“Which is?” queried Sheffield.
“A very strong acid,” answered Tyler, fixing Wrexford with a meaningful look. It’s a common ingredient in chemical experiments.”
“Ah. Well, assuming you didn’t kill him, Wrex . . .” Sheffield raised an inquiring brow.
“I did not.”
“Then it would appear that the murderer was intent on making it look like you did. And yet, having gone through all that trouble, why didn’t he leave an incriminating clue?”
The same thought had occurred to Wrexford. “You heard Robin Red-Breast. The investigation is just beginning. There may very well be one and the authorities just haven’t found it.”
“Or they have, and are keeping the information tucked inside their scarlet waistcoats for the moment,” pointed out his valet.
The earl frowned. “For what reason?”
“I have no idea, milord.” Tyler rubbed pensively at his chin. “Perhaps it would be wise for me to return to Fores’s print shop and ask a few questions about Quill and where he can be found. If anyone can tell us more about the murder scene, it is he. And that knowledge may prove useful to have.”
“Indeed,” mused Wrexford. “If for no other reason than to learn how the fellow digs up his dirt. The next time I buy a ladybird a necklace, I prefer the price to remain private. The damn scribbler cost me five hundred pounds when La Belle Serena got wind of Diana Fairfield’s gift and demanded an extra bauble not to kick up a dust over a certain embarrassing incident.”
“Bracelets and baubles are not your primary worry, sir. The reverend had a great many followers here in London. The authorities will feel pressure to solve his murder quickly.”
“And why, pray tell, should that concern me?” snapped the earl. “I didn’t do it.”
“What Tyler is tactfully trying to tell you is that whether you are guilty or innocent is irrelevant,” said Sheffield. “It’s all about appearances, and you have to admit, you are the most likely suspect.”
Wrexford uttered a rude oath.
“Swear all you like,” retorted his friend. “But you know I’m right.”
Much as it galled him, he had to concede the point. “Very well, very well. Tyler, return to Fores’s shop and find out Quill’s address. I think it’s time we had a little talk with the artist.” He reached in his coat pocket and took out a purse. The muted clink of metal on metal sounded as it slid across the table. “Take this. Gold is an amazingly effective lubricant for even the most stubborn of tongues.”
“Very good, milord. I shall report back later today.”
“Seeing as things are well in hand, I shall toddle off to White’s and spend the afternoon drinking other people’s brandy and listening to the latest gossip,” announced Sheffield sardonically. “Would you like me to place a wager in the betting book on whether you’ll hang for the crime?”
* * *
“M’lady?”
Charlotte looked up from her sketch on the Prince Regent’s latest peccadillo. Thank God Prinny was always a subject for satire when she was in need of subject matter for her next print. As of yet, she had not heard any juicy tidbits on how the murder investigation was progressing. But now that the boys had returned from the heart of Town that might be about to change.
“Do come in, Raven.” Seeing the smaller shadow behind him, she quickly added. “And bring Hawk with you.”
“I know ye don’t like to be interrupted when you’re working, but there was a fancy toff—”
“You mean a gentleman,” she interrupted. Perhaps it was a lost cause, but she was doing her best to give the boys a modicum of education. They were both very bright, and under her tutelage they had learned to read simple texts. If only she could afford proper schooling—
“Aye, a gentleman,” said Raven, cutting short her musing. “And he was arsking a lot of questions around the print shop.”
Her fingers tightened on her pen. “What sort of questions?”
“He wanted te know where A. J. Quill lived,” piped up Hawk. “But Mr. Fores told him nuffink.”
Charlotte made herself relax. There was nothing to tell. One of the terms Anthony had negotiated with Fores was a promise never to betray his identity. And to make sure of that, he had given the print shop owner a false name—to protect his reputation, he had told Charlotte, for when his paintings became more famous than those of Rembrandt.
It didn’t matter that those dreams had turned to dust and that Anthony was now no longer among the living. Fores didn’t know that. Even if he somehow uncovered the truth, A. J. Quill’s work was making bagfuls of blunt for the shop. He wasn’t going to risk ruining a very profitable arrangement.
“Nor will he, Hawk,” she assured him.
