Pryor gave a helpless shrug. “I’d help you if I could, miss, but that was months ago. This is a busy place, and the days tend to all run into eachother, ye see.”
Sophia’s face fell. “I do see, of course.”
“Just one more thing, Mr. Pryor, if you would.” Tristan braced his elbow on the bar and gave Pryor an affable smile. “Another customer of yours was also taken up for a crime committed at St. Clement Dane’s Church, this one a great deal more serious. Do you recognize the name Jeremy Ives?”
Pryor had been running a damp cloth over the bar, but at Jeremy’s name his head snapped up. “Ives? ’Course I rememberhim. He was the blackguard what murdered that Bow Street Runner. I told my wife, I says, Ives must have slit that poor man’s throat not more’n half an hour after he left here that night. Gives ye the shivers to think aboutit, don’t it?”
“Had you ever seen Ives here before?” Jeremy had told them he’d never been to the Turk’s Head before that night. Tristan believed him, but this was a good way to gauge Pryor’s honesty and the accuracyof his memory.
“Nay, never laid eyes on him before.” Pryor frowned. “Now ye mention him, I don’t mind telling ye he was the last lad in the world I ever would have saidwere a killer.”
Sophia opened her mouth, but Tristan shot her a warning look. This wasn’t the time to argue Jeremy’s innocence. “Indeed, why is that, Mr. Pryor? He’s a—that is, hewasan unusually large man, from what I understand. Certainly, he was large enough to easily overpower his victim.”
“He was a big one, aye, but a gentle bloke, for all that. More childlike, ye understand, than ye’d expect for a bloke that size. He didn’t seem like the violent sort.” Mr. Pryor braced his hands on the bar, his brow furrowing as he thought back to that night. “He was soft-spoken, like, and polite. The place was stuffed to the rafters that night, ye see, it being a meeting night, but he waited patient as a saint while everyone around him was demanding their drink—”
“A meeting night?” Sophia interrupted, a sudden tension in her voice. “What sort of meeting?”
“LCS meeting. They come the first Tuesday of every month, ye see, just like clockwork.”
“LCS? You mean the London Corresponding Society? They meet here at the Turk’s Head?” Tristan asked, his casual tone utterly at odds with the chill rushingover his skin.
Mr. Pryor gave him an odd look. “Aye. Every first Tuesday of the month, like I said.”
The London Corresponding Society had formed in January of the previous year, and had been a thorn in the government’s side ever since. And, by default, Lord Everly’s side, and the side of every one of William Pitt’s supporters in Parliament. Pitt tended to frown upon radical reform groups in general, but he’d singled out the LCS for his particular ire. Not surprisingly, he didn’t care for the idea of every citizen in Englandhaving a vote.
“You wouldn’t happen to recall, Mr. Pryor, if Patrick Dunn was a member of the LCS?” Under the bar, Sophia reached for Tristan’s hand. “That is, was he generally here on meeting nights?”
Mr. Pryor’s face cleared. “Aye, he was. I didn’t recall that at first, but now ye ask I remember he came on Tuesdays with the other LCS blokes.”
Sophia’s palm had gone damp against Tristan’s, and he knew she was thinking the same thing he was. “Thank you, Mr. Pryor. You’ve beenvery helpful.”
“My God, Tristan,” Sophia whispered as he took her arm and led her out to the carriage. “Lord Everly’s even more of a villain than I supposed. He’s got Peter Sharpe going after members of the London Corresponding Society! Sharpe accuses them of theft, and the fourth man…what of the fourth man? He lurks in the shadows, and if Sharpe’s business goes awry, he leaps out, and sets it right again?”
Tristan gave a grim nod. “That’s my guess. Today is Monday, and tomorrow is the first Tuesday of the month. Whatever it is Everly’s planning next will happen tomorrow night at St. ClementDane’s Church.”
Sophia ducked inside the carriage. “Yes, but who’s their next target? We have to find out, and make certain he stays away from St. Clement Dane’s churchyard tomorrow night.”
“No.” Tristan closed the carriage door behind him and sat back against the seat, his brow furrowed in thought. “No, whoever it is, he’ll have to go to St. Clement Dane’s, and let the thing play out. It’s the only way to catch Sharpe and his accomplice at the crime. If their victim doesn’t come, there’s no one for Sharpe to accuse, and no reason for the fourth man to intervene. We may never get a look at him then.”
Sophia turned a stricken gaze on Tristan. “The fourth man will be waiting to pounce as soon as Sharpe accosts their next victim. We have to find out who they’re targeting next, Tristan, and warn him of the danger. He has to know what to expect when he passes by the church, or this thing could go terribly wrong.”
“We’ll see what we can discover at Everly’s tonight. Whatever else happens, I intend to be at St. Clement Dane’s tomorrow night to catch Peter Sharpe, and find out who this fourth man is before he hurts someone else. Brixton and a few of Willis’s Bow Street Runners cancome with me.”
Sophia shook her head. “Daniel’s not in London at the moment. Lady Clifford sent him off somewhere with Jeremy.”
Tristan blew out a breath. “Damn it. How far have they gone? Can he be brought back to London quickly?”
“I truly don’t know where they are, Tristan. I wasn’t lying to you about that. Lady Clifford is careful to keep each of us focused only on whatever part of a task we’ve been assigned. There’s fewer chances of errors that way.”
“Clever of her,” Tristan muttered, then tapped on the roof to signal the driver. “Will you come back to Great Marlborough Street with me?”
“No, not just yet. Drop me at No. 26 Maddox, will you? I need to speak to Lady Clifford. I’ll let her know what we’ve discovered about Lord Everly and the LCS, and see if Daniel can’t be made available tomorrow night. I’ll return to Great Marlborough Street later for our foray into Lord Everly’s study.”
Tristan’s gray eyes were dark with worry. “Or you could stay at the Clifford School. I promise I’ll come and see you as soon aseverything is—”
Sophia pressed her fingers to his lips before he could say anything more. “You’re wasting your breath, my lord. You know very well I’m going with you.”
“Yes, I suppose I do. Very well, then, we’ll do this your way. But I’ll have my way, as well.” He turned her hand to press a kiss to her palm, his gaze meeting hers. “Don’t keep me waiting long tonight,Miss Monmouth.”
