wrexford rose and called for his hat and overcoat.
A short while later, the butler of the widow’s borrowed townhouse escorted him into the drawing room and withdrew to inform Mrs. Ashton of his arrival.
It took only minutes for her to appear. “Lord Wrexford!”
He turned from the set of landscape engravings hung above the sideboard.
Isobel stepped into the drawing room and drew the door shut. Her hair was drawn back in a severe bun, its midnight hue combining with the black mourning gown to heighten the paleness of her face. “H-Have you news about Elihu?”
Silently cursing his thoughtlessness, Wrexford shook his head. “Forgive me, Mrs. Ashton. I should have sent word I was coming, rather than shocking you with an unexpected visit. However, I wanted to ask you a few questions about the names on your list.”
Isobel touched a hand to her bodice and summoned a smile. “Of course, of course. I didn’t mean to suggest that I expect miracles, milord.” A tentative wave indicated two facing sofas near the bank of diamond-paned windows. “Please have a seat.”
Given Sheffield’s surprising revelation about the lethal note, a miracle might be in hand, allowing them to quickly learn the truth about her husband’s murder. Wrexford hesitated for a moment, then said, “I may have a lead on the note written toyour husband. A friend thinks he recognizes the handwriting. Tonight we are going to make the rounds of the gambling establishments in Southwark, where the fellow is known to play.”
Her eyes widened ever so slightly.
“Mind you, I don’t wish to raise false hopes. It could very well be a wild goose chase.”
