“Why do you ask?”
A swallow. “There was a murder at Queen’s Landing last night. The watchman who found the victim reported that he said the wordargentum—several times, in fact—with his last dying breath.”
“Who’s the dead man?” inquired Wrexford.
“A clerk with the East India Company,” answered the Runner.
“With all the unloading of valuable cargoes, the Company wharves attract a criminal element,” observed the earl. “Perhaps he witnessed the theft of a silver shipment, and that’s why he was killed.”
“Perhaps,” replied Griffin as he studied the sultanas studding his muffin. “But . . .” He looked up. “Why say it in Latin?”
Wrexford shrugged. “I haven’t a clue.”
“Hmmm.” The Runner sliced off a large chunk of ham and forked it into his mouth.
Griffin’s slow movements and laconic style of speech often caused people to think he was dim witted. The earl, however, knew otherwise.
“What is it about the death that’s caught your attention?” he asked. “Bow Street prefers that you investigate crimes involving the highest circles of Society. So, regrettable as it is, the murder of a clerk wouldn’t normally be a case that concerns you.”
“I can’t say for sure.” Griffin polished off a bite of eggs before adding, “At least not yet.”
“Well, do take your time in thinking it over,” quipped Wrexford. “You’ve still got a platter of deviled kidneys and a slice of pigeon pie to plow through.” He rose. “But if you don’t mind, I’ll excuse myself. Unlike you and Tyler, I have work to do.”
* * *
“Now, about the murder . . . Let us start from the beginning,” said Charlotte, taking a seat in the armchair facing Skinny.
“It happened last night at Queen’s Landing,” replied the streetsweep. “The watchmen found the cove just before eleven bells in an alleyway near the gate leading out to Commercial Road.” His eyes widened. “Word is, his throat was sliced open from ear te ear.”
Her stomach gave a small lurch at the gruesome detail. “Is the victim’s identity known?” she asked.
Skinny nodded. “Oiy, Alice the Eel Girl heard from Pudge that he was a . . . a clerk.” His face scrunched in thought. “Wot’s a clerk?”
“A man who keeps all the records organized for a company. He writes down all the business information and makes copies of all the letters sent and received,” explained Charlotte.
“Sounds boring.” Skinny rubbed at a gob of mud on his sleeve. “Are you and His Nibs gonna solve the murder?”
Charlotte felt a twinge of guilt. Much as she mourned the passing of any living being, she couldn’t find justice for all of them.
London was a large city, and murders were a grim reality of its everyday life. The heartless truth was, only those that involved a prominent person or touched on a juicy scandal were of interest to the public who purchased her prints. Mr. Fores wouldn’t publish something that everyone from the lowest pauper to the highest aristocrat knew was true—that countless nameless souls who inhabited the city would die as they had lived, with no one taking note of their existence.
“Alas, I’m not sure that Lord Wrexford and I can be of any help in this case,” she said softly. “The man was likely killed for the few pence in his pocket, and the murderer has melted back into the stews, leaving no trail of his misdeed.”
“Aye,” agreed Skinny, with fatalism well beyond his years. “Bad things just happen. Not much ye can do about it when the Reaper decides te swing his blade at ye.” His expression quickly brightened, however, as McClellan carried in a tray heaped with treats and moved a side table in front of his chair.
As he dug noisily into a jam tart, Charlotte leaned back, feeling troubled by the conversation.
Am I losing my moral compass?
Once she had made the momentous decision to step back into the splendor of the beau monde, she had vowed that she wouldn’t lose her passion for fighting against the injustices of the world. But what if its seductive pleasures tempted her into losing her edge?
The thought squeezed the air from her lungs.
Lost in her brooding, Charlotte didn’t hear the front door open or the patter of light-footed steps in the corridor. It was the sudden lush swirl of floral perfume tickling at her nose that caused her to sit up.
“Faawgh,” exclaimed Skinny, making a face. “What happened? It smells like a French brothel in here.”
“It’s ungentlemanly to say the wordbrothelin front of a lady,” called Hawk as he and his brother paused just outside the parlor.
