Two quick hoots—the tremulous call of a tawny owl—alerted the boys to her presence. In an instant, they appeared from out of the shrubbery, stirring naught but a whisper of the leaves.
Raven’s features were drawn taut. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, his hand sliding down to his boot, where he carried a deadly-looking knife given to him by the earl.
“Nothing,” she assured him. “I—I simply felt the need for a breath of fresh air.”
“It’s dangerous to be wandering the streets at this hour,” chided Hawk.
Out of the mouths of babes, she thought wryly.
“Without us,” he added hastily, realizing that path of argument might quickly trip him up.
“I’m always careful,” she responded. “But never mind that now—how did your inquiries go?”
“We’ve spread the word to our friends,” replied Raven slowly. He was still watching her with a wariness beyond his years. “If a rat so much as scratched his arse near the murder scenes, we’ll soon know of it.”
“Don’t be vulgar,” murmured Charlotte.
Hawk snickered, earning a swift cuff from his brother.
“We did hear something interesting tonight,” continued Raven. “Dunno if it means anything, but . . .”
Charlotte heard the note of suppressed excitement in his voice.
“But you can decide for yourself.”
“I’m all ears,” said Charlotte, coming instantly alert.
A grin flashed across his face. “You’re going to need your peepers as well,” he began, only to spin around at the rustling of leaves from somewhere in the shadows behind them.
“Though we should return home first,” added Raven in a low whisper. “And then Hawk is going to show you his drawing.”
CHAPTER 8
Wrexford flattened himself against the clammy stone just as the door swung open with a rusty groan. More scuffling and scraping sounded as a wobbly beam of light pierced the darkness.
“Bloody hell, yer tipping yer end—iffen his guts slide out, it ain’t me who’s wiping ’em up.”
“The sodding cove weighs more ’n an ox,” came the grunted reply as a burly man, clad in a bloodstained smock and squashed Regent hat, took a step into the morgue. “Damnation—stop wigglin’ the light, Willy! I can’t see where I’m going.”
The beam steadied somewhat.
Out of the corner of his eye, Wrexford watched Regent Hat stagger forward, his meaty hands clasping the handles of a stretcher bearing a misshapen mound topped with a greasy oilcloth. A beefy leg had escaped from beneath the folds and was dancing a macabre jig through the foul air.
“Which way?” demanded the bear-sized fellow holding up the rear of the stretcher.
“Straight ahead.” The lantern-bearer, a short man with long,ratty hair framing his narrow face, squeezed through the door and hurried to light the way. The scent of cheap gin wafted in to join the fugue of other smells. “There be an empty slab at the end of this row.”
Theclack-clackof the hobnails punctuated the bumps and curses as the three made their way deeper into the morgue. Then suddenly the lamp flickered and went out.
“Ye gin-soaked booby! Strike a flame, or your poxy carcass will be joining this one on its slab.”
Wrexford made a split-second decision. Nudging Henning, he whispered, “Follow me!” and darted for the doorway. The surgeon, though no paragon of manly muscle, showed himself to be surprisingly agile in hurrying down the corridor and making the turn for the back door. It wasn’t until they were two streets away from the mortuary that Wrexford allowed them to pause for breath.
“Auch, I’ve grown too old for skulduggery,” wheezed Henning, bending over and bracing his hands on his knees. “If my poor, thumping heart gives up the ghost and I shuffle off this mortal coil, it’s your bloody fault.”
“Oh, come—you’re cobbled together from granite and flint, with naught but Highland malt running through your veins,” quipped the earl. “And you’ve said on numerous occasions that you don’t have a heart.” A pause. “You’ll survive.”
Henning’s mouth twitched, but he covered it with a scowl. “Not if I don’t get my breakfast.” Dawn was just beginning to tinge the horizon. “There’s a tavern near Covent Garden that serves a decent meal at this hour.”
