“And yet, a radical group here in London is a very dangerous development,” went on Wrexford. He expelled a sigh. “I suppose it’s no surprise, even though there are fewer factory workers here than in other parts of the country. But it’s bad news for the government. The fear of job losses is like a powder keg—it will take naught but a spark to set off an explosion of labor unrest.”
“Henning says the Workers of Zion are even more radical than the followers of Ned Ludd,” said Charlotte, her throat tightening around the words. “They advocate the killing of factory owners if steam-powered machines can’t be stopped by any other means.”
“Madness,” muttered the earl, echoing her own thoughts on the matter. “The fear is whipped up by leaders who rarely are the ones paying in blood for such demagoguery.” The chiseled angles of his face looked even harsher in the subdued light. “You know as well as I who will be the ones to suffer.”
Charlotte hugged her arms to her chest. He was right. Social reforms were much needed to protect the working class. But groups like the Workers of Zion would only bring misery upon countless people by urging them to foment chaos and murder. The government would fight violence with violence. And there was no question of who would win.
She shivered.
Wrexford frowned in thought. “But as I mentioned, I, too, have uncovered a telling clue. Thanks to Sheffield, I may be on the trail of the actual murderer, and from what you’ve just told me, I’ve reason to believe he’ll turn out to be one of leaders of the Workers of Zion.”
He told her about his friend having recognized the handwriting of the note that lured Ashton to his death and the plan to track down Gannett.
It was, Charlotte thought, an extraordinary stroke of luck. But in her experience, Fortune was rarely so generous . . .
“You really think he will prove to be the culprit?”
Wrexford quirked a sardonic smile. “Tsk-tsk. You’re not supposed to be quite as cynical as I am.”
“I prefer to call it realistic,” she responded.
A gruff laugh. “To answer your question, it’s possible. Sheffield is quite sure about the handwriting, so perhaps we will get lucky,” he replied. “Luckdoeshappen.”
“Or perhaps he’s merely an accomplice,” mused Charlotte. “Most plots involve more than one serpent slithering through the shadows.” Her thoughts leapt back to her conversation with the surgeon. “Henning gave me a good description of the man who left the pamphlets at his surgery. I could work with my contacts in the area to track him down.”
“If he’s the murderer . . .” Wrexford’s expression turned grim.
“I know how to be careful, milord.”
“Ashton was not a pretty sight,” he said softly.
“Nor was Holworthy,” countered Charlotte.
The reminder of the reverend’s murder did nothing to soften the earl’s scowl.
“So unless you have another idea on how to pursue—”
“Actually I have,” he interrupted. “Two, in fact.” The pamphlet fluttered in front of her nose. “With this in hand, Griffin will have a damnable difficult time denying that Bow Street should investigate Ashton’s murder more thoroughly.”
Charlotte mentally conceded the point.
“And secondly,” continued Wrexford, “I’ve already begun looking more closely at the list of names provided by Mrs. Ashton.” He gave a terse account of his meeting with the widow and Octavia Merton, along with his intention of meeting with Benedict Hillhouse on the morrow.
“It seems highly unlikely that Ashton’s trusted assistants have any connection to the Workers of Zion,” she said. “Doesn’t it?”
He shrugged. “We both have learned that clues aren’t always what they seem at first. Murder has a way of twisting into a serpentine tangle of motives. And I suspect that Miss Merton may know more than she claims.”
Much as Charlotte wished to argue, his words held too much truth. Blood spilled by violent death often tainted both the guilty and the innocent.
“Very well. I shall hold off on pursuing the man Henning described.” She couldn’t, however, resist adding, “For now.”
That didn’t seem to surprise the earl. In fact, the brusque rumbling in his throat sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
“Then let us cry pax.” He paused. “For now.”
Peace, however fragile between them, was a welcome offer. Her emotions were in enough conflict. Allowing a small smile, Charlotte rose. “Would you care for some tea?”
Wrexford looked about to refuse the offer, then seemed to have a change of heart. “Yes, thank you.” Lowering his voice to a mutter, he added, “Perhaps a hot-as-Hades brew will help wash the bitter taste of this damnable investigation from my mouth.”
