The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,46
Dunn had been coming from the Turk’s Head the night Peter Sharpe accused him of theft. It could be a coincidence—the Turk’s Head was a quick walk from St. Clement Dane’s Church—but the coincidences were piling up in a way that wasn’t coincidental at all. “You mean the coffeehouse on the Strand, Jeremy?”
“Aye, miss.”
Sophia exchanged a look with Lord Gray. “Do you go there often, Jeremy?”
Jeremy shook his head. “Nay. I were only there that once.”
“All right. How did you happen to go there that night?” The Turk’s Head was a lively place, popular with London’s political set, and always crowded with young radicals and reformers. It was likely Jeremy had just been attracted by the noise, but if someone had lured him there…
Jeremy’s lower lip began to wobble. “I-I’m a bad man, Miss Sophia.”
“No, Jeremy.” Sophia pressed his hand. “I already told you you’re not, and I’ve never lied to you, have I?”
“Nay, Miss Sophia.” Tears streaked down Jeremy’s cheeks, but he bravely met Sophia’s eyes. “There were a lady in there, with yellow hair, an’ I thought—she were pretty, Miss Sophia, so I went in, but I didna do anything wrong. I didna touch her. I just wanted to see her closer, like.”
“It’s all right, Jeremy. Did this lady talk to you? Did she ask you to go into the coffeehouse with her? Invite you to follow her?” Jeremy’s mind was as innocent as a child’s, but he had a man’s body, with all the attendant physical urges. If someone was trying to lure him into the Turk’s Head, a pretty lady would be an effective way to do it.
But Jeremy shook his head. “Nay. She didna notice me. There were a lot of people about.”
Sophia blew out a breath. It sounded straightforward enough. “That’s fine, sweetheart.”
“What else happened that night, Jeremy?” Lord Gray peeled his coat off his shoulders and handed it to Sophia. “For the boy,” he said gruffly, before he turned back to Jeremy. “You claim you didn’t kill Henry Gerrard. If you didn’t commit the murder, who did?”
Jeremy’s face paled at the word murder. “I c-could never…I w-wouldna hurt no one, milord. It were s-someone else who d-d-done it.”
“Was it the man in the courtroom yesterday?” Sophia asked, draping the coat over Jeremy’s shoulders. She had as low an opinion as one could of Peter Sharpe, but he was a petty, trifling sort of villain. She couldn’t quite convince herself he had the savagery to take a man’s life.
“Nay, not him. It were…it w-were the other one.” Jeremy squeezed his eyes closed, shuddering.
Beside her, Lord Gray stilled. “The other one?”
Sophia’s heart began to pound. According to Sharpe’s testimony, only himself, Jeremy, and Henry Gerrard had been at St. Clement Dane’s at the time of the murder. He hadn’t mentioned a word about a fourth man. “How many men were there that night, Jeremy? This is important, love, so think carefully.”
Jeremy stared at her with wide, frightened eyes. “Four, miss, if ye count the one as got hurt.”
Four? Sophia turned to Lord Gray, speechless with shock.
“Can you tell us who each of the four men were, Jeremy?” Lord Gray asked in a calm, measured tone.
Jeremy thought about it, his face screwed up with concentration. “There were me, and poor Mr. Gerrard as was, and t’other one—the one who said as I’d taken his watch and fob, but I didna, Miss Sophia! I never took nuffin. I didna even get close enough to him to take nuffin, but he set up screaming, an’ calling me a thief—”
“The fourth man, Jeremy,” Lord Gray said, gently guiding him back to the question at hand. “Did you recognize him?”
Jeremy’s shoulders sagged. “Nay, milord. I never saw him a’fore.”
“All right. That’s all right, Jeremy.” Lord Gray was making an obvious effort to curb his urgency. “Can you tell us what he looked like?”
Jeremy leaned forward, eager to tell the story he’d been unable to communicate in the terror of the courtroom. “He were biggish, milord. Not big like me, he being thinner, but tall, like, with black hair.”
“Very good. Anything else?”
“I-I’m not sure. Something hit my head, and I can’t remember very well—”
Jeremy didn’t get any further before succumbing to a hacking cough. Sophia patted and soothed him, but her gaze met Lord Gray’s over Jeremy’s head, and she saw at once they were thinking the same thing.
Peter Sharpe was a liar, and the fourth man…
The fourth man was a murderer. Whoever he was, he’d killed Henry Gerrard.