Chapter 16

16

B ill Murdoch descended the steps leading down to The Bearded Vulture's dimly lit cellar. He'd received the missive summoning him to this place upon his return from Croft House and had come as quickly as he could.

His shoes scraped the uneven stone, one hand pressing into the plastered wall for support. The temperature grew increasingly chill and a musty smell swept up to greet him. A steady dripping sound came from somewhere nearby.

He reached the end of the stairs and continued onward, past the guttering torches and toward a heavy oak door. His fingers curled around the iron handle and a solid push shoved it open, admitting him to the rickhouse where casks full of aging brandy lined every wall, top to bottom.

"You're late," Simmons informed him in a smooth voice. Impeccably dressed and of slim build, the morgue employee looked more like a secretary than the sort of person Croft's father had called on to clean up various messes.

"My apologies," Bill said, directing the words not only at Simmons, but at the rest of the men he'd come to meet. There were eight in total besides himself, all tied to crime in some way or other and all supportive of the Crofts. "The hackney driver took a wrong turn."

Fitzherbert gave a disgruntled snort, forcing a chill to the nape of Bill's neck. He swallowed and did his best to hide the unease he experienced at becoming the focus of someone who specialized in torture.

A deep inhale helped steady his nerves. He took a step forward and approached the worm-eaten table around which those present were gathered, located the last remaining chair, and sat.

He met Aderlay's gaze. The forger, whom Bill considered a longtime friend, dipped his head in greeting but refrained from adding a smile, his expression appropriately somber in light of the subject they would be discussing.

Bill considered the rest of the men: Chapman, with his passion for explosives; Burton, a thief who specialized in art and often collaborated with Aderlay; Ellis, a chameleon fluent in numerous languages; Lee, a charmer who ran a tavern beneath which counterfeit bank notes were printed; and Taylor, who sponsored most of the bawds in the City.

"As you've all been made aware," Simmons said, " Wycliff is dead – shot at short range in his St. Giles home."

"The bastard probably asked for it," Fitzherbert muttered, his cold eyes making the temperature drop by another degree. "You know how he was. We all do."

"What concerns me," said Simmons, "is the question of who might have dared."

"Any idea?" Lee inquired.

Simmons slid his steady gaze to each of them in turn. A pause and then, "All I know is that Croft was there. He sent word to Doctor Fellowes regarding the corpse. I went to pick it up."

Bill stared at Simmons in shock. The implication that Croft could have broken the most important rule of all – the one that prevented them from acting against one another without majority rule – was inconceivable. He shook his head. "I don't believe Croft would have done this."

"I'm not saying he did," Simmons told him. "But one of the beggars I spoke with did place him at Wycliff's house yesterday morning."

"And the children who lived there?" Burton asked. "What did they tell you?"

"Nothing. They were gone. All of them. Before I showed up." Simmons pursed his lips.

Bill chose not to mention the ones Croft had brought to his home. He narrowed his gaze on Simmons. "What of the timing? Considering your experience, you must have a rough idea of when Wycliff was killed. "

"I suspect it happened a couple of hours before I arrived at the scene."

"Not during the day then, but at night," Bill pointed out. He settled back in his chair, arms crossed and chin slightly raised with annoyance. There was nothing worse than having to drag information from people.

"A point I was getting to, Murdoch." Bill scoffed and Simmons drew a deep breath, his attention withdrawing from Bill until it encompassed everyone present. "A masked man was seen in those streets at roughly one o'clock this morning. Croft showed up again about one hour later, but quickly departed."

"In other words," Chapman said, "it looks like someone else might have done it."

"Precisely." The confirmation from Simmons made the world grow uncomfortably still.

"Who?" Fitzherbert demanded when no one else uttered a word.

"Devil if I know," Simmons replied, "but if I ever find out, I'll skin the bastard alive."

"And Croft?" Chapman asked.

Fitzherbert levelled him with a chilling look. "What about him?"

"He ought to be here if he's not responsible." Chapman turned to Simmons. "You know as well as I that we operate at his discretion. I'd hate to fall out of favor with him over this."

"I share your concern," Simmons said, "but until we know who that masked individual was, we can't rule out Croft's involvement completely. He was there twice in one day, both before and after Wycliff was killed. For now, I recommend we keep our guards up and prepare."

Bill's stomach dropped and his mouth went dry. He did not need to ask Simmons for clarification. Only one thing made sense in this context.

They were speaking of a possible coup.