“Murder,” she rasped, suddenly recalling that duty demanded she make a drawing of the Bloody Butcher’s latest victim.
For an instant, every fiber of her being rebelled against it. But she quickly silenced the protest. Rather than a betrayal, her art could be a powerful force in provoking the public to demand that the murderous madman be apprehended before he struck again.
After splashing some water on her face and pinching a bit of color back to her cheeks, Charlotte drew a deep breath and headed for her workroom.
Cedric had always been willing to think outside the boundaries of conventional wisdom. She felt sure he would applaud her decision.
* * *
Wrexford looked up from his laboratory ledger at the sound of fast-approaching footsteps in the corridor.
“Back so soon?” he remarked as his valet flung open thedoor and entered the workroom. “Your efficiency is always impressive, but in this case it seems unusually so.”
“The plot thickens,” said Tyler, punctuating the announcement by removing his hat and shaking off the raindrops. “I thought you would want to know right away.”
“Then kindly stubble the theatrics.” His valet had a penchant for drama. “What have your learned?”
“That Chittenden’s younger brother—younger by naught but a few minutes—has been taken into custody by the Runners and charged with the murder. Apparently, a bloody knife was found hidden in his quarters at the Albany Hotel, along with a silk handkerchief containing a gristly scrap of flesh.”
Good God.A depraved twist to an ugly crime. Wrexford pursed his lips, wondering how Charlotte would take the news.
“You are sure of this?” he demanded.
Tyler nodded. “Aye. On hearing whispers of it at the Royal Institution—where, by the by, both men had frequently been attending scientific lectures and discussions—I made a visit to Bow Street. Griffin had just returned from taking the prisoner to Newgate and confirmed all the details. It’s not yet been released to the public, but the Honorable Nicholas Locke stands accused of fratricide.”
“When is the trial?” asked the earl.
“A date has not yet been set,” answered Tyler. “But I imagine the hangman is already preparing a noose.”
Mr. Locke’s guilt certainly seemed assured. The evidence was glaringly clear. And yet . . .
Wrexford tapped his fingertips together. In his experience, crimes were rarely quite so tidy.
“Do you wish for me to continue investigating Lord Chittenden’s background, milord?” A pause. “That is, thelateLord Chittenden.”
“Yes.” The answers he was seeking lay hidden in the past.And now, more than ever, it was imperative to find them. “And with even greater urgency, if you please.”
Tyler, to his credit, retrieved his sodden hat and, after snapping a quick salute, hurried off.
The earl rose and began to pace. On passing the assortment of beakers and canisters arrayed on the work counter for the next phase of his experiment, he exhaled a harried breath. The demands of chemistry—precise timing and measurement, objective observation, results based on facts, not theory—appealed to his sense of logic. There was an order to science. Rules applied.
He liked the cerebral challenge of figuring them out.
Emotions were messy. Unpredictable.
Though there was a certain commonality, he admitted wryly. Both were capable of exploding in one’s face.
“Bloody hell.” Much as he wished to putter away with his powdered ores and acids, he couldn’t in good conscience keep what he had learned from Charlotte. She needed to know.
Though he doubted she would thank him for it.
“Ah, well, no good deed goes unpunished.” After fetching his hat and coat, he extinguished the Argand lamp on his desk and quit the room.
* * *
Through sheer force of will, Charlotte managed to ink in a detailed picture of the scene—the graceful symmetry of the marble structure, the ominous shadow, the slumped body. It was a strong piece of art, compellingly moody and menacing without showing the horrible details. After the addition of crimson highlights and a suitably scandalous headline, she knew it would sell well.
Mr. Fores would have no cause for complaint.
