Her companion relaxed just a little.
‘That is what I thought, too,’ he said. ‘It’s damned suspicious. Come on, we need to know if the woman is Mrs Meesden.’ He took her arm and led her to the edge of the crowd. ‘What is going on here?’
The authority in Richard’s voice caused some of the onlookers to move aside. He pushed into the crowd, Grace close beside him. It was impossible to get to the front, but Grace was tall enough to see Wolf being held by two burly individuals. A sudden shifting of the crowd gave her a glimpse of a woman’s body lying on the ground. Grace forced herself to look at the dead woman’s face. There was no mistaking Annie Meesden’s gaunt features. Pressing her handkerchief against her lips, Grace nodded to Richard.
‘It is her.’
‘What has happened?’ he demanded, loudly enough for his brother to hear.
Wolf looked towards them and briefly met Grace’s eyes.
He said, as if addressing his captors, ‘The woman was stabbed before she came out of the bushes behind the statue. Her killer must have been back there.’
A large woman in a mob cap and torn coat laughed scornfully.
‘A likely tale!’ she scoffed. ‘The poor besom fell foul of her beau, plain as day.’
Several constables had arrived and were pushing their way through the crowd to take charge.
Grace pressed Richard’s arm. ‘Let us look around the back and see if there are signs that anyone has been there.’
It was much darker away from the main walk. Richard unhooked one of the lamps and led the way. It was too much to expect to find anyone lurking behind the little recess, but the lamplight showed them where the smaller branches had been snapped off and the ground was trampled.
‘The bushes are much thinner here,’ observed Grace. ‘It would not be difficult to get through.’
‘I think you are right,’ muttered Richard. ‘The killer stabbed her here, then pushed her forward. I can even see through to the path.’ He stepped back. ‘One of the constables is coming around here to look for himself. We must go.’
‘What about Wolf?’
‘There’s nothing we can do for him at present. We will find out where they are taking him and I will go to see him in the morning. You need not be anxious about my brother, Miss Duncombe. They will lock him up securely, but I have no doubt it isn’t the first time he has spent the night in a prison cell.’
* * *
Wolf was marched away and bundled into a carriage for the short journey to the prison. He cursed himself for being so easily fooled. He had let down his guard, allowed himself to believe that Annie Meesden truly wanted to help him. Had she conspired with the killer to lure him to the gardens? If so she had paid for it with her life. His jaw clenched. How foolish he had been to believe she wanted to meet him. He thought of seeing Grace and Richard in the crowd; she must have read his note and rushed here to support him, bringing Richard with her as the only man she could trust. He hoped, nay, he was sure his brother would realise there was some deep game afoot, but what would Grace think of him now that she had seen him in that incriminating situation? A chill went through him. Henry Hodges, the love of her life, had died from a stab wound. What had it done to her, seeing him there with a bloody knife in his hand? As the carriage rattled on his thoughts were as gloomy as the dark streets. It was too much to expect her to believe he was innocent now.
* * *
New Gaol in Horsemonger Lane was less than twenty years old and rose like a solid black square against the darkness. As the carriage pulled up Wolf was surprised to see the double doors were open. He frowned.
‘I thought I’d be in a lock-up until I had seen the magistrate.’
‘He’s waiting for you,’ was the gruff response. ‘Just your misfortune that it’s Hanging Hatcham on duty tonight!’
The constables roughly manhandled him out of the carriage on to the cobbled yard of the prison. He was escorted into a reception room where a portly figure in a powdered wig was sitting at a desk.
‘I am Gilbert Hatcham, magistrate here.’ The man introduced himself. ‘I was told I might expect you this evening, Mr Wolfgang Arrandale.’
‘You are mistaken,’ said Wolf coolly. ‘My name is Peregrine. John Peregrine.’
The magistrate gave a fat chuckle.
‘Is that what you are calling yourself?’ He lifted a printed sheet from the desk and glanced at it. Even in the lamplight Wolf could see that it was creased and yellow with age. The only word he could read from this distance was the one in large thick letters stretched across the page. ‘Reward’.
Hatcham continued to scan the sheet. ‘It says a tall man, six feet five inches, near black hair and violet-blue eyes.’ He came around the desk and stared up into Wolf’s face. ‘Well, I can’t see the colour of your eyes in this light, but I think the description is sufficiently close. Put him in a holding cell.’
‘Will you not grant me bail?’ demanded Wolf as the constables began to hustle him from the room.
‘You are wanted for the murder of your wife and the theft of her diamonds, and now you have been caught red-handed taking the life of another poor wretch. No, sir, you will not be granted bail!’
