CHAPTER 18 #2
Just ahead was the grand marble staircase leading down to the main entrance.
Looking up, Wrexford slowed his steps, and then suddenly turned on his heel and headed back into the bowels of the building.
Several turns and another set of stairs brought him up to the floor housing the laboratories of the senior members.
Thornton’s space, he knew, was halfway down the central corridor—
As he turned the corner, a door came open.
On instinct, he halted and ducked back into the side hall.
“Come, come, Thornton, we must hurry or we’ll be late for the meeting,” came a querulous voice.
“Hold your water, Fitz. Let me just gather my papers . . .”
Wrexford waited a moment before sneaking a peek. Thornton emerged, a portfolio case in one hand and a set of keys in the other. A harried jiggling drew the door shut and the earl heard the snick of a lock.
“Let us hope that Lexington doesn’t prose on for hours,” grumbled Thornton as he and his colleague set off in the opposite direction.
Gentlemen do not spy on other gentlemen. But in this case, be damned with the code of honor, thought Wrexford, reaching for the steel probe he always carried in his boot.
Given that a life was at stake, Thornton would likely forgive the transgression . . . assuming he ever learned about it.
And assuming he had nothing to hide.
It was only a matter of moments before the earl was inside the laboratory with the door relocked. The windows were shuttered, but a lamp had been left burning, its wick turned down low.
Holding himself very still, Wrexford made a careful survey of the surroundings before touching anything. How a man worked often revealed much about him.
Creativity is rarely tidy, he thought wryly as he ran his gaze over the bookshelves and work counters.
The chemicals were all arranged in meticulous order and the precision instruments were spotless.
However, books, laboratory notebooks, and piles of paper lay in apparent helter-pelter disarray around the room.
The scene reminded him of his own workroom—though Tyler did his best to keep the clutter under control.
Starting at the nearest corner, Wrexford slowly circled the room, taking in the beakers filled with colored fluids, the microscope, the spirit lamps, the array of tweezers and scalpels . . .
Nothing appeared out of the ordinary.
Moving on to the large desk near the shuttered windows, he crouched down and began a methodical search of the drawers—bills, correspondence, folders containing scientific papers published by various societies around the country. Hardly the stuff to stir any suspicions.
Rising, he returned to the work counters and thumbed through several of the laboratory ledgers. They, too, appeared perfectly in order.
Satisfied, the earl turned and took a step toward the door.
The movement stirred the air, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flutter of fabric within a shadowed recess in the far corner of the room.
Wrexford hesitated, but curiosity got the better of him.
He went over to investigate what lay beneath the canvas covering.
A cabinet. And a padlock was looped through the sturdy iron hasp.
Snick-snick.
Wrexford eased the door open. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the gloom within, but the contents slowly came into focus.
“Bloody hell,” muttered the earl as he found himself staring at a voltaic pile and a coil of thick copper wire.
Blinking, he sat back on his haunches. On the lower shelf were two leather-bound books stacked atop one another. Next to them was a metal box. Light glinted off the gold-stamped titles as he gingerly lifted the books from the cabinet.
De Viribus Electricitatis in Motu Musculari Commentarius, Luigi Galvani’s treatise on animal electricity, was the top volume. And beneath it was De L’électricité Animale à la Stimulation Cérébrale Chez L’homme, Giovanni Aldini’s explorations on the same subject.
Wrexford swore again. Galvani’s theory on animal electric fluid had stirred a great controversy at the turn of the century with Alessandro Volta, who had offered a more scientific explanation for why a dead frog’s legs could be made to twitch.
Most rational men of science now sided with Volta, but Galvani’s nephew, Giovanni Aldini, had continued his uncle’s work .
. . espousing even more unsettling theories.
Placing the books back on the shelf, the earl withdrew the box and balanced it on his thighs. A foreboding tingled against his palms as a foul smell swirled up to clog his nostrils.
Shallowing his breathing, Wrexford undid the latch and raised the cover . . . then snapped it shut with an unholy oath.
The remains of a heart—it looked to be that of a large rat—lay on a piece of bloodstained paper, several wires still attached to the putrefying flesh.
He waited for his pulse to steady before placing the box back on the shelf exactly as he had found it.
After relocking the cabinet, he smoothed the canvas back in place.
His first impulse was to escape from the noxious hellhole as quickly as possible, but he forced himself to double-check that no signs of his search were evident.
After what felt like an eon, he stepped out into the corridor and reset the door lock. Flushing the lingering foulness from his lungs with several deep inhales, Wrexford hurried to one of the back stairwells and exited from the rear of the building.
But rather than return to his town house, he flagged down a hackney and barked an order for it to head east.
* * *
“M’lady, m’lady!” The sound of Hawk’s excited voice floated down from his aerie as Charlotte passed through the entrance foyer.
Smiling, she set down her marketing basket and began to undo her bonnet.
No doubt the boys, who had been at their lessons earlier, were anxious to hear a report on her first foray into Polite Society.
However, they would likely find her visit to Alison’s residence—and all the endless recounting of the rules to be followed—rather boring.
Save for a description of the cakes. The dowager served divine pastries to go along with her expensive tea.
“M’lady!” Another breathless shout as the boy skidded to a halt at the foot of the stairs.
“Ye heavens!” teased Charlotte. “I merely traveled to South Audley Street, not the exotic ends of the earth.” Granted Mayfair was another world, but they would all have to become more familiar with its customs and inhabitants. “Shall we—”
“Look! Look!” Hawk had a piece of paper clutched in his grimy fist and was waving it in the air.
“He’s right,” said Raven, who had followed his brother. “You need to take a peep.”
Letting the strings of her bonnet slip through her fingers, Charlotte hurried across the rag rug and plucked the paper from his fingers.
It was a pencil drawing—
“Alice . . . her friends . . . a toff . . .” Hawk was tripping over his tongue in his haste to explain.
She took him by the arm. “Come, let us sit in the parlor. You can catch your breath and then start at the beginning.”
Raven fell in step behind them. It must be important news, she decided, for he refrained from any good-natured needling of his brother.
Ignoring the muck embedded on the seat of Hawk’s pants, Charlotte sat down and patted a place on the sofa beside her. “Now tell me about this.” On closer inspection, she saw it was a sketch of a coat.
“It’s him!” replied Hawk.
“The man who murdered your cousin,” clarified Raven.
Charlotte’s fingers tightened on the paper. “How—”
“Alice!” explained Hawk. “Alice sent word that she remembered something else about the man in the hat. So we went to see her . . .” A guilty flush colored his face. “That is, after our lessons with Mr. Linsley.”
Likely much abbreviated, but she didn’t have the heart to scold them.
“Tell her what Alice said,” urged Raven.
Hawk drew in another gulp of air. “Alice and her friends got to thinking more about the night. One of ’em recalled the hat—she, too, saw the flash of something shiny on the band—and remembered the cove wore a dark coat with just a single shoulder cape.”
Charlotte was studying the sketch. A caped coat wasn’t unusual, though the more popular style was for two capes. And this particular one seemed distinctive. “What is this?” she asked, pointing to the edge of the cape.
“Alice is very good at details,” said Raven. “She said she knew this was important to you, so she made herself picture the moment—”
“And she thinks there was a band of braid trimming the shoulder cape,” cut in Hawk. “It fluttered in the wind as he passed by, and she said the moonlight caught on the texture—it wasn’t quite the same as the smooth wool, and the color was dark, but not quite as dark as the rest of the coat.”
Charlotte tried to hold her excitement in check. The detail—if it were true—could be vital. But was the girl’s memory accurate, or was it merely wishful thinking? Experience had taught her that the passage of time often played tricks with one’s memory.
She looked up at Hawk’s expectant face. “This could be invaluable information, but we mustn’t let our hopes soar too high.”
“Oiy.” Raven nodded sagely. To his brother, he added, “Alice might have been mistaken.”
“She was sure of it,” insisted Hawk.
“Every detail helps,” assured Charlotte. “And I know Alice has a keen eye.” She carefully refolded the sketch. “Thanks to both of you, the picture of our quarry is taking shape on paper.”
Now they just had to find the flesh-and-blood dastard to match it.
That, however, would have to wait. As soon as darkness descended over the city, the world of silks and satins must take precedence over sleuthing.