“You’re assuming the symbols are religious.”
“They are crosses. How could they not be religious?”
“They look like crosses.” Kendra shook her head. “We’re dealing with too many variables. We can’t even be certain that the unsub wanted Sir Giles found. He was only discovered because Snake was trying to outrun a watchman.”
“But he must have thought Sir Giles would be found eventually. Why else go through the trouble of doing what was done to the body?”
“I’m not sure.” Variables, Kendra thought again. “Maybe the unsub planned to bring attention to the body in some way, but it was preempted by Snake and the watchman.”
Kendra let her gaze travel across the empty chamber. Above them, the pigeons’ throaty coos and fluttering echoed off the high ceiling. She’d hoped to find something here that her 19th-century counterparts had missed. Was that hubris on her part? Maybe. But they sure as hell didn’t understand the concept of preserving a crime scene. If there had been physical evidence left behind, it was gone now.
“I think the killer is familiar with this area,” Kendra said, circling back to the earlier point. “The square is isolated from a main thoroughfare. It’s not something you stumble across. That’s a thread to pull. Maybe Mr. Kelly can find out more about this square, this church. Or—” She stopped abruptly, a chill racing down her arms.
“What?” Rebecca demanded, casting a fearful glance around.
The silence seemed profound. Then they heard it. The soft scrape, like the sole of a shoe against stone.
Plunging her hand into her reticule to close over the muff pistol, Kendra began to run for the door.
“Kendra!”
She caught sight of a dark shape moving beyond the door that led into the vestibule. There came the sound of running feet, and then the outside door banged shut. Kendra’s heart accelerated as she ran through the vestibule, and she lost a moment shoving the outside door open. Once through, she leapt down onto the pavement, her gaze sweeping the dilapidated square. It took only a second for its emptiness to register. Shit! Where did he go?
Kendra struggled to control her breathing as she let her gaze roam over the crumbling abandoned buildings and broken windows. Tattered gray curtains curled like banshee fingers around an open window frame. More curtains flapped in the breeze, which had grown stronger. The sun was still out, high in the sky, but this desolate section of the city seemed darker somehow. An urban canyon created by the surrounding tenements. The lack of people was eerie, giving it the feel of a postapocalyptic world.
“Kendra.” Rebecca panted as she came running up behind her.
In her peripheral vision, Kendra thought she saw something. She spun around.
There. A movement inside the entrance to the building across the street, a shifting between light and dark.
Or a figment of my imagination?
Rebecca said anxiously, “I think we should get Benjamin.”
Kendra ignored her, jogging across the street. The door was broken and left askew. She drew her weapon as she approached the front steps. Behind her, she heard Rebecca let out an exasperated hiss. She strained to listen for other noises. Something . . .
Kendra climbed the steps, ready to duck through the door, when the creature lunged at her, gnarled hands waving.
“Go away! Go away! Go away!”
Rebecca gasped.
“Shit!” Startled, Kendra fell back down the steps, just managing to not land on her ass or accidentally shoot the old crone. Her heart beat hard in her chest, her blood thrumming wildly in her veins as she stared at the screeching woman.
She wore a filthy black dress and clutched a moth-eaten knitted shawl around her skinny shoulders. The linen cap that covered her wiry gray hair might have been white at one point, but was now a grayish brown. The old woman’s face was so deeply lined that it looked as though it had been cut apart and sewn back together again. Her eyes were sunken into her head, but Kendra caught their dark blue glitter as they fixed on her.
“Sh-sh! Sh-sh!” The old woman lifted her knobby finger to her thin lips, and her mouth twisted into a smile, revealing approximately six crooked, rotting teeth. “Go away! Sh-sh!”
“She’s harmless,” Rebecca murmured, pity in her eyes.
The woman cocked her head to the side as she regarded Rebecca with her mad eyes. “She’s ’armless,” she repeated, and released a dry cackle. “Sh-sh. She’s ’armless!”
Kendra edged back as the old woman shuffled forward. Not because she was afraid—Rebecca was right; the crone was mad, but harmless—but because she was certain the old woman was infested with lice or God knew what parasite. Kendra’s nose wrinkled with distaste as she caught a whiff of the transient as she continued to hurry past them, muttering and laughing, “Sh-sh! She’s ’armless! She’s ’armless! Go away!”
“Jesus,” Kendra muttered, and shook her head.
They watched the old woman hobble down the street, passing Benjamin and disappearing around the corner.
Rebecca cleared her throat. “Are we finished here? Shall we return to Grosvenor Square?”
“Yeah,” Kendra said, but her gaze continued to roam the square. Her skin prickled. She listened intently, but heard nothing beyond the noise of nesting pigeons and the breeze as it moved through the urban canyon, fluttering rotting curtains. “Yeah, we’re done here.” She shoved the pistol back into her reticule. “But there’s one more stop we need to make.”
19
Even though London coffeehouses were not as popular as they had been twenty years ago, the Liber was doing brisk business when Alec and Sam arrived. The clientele was well-heeled, running the gamut from merchants, bankers, office clerks, and young dandies to Corinthians, the last being easy to spot in their fashionable riding habits, the men carrying just the tiniest whiff of horseflesh.
As his gaze skimmed across the crowd, Alec wondered which individuals were Irish spies or French agents. The war with Napoleon had ended with the dictator’s exile on St. Helena, but intelligence gathering never ended. On both sides, he thought, remembering how d’Ambray had suggested that more than a few of the Liber’s coffee drinkers were probably British operatives sent by Whitehall to listen in on discussions and report any seditious thoughts that might be going around.
By mutual agreement, Alec and Sam wove their way across the room, and slid into a high-paneled booth in the corner.
Three gentlemen in the next table were engaged in a lively debate about how the Prince Regent would destroy the monarchy with his extravagant spending. A few heads were cocked in that direction. And there are the British spies, Alec thought with some amusement.
Another conversation rose above the more measured murmur of the room, one man at a nearby table opining that it was time for women to be given the right to vote. His companion clearly didn’t share his opinion, chortling heavily and declaring that it was a scientific fact that women with their smaller brains did not have the intellectual capacity to become involved in politics. Briefly, Alec had the entertaining vision of Kendra boxing the fellow’s ears.
A pretty maidservant approached with two earthenware mugs and a silver pot of coffee. “Do ye want somethin’ ter eat?” she said with a smile as she set down the mugs and filled them.
“No, thank you. But we would like to speak to the proprietor,” Alec told her. “Silas Fitzpatrick.”
She eyed him through her lashes. “And who wants ter talk ter him?”
Alec smiled. “Alec Morgan, the Marquis of Sutcliffe.”
She looked at Sam.
“Sam Kelly, Bow Street Runner.”
The maid’s brow wrinkled. But if she thought it odd that a marquis was sitting with a Bow Street Runner, she kept her thoughts to herself. Without another word, she left their table. They watched her as she circled the room, replenishing coffee mugs. She stopped at one table across the room, leaning down to whisper in a man’s ear. Alec saw the other man’s head come up sharply, and swivel aro
und to look in their direction. Alec lifted his coffee mug in acknowledgement as he met the other man’s stare.
Silas Fitzpatrick scraped back his chair and stood up. He was of average height, with a body that was lean and tough beneath his white shirt, brown tweed jacket, and buff-colored pantaloons. His cravat was carelessly tied. Alec’s valet would have been horrified at the slipshod manner, but Alec suspected that it was deliberate, with Fitzpatrick wanting to give the impression of rakishness. Or maybe it was a way to signal his identity to spies coming into the Liber. Such tricks were done in the intelligence world, Alec knew.
Alec judged him to be a couple years older than himself, in his mid-thirties. He wore his black hair long enough to brush his collar. His face was narrow and ruggedly handsome with sharp planes, his skin browned by the sun. Which might be a little odd for an owner of a coffeehouse, Alec reflected, but not all that odd for a possible spy.
The Irishman’s mouth curved in a smile, but his dark gray eyes were hard and assessing as he sauntered up to their table. “You wanted to speak to me?”
Alec knew the Liber had opened two years ago, but Silas Fitzpatrick’s Irish accent was muted enough for him to suspect that the man had been in England much longer.
“Yes.” Alec returned the man’s smile with a careful one of his own, and gestured to the space across from him in the booth. “Please, join us.”
Fitzpatrick hesitated, then jerked his shoulders in a rough shrug. He sat and asked, “What’s this about? I don’t suppose either of you lads are wantin’ the name of my coffee bean supplier.”
Sam said, “Maybe later. Right now, I’d like ter know what you were doin’ on Wednesday evening.”
Fitzpatrick didn’t pretend surprise. “Ah. This has to do with Sir Giles’s death.”
Sam looked at him closely. “You know about that, do you?”
Fitzpatrick snorted. “Everybody in town knows about it, I’d say.” He made himself comfortable, lifting his arms to stretch across the top of the booth, legs spread. He grinned across at them. “Heard he got garroted in a church.”
“You seem to be real pettish about his murder,” Sam remarked.
“I’m not gonna pretend that I’ll miss the bastard. Me da would be turnin’ over in his grave if I told such a bouncer. Sir Giles was an opponent of Irish emancipation.”
Alec said, “Half of England is against Irish emancipation.”
Fitzpatrick shifted his gaze back to Alec. “Well, seeing how you are a lord and all, I don’t suppose you would understand the suffering of us wee folks.”
“Save your blarney, Fitz,” Sam snapped. “And answer the question. Where were you Wednesday evening, after nine P.M.?”
The proprietor’s face hardened. “I know why you’re askin’, but I can’t help you. I was at home.”
Sam raised his eyebrows, not bothering to hide his disbelief. “A man such as yourself was at home alone at nine in the evenin’? ’Cause I know this here coffeehouse stays open until eleven o’clock.”
“I left Pru over there to lock up. Trust her with me life—and me cash box. And I didn’t say I was alone.” Now he gave a self-satisfied smile.
Alec studied him. “Then if you give us the name of your lady bird, we can be off.”
“Well, now, I would.” He stretched a bit, scratched behind his ear. “Truly I would. But she wasn’t exactly a lady. I met her when I was doing business in Covent Garden. ’Tis cold, in case you haven’t noticed. Can’t blame me for wantin’ a wench to warm me bed at night.”
Sam said, “We’ll need the lass’s name ter confirm your account.”
“Dorothea . . . Diana . . . or was it Dora?” The Irishman shrugged, still smiling. “We didn’t do a lot of talkin’. If I see her again, I’ll be sure to send her down to Bow Street.”
Sam’s mouth tightened. “Were you causin’ Sir Giles trouble?”
“Now why would I be doing such a thing?”
Alec leaned forward, fixing his gaze on the other man. “Maybe because he’d become a threat to you.”
Fitzpatrick did a commendable job of exhibiting bewilderment. “How so?”
Alec said, “We know that the Home Office is aware of your establishment. Maybe Sir Giles learned that you were passing confidential information to your likeminded countrymen, or stoking traitorous rhetoric and rebellion. Men have been jailed for sedition.” He allowed his eyes to travel over the other man. “I don’t think you’d fancy a stay in Newgate.”
“I’d be an odd sort of fellow if I did fancy that, wouldn’t I?” The Irishman rubbed the side of his nose, and grinned. “You’re correct that Sir Giles thought my humble establishment was a front for the most nefarious sort of criminal activity. But despite his spies and such . . .”
Fitzpatrick made a show of studying his clientele. “He had no proof,” he said, bringing his gaze back to Alec. “And because he had no proof, he threatened me—not the other way around. He owed me an apology.”
Sam glowered at the other man. “Seein’ how he’s dead, I guess that’s not gonna happen, eh?”
“I guess not,” Fitzpatrick agreed. “I suppose I need to be satisfied that the bastard is dining with the devil. Now, gentlemen . . .” He stood up in a swift, athletic motion.
“One moment,” Alec said mildly. The Irishman had started to turn away, but now he paused, arching one eyebrow as he waited for Alec to continue. “If you didn’t kill him, do you have any idea who did?”
Alec half expected a glib response. But the charm that the Irishman wore as casually as his cravat suddenly vanished. “I’d think any of the poor wretches whose lives were made miserable by his strategies could have done the deed.” The gray eyes brightened, and Alec recognized the emotion as rage. “It wasn’t me, but, by God, I’d buy the man who stopped his claret a cup of me finest coffee. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I have a business to run. Good day.”
They paid for their coffee and left the shop, unaware of the man who slid from his booth and followed.
“I’ll have me men go ter Fitzpatrick’s neighborhood and ask around ter see if anyone saw him on Wednesday night,” Sam said.
“Why do I get the feeling that you won’t find anyone?”
“Aye. I think he was lying about his whereabouts and the convenient doxie. But it’s a thread ter follow.”
Alec shot the Bow Street Runner an amused smile. “Now you’re starting to sound like Kendra—Miss Donovan.”
“Aye, the lass has a way of speaking. And making sense.”
Alec nodded. His smile faded as his thoughts returned to the Irishman. “Fitzpatrick didn’t bother to hide his hatred for Sir Giles.”
“That’s because everyone knows about it,” said a new voice from behind them.
Alec and Sam both gave a jerk and swung around.
“Muldoon.” The Bow Street Runner said the name like it was a curse. “Eavesdropping again?”
The reporter grinned. “I told you, ’tis the best way of gathering information. Unfortunately, I was too far away to hear what Fitzpatrick was telling you gentlemen. Care to share?”
“Will we be in tomorrow morning’s newspaper?” asked Alec. He pivoted again and began walking briskly in the direction he and Sam had been heading. Both Sam and Muldoon hurried to catch up.
“I don’t have to identify you,” Muldoon said.
Alec cast the man a narrow-eyed glance. “Just as you didn’t identify the Duke of Aldridge and Miss Donovan?”
“I didn’t! Town is filled with high-ranking noblemen, in case you haven’t noticed, milord.”
“Involved in murder? With a young lady? Do you take me for a flat, Muldoon?”
“Never. But you have to admit His Grace and Miss Donovan’s interest in murder is peculiar.”
“All the more reason not to have it written about,” Alec said tersely.
“Of course,” the reporter agreed readily. “What were you doing at the Liber? It appeared that you and Mr. Fitzpatrick were involved in a heavy discu
ssion.”
Sam scowled. “What were you doing there?”
Muldoon grinned at him. “Following up on information I’d been given.”
“What information?” Sam demanded. “And remember, you gave your word that you’d share any information pertaining ter Sir Giles’s murder.”
“I imagined an equal exchange of information,” Muldoon remarked, but lifted a hand as though to ward off the glower Sam shot him. “All right. See now, everyone knows that Sir Giles believed Mr. Fitzpatrick’s coffeehouse was a meeting place for foreign spies. It’s called the Liber, after all. You’d have to have cotton for brains not to know where Fitzpatrick’s sympathies lie.”
“I don’t have to struggle too mightily to see where your sympathies lay in that regard, either, Mr. Muldoon,” Alec countered dryly. “Fitzpatrick’s allegiance to Irish independence would have drawn Sir Giles’s regard, but Fitzpatrick’s vitriol against Sir Giles seems out of proportion. I understand that politics and patriotic fervor can inflame one’s passions, but this—this seems like something else.”
Muldoon nodded. “Mr. Fitzpatrick’s animosity toward Sir Giles is well-known enough for me to make inquiries. As an Irishman myself, you might say I have connections to the Erin émigré community.” The reporter huffed a little in an effort to keep up with Alec’s long stride. “You are correct, milord, in thinking this is personal. At least for Fitzpatrick.”
That stopped Alec, who spun to face the reporter, and only Muldoon’s quick reflexes saved him from crashing into the marquis. “How so?” Alec demanded.
Muldoon’s affable expression disappeared. “Fitzpatrick believed Sir Giles was responsible for his sister’s death.”
Sam blew out a breath. “That would certainly cause animosity. What happened?”
“The story is that three years ago, the Irish village of Clondalkin had been causing a wee bit of trouble with their protests against English rule. Sir Giles ordered British troops to stop any rebellion in its infancy. There was a lass in the village. From what I heard, a pretty little thing.” Muldoon’s mouth thinned as he continued, “She was set upon by one of the British soldiers. He ravaged her, then murdered her. Strangled her with his bare hands.”
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