A brave woman.Naïve, but brave. If a hired cutthroat wished to extract information, she would soon be singing like a canary.
Releasing a small sigh, Charlotte stepped back and slid the knife into her pocket. “I’ve no intention of harming you.” Dropping her deep-throated voice, she added, “As I said, a friend of yours is dead, and I’m trying to help ensure his murder doesn’t go unpunished.”
Annie rubbed at her wrist, her expression betraying both surprise and suspicion. “Ye’re a . . . a . . .”
“Yes. A woman like you.”
“Why . . . ?” The barmaid narrowed her eyes. “Why d’ye care?”
Charlotte glanced around. The surroundings were dark and silent as a crypt, but in the stews there were always unseen eyes and ears. “I’m happy to explain,” she replied. “But not here.”
A hesitation.
“If I wanted you dead, your blood would already be puddled in the mud. But given what happened to your friend, I daresay there are others who may wish you harm,” continued Charlotte. “The choice is yours, of course. However, if I were you, I wouldn’t want to face them on my own.”
Annie’s eyes betrayed a flicker of weary resignation. “I s’pose I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.” She gave a curt wave. “Follow me.”
* * *
A short while later, Charlotte retraced her steps through the maze of alleyways leading away from the river. A long trek homeward lay ahead, while behind her lay . . .
More questions than answers. The first pearly hints of dawn were teasing at the horizon, and yet the mystery of the Queen’s Landing murder remained tangled in fog and shadows.
Annie Wright had proved to be a conundrum—suspicious and secretive, as well she should be, given that violence had darkened her life. But Charlotte was adept at drawing out secrets, and the barmaid’s story had slowly come to light around the guttering flicker of a single tallow candle.
It was her accent that had first given her away. Annie mimicked the slur of the stews very well, but Charlotte had caught the trace of a more cultured voice. When pressed, the barmaid had admitted to her the sad story of her past. A prosperous family, a disastrous marriage to a man beneath her station, who had turned out to be a violent lout. The murdered clerk—Charlotte had finally discovered the poor man’s name was Henry Peabody—had been a childhood friend, and it was to him she had turned for help when the beatings had become unbearable.
Peabody had helped arrange for a job at the Ship’s Lantern, allowing Annie to escape her marriage and melt away into the nameless swirl of the dockyard slums. Living in poverty was preferable to living in hell.
So that, mused Charlotte, explained why Annie had been frightened of speaking with a Bow Street Runner, and why Henry Peabody had spent time around the wharves.
She darted across Ratcliff Highway and chose a path that would take her through Leadenhall Street, impelled by an inexplicable urge to see the grand East India Company headquarters, where Peabody had worked.
Had his fellow clerks and employers mourned his passing?she wondered.
However, the thought was quickly pushed aside by more pressing questions. While Annie Wright had appeared sincere in her grief, she had been evasive in answering questions about what motives might lie behind her friend’s death. At one point, she had seemed on the verge of revealing something.
But then, when Charlotte had mentioned David Mather, fear had clamped Annie’s teeth shut, and she had withdrawn into a sullen silence. Deciding further probing was pointless, Charlotte had contented herself with getting a grudging promise that the barmaid would think over things and meet with her again in a few days. She had also mentioned that if Annie wished to reach her sooner, she could send word through Alice the Eel Girl, who sold her wares near Limehouse Dock.
Trust.It was a bond fraught with complexities, even between friends. She understood Annie’s reluctance to trust an utter stranger.
Andyet . . .
Henry Peabody was dead, and Charlotte sensed the barmaid knew why.
Would the reason reveal that her own friends were in peril? It was, she determined, a question she couldn’t afford to leave unanswered.
* * *
Sheffield set the papers on the desk blotter and carefully smoothed out the creases. “As you see, there are several letters expressing satisfaction that a mutually agreeable deal had been reached, and that all the official documents had been signed and the funds handed over,” he explained.
“Kit, we’re aware that Woodbridge is in need of money,” murmured Wrexford after a cursory look. “It makes sense that he would seek a loan from one of the private banks that cater to the beau monde.”
“Yes, yes, I’m aware that he wouldn’t be the first aristocrat to mortgage future profits from his estate to cover pressing debts,” replied his friend. “But now look at this.” Sheffield shifted the letters, uncovering a scrawled list of four names, each with a small inked star beside it.
The earl picked up the list and subjected it to careful scrutiny.
“Hoare’s, Gurney’s, Barclays, Coutts . . . the names are all well-known private banks,” said Sheffield.
