CHAPTER 5
“Damnation,” muttered Wrexford as he booted shut the door to his workroom.
Ignoring the crucible and neatly aligned bottles of chemicals on the center table, he took a seat at his desk and set down his cup of coffee, trying to tamp down his rising frustration.
It was nearly noon and still no package had arrived from Isobel, leaving him naught to do but stew in impatience.
Priestley’s scientific magnum opus lay open to the section on “dephlogisticated air,” and yet much as the earl was interested in reading the early experiments on oxygen, he couldn’t bring himself to concentrate.
Damnation. Something was bothering him about the whole affair, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was.
“Milord.” His valet’s entrance kept his brooding from turning any darker. He brought over a thin parcel. “The information from Mrs. Ashton was just delivered.”
“About bloody time,” muttered the earl as he ripped off the paper wrapping.
Packed between two pieces of protective pasteboard was the short note to her late husband and a sheet of floral-scented stationery with a list of eight names, each followed by a short explanation of how the individual was connected to Ashton.
Wrexford cleared a spot on his blotter and carefully laid them out.
Tyler came around to stand by his shoulder. “Perhaps we could examine the note under the microscope,” he murmured. “The composition of the ink may give us some clue.”
The earl frowned. “The odds against that are astronomically high, but I suppose it’s worth a look.” He leaned in closer. “Hmmph.”
“What?” asked his valet.
“Whoever penned the note has a distinctive style,” said Wrexford, after making a closer study of the handwriting. “Take a look at the curlicue looping of the letters f and g.”
Tyler took a moment to fetch a magnifying glass from the worktable and make a more thorough study. “You’re right.”
And yet, the discovery only caused Wrexford’s frown to deepen. “It’s too good to be true to think that any murderer would be daft enough to leave such a calling card.”
“Unless,” mused Tyler, “he didn’t intend to kill Ashton.”
A reasonable explanation, he conceded. It was possible that Ashton and the self-proclaimed Kindred Spirit in Science had quarreled over partnering in the new invention and things had turned violent.
However, all the earl knew about Ashton argued against such a scenario.
The inventor was well-known to be an altruist. Wrexford couldn’t quite imagine him involved in any havey-cavey dealings.
But then, everyone had faults they wished to keep secret. A fancy polished veneer could hide a core of rot.
“I suppose we must consider that,” he finally said aloud.
“But you don’t believe it, milord?”
“No,” replied Wrexford flatly. “I don’t. However, as a man of science I must keep an open mind and base my assumptions on facts.” He smoothed a finger over a crease in the paper. “Let us set up the microscope and see what the murderer’s note can tell us.”
As Tyler began to rummage in the storage cabinets, the earl slouched back in his chair, still wrestling with the strange prickling at the back of his mind.
Perhaps it was merely the murder of an acquaintance—and a horribly foul one at that—that had him feeling unsettled.
And yet, that was too glib an answer. His friends would cheerfully vouch for the fact that he was not the sort of fellow prone to tender sentiments.
Understanding the physical world and how it worked was the sort of intellectual conundrum he enjoyed solving.
Chemistry was all about logic. One could puzzle out answers through empirical observation and analysis.
Murder was all about emotion. It defied the clockwork laws of the universe.
Which, conceded the earl, offended his orderly mind.
So why the devil had he been moved by the lovely widow’s appeal for help?
Wrexford shifted uncomfortably. Beneath her grief and uncertainty had been some elemental quality that intrigued him.
No milk and water miss, like most of the well-born ladies of the beau monde, Isobel had radiated a steely strength of character, a sense of calm resolve.
Indeed, he had never met any woman quite like her.
Save for . . .
He chuffed a sharp exhale, forcing the image of Charlotte Sloane’s face from his mind.
Bloody hell, it wasn’t like him to allow thoughts of women to bedevil his brain.
Perhaps it was a sign that he needed to choose a replacement for the diabolically lovely Diana Fairfax, with whom he had parted ways a number of months ago.
The beautiful—and pragmatic—courtesans of London understood the rules that governed such liaisons.
Money had its privileges, he thought sardonically.
It helped ensure there were no complications or complexities of feelings to confuse the relationship.
As for more personal entanglements . . .
“Milord,” called Tyler. “The lenses and lights are all adjusted. Would you care to come have a look?”
Wrexford rose, happy to have a practical problem shove away his brooding. “Anything of interest?” he asked as his valet relinquished his spot at the worktable.
“Not that I could see at first glance.” Tyler leaned in and made a slight adjustment to the reflector. “But perhaps you’ll have better luck.”
The earl squinted through the eyepiece at the note that had lured Ashton to his death. But luck was proving as mercurial as his mood.
“No,” he muttered after taking a few moments to confirm his first impression. “There’s nothing unusual about the ink or paper.”
Tyler shrugged. “We expected as much.”
“True. But at the moment, I can’t think of anything else to try.” Wrexford rubbed at his temples. “You might as well attend to other things. I’m simply going to do a bit of reading on Priestley.”
However, after his valet quitted the room, he took the note from beneath the microscope’s lens and placed it on his desk, the pale, crinkled paper standing out in stark relief against the dark leather of his blotter.
Wrexford shifted his empty cup, and after ringing for a fresh pot of coffee, he sat down and leaned in for yet another searching look.
What am I missing? As of now, the only telltale clue was the handwriting. But given that London’s present population was over two million souls, the odds of identifying the author were . . .
“Virtually nil,” muttered the earl.
“Nil?” repeated Sheffield as he strolled into the room. “Good God, it’s far too early in the day to be reading Latin.” He looked around and let out a mournful sigh. “Why are you here and not the breakfast room? I’m famished.”
“I’m thinking—a concept with which you are unfamiliar.”
His friend contrived to look injured. “I do, on occasion exercise my brain.” A pause. “But never on an empty stomach.”
Ignoring the hint, Wrexford reached for the magnifying glass.
Another sigh. “Pray, what’s so interesting that it’s caused you to forsake those lovely silver chafing dishes full of shirred eggs and gammon?” Sheffield moved around for a look.
“It involves last night’s murder.” The earl stared through the lens, willing himself to see something—anything—that might serve as a clue.
“Hmmm. That’s odd,” murmured his friend.
He turned in his chair. “Kit, I’m in no mood for your bacon-brained jesting—”
“It’s just that I recognize the writing.”
Wrexford went very still. “You’re sure of that?”
“Quite sure,” replied Sheffield. “Just look at the curlicues. I’ve seen enough of the fellow’s vowels to be very familiar with them. He’s the only man who loses at the gaming tables more regularly than I do.”
“Do you, perchance, know his name?” asked Wrexford slowly.
“Yes, of course. The Honorable Robert Gannett.” His friend raised a brow. “Why?”
‘Because you may well have given us the identity of Elihu Ashton’s killer,” he replied. “Forgive all my earlier slurs on your intellect. You’re brilliant.”
Sheffield grinned. “No, just lucky.” A pause. “Now will you offer me some breakfast?”
“In a moment. Any idea where we might find Mr. Gannett?”
“That will cost you one of your excellent Indian cheroots,” quipped Sheffield.
Catching the earl’s scowl, he ceased his bantering.
“We can start by making the rounds of the gaming hells in Southwark. He’s been avoiding the more exalted environs of Mayfair because he owes people there too much money. ”
“Excellent. Now you may go help yourself to breakfast.” Wrexford leaned back and gave a grim smile.
“Then come back again around midnight, and I’ll make sure Cook has a lovely rare beefsteak ready for you to enjoy before we head off to capture a killer.
” He allowed a small pause. “Then again, perhaps it’s better to keep an empty stomach, in case we have to put a bullet in the bloody dastard. ”
* * *
Charlotte penned a quick missive to the earl, explaining what she had learned the previous night. As to her suspicion concerning Ashton’s mutilation . . .
As soon as the boys peltered off to deliver the note, she gathered her cloak and set off to pay a visit to a friend.
“Come to bid me a last farewell, Mrs. Sloane?” Looking up from the worktable of his mortuary shed, Basil Henning ran a hand over his jaw, leaving a dark oily streak on the stubbled whiskers.
Charlotte didn’t dare try to identify the substance. The surgeon had a deep interest in the workings of the human body, and often did autopsies for the authorities, along with the care he offered to London’s living poor.
“I’m moving to a different neighborhood, Mr. Henning, not the backside of the moon,” she replied with a smile. “I still intend to continue my fortnightly class for women who wish to learn to read. So I daresay we won’t become total strangers.”