The fact the carriage had drawn to a stop near Clement’s Lane was not surprising. Indeed, Verity suspected the lane’s inhabitants might be easily bribed with a quart of gin and a scuttle of coal. And where better to keep a person prisoner than a cage in a dank cellar?
Questions pushed to the forefront of her mind. Did the fiend know Mr Layton had attacked Mr Trent, or was he the one who’d lashed out at the unsuspecting visitor?
“Did you hit Mr Trent on the head, just as you did the night he found you in the cellar?” she said as the brute prodded her in the side with the pistol’s muzzle and urged her to quicken her pace. “What surprises me is why you didn’t kill him then.”
Children stopped racing about the busy lane and stared at the hunched figure walking with an abnormal gait. Some pointed and jeered and threw cockle shells. Some ran to find their mamas.
To other onlookers, it appeared as though the poor man clung to her arm because he needed assistance. But during the short journey along the lane, she’d come to realise Mr Bradley had the strength of a beast.
She thought to cry out, but what if Lawrence was his prisoner, his fate dependent upon her cooperation?
“Mr Trent’s participation is integral to my plan.” Mr Bradley poked her again. “No one would blame me for lashing out at thieves and trespassers keen to invade my home.”
Was that an admission of guilt?
“But they might question why you have a cage in your cellar.”
He snorted. “It is not my cellar. Mr Layton owns the property, amongst others along this row. Few tenants dare to question their landlord.”
This man had an answer for everything.
They came to a halt at a paint-chipped door, though parts of the frame looked new. As Mr Bradley unlocked the door, he glanced at the fresh wood and with a smug grin said, “It’s surprising how quick a man can work when he has mouths to feed.”
Without further discussion, he pushed her into the hall and locked the front door. The word she had held at bay since leaving the hotel burst from her mouth in a panic.
“Lawrence?”
Silence.
Not a squeak or mumble.
“Trent cannot hear you.” Mr Bradley shoved her in the back, sending her crashing into the drawing room door. “Indeed, I guarantee you will never hear his arrogant voice again.”
Lord, no!
“What have you done?” Her knees buckled, and she gripped the doorframe to help keep upright. “Where is he?”
“Now that’s a question no one here can answer.” His cryptic words grated. “Some believe in heaven. Some believe in hell. Some believe—”
His taunting comments faded into the background when she spotted someone sprawled on the drawing room floor, a coarse blanket thrown over their head and body so one did not have to see the cold, glassy stare of death.
The sight chilled her blood. Cut her to the bone.
Lawrence!
It took effort not to collapse into a heap, thump the wooden boards and wail at the unfairness of it all. Instead, she raced forward and dropped to her knees next to the lifeless form. A surge of anger burst to life in her chest. Bile burned in her throat. She tore off the blanket, rolled the lifeless man onto his back and stared at his ashen face.
Not Lawrence.
Oh, praise the saints!
John Layton.
The blanket had covered more than a dead man. It covered the sticky pool of burgundy blood, and the polished handle of the knife protruding from Mr Layton’s chest.
Verity came slowly to her feet and turned to the man who surveyed the scene with a look of amused detachment. “You killed him.” It was a statement, not a question. “Somehow you killed Mr Wincote, too.”
Was he ridding the world of all those who knew his secret?