A snort. “You know as well as I do that the government starts breathing fire on Bow Street’s collective arse when any of the Runners start sniffing around the aristocracy. So unless the magistrates decide there’s a damnably good reason to suspect the bank business relates to the murder, I won’t be allowed to ask any more questions.” A shrug. “And there isn’t a shred of evidence that it does.”
“Be that as it may,” mused the earl, “there’s nothing to stop me from asking around about our highborn suspect and his activities.”
“I was rather hoping you might suggest that, milord.” Griffin finally allowed a glimmer of humor. “You have to admit, past investigations have proved that we make a very efficient team.”
“Yes.” Wrexford drained his whisky in one swallow. “I buy supper, and you eat it.”
That drew a low chuckle. “I’ll bid you good night, milord. Do keep me informed if you turn up anything interesting. Preferably over a beef and kidney pie.” Griffin picked up his hat and rubbed at a grease stain on the brim. “And while you endeavor to learn more about Mather, you might also consider looking more closely at Mr. Sheffield, as well as Lord Woodbridge and his sister. As I said, my superiors won’t allow me to question you lordly aristocrats without compelling evidence of wrongdoing. But simply because they are your friends doesn’t mean their hands are lily white.”
CHAPTER 7
Releasing a harried sigh, Charlotte took a seat at her worktable and lit the lamp, grateful that supper was over. Dusk was fast giving way to night, and as darkness curtained the windows and the neighborhood settled into slumber, she finally had an interlude for quiet contemplation.
Choices, choices.She had struggled all day to keep her mind on household matters. The questions of how to deal with family and friends were demanding such difficult decisions. And yet . . .
“And yet I’ve no clue of what to do.” Saying it aloud only exacerbated the sense of uncertainty churning inside her chest. Sheffield’s hurt feelings, Cordelia’s disappearance, her own brother’s request for a family meeting . . .
Thank heavens that Raven hadn’t added to her worries. She had feared that he might hare off on his own and attempt to learn more about Cordelia’s mysterious absence. A dangerous undertaking for a boy, no matter how clever . . . God only knew what nefarious doings were afoot.
Charlotte dipped her pen in ink and began to draw the stark, sinuous outline of a slithering serpent. She had long ago learned that the aristocracy’s glittering façade of civility hid a dark core writhing with fanged vipers....
But to her relief, Raven had gone without protest to his afternoon lessons with Mr. Linsley, and he and his brother had retreated to their attic aerie after finishing supper, grumbling about how much work the tutor had assigned for their next session.
The soft creak of the floorboards overhead drew a fleeting smile to her lips. They seemed settled into their studies, and a shuffling across the corridor indicated McClellan had retired to her bedchamber. As for herself, Charlotte set her pen down, the act of sketching having helped to clarify her own thinking.
A complex conundrum often unknotted itself when one could find a thread to follow. And the more she pondered it, the more the murder at Queen’s Landing seemed tied in some way to why Cordelia and her brother had disappeared.
“I’m good at unraveling secrets,” she murmured, and as luck would have it, a tavernkeeper near the wharf was part of her extensive network of eyes and ears around London. “So perhaps it’s time to do a little nocturnal sleuthing around the docklands.”
A short while later, dressed in ragged male clothing and with her hair tucked up under a wide-brimmed slouched hat, Charlotte slipped out of the house and instinctively assumed the quick-footed lope of “Magpie,” her street persona. She hurried through the back byways that led down to the river, carefully avoiding the rougher streets, where trouble often spilled out from the ramshackle gin houses pressed cheek by jowl among the rookeries.
On approaching the East India Company docks, Charlotte cut around to the rear of a small tavern that catered to the workers at the wharves and warehouses. A special knock, thumped on a side door, quickly drew a response.
“Oiy, ain’t seen ye in a while, Magpie.” The door cracked open, just enough for Charlotte to sidle inside a small room that was bare, save for two slat-back chairs and a small round table. “But I wondered whether the murder would bring ye flying.”
“What do you know about it?” she asked, keeping her face hidden despite the fuzzed light.
“What’ll ye pay for it?” countered the tavern owner, a portly fellow with dark hair greased back from a bulbous forehead. His breath reeked of fish and stale beer.
“Don’t humbug me, Squid. You know I’m generous when it comes to accurate information. But feed me a farididdle and we won’t be doing business together in the future.”
“Oiy, it’s true. Ye’s always fair.” Squid hitched up his canvas pants. “Wot’s ye looking fer?”
“Did the murdered man meet regularly with anyone around here?” asked Charlotte.
Squid scratched at his unshaven chin. “He thought hisself high above our touch, but I happen te know he often had a chin-wag with a gentry cove over at Stubb’s fancy Lantern.”
Charlotte knew the place. The Ship’s Lantern was a slightly more genteel tavern that catered to ship captains and merchants who traveled on the East India Company vessels.
“Do you know the name of the gentry cove?”
Squid leaned in closer. His fetid breath blew under the brim of her hat and tickled against her cheek. “Mather.”
She kept herself from recoiling. “And does Mr. Mather have a Christian name?”
The tavernkeeper hesitated. Wondering, no doubt, whether he could squeeze a few extra pennies by playing it coy.
Charlotte took a few side steps and dropped a small purse on the table.
