The Runner’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. He turned a page in his notebook. “Getting back to last night, milord, did your walk take you anywhere near St. Stephens Church on Black Swan Lane?”
“I have no idea. As I told you, I am usually lost in thought.”
More scribbling. Thescratch-scratchsound made him grit his teeth.
Griffin finally looked up from his notebook. “Tell me, sir, what were your thoughts when you heard that the reverend had been murdered?”
“That the sanctimonious windbag deserved to have his throat cut,” snapped Wrexford. “London’s air is bad enough without having it further befouled with buffle-headed superstitions and ignorant lies.”
Sheffield sat up a little straighter. “Careful, Wrex,” he murmured. “Not everyone appreciates your peculiar sense of humor.”
“And just how do you know the reverend had his throat cut?” the Runner quickly demanded.
The earl let out an impatient sigh. “Because the Honorable Mr. Sheffield here kindly informed me of that fact last night—”
“Along with the rest of the gentlemen present in the main gaming room of Lucifer’s Lair,” interjected his friend. “The gruesome news was all over Town. I heard the details at White’s, where the talk was of nothing else.”
“Hmmph.” The Runner started to jot something more in his notebook.
“Bloody hell,” muttered the earl.
But before he could go on, the breakfast room door opened yet again, admitting his valet. Tyler was cradling a thick roll of paper in his arms.
“I’ve just come from the print shop, and—” He stopped short on seeing the red-breasted Runner. “Forgive me, sir. I didn’t realize you were entertaining company.”
He waved off the apology. “Did Quill comment on the murder?”
“Indeed. Have a look for yourself.”
Wrexford quickly cleared a place on the table. Tyler unrolled the print and anchored the four corners with the breakfast plates before stepping back.
Sheffield, all trace of ennui gone, joined the earl in studying the detailed drawing. After a slight hesitation, the Runner did the same. The room fell silent, save for the slight hiss of the oil burners beneath the chafing dishes.
A minute slid by, and then another, and another.
“Look at the coloring,” murmured Wrexford, subjecting the half-severed head to closer scrutiny. “How in the name of Satan does Quill manage this?” He looked up sharply. “Is it accurate?” he asked of the Runner.
Griffin didn’t reply, but the tightening of his jaw was an eloquent enough answer. He blew out his breath and countered with a question of his own. “Why don’tyoutellme, milord?”
Their gazes locked.
“You’re wasting your time here. I didn’t kill him.”
“So you say, milord.”
“As does the evidence,” replied Wrexford. “For I am assuming if you had any tangible proof of my guilt, I would already be cooling my heels in a Newgate cell.”
“The investigation is just beginning.” The Runner snapped his book shut. “At the moment, I have nothing further to ask. But I daresay you will be hearing from me again.”
Sheffield watched the man stalk out of the room. “What a tedious fellow.”
“Tedious, but no fool,” murmured Tyler. He looked to Wrexford, but the earl had already returned to examining the details of the print.
“It’s uncanny—Quill must be a demon or a djinn,” intoned Wrexford, “for the fellow certainly seems to possess unholy powers of perception. How else to explain his intimate acquaintance with every sordid secret in London?”
“A good question,” replied Tyler. “But you’re right. I assume you’re looking at the color and strange mottling on the reverend’s skin.”
“Yes. My guess is it was caused by oil of vitriol.”
