“And if you find it, the scandal would rock the very foundations of Britain’s economy. And that would in turn have political repercussions.” An unholy glint lit in Henning’s eyes as he smoothed at a wrinkle in his cuff. “How can I help?”
“Let us not set up a guillotine in your yard just yet,” said the earl. “There are other ways to bring the miscreants to justice.” He thought for a moment. “If you truly wish to help, see what you can learn about a barmaid named Annie Wright, who works at the Ship’s Lantern in the dockyards.”
“I’ll make some inquiries,” replied the surgeon. “I have a number of friends in the area who owe me favors.”
“You might also ask around among your acquaintances as to whether any of the smaller private banks in Town are known for not asking too many questions about the movement of money in and out of a client’s account.”
A rusty chuckle. “Are you implying that I consort with the wrong sort of people?”
“I devoutly hope that you do.” The earl rose. “I must be off and see if I can find Griffin. If you discover anything, send word, or come around yourself. Tyler has recently purchased some very fine Scottish malt.”
The wind was gusting as he made his way back to the main thoroughfare and flagged down a hackney. As it crossed Blackfriars Bridge and dropped him off several streets east of Astley’s Amphitheatre, the leaden clouds turned even more ominous, promising rain at any moment.
After consulting the note from Bow Street, he turned down Mason Street, hoping he wasn’t wasting his time on a wild goose chase. But thankfully, he spotted his quarry up ahead.
Quickening his steps, the earl caught up with Griffin just as the Runner was climbing into a waiting hackney.
“Milord,” said Griffin, his shrewd eyes narrowing in interest. “Tyler said you were out of Town. And yet here you are.”
A spattering of drops began to fall. The earl turned up the collar of his coat. “Might I have a word with you?”
“I’m on a case and need to report to the magistrate on my progress. However, you’re welcome to join me for the ride back to Bow Street.”
Wrexford slid onto the well-worn seat and slammed the door shut.
“A pity I don’t have more time,” added Griffin. “Otherwise I’d invite you to breakfast.”
The earl uttered a rude word.
A chuckle rumbled in reply.
Before going on, Wrexford took the cloth-wrapped knife from his pocket and passed it over.
Leather whispered as the Runner sat up a little straighter. “Have you learned whether Lord Woodbridge did indeed kill Henry Peabody?” he demanded. “Granted, my superiors dislike it when a member of the aristocracy is guilty of a heinous crime. Be that as it may, I think you know I’ll do my best to see that justice is served.”
“Actually, I’m quite certain he’s innocent of murder. Henning has confirmed the knife is far too dull to have been the murder weapon,” replied the earl. “However, your superiors are going to dislike the alternative even more.” He took a moment to carefully consider his next words. “Tell me, have you or any of your men heard any whispers around the wharves or from Mr. Peabody’s fellow clerks in accounting about any . . . irregularities concerning the East India Company’s finances?”
Griffin remained silent, but all of a sudden, the still air within the hackney seemed to be crackling with unseen electricity.
“Perhaps concerning the movement of funds between departmental accounts, or the bookkeeping methods used for the financial ledgers,” added Wrexford.
More silence, amplified by the hackney’s rattling as it turned onto Westminster Bridge.
When the reply came, it was barely audible. “No, I have not.” Griffin shifted, and his beefy bulk blocked out what little light oozed in through the tiny window. “Have I missed something, milord?”
“It’s a pity you don’t have time for me to fill your gullet with an expensive breakfast,” drawled the earl. “But even then, I fear you’ll find that my answer will stick in your craw.”
The Runner let out an unhappy sigh. “Bloody hell. Have you any idea what a dangerous accusation you’re making?”
“I haven’t made any accusations,” replied Wrexford. “Not yet.”
The gallows humor drew no smile. “I can keep my ears open, milord. But I can’t make any inquiries into the Company’s business unless you can give me compelling evidence that there is a reason to do so. And even then, my superiors would be . . .”
“Would be terrified to approve any official action,” finished Wrexford. “Yes, I know that.”
“When I said it was dangerous, I didn’t use the word lightly,” said Griffin. “Your title and your money won’t protect you if it’s decided you represent a threat.”
“Then I shall just have to rely on my wits.”
