“O,” whispered Charlotte, hoping to spark some new insight, though she had drawn the letter countless times over the last few days. She stared at the page for a moment before drawing a second half circle beside the first one to form aC.
Think!
The exhortation elicited no new inspiration.
Discouraged, she turned her thoughts back to the theme of transportation.
Vehicles were the backbone of commerce.Carts and carriages, wagons and drays. And they all moved on . . .
Her breath caught in her throat as she suddenly recalled Wrexford’s description of the marks Garfield had drawn on the floor with his own blood.
What if . . .
What if the line between the two letters wasn’t a random twitch of the dying man’s finger?What if it had been intentional?What if it was meant to be an axle.
Axle . . .Axe!
And what if the letters were really meant to be circles . . .
“Ye gods!”
McClellan looked up with a start. “What?”
Charlotte suddenly saw the truth with startling clarity. “I think Wrex and the boys may be in grave danger!” She shot up from her chair and rushed to snatch up her hat from the side table. “I can’t explain now—I need to run!”
* * *
Wrexford raised his brows. “I am aware that Sophocles said, ‘no one loves the bearer of bad tidings.’ But might I suggest that perhaps you are overreacting, Fenway.”
“Stubble the witticisms, milord.”
The earl turned to see Ezra Wheeler standing in the doorway.
“You—and your wife—have been far too inquisitive from the beginning,” continued Wheeler as he entered the room. “We had hoped to deflect your interest, but alas, you refused to be distracted.” A shrug. “Now you leave us no choice.”
The earl shifted his gaze back to Fenway’s weapon. “You can’t think that you’ll get away with shooting me here tonight. A number of people are aware of my visit.”
Fenway was no longer looking so genial. “He’s right, Ezra. We need to think of something—”
“My dear Hugo, I already have,” interrupted Wheeler. He, too, was holding a pistol. “Lord Wrexford is known to have a penchant for sleuthing. God only knows what misguided curiosity about Eton led him to sneak up to the battlements of Lupton’s Tower in the dead of night.” He turned to Wrexford. “As I mentioned when we were atop the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral, one needs good balance and catlike footing in high places, especially when some of the ancient stones are loose and crumbling. One slip can prove fatal.”
“Ah,” murmured Fenway. “That’s diabolically clever.”
“But just to be sure that the earl has come alone, I’m going to have a look around,” added Wheeler. “So in the meantime, let us shut him up in the Lockbox.”
That drew an appreciative chuckle from the provost. “A brilliant suggestion.” Fenway looked at Wrexford. “Some people consider that a fate worse than death. Several days spent within its walls have been known to turn someone into a blathering idiot.”
“The Lockbox?” repeated Wrexford. “Is that a sadistic little game you use to threaten the boys and frighten them half to death?”
“Oh, it’s no game,” assured Fenway. “The Lockbox is a hidden chamber carved into a special section of the interior stone walls. It’s pitch-black inside, the air is foul, and the damp chill quickly seeps into your bones. It’s also deep enough in the walls that no one in the tower can hear a cry from someone imprisoned there.” A low laugh. “It doesn’t take long for a man to lose his reason.”
“You have only to ask the younger son of Lord Sudbury,” said Wheeler, “who became too curious about the contents of my private workroom.”
“Where, no doubt, he found records of systematic graft and fraud regarding the finances of the Bristol Road Project,” said the earl.
Another shrug.
“By the by, how did the two of you come to be working together?” added Wrexford.
