“Which is it, Perkins?”
Dante caught a glimpse of a body, heard the cries of the crowd. “What your man is trying to say, Sir Malcolm, is that Babington is dead.”
Chapter 6
It wasn’t the sight of the wooden handle protruding from Mr Babington’s blood-soaked chest that caused dismay. It wasn’t the man’s wide, lifeless eyes staring blankly at the heavens. Or that for one brief moment, Beatrice imagined seeing her father lying dead on the pavement. No. The tension radiating from Mr D’Angelo gave her the greatest cause for concern.
“I’ve seen it a hundred times before,” Alice had said the day Beatrice returned to the Bull in the Barn tavern and asked for the woman’s help. “The man’s got bitterness in his blood. A sickness of the soul.”
“What do you expect? His parents were murdered in front of him when he was eight years old. Witness accounts say he refused to let them wash his mother’s blood from his face.” Beatrice didn’t know why she felt a need to defend Mr D’Angelo, not after he’d stormed out of the coffeehouse without explanation, left her sitting alone in a booth. “Miss Trimble thinks he’ll be dead before spring. His coachman believes he’ll be dead within a week of finding his parents’ murderer.”
Beatrice’s heart ached at the thought. Sadness marred Dante D’Angelo’s soul, not a sickness. And despite all reservations, she could not shake the feeling that her life’s purpose was to drag him from the darkness.
“I can help him.”
Alice disagreed. “Men like that don’t change. They skulk about in the devil’s lair, waiting for someone new to burn. Stay away. Leave him be.”
“I can’t.”
She’d made an excuse, given her own need for vengeance as a reason to forge a friendship with the tortured agent. But during his brief bouts of weakness, she’d glimpsed the frightened boy locked in a mental prison.
“Then you’d best find a way of protecting yourself from the flames.”
The whirring and clacking of a rattle tore Beatrice from her reverie. Amid the chaotic scene of men shouting and charging about the street, she snuggled beneath her blue pelisse and tried to focus on the gruesome spectacle.
“Gather witness statements!” Sir Malcolm cried to the numerous constables who had appeared upon hearing the high-pitched racket. “How does a man escape custody and end up dead within minutes? We need a description of the assailant. Fetch something to cover the body until the coroner arrives. And move these people along, Perkins.”
Mr Daventry drew Beatrice and Mr D’Angelo aside. The man’s dangerous aura made him almost as intimidating as Mr D’Angelo, except her heart didn’t flutter every time she met his gaze.
“Return to Hart Street. I want to know exactly what happened during your time alone with Babington.” He faced Mr D’Angelo. “No more games. I want to know why the hell you’re keeping secrets.”
“Perhaps Miss Sands can tell you. After all, you hired her to spy on me.”
Mr Daventry slid Beatrice a look of displeasure, but said, “Good. I’m glad she told you. It means she’s placed her faith and trust in the fact you will do what is right.” He pulled his watch from his pocket and inspected the time. “I shall see you both in Hart Street at two o’clock. And I want the truth, D’Angelo, else I’ve no choice but to reconsider your position with the Order.”
Mr D’Angelo mumbled his annoyance as soon as Mr Daventry was out of earshot. For a few seconds, he stared at the blood-soaked body while the constables jostled with dawdling bystanders. “No doubt you will tell him about my mother’s brooch, about the mysterious Mr Coulter and the fact your father was an enquiry agent.”
“Not if you don’t want me to.” She’d be a fool to cross Mr Daventry when he paid her wages and provided safe lodgings. But her loyalty lay with the man who’d spent a lifetime suffering. “My advice is we tell Mr Daventry everything, that we ask for his support in solving our parents’ case. But I will respect your decision, will omit certain parts of the tale if that is your wish.”
A curious look passed over his troubled features. “And risk dismissal? Risk going back to scrubbing vomit from the dusty boards of a tavern?”
Beatrice shrugged. “On the battlefield, one follows orders or men die. I just hope your deserting days are over. Hope you’ll not abandon me to face the consequences alone.”
The glance at his Hessian boots said he felt some remorse for his conduct at the coffeehouse. “Fight or flight. It’s a common response to a threat, I’m told.”
“I pose no threat. But I came to London to find my father’s killer, and to escape the clutches of a madman. In the stews, people cannot afford to dwell on the tragedies of the past. I intend to follow their example, find the culprit and punish him—with or without you, Mr D’Angelo. Then I shall lay the past to rest and grant my father peace.”
“I admire your spirit. The conscious mind strikes with steely determination. It is at night, when the devil resumes control, that one’s resolve falters.”
“The devil is in control when one tells lies and keeps secrets. Any pious man will tell you so. I’m sure Mr Daventry would let us use my father’s notes to conduct an official investigation.”
He made no reply but captured her elbow when the constables ushered them away from the scene. “Come. Let me escort you to the carriage. I shall meet you in Hart Street at two.”
Panic tightened her throat. “You’re not coming with me?”
Had the morbid events left him needing to drown his sorrows in a bottle of brandy? Worse still, did he seek satisfaction at the White Boar tavern? Did he intend to call on Mr Coulter without her?
“In the absence of the usual distractions, I find walking beneficial.”