Lawrence sucked in a breath and hammered the knocker hard against the brass plate.
They waited.
Silence.
Wycliff thumped the door with his fist, so hard the knocker rattled.
After another lengthy wait, Cavanagh opened the iron gate to the left, descended the stone steps and peered through the basement windows. “There’s no sign of the servants.” He rapped on the door, but no one rushed to see if it was the grocer’s delivery.
The skin on Lawrence’s neck prickled.
The muscles in his abdomen contracted.
Something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.
Briefly, he wondered if Bradley lay dead, too, but the absence of staff indicated the man had packed his belongings and moved his entire household elsewhere. Why? For fear he was to be Layton’s next target? For fear that someone might put the pieces together and accuse him of Wincote’s murder?
A loud crack rent the air, the sound followed by the smashing of glass on the tiled floor. Lawrence’s heartbeat accelerated.
Wycliff nudged his arm. “Cavanagh has found a way inside. Should the magistrate ask, we’ll say we were concerned for Bradley’s life.” He jerked his head towards the servants’ entrance. “Come. You wanted an opportunity to snoop around.”
Lawrence followed his friends into the house. Sharp slivers of glass from the broken pane in the door crunched beneath his feet. Still, no one came running to investigate the commotion.
The starkness of white sheets draped over the furniture in the drawing room was so opposed to his memory of the morbid decoration in the study.
The study was the only locked room in the house. One angry and disgruntled kick put paid to that problem. Inside, there wasn’t a white cover in sight. Everything was as it was the day they’d sat in the dusty room and received a frosty reception.
Coldness seeped into Lawrence’s bones.
It had nothing to do with his recollection of that day but stemmed from the sickening sensation that accompanied his sudden thought. Bradley and Layton were missing. And like a feckless fool, he had allowed Verity to return to the hotel, alone.
“The man’s copy of Vathek might prove enlightening.” Wycliff handed him the book where leaves of folded paper separated certain pages.
The urge to study the markings we
re not as great as the urge to race to Jaunay’s and assure himself all was well. “We’ll take it with us as evidence.”
Wycliff frowned. “We’re leaving so soon?”
A cavernous hole opened in Lawrence’s chest, and his next words hung heavily on his tongue. “I have a strange suspicion our quarry is three steps ahead in the game.” By God, he hoped he was wrong. The devil enjoyed causing him misery. “In wasting time here, I suspect I’ve made a grave mistake.”
Chapter Nineteen
Verity fidgeted in the carriage seat. She sat forward, staring at the passing buildings, though her mind was already inventing a scene where she raced into Jaunay’s to find Lawrence waiting patiently. Anxiety drew other images, too, and she had to shake away the vision of a bloated body floating face down in the Thames.
At first, the magistrate had found her story incredulous. Even when she showed him the threats in the book left at the hotel this morning, he looked at her as if she should be locked in an institution, not left to roam free and cause mayhem. But then she explained about the mark of the Brethren and his attitude changed.
From what she could decipher based on the gentleman’s conversation with his senior constable, Mr Wincote was the sixth man bearing the mark to suffer an untimely death. Joseph Bradley was the first—though she heard the magistrate question whether he had died in a duel. Four were recorded as accidents, including those from outside the borough. The purple bruises on Mr Wincote’s neck meant this one was most definitely murder.
Sleeth had ferried her to the offices in Queen Square where she had given her statement—a story that began with a demand for funds six months ago. She’d given the names of those who might verify their tale—the Wycliffs, Mrs Crandall, Dr Redman, to name a few. Satisfied, the magistrate requested that she remain at Jaunay’s while his constables pursued the obvious suspect—Mr Layton.
One would think she should feel relief having recounted her tale. But no. Only when wrapped in Lawrence’s warm embrace would she breathe easier again. Indeed, her heart raced at the first glimpse of the hotel’s facade.
Impatience saw her open the carriage door as the vehicle rolled to a stop. She threw her satchel onto the seat and jumped to the pavement before Sleeth could climb down from his box and lower the steps.
“Wait here, Sleeth. I shall be but a moment.”
Verity entered the hotel and hurried up to the first floor. She rapped on the door of room eight and waited. A sickening emptiness took hold when no one answered. Irrational thoughts played havoc with her mind. What if Mr Cavanagh and Mr Wycliff were unavailable and Lawrence had gone to see Mr Layton alone?