His expression remained unruffled, which helped calm her own nerves. “Perhaps you are thinkingtoohard. Let’s start with some basics. Was there mud on his boots?”
“Yes, but that was not unusual.” She made a face. “It’s impossible to avoid it in this neighborhood. Just look at your own.”
He contemplated his feet for several moments. “What color mud? Was it black, brown, red, clay?”
Charlotte saw his point, which only made her feel more miserable. “I . . . I can’t remember.”
“Yes, you can. Think harder, Mrs. Sloane.”
“You have to understand, I was distracted by Anthony’s suffering in a way that is hard to define. I was not looking at him in the same way as I do at other people.”
“I see.” Wrexford looked thoughtful. “You mean to say love painted him in a unique hue?”
“I didn’t . . .” God Almighty, how to answer? She was not about to bare her soul to him. “It’s not that simple.”
He gave a wry laugh. “It is a universally acknowledged truth that Love is never simple. Nor easy.”
Glib phrases, which glided smoothly from his tongue. And yet she couldn’t help but wonder if he spoke from experience.
Raven stirred, drawing her attention, but his eyes remained closed. She started to turn back to the earl when a sudden flash of memory froze her in place.
“Red,” she whispered. “The mud had a distinct reddish cast to it, and was flecked with bits of broken brick.”
Wrexford edged forward on the bed. “A warehouse area.” He thought for a moment. “I wonder what sort of goods would be familiar to Canaday? He had an expertise in geology and the history of mining in Cornwall.”
“Tin,” said Charlotte. “Cornwall is known for tin.”
“Which is used to produce pewter,” he mused.
“Blossom Lane off White Lion Yard is an area that caters to cheap kitchenware and tavern supplies,” offered Charlotte.
“It is a start. When Henning returns, he and I shall pay a visit—”
“N-Not B-Blossom Lane, m’lady.”
Charlotte nearly wept in relief at hearing the boy’s voice.
“Farther south, in Artillery Lane,” croaked Raven as he struggled to sit up. “T-That’s where Mr. Sloane went.”
Wrexford helped him settle against the pillows. “Are you sure, lad?”
“Aye.” Raven shot a guilty look at Charlotte. “I . . . I couldn’t help being curious. He was going out more and more, so . . .”
“So you followed him,” said Wrexford.
The boy nodded. “It weren’t hard. He never bothered te keep a rum eye on his surroundings, even though I kept telling him te be more watchful.”
As did I, thought Charlotte.
“It seemed an argy-bargy sort of place for him te be visiting, so I sneaked in after him. There was a big room and lots of paints and rolls of canvas. Mr. Sloane worked in there.”
Raven paused and swallowed hard. “But there was also a dark stairwell past the workrooms, and I heard voices comin’ up from the cellar. So I scarpered down te have a look, but the door was closed, and I didn’t like the stink. It smelled like something right nasty was burning.”
“What else?” pressed Wrexford.
Charlotte, too, felt the boy was holding something back. “We won’t be angry, sweeting. We just need to know.”
Remorse shadowed his face but he nodded. “I went back the next night—just te see what was down there. I shimmied through a back window on the main floor, but the cellar door had a big, fancy lock and I didn’t want to diddle with it.”
