“It wasn’t meant as a request,” he said.
Gannett tried to squirm free. “What the devil—let me go!” He shot a look at Sheffield. “Hell’s teeth, Sheff, I don’t owe you—or your ham-handed friend—any blunt. Tell him to release me, or—”
“Or what?” Wrexford gave the man a shake that rattled his teeth. “You’ll murder me?”
Gannett went very still. “I-I don’t understand . . .”
“You will in a moment.” Wrexford turned on his heel, dragging his unresisting captive with him, and bumped his way to the corridor.
“What—” began Gannett, only to have the wind knocked out of his lungs as Wrexford slammed him up against the rough-plastered wall. A look of fear spasmed across his face.
“Tell us about why you murdered Ashton.”
“Murder?” The word had barely any breath to it. “There’s been some ghastly mistake.” Gannett wet his trembling lips. “I know nothing of any murder—I swear it!”
“Don’t try to deny it,” said Sheffield roughly. “I recognized your handwriting on the note luring Ashton to his death.”
Gannett’s knees buckled and he would have collapsed in a heap if Wrexford hadn’t kept a grip on his coat. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a mewling moan.
Wrexford gave him another shake. “You can either speak to us or have me haul your worthless carcass to Bow Street and let the Runners pry the truth out of you.”
“Their methods,” growled Sheffield, “will be far less gentlemanly than ours.”
The threat seemed to slap away Gannett’s initial panic. Drawing a deep breath, he steadied his stance and exhaled a shuddering sigh.
“Y-Yes, I wrote a note. But it was all supposed to be part of an elaborate jest! A stranger’s handwriting was needed—or so I was told—in order that the person on whom it was being played wouldn’t recognize it. Hell’s bells, it sounded like harmless good fun . . . and I was offered money to do it.”
Gannett was babbling now. “Come, Sheff, you know what it’s like to be sinking in the River Tick. I desperately needed the blunt.”
“Why shouldn’t we believe that you needed it desperately enough to murder a man you knew was plump in the pocket?” demanded Wrexford, though in truth he didn’t think the gamester possessed the nerve to have committed such a cold-blooded crime.
“Because I don’t know whoever this Ashton fellow is from Adam!” exclaimed Gannett. “How could I plan to murder a man I’ve never heard of?”
“You’ve not read of Ashton’s name in the newspapers?” asked Sheffield. “He’s one of the leading men of science in England.”
The question drew a grimace. “The only printed sheets of paper I read are the racing forms at Newmarket.”
Wrexford was inclined to believe him. The gamester struck him as a bacon-brained reprobate. Which meant . . .
“If what you say is true and you didn’t have anything to do with Ashton’s murder, then you’d better hope to holy hell you can give us the name of the man who hired you.”
“Of course I can!” Hope lit in Gannett’s eyes as he sensed an escape. “It was Gabriel Hollis.”
A ruse? wondered Wrexford. He doubted the gamester was that clever. “Why would he ask you? Is he a friend?”
“No! That, is, we knew each other at Cambridge, but I hadn’t seen him since then until our paths recently crossed at a tavern near Covent Garden. We fell into conversation and . . .” Gannett made a face. “After several tankards of ale, he asked me to write that god-benighted note.”
Ah—perhaps they were getting closer to the real culprit. “Did he say where he was living?”
“No, but . . .” He gulped in a shallow breath. “But he seemed on very friendly terms with the tavernkeeper. Ask at the Crown and Scepter on Cross Lane off Cattle Street. The man may have the information you seek.”
“I know the place,” confirmed Sheffield. “It appeals to ruffians and reprobates.”
The trail seemed to be growing clearer, the scent stronger. But as for the miscreant’s motive, Wrexford wanted to confirm they weren’t barking up the wrong tree.
“A last question—has Hollis ever shown himself to hold radical political ideas?”
Gannett blinked away the beads of sweat clinging to his lashes. Or perhaps they were tears of relief. “Good God—yes! He was always ranting about the ills of society, and how the monarchy and the Church stood in the way of creating a true utopia.”
