“Yes,” muttered Wrexford. “Sheffield and I found him wheezing his final breath night before last. Like Ashton, his throat was sliced open.” Taking up his letter opener, he cut a slit in the wrapper. “Any idea who Nevins is?”
“I’ve just learned he’s one of the leaders of the Workers of Zion.”
Inside was a duplicate of the sheet of numbers he had found in Hollis’s rooms. That answered one conundrum—it was indeed written by the radical leader. And it seemed Nevins was the key to deciphering it. “I need to speak with him right away.”
Henning’s expression, never terribly encouraging to begin with, turned even grimmer. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, laddie. One of my patients told me his body was discovered in one of the side alleys near Seven Dials this morning. With his throat cut.”
The bloody villain, fumed Wrexford, was staying one teasing, taunting step ahead of him.
After taking a loud slurp of the whisky, Henning leaned in for a closer look at the paper. “Any idea what that means?”
“No. And now, without Nevins, our chances of guessing which sort of code he’s using is virtually nil.”
“For what it’s worth, I’ve been listening to talk in the stews, and word is Hollis and Nevins were shocked at Ashton’s murder and claimed they had nothing to do with it.”
“I’m inclined to believe them,” replied Wrexford. “But proving it has just become a great deal more difficult.”
“Aye. But then again, you seem to like dancing along a razor’s edge.” Henning drained his drink. “Just take care not to lose your balance.”
* * *
A breeze ruffled through the night mist, stirring a sudden swirl of ghostly tendrils that kissed up against the windowglass. The thick twines of ivy growing up the stucco and timber wallsighed, the breathy whisper just loud enough to cover the quick-footed steps moving over the damp grass. Clouds drifted over the moon, cloaking the garden in darkness.
Crouched low, the black-clad figure melded into the leafy shadows of the shrubbery as it moved slowly, stealthily to the back of the house. Darkness hid the flick of a knife blade sliding between the window frames, seeking the latch.
* * *
Charlotte came awake, unsure what had dragged her from the depths of slumber. Her heart was jumpy, her muscles tensed.
“A bad dream,” she whispered, trying to chase away the sharp sense of unease.
She slowly sat up and looked around. The armoire . . . the dressing table . . . the washstand with its cream-colored pitcher glowing softly in the dappling of moonlight. Nothing was amiss.
Exhaling a self-mocking sigh, Charlotte made herself relax. All the little flitterings and creaks of her new residence were still unfamiliar. Like thetit-titof the yew bushes against the back of the house as the breeze set them to swaying.
The sounds ceased, making her feel even more the fool. At least she was not yet imagining the clank of chains or the moan of a spectral ghost.
And then the scrape came again, this time louder and sounding more metallic.
Charlotte threw off the bedclothes and snatched up her wrapper. Sending up a silent prayer that the floorboards wouldn’t give her away, she moved swiftly to the stairs and crept down just far enough that she could steal a peek at the main corridor.
Footsteps sounded, moving from the pantry to the kitchen.
Only then did she realize she hadn’t thought to grab up a weapon of some sort.
Too late for that now. Someone was coming.
Shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, Charlotte clenched a fist. Her late husband had taught her to throw a decent punch. And besides, the thought of an intruder harming the boys made her angry enough to commit murder with her bare hands.
However, the shadowed figure hurried past the stairs and ducked into the small drawing room.
Charlotte waited for several moments, then tiptoed down the remaining treads and took up a position to one side of the doorway. From her vantage point, she could make out the dark-on-dark silhouette making a slow circuit of the room. She eased in a breath and tried to quiet her pounding heart.
Thankfully the intruder appeared unaware of her presence. Steeling her spine, she made herself study her enemy, looking for any weakness. His face was hidden by the upturned hood of a cloak, whose heavy folds fell to mid-calf of the snug-fitting leather boots. He was of ordinary height and looked to be slim and wiry—an in-and-out man rather than a bludgeoning brute.
His steps halted, his head swiveled from side to side . . . Looking for valuables, no doubt.
An experienced thief would have known better than to expect silver candlesticks or precious baubles in this neighborhood. But perhaps word had gotten around that a fancy carriage had been spotted during the hustle and bustle of moving day.
