“Damnation.” He found a fallen candle and struck a flint to the wick. The spark of light revealed a scene of chaos. A table and three other straight-back chairs had been knocked to flinders. The small desk lay overturned, the contents of the drawers strewn helter-pelter through the puddles of oil. Feathers from the slashed bed pillows had fallen atop the debris, the downy curls looking absurdly delicate against the splintered wood.
The flickering flame also showed a number of pamphlets strewn over the floor. Though the ink was already turning illegible on the paper, Wrexford easily recognized the symbol and headline.
The Workers of Zion.They had come to the right place.
Sheffield found another candle and lit it. Just as he was about to speak, Wrexford held up a warning hand and went very still.
The sounds were barely discernable—a ghostly creaking from the unseen rafters, a faintwhooshof air through the crack in the window . . .
A whispery groan, rhythmic in its rise and fall.
Muttering another oath, the earl moved into the alcove off the main room. A man lay spread-eagle on the floor, his breath going in and out with a labored gurgle.
Crouching down beside him, Wrexford held the candle closer to the sound and saw why. A deep slash cut across the man’s throat, leaving the windpipe half-severed. Blood had turned his shirtpoints scarlet.
As the light touched his face, the man’s eyes fluttered up, resignation pooled in the dark and dilated pupils.
Perhaps he could see the specter of death moving inexorably closer and closer.
“Hollis?” asked Wrexford.
A tiny nod.
“Who—” he started to ask, but seeing Hollis was trying to speak, he quickly stopped and leaned closer.
The man’s lips were moving—a zephyrous stirring of air tickled against the earl’s cheek. But no words came forth. Just a deathly wheezing, low and horrible to hear, from the ruined windpipe.
Wrexford untied his cravat and carefully wound it around Hollis’s throat, hoping to keep the Grim Reaper at bay for a little longer.
“A-Ashton.” Hollis finally managed a sound. “Didn’t . . . k-kill . . . Ashton.”
“Do you know who did?” he demanded.
Hollis moved his head ever so slightly, setting off a sputtering cough.
The devil take it—the man is choking on his own blood.
“I . . . I know . . .” Another cough. “Find . . .”
“Here, let me make you more comfortable.” Pulling off his coat, the earl pillowed the dying man’s head to help him breathe.
Hollis grimaced. “Find . . . find . . .”
“Findwho?” pressed Wrexford, trying to keep a rein on his frustration. Placing a hand on Hollis’s shoulder, he gave a squeeze, willing him to hold on.
Exhausted by his efforts, the man let his eyelids fall shut. Pain twisted his features. The Reaper’s scythe was cutting ever closer. Wrexford could hear the last gasps of breath dying in Hollis’s lungs.
Think, think!Grasping at straws, he mentally ran down the list the widow had given him.
“One of Ashton’s investors? His assistants,” he suggested.
A flash of emotion in Hollis’s eyes seemed to sayno. “F-Find N-Nevins . . .” Lifting a hand, he fluttered a wave at the main room. “Numbers . . . Numbers will reveal everything.”
“Who’s Nevins? Andwhatnumbers?” coaxed Wrexford.
No response.
“Damnation—don’t die yet,” he muttered, sliding his hands beneath the man’s head and trying to win him a few more precious seconds.
