The wherry picked its way through the narrow channel in the oozing mud flats and bumped up against a crude stone landing.
“This way,” said Griffin, leading the way to a footpath that led into a glade of trees.
“Christ Almighty,” growled Wrexford when a man stepped out of the gloom and raised his lantern to illuminate his face.
“Don’t blaspheme, milord.”
“Forgive me if I prefer not to take any chiding on morality from you,” retorted the earl.
A humorless laugh. “Neither of us is as pure as the driven snow.”
“Perhaps not. But at least my intentions are always honorable.” Wrexford had encountered George Pierson, the top operative for the minister of state security, on several previous occasions and was of the opinion that the fellow had oil of vitriol running through his veins rather than blood.
“So you say.” Pierson gestured for Griffin to retreat and wait back at the wherry, then angled the light to a spot in the small clearing where a dark tarp was carelessly draped over three corpses. “We’ve brought the victims of tonight’s shooting here to keep the public from getting wind of what happened.” He moved to it and lifted up a corner of the covering to reveal a blood-smeared face.
“Do you recognize this man?”
Wrex considered lying but decided it would only be to spite Pierson—and that was not a worthy reason. “Yes. He’s a French radical.”
Pierson scowled. “Do you know why he’s here in London?”
“Ostensibly to foment unrest among our workers and make trouble for our government while the Peace Conference in Vienna is taking place,” answered the earl. “But I believe his main reason was to convince Jasper Milton to give his bridge innovation to him and his cohorts, so that they could sell it to Russia and use the money to fund Napoleon’s escape from Elba.”
A gleam of surprise—which quickly turned to ire—sparked in the operative’s eyes. “How in the name of Satan did you learn that?”
“Because, as you well know, my network of informants is a good deal more capable than yours.”
Pierson took a step closer to the earl. “Have a care, Wrexford. You are treading dangerously close to the line separating cleverness and treason.”
“Are you accusing me of treason?”
The air seemed to spark with unseen electricity. The earl was aware of a fire-sharp prickling against his cheeks.
Pierson stepped closer, then surrendered his pent-up breath in a brusque sigh. “I would rather not,” he admitted. “The government is dealing with a grave threat to the security of our nation. So I would hope to have your voluntary cooperation without resorting to schoolboy threats and name-calling.”
“What threat demands indiscriminate slaughter?” asked the earl, pointing to the two other victims lying under the tarp. “Why kill Wayland and Monsieur Montaigne of the French scientific society—I’m assuming it was your men who committed the murders—along with the French radical? They merited arrest, but not execution without a trial.”
“My men were there simply to apprehend the three conspirators. But one of them fired first, and my men had to defend themselves. Unfortunately, they are excellent shots.”
“And yet I saw no pistols around the bodies when I searched the three dead men for the papers,” said Wrexford.
“My men told me they were fired upon,” insisted Pierson. “And they understand that there are serious repercussions for lying to me.”
Which, noted Wrexford, was not at all an answer to his observation.
When he didn’t reply, Pierson added, “Regardless of your low opinion of my morals, I don’t kill for no reason.” He looked down at the dead bodies, throwing his face into shadow. “My men didn’t recognize you or Mr. Sheffield, so the fact that you were threatened with a knife was a mistake. In their defense, they were told that retrieving the papers was of utmost importance.”
“I would rather have a full explanation of the government’s interest in Jasper Milton’s papers than an apology.”
“You are welcome to ask Lord Grentham for one. Perhaps he will humor you,” replied Pierson.
“Ha!” The earl made a rude sound. “And perhaps pigs will sprout wings and fly.”
Pierson allowed himself a faint smile. “I’m not sure which is more likely.” He bent down to flick the tarp back over the dead man’s face. “Let us return to more pragmatic questions. Since you said that you searched the bodies for the papers, I assume it was you who took them away.”
“It was,” answered Wrexford.
“I must insist that you give them to me.”
