“If I talk, I’m dead. So don’t waste yer breath.”
Jack gripped him by his red bandana and pulled him to his feet. “We’ll leave you to cool your heels in a Bow Street jail until either you see the sense of confessing, or we gather enough proof to see you swing.”
He dragged Darby to the door and pulled it open. His men came running. Jack thrust him into the arms of one of them. “Take him to Bow Street. Tell the magistrate to hold him in a cell. I’ll be there tomorrow.”
“Right you are, sir.”
Darby, protesting violently, was hauled off down the stairs and pushed into a waiting wagon be taken to the lockup.
Jack was confident that with a little persuasion, the frightened man would talk. For now, Jack had other fish to fry. Lady Prudence had asked him to find Bartholomew Everton, the man who’d written to the Earl of Sedgwick just before he’d been killed. He’d left no address. Did Everton live in London? If so, Jack would find him. In his library in Mayfair, he’d searched through theBoyle’s New Fashionable Court and Country Guidewithout success. He’d then flicked through his copy of thePost Office Annual Directory. And there Everton was, residing at an address in Clerkenwell.
In the hall, Stoker assisted him into his greatcoat. Jack put on his tall beaver hat, drew on his gloves, and picked up his cane. “I’ll dine at my club,” he said as he stepped out onto the porch. At the corner, he hailed a passing hackney, hoping he’d discover something importantto dwell on, and a good male friend at White’s as a sounding board, while sharing a bottle of Cognac.
Jack hoped to learn something from this man, Everton, when he met him, to make Lady Prudence’s sad eyes brighten with hope. He was only too aware that doing this for her meant more to him than it should have. The sooner the case was wrapped up, the sooner he could return to his comfortable existence, although that meant he wouldn’t see her again and the realization failed to please him quite as much as it once had.
The next morning, Jack knocked on the door of a small house in Clerkenwell.
A maid opened it. “I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Everton has traveled to the country on business.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“He said within a few days, sir.”
“What kind of business is Mr. Everton in?”
“He’s a Bow Street Runner, sir.”
Jack’s pulse quickened. “Thank you.” He produced his card and handed it to her. “Please tell Mr. Everton to contact me when he returns. As a matter of urgency.”
The young woman’s pale eyes widened. “Yes, sir.” She bobbed and shut the door.
Jack came away puzzled as to why a Bow Street Runner would contact the Earl of Sedgwick and frustrated at the slow pace of the investigation. His visit to Bow Street Magistrate’s Court hadn’t been encouraging. Their prisoner refused to answer any questions, even with strong inducement. Why? Jack wondered if he feared for his life, as he’d said. Either way, he had to realize his future didn’t look promising. Jack considered visiting Will Darby again tonight but changed his mind. He needed to speak to the man he had seen with Will at the tavern, The Camden’s Head. There was a good chance Darby had confided in him.
Chapter Thirteen
The week followingtheir trip to the solicitor was wet and cold. Prue grew more and more restless at being forced to stay indoors.
“You remind me of a caged lion in the Tower at the London Menagerie,” Gramma said, throwing up her hands. “Now that that man is in custody and the rain has stopped, why not go for a walk?”
“I am sorry I’m restless, Gramma.” Prue gave her a guilty smile. “I expected to hear from the trustees by now.” But it was Lord Hereford she really hoped to see, bringing news concerning Everton.
Prue stepped out clutching her gray pelisse with the warm, fur collar around herself, as the autumn day was chilly. Winter wasn’t far away. She set off down the path to the river, the acrid smells of decay, damp vegetation, and odoriferous mud at low tide, tainting the air.
Reaching the shore, she stood watching the river traffic, the barges and wherries carrying goods. A grand yacht sailed close to shore and those on board waved to her. Prue waved back and continued walking. She reached the boundary of Gramma’s property and gazed out over the river, her attention caught by eight rowers, their oars sending a scull racing over the water. Prue stayed to watch them until they disappeared around a bend. Then she entered the woodland path that led back to the house.
At first, Prue ignored the rustling in the bushes, suspecting ahedgehog or badger. At the sound of footfall crashing though the undergrowth, she stopped, but before she could turn to see what, or who it was, someone grabbed her from behind and pulled a stifling hood pulled over her head. She gagged at the stale body odor and flailed, her fists hitting out at what she was now sure was a man. It might have been a rock for all the effect her fists had. Her screams muffled, she panicked and fought to free herself but soon found it useless, as a pair of strong arms lifted her like a sack of swansdown and strode through the woods with her.
Where was he taking her?
Prue’s heart beating like a frightened bird, her captive opened a door and thrust her onto the seat of some kind of vehicle.
“Who are you?” she cried out, reaching up to take off the hood. “Let me go!”
He captured her hands and tied them together with a cord. It cruelly rubbed her wrists. She heard his noisy breathing. He smelled unpleasantly of tobacco, hops, and rancid sweat. Her stomach clenched in revulsion.
“Take this thing off me!” Desperate for air, she pulled uselessly at the cloth over her head with her bound hands. Failing, she fell back against the squab. “I am suffocating.”
The carriage jerked forward at the crack of the coachman’s whip. Still no reply from him. “Who are you?” she asked again, yelling through the material pulled tightly over her face. “Where are you taking me?”
