CHAPTER 6
Wrexford set aside his book on Priestley’s theories, finding it impossible to concentrate on abstract mysteries of science when an all too real conundrum was tugging at his thoughts. A glance at the clock showed it would be hours and hours until Sheffield returned.
“Damnation,” he muttered under his breath. Patience was not among his virtues—the list of which would be a very short one.
The thought of lists drew his gaze to his desktop. Mrs. Ashton’s sheet of stationery lay next to the note that had drawn her husband to his death. Much as it seemed the lesser of the clues in solving the murder, he decided it would be wrong to make assumptions and ignore it.
Wrexford picked it up and reread it. Eight names. The brief notations on how each knew of the inventor’s work gave little insight into possible motivation. The widow would of course be able to elaborate . . .
He frowned, recalling her suggestion that Octavia Merton and Benedict Hillhouse—the top two names on the list—would be the ones to consult about any personal conflicts that might have turned violent.
She had voiced nothing negative about the pair, but he sensed that beneath all her perfectly proper words there was much left unsaid about the Ashton household.
The inventor, a longtime bachelor, had appeared wedded to naught but his work. The decision to take a bride late in life might have sparked trouble. Scientific observation proved again and again that the introduction of a new ingredient into any mix could often have volatile results.
Taking up the list, Wrexford rose and called for his hat and overcoat.
A short while later, the butler of the widow’s borrowed townhouse escorted him into the drawing room and withdrew to inform Mrs. Ashton of his arrival.
It took only minutes for her to appear. “Lord Wrexford!”
He turned from the set of landscape engravings hung above the sideboard.
Isobel stepped into the drawing room and drew the door shut. Her hair was drawn back in a severe bun, its midnight hue combining with the black mourning gown to heighten the paleness of her face. “H-Have you news about Elihu?”
Silently cursing his thoughtlessness, Wrexford shook his head. “Forgive me, Mrs. Ashton. I should have sent word I was coming, rather than shocking you with an unexpected visit. However, I wanted to ask you a few questions about the names on your list.”
Isobel touched a hand to her bodice and summoned a smile. “Of course, of course. I didn’t mean to suggest that I expect miracles, milord.” A tentative wave indicated two facing sofas near the bank of diamond-paned windows. “Please have a seat.”
Given Sheffield’s surprising revelation about the lethal note, a miracle might be in hand, allowing them to quickly learn the truth about her husband’s murder.
Wrexford hesitated for a moment, then said, “I may have a lead on the note written to your husband. A friend thinks he recognizes the handwriting. Tonight we are going to make the rounds of the gambling establishments in Southwark, where the fellow is known to play.”
Her eyes widened ever so slightly.
“Mind you, I don’t wish to raise false hopes. It could very well be a wild goose chase.”
“I understand.” She took a seat and motioned for him to do so as well. “May I offer you some tea?” A slight pause. “Or brandy?”
Wrexford wondered what she had heard about him. Clearly nothing good about his personal peccadillos.
“Thank you, but I’ve no need of refreshments.” He, too, allowed a moment of silence. “But please don’t let that stop you from ordering some sustenance.”
The widow laughed, its musical lightness at odds with her somber appearance. “Dear me, I’ve had so much tea pressed on me lately that I swear, it could float a twenty gun frigate. So I, too, shall forgo the usual social rituals, no matter that tea is considered a panacea for all ailments.”
Her sense of humor surprised him. Or perhaps intrigued was a better word. He sat up a little straighter.
“Forgive me if that sounds awfully blunt. But I sense that both of us prefer plain speaking,” went on Isobel, as if reading his mind.
“Plain speaking is a very polite way of referring to my interaction with people,” replied Wrexford. “I’m considered outspoken to the point of rudeness, and am said to have a vile temper.”
She arched a brow. “And is it true?”
“For the most part,” he replied. “I don’t suffer fools gladly.”
“Ah.” Rather than appear intimidated, Isobel seemed amused. “I shall have to take care not to appear a feather-brained goose.” Looking down at her lap, she smoothed at the folds of heavy bombazine fabric, and in an instant all trace of humor was wiped from her face.
“How can I help?” she said softly.
He took out her list and a pencil from his coat pocket. “I’d like to learn a little more about the people on your list . . .”
Wrexford asked a few questions about six of them, jotting some notes in the margin before circling back to the two names written at the top of the page.
“And now to Octavia Merton.” He looked up. “During our first meeting, you suggested that she and your husband’s laboratory assistant would know the most about who might wish Mr. Ashton ill.”
“Yes,” she replied. “They worked very closely with Elihu, so it seems a reasonable assumption.”
“So it does.” Wrexford hesitated. “You mentioned plain speaking just now, and so I feel beholden to ask you something before we consider any other questions. Do you consider either of them suspects?”
Her expression didn’t change, but a certain tension seemed to take hold of her, drawing the flesh taut over the delicate planes of her face.
Her cheekbones looked sharp as razors. “If I gave you the impression that I think Octavia or Benedict to be guilty of any nefarious doings, then I am sorry,” she replied in a carefully controlled voice. “I did not mean to do so.”
“Your sense of noblesse does you credit,” he murmured. “But anything less than complete candor will make the very difficult task of finding your husband’s killer impossible.”
She gave a tiny nod. “I understand, Lord Wrexford.”
“Excellent.” He watched her for a moment longer, wondering if he had been too harsh. However she met his gaze with a calm composure.
A woman who doesn’t rattle easily. Which was all for the good, reflected Wrexford, seeing as he wasn’t very good at tempering his tongue.
“Then let’s start with Miss Merton. How did she come to be part of your husband’s household?”
“Her parents died in a carriage accident when she was fourteen, leaving her alone in the world. As her father was Elihu’s cousin, he offered her a place in his home,” answered the widow. “That was nine years ago.”
“Would you describe their relationship as cordial?”
“My husband was exceedingly fond of Octavia.” She drew in a barely perceptible breath. “And she appeared to feel the same way about him.”
“Appeared to?” repeated Wrexford. “You doubt the sincerity of her sentiment?”
Isobel considered the question for a long moment before answering. “I find it hard to discern Octavia’s true sentiments about most things. She behaves with perfect propriety, but my sense is, she keeps her inner thoughts very . . . well guarded.”
Wrexford considered the answer. But before he could frame another question, she continued, “In fairness, I imagine it wasn’t easy for her when Elihu married me. She had run the household and served as his secretary for so long that it’s only natural she might feel resentment at the change.”
Change was a challenge for most people, reflected Wrexford.
“How would you describe your own relationship with Miss Merton?” he asked.
For an instant, a mirthless smile tugged at the widow’s lips. “Coolly correct.” Her fingers twined in the silk fringe of her black shawl. “I’ve tried to kindle a warmer rapport, but with no success.”
“And yet you tolerated her presence? I would have thought . . .” He let his words trail away.
“To Elihu she was family,” answered Isobel. “It would have been wrong of me to force him to make any painful choices.”
Wrexford hesitated. Further personal probing, he decided, would only be jabbing a needle into a raw nerve. The two women were not on friendly terms. How much that colored the widow’s assessment of Octavia Merton was hard to know.
“Just one last question for now. Can you think of any reason why Miss Merton would wish harm to come to your husband?”
“No.” Isobel hesitated. “But as I’ve said, I find it difficult to discern Octavia’s thoughts.” She shifted, setting off a faint rustling of fabric. “Perhaps it would be better if you spoke with her yourself. Shall I ring for her?”
“She’s here?” he asked in surprise.
“My husband was always hard at work on his projects, even when traveling. So yes, both Octavia and Benedict accompanied us to London.”
Wrexford edged forward on the sofa. “Yes, I’d very much like to have a word with her.”
Isobel summoned a footman. “Please ask Miss Merton to come to the drawing room.” Then leaning back against the cushions, she folded her hands in her lap and turned her gaze to the windows. Her expression was as inscrutable as stone.
He regarded her profile for a long moment and then on impulse asked one more question. “If I asked you to describe Miss Merton in a single word, what would it be?”
Her reply came with no hesitation.
“Secretive.” She exhaled a wry sigh. “But then, I suppose we are all guilty of having secrets.”
* * *
“Another visit te His Nibs?” Raven made a face at Charlotte’s request to take a second package to Wrexford’s townhouse.
“Sending him billy-doos, m’lady?” he murmured, giving a credible pronunciation to the French term for love letters.
Though where he had overheard that term was an unsettling thought.
She repressed a sigh. He was fast growing out of childhood into adolescence. Given his fierce independence, she had no illusions about the battles that lay ahead. The struggle over name-choosing would likely seem a mere ripple on calm water . . .