Page 35 of Ashes To Ashes
"Gus, find a policeman and tell him Jack Daley shot Patrick O'Neill," he said. "If by any chance he's not caught, find the Metzger woman and get her to safety." He tucked the gun into the waistband of his trousers and covered it with his jacket. He might need it again.
Chapter 7
"Iain't seenhim all day." The stable boy leaned on his broom and shrugged lanky shoulders, as if he wasn't surprised by this event. "He comes back late and sometimes goes out again at night."
"Why is Rampling staying here?" Lincoln asked. "Does he know the master of the house?"
"He's cousin to the coachman, also a Rampling. John Rampling." He nodded at the glossy black carriage, where a pair of boot soles could be seen in the window.
Lincoln thanked the lad and opened the cabin door. The boots dropped, and the fellow wearing them sprang upright, his eyes wide. When he saw it wasn't his master, he yawned and lay down again.
"What'd you want?" he growled.
"I want to ask you about your cousin, Thomas Rampling," Lincoln said. "What business is he conducting?"
"No business." The coachman folded his arms over his chest. "He's a drifter, just comes and goes."
"Do you know when he'll be back?"
"Nope."
The rumble of wheels and click clack of hooves on cobbles announced the arrival of another vehicle. The stable lad went out to greet it, but John Rampling didn't stir. Lincoln was about to question him further, but a shout from the boy interrupted him.
"Mr. Rampling! Mr. Rampling, come quick! It's your cousin."
Rampling stretched and sat up again. "What is it now?"
The boy swallowed. "He's dead."
The coachman blinked. "Can't be. I only saw him last night."
The lad glanced over his shoulder at the cart that had stopped behind Lincoln's coach. A police constable stood beside it, squinting into the shadows of the coach house.
Lincoln felt everything inside him tighten into a ball. His heart sank. Every time he got closer to getting answers, the trail went cold. The two grave robbers, Captain Jasper, the man who'd killed Drinkwater and Brumley…all died after their identities and secrets were uncovered by the ministry. Their deaths weren't coincidences, and certainly weren't accidents. Someone was a step ahead of Lincoln—and that infuriated him.
Seth was first out of the coach house, followed by Rampling and Lincoln. "This is John Rampling," Seth said when the coachman simply stood at the end of the cart and stared at the lump beneath the gray blanket.
The constable nodded a greeting but got none in return. "He was pulled out of the river this morning," he said as he lifted the blanket.
The bloated face of the dead man was clear evidence of how he'd died. If that wasn't enough, his clothes and hair were still wet.
The coachman gagged then threw up on the cobbles. The policeman went to cover the deceased again, but Lincoln stopped him. He inspected the victim's face.
"Are there any marks on him?" he asked.
"A cut on the back of his head," the constable said. "He was probably standing on a pier when he lost his footing, hit his head and got knocked out." He shrugged. "Slipped into the water and drowned, is my guess."
"Oh God," the coachman moaned. "I can't believe it. Tom's gone."
"We found a note on him addressed to these mews so came here directly. Can you confirm that this is your cousin, Mr. Thomas Rampling?"
John Rampling nodded. "Where are you taking him?"
"Mortuary in Chelsea."
"Who was the note from?" Lincoln asked.
The constable settled his feet apart and glared at Lincoln. "Who're you in relation to the deceased?"
