The Virgin Who Ruined Lord Gray - Anna Bradley Page 0,87
for a crime committed at St. Clement Dane’s Church, this one a great deal more serious. Do you recognize the name Jeremy Ives?”
Pryor had been running a damp cloth over the bar, but at Jeremy’s name his head snapped up. “Ives? ’Course I remember him. He was the blackguard what murdered that Bow Street Runner. I told my wife, I says, Ives must have slit that poor man’s throat not more’n half an hour after he left here that night. Gives ye the shivers to think about it, don’t it?”
“Had you ever seen Ives here before?” Jeremy had told them he’d never been to the Turk’s Head before that night. Tristan believed him, but this was a good way to gauge Pryor’s honesty and the accuracy of his memory.
“Nay, never laid eyes on him before.” Pryor frowned. “Now ye mention him, I don’t mind telling ye he was the last lad in the world I ever would have said were a killer.”
Sophia opened her mouth, but Tristan shot her a warning look. This wasn’t the time to argue Jeremy’s innocence. “Indeed, why is that, Mr. Pryor? He’s a—that is, he was an unusually large man, from what I understand. Certainly, he was large enough to easily overpower his victim.”
“He was a big one, aye, but a gentle bloke, for all that. More childlike, ye understand, than ye’d expect for a bloke that size. He didn’t seem like the violent sort.” Mr. Pryor braced his hands on the bar, his brow furrowing as he thought back to that night. “He was soft-spoken, like, and polite. The place was stuffed to the rafters that night, ye see, it being a meeting night, but he waited patient as a saint while everyone around him was demanding their drink—”
“A meeting night?” Sophia interrupted, a sudden tension in her voice. “What sort of meeting?”
“LCS meeting. They come the first Tuesday of every month, ye see, just like clockwork.”
“LCS? You mean the London Corresponding Society? They meet here at the Turk’s Head?” Tristan asked, his casual tone utterly at odds with the chill rushing over his skin.
Mr. Pryor gave him an odd look. “Aye. Every first Tuesday of the month, like I said.”
The London Corresponding Society had formed in January of the previous year, and had been a thorn in the government’s side ever since. And, by default, Lord Everly’s side, and the side of every one of William Pitt’s supporters in Parliament. Pitt tended to frown upon radical reform groups in general, but he’d singled out the LCS for his particular ire. Not surprisingly, he didn’t care for the idea of every citizen in England having a vote.
“You wouldn’t happen to recall, Mr. Pryor, if Patrick Dunn was a member of the LCS?” Under the bar, Sophia reached for Tristan’s hand. “That is, was he generally here on meeting nights?”
Mr. Pryor’s face cleared. “Aye, he was. I didn’t recall that at first, but now ye ask I remember he came on Tuesdays with the other LCS blokes.”
Sophia’s palm had gone damp against Tristan’s, and he knew she was thinking the same thing he was. “Thank you, Mr. Pryor. You’ve been very helpful.”
“My God, Tristan,” Sophia whispered as he took her arm and led her out to the carriage. “Lord Everly’s even more of a villain than I supposed. He’s got Peter Sharpe going after members of the London Corresponding Society! Sharpe accuses them of theft, and the fourth man…what of the fourth man? He lurks in the shadows, and if Sharpe’s business goes awry, he leaps out, and sets it right again?”
Tristan gave a grim nod. “That’s my guess. Today is Monday, and tomorrow is the first Tuesday of the month. Whatever it is Everly’s planning next will happen tomorrow night at St. Clement Dane’s Church.”
Sophia ducked inside the carriage. “Yes, but who’s their next target? We have to find out, and make certain he stays away from St. Clement Dane’s churchyard tomorrow night.”
“No.” Tristan closed the carriage door behind him and sat back against the seat, his brow furrowed in thought. “No, whoever it is, he’ll have to go to St. Clement Dane’s, and let the thing play out. It’s the only way to catch Sharpe and his accomplice at the crime. If their victim doesn’t come, there’s no one for Sharpe to accuse, and no reason for the fourth man to intervene. We may never get a look at him then.”
Sophia turned a stricken gaze on Tristan. “The fourth man will be waiting