Page 5 of Murder at the Seven Dials
Michael waited until Audrey had stepped forward to follow, and then fell into step behind her. She barely kept pace with the disgruntled official, her Indian silk cape heavy around her shoulders, and her legs still clumsy and wooden from shock.
Murder. Bow Street had placed her husband under arrest formurder. She still hadn’t a clue who they believed Philip had killed. It was absurd. He would never kill anyone.Never.
When the officer opened the front door to number four and took the steps into the street, she faltered. Surely the man was being facetious, tricking his unwanted visitors into leaving. Curious and skeptical, she followed, but when he reached the doors of a tavern across the street, she balked.
“Exactly where are you taking us, sir?”
Lamps had been extinguished inside, leaving the windows dark. The officer flipped through a brass ring of keys.
“We hold prisoners in the cellar of the Brown Bear, Your Grace.” He grumbled his reply, the keys on the brass ring clanging together. As his pale white fingers touched each one in search, Audrey shivered.
She could only imagine what those keys would whisper to her should she have the chance to hold them. She made a fist underneath the rippled silk of her cloak, her kid gloves creaking in the damp and chilly April night air. She would touch nothing. It was awful enough having to be here in the first place—she certainly didn’t want to subject herself to any visions of past arrests, or whatever unpleasantries those keys, and her curious ability, would surely show her.
Michael drew to a stop beside her as the officer unlocked the tavern door. It swung wide, and the stale odor of cigar smoke, ale, and grease made its way up her nose. Audrey started forward, only to be barred entrance by the officer’s outstretched arm.
“The holding cells aren’t no place for a lady,” the officer said. Audrey bristled.
“I shall decide that for myself.” She moved around his outstretched arm and entered the tavern.
It was shadowy and quiet, with only one lantern in the back for light. The officer closed and locked the door behind Michael, and then led them forward again, to another door near the single lantern. He led them through it and down a twisting set of bare board steps, into a raw, dank cellar.
“I’ve got Lord Herrick and the Duchess of Fournier here to see the duke,” he told the guard standing at the bottom of the stairs.
“No women, Ruthers, you know that. Take her back to the offices.”
Audrey was still trapped on the step behind the officer when she heard that deep-throated reply. She swept past Ruthers and the other Bow Street man and entered the cellar before either could dare reach for her arm. “I will not be taken anywhere.”
She saw Philip and drew to a sudden stop. He was seated on the edge of a cot on the opposite side of the cellar. He had his head in his hands, his eyes pinned to the floor. The clothing he wore did not belong to him—worn trousers hung like canvas sails and a white shirt was stained with yellow patches beneath the arms. Philip wasn’t a dandy in the least, but he appreciated fine clothing and spared no expense for quality. Sitting there, hunched over, elbows upon his knees, he looked as gritty as a sailor just come to port. It was his mop of fair hair she recognized, and his long-fingered hands gripping the sides of his head. Only they, too, were grimy.
“Philip—” She moved forward, and a shadow peeled off the cellar wall. A man, tall and wiry, entered her path.
“Your Grace, I insist you return to the offices.”
It was the man who’d spoken to Officer Ruthers a moment ago. He wore a waistcoat but no jacket. Audrey’s eyes skipped to his forearms, exposed by shirtsleeves rolled sloppily to his elbows. His hair appeared dark and unkempt in the dreary light of a few lanterns.
“Step aside. I would see my husband,” she replied, teeth clenched.
“As I am in the middle of questioning him, that will not be possible,” he replied, sounding as though his own teeth were clenched.
Michael entered her light of sight. “You will cease your questions until our solicitor is present—which should have come about hours ago. Why was Potridge not sent for?”
The man barely acknowledged Michael. Instead, he rolled down each of his sleeves with measured ease.
“Philip?” Audrey called, watching him for some reaction. But her husband only rocked forward and back, his head still cradled in his palms.
The man finally finished covering his forearms and said, “His Grace has not been the most cooperative of men.”
“And for that you refused to send for his solicitor?” Audrey replied, her temper simmering anew. He’d been thrown into this dank, dark cell. Accused of murder. Why on earthshouldhe cooperate?
“I assure you, had he supplied his solicitor’s name, I would have sent for him straightaway. However,” said the man, whom she could only assume was another Bow Street officer, “His Grace has not uttered one coherent word since I found him in Seven Dials, drenched in blood.”
Audrey looked again at her husband’s borrowed clothing. He’d been given these rags because his clothes had been covered in blood? And disposed of? She dearly hoped not. If she could touch his things, close her eyes, and concentrate, allowing the energy they held to enter her, she might be able to see the truth.
Any item—large or small, metal or glass, stone or fabric—retained a bit of energy, and for some reason, one Audrey had long ago stopped questioning, she could not only feel this energy, she couldseeit. The energy appeared as images, gasps of memories. If she could hold her husband’s clothing, she might be able to see what occurred before this austere officer had thrown him into the tavern’s cellar.
“The Seven Dials?” Michael scoffed. “Absurd. The duke has no business in that part of London.”
He was right. The Dials was a seedy neighborhood, rife with thieves and vagrants. Her husband wouldn’t venture there. Unless, of course, he’d taken up his old habit. Audrey frowned.No.He’d promised he was finished with that business.
