* * *
A sharp hiss slipped through Sheffield’s clenched teeth as he leaned in over Wrexford’s shoulder.
“Is he dead?”
“Yes.” Wrexford had felt for a pulse, though the three bloody stab wounds piercing the left ribs indicated the victim couldn’t have survived. Sitting back on his haunches, he surveyed the violence of the attack—the ripped clothing, the slashed boots, the mutilated flesh of the dead man’s belly.
“Holy hell,” muttered his friend, fumbling to light another match. The flare of light showed all the color had leached from his face.
“The Devil’s own work,” he agreed.
Sheffield swallowed hard. “It’s an awfully brutal attack, even for this part of Town.” The man’s neck had been broken and a knife slash had badly disfigured his face.
Lifting the dead man’s hands, the earl examined the broad knuckles, noting the bruising and scrapes. “Looks like he put up a fight.”
“That explains the victim’s wounds.” Sheffield averted his gaze. “The footpad must have panicked at the resistance.”
“Perhaps.” Wrexford frowned, sensing there was more to it than met the eye. “But that doesn’t explain the cut-up clothing or the slashes made to the body after death—”
“How the devil can you tell that?”
“There was little bleeding from the cuts on his belly. Which means his heart had stopped pumping.”
Sheffield was starting to look a little green around the gills.
“Footpads strike for pragmatic reasons,” mused the earl, as much to himself as to his friend. “They want money and valuables—which they assume are in pockets or on fingers. They don’t waste time searching seams or mutilating their victims.Unless . . .” He took a closer look at the ripped lining of the coat and ran a hand between the wool and satin.
“Unless the fellow’s attacker knew the fellow had something special hidden on his person,” suggested Sheffield.
“There’s that possibility,” conceded Wrexford. “But given the signs of blind rage, it’s more likely personal. Perhaps a betrayal or a business deal gone bad.”
His friend appeared unconvinced. “But by his clothing—or what’s left of it, the fellow appears to be a gentleman.”
Wrexford arched a brow as he continued to examine the coat. “Meaning a gentleman is never involved in anything sordid?”
A fresh match caught Sheffield’s answering grimace. “Point taken.”
He nodded absently, his attention caught by a small tailor’s mark sewn in discreetly at the back of the collar. It appeared that the victim was from Leeds. Which added yet another layer of mystery as to why he was lying murdered in one of London’s most dangerous stews. A stranger to the city did not simply stumble by chance into these fetid alleyways . . .
As the stinking sludge began to seep through his own boots, Wrexford shrugged off the conundrum. Whatever reason had brought the fellow here was none of his concern. After draping the remains of the coat over the death-distorted face, he rose.
“There’s nothing more to do here. Let’s find a watchman in Red Lion Square and alert him of the crime.” A pause. “Assuming you know your way out of this cursed maze.”
“That way,” said his friend indicating the passageway to their left.
As they turned, the earl spotted two wraith-like shapes flitting, dark on dark, within the shadows.
“The Weasels,” he muttered.
“Where?” demanded Sheffield. “I see nothing.”
“You wouldn’t.” Already they had disappeared in the gloom. “They’re more slippery than quicksilver.”
An instant later, two boys darted out from a plume of mist on the other side of the alleyway.
“Oiy,” grunted the older of the two. “Another dead body, m’lord?”
“Don’t be insolent to your elders,” shot back Wrexford.
