“You’re gonna let ’em nib me?” Claud said to the Mastiff, panic clearly setting in. “I’ll be making the morning drop at Newgate for certain.”
“He ain’t any more loyal to his own people than he is to ours,” Fletcher said.
A skin-crawling smirk pulled at the Mastiff’s lips. “Do youhave any idea the way those two groups overlap?” He laughed humorlessly. “Best clear your house, man. It’s dirtier than you know.”
On that declaration, he turned and walked away, casual as anything, as though absolutely nothing in the world bothered him.
“The blue-bottles’ll be here soon,” Claud said. “Hand me over to ’em, please. Let ’em haul me off.”
“You’re looking to be gallows’ bait?” Fletcher asked.
“The Tempest is coming,” he said, voice quivering.
“We’ve been hearing that all over London.” Fletcher shook him a bit. “What does it mean?”
All the color drained from Claud’s face. “The Tempest is coming.”
“What is the Tempest?” Fletcher demanded.
“Or who?” Barnabus added.
Claud shook his head quickly, repeatedly, as if too terrified to think, let alone speak.
Fletcher dragged him back to the courtyard beside the servants’ entrance. The police had arrived. The entire staff gasped and cried out and shouted when they saw Claud, identifying him as the murderer.
Among the arrived constables was Parkington. He gave his associates orders to secure the prisoner.
Claud stared down Barnabus as he was dragged away, mouthing, “The Tempest is coming.”
“Coincidence that you’re here?” Parkington asked Fletcher under his breath.
“Yes and no. We happened to be nearby, but we’ve taken more of an interest because the one what got stabbed was Martin Afola.”
“Blimey.”
“Dr. Lowry took him to his surgery,” Barnabus said. “There’s some hope he’ll survive.”
“The Mastiff was here,” Fletcher said, lowering his voice. “Piked off just now but admitted straight-out that the attack was on his orders.”
Parkington motioned with his head toward the corner of the house. Smudged in ash was the letterK, flanked by two vertical lines. And theKwas underlined. “This Claud ain’t one of the brothers, but he is family, likely a child of one of ’em or a cousin or some such.”
Gemma had told Barnabus time and again that the Kincaids had no qualms about murder. A cold pain spread through his chest. Murder. And one of them had been chasing her, determined to catch her.
“Have you had any success finding your wife?” Parkington apparently knew where Barnabus’s thoughts had gone.
He shook his head. “There’s not a trace of her.”
“If I could guarantee you my fellow policemen would all overlook the fact that she’s a Kincaid with a criminal past, I’d urge you to let the Metropolitan Police aid in your search.” Parkington offered an apologetic look. “You’ve brought Stone in on the effort? And Móirín and Vera?”
Barnabus nodded.
“And Sorokin?” Parkington added.
Barnabus turned to Fletcher. “Could we get word of this to him?”
“I am certain he already knows,” Fletcher said.
Parkington set his hand on Barnabus’s shoulder. “I took on a few extra patrol assignments. That’s letting me poke around more. We’ll find her. I know we will.”