CHAPTER 12
“Lord Wrexford.”
To the earl’s surprise, it was Isobel, rather than Ashton’s laboratory assistant who opened the drawing room door.
“Forgive me, but I heard you had arrived to speak with Benedict, and I couldn’t help wondering . . .” She glanced back into the corridor and then shut the door behind her. “Did you have any success in finding the man who penned the note to Elihu?”
“Be assured I had no intention of leaving without telling you about the evening,” he replied.
“I didn’t mean to imply . . .”
“My apologies,” he quickly added. “I should have sought you out first.” It was true that he had planned to put it off until after the interview with Hillhouse. Disappointing news was never easy to deliver.
“I take it things did not go well,” she said softly.
“No,” admitted Wrexford. “We did find the man who wrote the note, but he was merely an unwitting player in what he thought was a harmless jest.”
Her expression remained stoic. “I see.”
“However, we learned the name and address of the real culprit,” he went on reluctantly. Having to recount the events made him acutely aware of all the little mistakes he had made. “Unfortunately someone else reached him first.”
Her breath seemed to catch in her lungs.
“Alas, he’d been stabbed just minutes before we arrived.”
“Dear God.” For an instant he feared she might swoon, but she steadied herself and with a wry smile waved off his outstretched hand. “I’m not quite so fragile as I look. It’s just that I thought . . . I hoped . . .”
“I’m sorry. He was still alive, but the injuries were far too severe for him to survive.”
“H-He wasn’t able to tell you anything?”
Wrexford shook his head. “I’m afraid not.” A lie seemed kinder than offering yet another false hope. The list of numbers could hardly be considered a viable clue.
“I see.” Isobel turned in a rustling of heavy black bombazine fabric and gazed out the window. “So that leaves us with nothing to go on.”
“Not precisely,” he answered. “The man who used the note to lure your husband to his death appears to be part of a radical group called the Workers of Zion. It’s possible they are behind your husband’s murder. I’m going to press Bow Street to investigate them.”
“Radicals?” Her body tensed, and suddenly she reached for the bell on the side table and rang for a servant. “Before you meet with Mr. Hillhouse, there is someone else with whom I’d like you to speak.”
When the butler arrived, Isobel murmured instructions, and within minutes he returned with a tall, well-muscled man who was dressed in plain-cut, dark-hued clothing.
“Lord Wrexford, allow me to introduce Mr. Geoffrey Blodgett, who arrived here from Leeds early this morning,” said Isobel.
Blodgett darted a quick look around, appearing a little uncomfortable at being in such opulent surroundings.
“He’s the supervisor of the mill,” she explained, “and has known Elihu since he was a boy.”
“A terrible tragedy, milord,” murmured Blodgett after exchanging perfunctory greetings with the earl. “Such a loss, both for his family and for our country. Mr. Ashton’s innovations touched so many lives.”
Wrexford imagined the man hadn’t been brought in simply to spout platitudes. “Yes, yes, a brilliant fellow,” he agreed, then angled an inquiring look at the widow.
Isobel met it with a knowing nod. “Much as Mr. Blodgett’s sentiments are appreciated, he’s come here not merely to express his sympathies.
There are a number of important matters to deal with in order to keep the mill running without interruption.
” She gave a sad smile. “I’m fortunate that he’s worked with my husband for years and understands all the technicalities of the operation. ”
Blodgett bobbed his head in acknowledgment of her words.
“More than that, I’m fortunate that he understands how my late husband wished for things to be done. It’s a great comfort to me that everything will continue to work at optimum efficiency. It is what Elihu would have wanted.”
The earl was finding it hard to hide his impatience.
“However, that’s not why I asked Mr. Blodgett to speak with you now.
He recounted some things this morning that, in light of what you just told me, may have relevance to Elihu’s murder.
” She turned to the supervisor. “Please repeat to His Lordship what you said when I asked if you had observed any suspicious activity in recent weeks.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Blodgett cleared his throat.
“The mill is a good place to work and pays excellent wages, so our workers have shown little interest in kicking up a dust. But that doesn’t stop radicals from hanging around and trying to stir up trouble.
A group of them have moved into the area, on account of all the manufacturing we have there. ”
He swallowed hard and shot a nervous glance at Mrs. Ashton.
“Go on, Mr. Blodgett,” she said gently. “You’ve naught to fear for telling the truth.”
The supervisor gathered himself and squared his shoulders.
“The thing is, I spend a lot of time checking the different sections of the machinery and all the outer storage buildings where we keep our raw materials—it’s part of my job, you see.
So I couldn’t help noticing several weeks ago that Mr. Hillhouse was starting to meet with some of the troublemakers—and in out-of-the-way places, as if he didn’t want to be seen. ”
“Did Mr. Hillhouse’s duties include negotiating with your workers?” asked Wrexford.
“No, milord. He worked with Mr. Ashton in the laboratory and had no hand in the actual running of the mill. He’s very, very clever with mechanical things.” The superintendent hesitated. “I mean no disrespect, but in all honesty, I can’t say the same about his skill with people.”
“The workers don’t like him?” asked Wrexford.
“It would be unfair of me to say that, sir. It’s more that they find him aloof.” A pause. “All of us do.”
The earl thought for a moment about what he had heard, trying to remain objective. “Could there have been a reason Ashton asked Mr. Hillhouse to speak with the workers?”
“Yes, I suppose so,” replied Blodgett. “If there had been a mechanical problem with a component, it’s possible Mr. Ashton would have asked Mr. Hillhouse to speak with the men who ran the machinery. However, it’s hard to imagine I wouldn’t have known about it.”
That made sense, reflected Wrexford. Striving to remain fair-minded, he tried to think of any other question that might cast Ashton’s assistant in a brighter light. But nothing came to mind.
“Is there any other information I should know before I meet with Mr. Hillhouse?”
Blodgett dropped his gaze to the carpet, and then slowly raised it again.
“Just . . . Just that he seemed on edge and even more withdrawn that usual over the last few months.” The supervisor swallowed hard.
“But then again, he and I aren’t on the best of terms. I’ve always felt he looked down on me because I never attended university. ”
“Anything else?” pressed Wrexford.
The supervisor shook his head.
“Thank you, Mr. Blodgett,” said Isobel after a long moment. “If you’ll wait for me in the side parlor, I’ll be along shortly so we can finish going over the production schedule and supply orders for the coming month.”
How fortunate that she seemed to have a keen interest in business, thought the earl. Most ladies would need a strong whiff of vinaigrette if asked to make sense of a bill of lading.
“I’ll ring for Mr. Hillhouse,” said Isobel after Blodgett had left the room. But before she reached for the bell, a discreet knock sounded on the door.
“Forgive me, madam.” The butler entered and inclined an apologetic bow. “I’ve just received word from Mr. Hillhouse that there’s been a problem with the toolmakers and he’s been unavoidably detained at the shop.”
“How unfortunate.” If the news annoyed her, she hid it well. “Please accept my apologies for the inconvenience, Lord Wrexford. It seems we will have to arrange another time for you to meet with him.”
He waited for the butler to withdraw and then shrugged. “Business must, of course, come first. Is he working on a piece of machinery? Perhaps an element of the new invention?”
“I couldn’t say.” A pause, which spoke louder than the three short words. “My husband gave Mr. Hillhouse free rein to experiment with the prototypes on which they were working. However, he hasn’t as yet seen fit to share the details of his tinkering with me.”
That, imagined the earl, was going to change, and quickly. Assuming the fellow wasn’t given the sack by suppertime.
“It is, however, unlikely that he will do so,” continued Isobel. “You see, my husband’s drawings appear to be missing. Whether Elihu had them on his person at the time of his murder, or whether he put them in a place of safekeeping is, as of yet, an unsolved mystery.”
Along with too many other unanswered conundrums, thought Wrexford.
He acknowledged her remark with a nod before shifting a step closer to the door. “I’ll take my leave. I’m sure you have much on your mind.” There was nothing more to gain by lingering, and she appeared anxious to return to her meeting with the mill supervisor.
Isobel looked grateful and led the way out to the corridor.
“This way, sir,” she murmured, indicating a turn to the right. “I’ll show you—” Her words cut off abruptly as a gentleman rounded the corner, looking very much at home in the place.
“Ah—forgive me, Mrs. Ashton. Jenkins didn’t mention that you had company,” he drawled. “I should have sent word that I was coming. Given the tragic circumstances, it’s most unfeeling of me to intrude on your grief.”
Light from the wall sconce caught the spark of surprise in her eyes as she fell back a pace. If Wrexford hadn’t moved to avoid her flaring skirts, he might have missed seeing it change to a flicker of fear before quickly dying out.
“Good Heavens, you need not stand on ceremony, sir. This is your home. Had I known you were planning a visit to Town, I would have insisted on finding other lodgings,” replied Isobel tightly. Her lashes fluttered for an instant, and then went still.
A veiled warning? But of what?
Before Wrexford could consider the question, she turned abruptly to him and said, “Allow me to introduce Viscount Kirkland, eldest son of the Marquess of Blackstone, the friend of my husband who so kindly offered us his townhouse for our visit to London.”
Blackstone. Why was the name ringing a bell?
She shifted again in what might have been a flutter of nerves. “Lord Kirkland, this is Lord Wrexford.”
“We met last night,” replied the earl.
Kirkland regarded him blankly for a moment. “Ah, yes. So we did.” A disinterested smile. “Any luck in finding the fellow you were seeking?”
“Yes,” replied Wrexford. The fellow’s pretentious arrogance would have been laughable, save for the effect his presence was having on the widow. Her face now had an arctic pallor, as if the blood in her veins had turned to ice.
“Unfortunately he wasn’t able to help us,” he added slowly, curious to see the other man’s reaction.
“A pity.” Kirkland’s gaze had already returned to Isobel.
“I won’t hear of you moving, Mrs. Ashton, especially now in this time of great sadness.
” The viscount lowered his voice to a mock whisper.
“Truth be told, I prefer the comforts of my club to staying here. The chef there does a far tastier joint of beef than Cook, but don’t tell her I said so. ”
“What of your father?” she asked slowly. “Perhaps he—”
“Oh, Pater left for Wales last week to visit with some family friends, and from there he is going to one of our Irish estates. Something to do with horseflesh, I believe. He’ll be gone for at least a month, so you need not concern yourself.
” The viscount gave a negligent shrug. “Indeed, I’m not sure he knows yet of Mr. Ashton’s unfortunate demise.
I’ve sent the news to Ireland, but God only knows when he’ll receive it. ”
“He may not wish for his house to be involved in such notoriety,” pressed Isobel.
The protests seemed more than polite formalities, thought Wrexford. Yet another why to ponder.
A low laugh sounded from Kirkland. “Good Heavens, Pater considers himself far above tawdry scandal or gossip. In his world, such things simply don’t exist.”
“If you are sure . . .” said Isobel.
“Quite. So it’s settled.” insisted the viscount. “I simply stopped by to fetch a selection of Pater’s Indian cheroots.” He inclined a polite bow. “I’ll head on to his study and then take my leave.”
Isobel stood frozen in place as the echo of Kirkland’s footsteps receded into the shadows.
“Mrs. Ashton,” said the earl softly.
She looked around with a start.
“I, too, will see myself out.”
“Forgive me,” she apologized. “I’m not thinking straight. I—I fear Mr. Blodgett’s news has unsettled me.”
“Understandably so,” replied Wrexford. Seeing the uncertainty etched on her face, he couldn’t help adding, “Whatever the truth is about your husband’s murder, we will find it.”
Isobel shifted, the heavy rustling of black bombazine stirring a sudden swirl of shadows. For an instant her face was veiled in darkness. “Do you really believe so?”
Truth or lies?
“As a man of science,” he answered, “I hold to the principle that every problem has a solution. One just has to find it.”
A forced smile. “I shall take heart from your optimism.”
“Inquiry takes patience. Answers are reached by taking one small step at a time.”
“Yes, of course.” But her voice held no conviction.
“Good day, madam.” Lost in thought, Wrexford exited the townhouse and began walking back to his own residence.
Yet more threads added to the conundrum. Which was now tangling into a damnable Gordian knot.
It wasn’t until he crossed the cobblestones and turned down Grosvenor Street that he remembered why the name Blackstone had sounded familiar. As the principal investor in Ashton’s company, the marquess was on the widow’s list of people who knew that a revolutionary new invention was in the works.
As Wrexford mulled over the fact, another thought suddenly occurred to him. Surely father would confide in son. Which meant the list was missing a name.
That of Viscount Kirkland . . .
Wrexford slowed to a halt, realizing another one had also been omitted.
That of Isobel Ashton.