CHAPTER 19
“What do I know of Aldini and Vitalism?” Henning looked up from the bubbling cauldron on his worktable and took a moment to wipe his spectacles on a rag.
A draft from the ill-fitting window swirled the rising steam, leaving a mizzle of droplets on his unshaven cheeks.
“Surely, that man’s theories aren’t coming back to life again here in England? ”
“God only knows what wild ideas are lurking deep in the shadows,” responded Wrexford as he tossed his hat on the surgeon’s desk and unbuttoned his coat. “Ready to crawl out if someone shines a light their way.”
“It sounds like you’ve shoved your hand up some dark crevasse,” said the surgeon, “and come away with a nasty bite.”
“You could say that.” Hooking his boot around a stool, he drew it up to the table and took a seat.
“I paid a visit to the Royal Institution and learned a little more about Westmorly, though nothing that might provide a clue as to who killed him. My sense is, he had made a number of enemies through his blackmailing. Any of them could have wished him dead.”
“A thoroughly dirty dish,” agreed Henning.
“From what Locke has told me, Westmorly knew some dirty secret about Chittenden and was extorting money to keep quiet about it. But—”
“But I can’t see him as Chittenden’s murderer,” interrupted Henning. “First of all, why would a blackmailer kill the goose who lays the golden egg?”
“There’s that,” conceded the earl.
“More important, the knife thrusts that killed both men were done by a skilled hand. Someone knew what he—”
“Or she,” interrupted Wrexford.
“A woman scorned, taking her revenge by murdering the handsome young Tulips of the ton?” Henning made a rude sound. “You’ve been reading too many of Ann Radcliffe’s novels.”
“Give me a better plot. For it feels as if I’m getting nowhere in trying to work out a scenario for what was going on within the Eos Society.
” The earl braced his elbows on the scarred wood.
“However, perhaps I’ve stumbled upon a new lead.
Getting back to my question about Aldini and Vitalism . . .”
Wrexford explained about his grotesque discovery in Thornton’s laboratory. “I confess, I’ve paid little attention to such ideas. But as you’re a medical man, I wondered whether you’ve done any reading in the field.”
“I have,” confirmed the surgeon. “Beginning with the discoveries of Galvani and Volta, and their invention of a device that could create electrical current—”
“The voltaic pile,” said Wrexford.
“Correct, laddie. Galvani may be mocked by many as a mere dancing master of dead frogs, but he did apply scientific thinking to his experiments. The fact that electricity could affect a body led him to theorize there existed what he called a ‘nervous-electric fluid.’ He believed illnesses might be caused by blockages of the fluid. And that led him to speculate that electricity might be a powerful force for good.”
Henning cracked his knuckles before continuing. “The voltaic pile generated great excitement within the medical world, as many wondered whether it could effect wondrous cures. Fix palsied limbs, bring new vitality to the old—”
“Raise the dead,” muttered the earl.
“Yes, well, Galvani’s ideas were taken to the extreme by his nephew, Aldini. You remember what a spectacle he created over the George Foster affair.”
The earl shook his head. “I was out of the country at the time, traveling with my brother in a remote part of Ireland.”
“You missed nothing but a regrettable farce.” Henning made a face.
“Aldini had made himself the darling of London with his demonstrations of making dead frogs twitch. He then claimed his process could bring a man back to life. He got his chance when a man named George Foster was convicted of murder, sentenced to be hanged, and then given over for dissection. Aldini got permission to perform his experiment on the condemned man’s corpse. ”
Wrexford grimaced, but said nothing.
“Foster was hung at the gallows of Newgate, and his body was immediately taken to the Royal College of Surgeons, where an audience eagerly awaited the momentous event. Aldini had attached a set of conducting rods to his voltaic pile and pressed them to Foster’s head, caused the jaw to start quivering and the left eye to fly open. ”
This time, the earl couldn’t hold back an oath.
“It gets more revolting,” said Henning. “He then inserted the rod up poor Foster’s . . .” A cough. “The fellow’s legs kicked up, his arm raised, and his back arched in a bow.”
“But he didn’t get up and walk away.”
“Nor did he punch Aldini in the nose,” quipped Henning. “Indeed, after that, the public’s interest in the experiment died down, and after further experiments, Aldini conceded that he didn’t have the power to make a dead heart start beating.”
The earl shifted. “So the idea of reanimating the dead went to its own grave?”
“No, there are others who keep searching for the secret of Life. I take it, you haven’t heard of Karl August Weinhold, a German who claims he’s brought animals back from the dead.”
“Surely, you jest.”
“Unfortunately not. His experiments involved dissecting a cat and replacing its spine with a miniature voltaic pile constructed of zinc and copper. Touching the reconstructed animal with a connecting rod from a larger pile supposedly reanimated its heart and made it dance for several minutes.”
“Ye gods. Surely, no sensible person believes in such blatant quackery,” muttered Wrexford.
Henning looked thoughtful. “I happen to agree with you. However, we both know it’s important to be open-minded on such seemingly quackish subjects.
One has only to look at the history of science, and how something that is thought to be absurdly impossible in one era becomes routine in another,” pointed out the surgeon.
“There is so much we don’t know about the human body, and so much we don’t know about electricity.
” He shrugged. “With the new developments regarding the trough battery, a more powerful variation of the voltaic pile, men of science will have far more current with which to experiment. Who is to say what the limits are?”
“I am the first to agree that science holds infinite mysteries that rational exploration can unlock.” Frowning, Wrexford lapsed into silence for several long moments. “You know my heretical views on most subjects. But tell me, do you truly believe that a man can be raised from the dead?”
Henning let out a cynical laugh. “It has happened once before. Or so the Holy Scriptures tell us.” A pause. “Though there’s no mention of thunderbolts . . . is there?”
“Careful, Baz. You are treading dangerously close to blasphemy.”
“Blasphemy is likely the least of my sins,” retorted the surgeon. “I’m resigned to roasting in hell for Eternity. Assuming, of course, that such a fiery pit exists somewhere in this universe.”
The earl grimaced and rose.
“If it will be of any help, I’ll do some further reading about Vitalism,” offered Henning.
“As I said, the concept of an animal electricity—a vital force, as yet beyond our understanding, that is elemental to life—is not completely mad. There are some very rational men of science on the Continent who believe it exists.”
“What’s happening here isn’t rational,” replied Wrexford. “Young men obsessed to the point of experimenting on their own bodies, murder, mutilation . . .” He let out his breath. “Evil is at play here, Baz. And we must find a way to stop it.”
A look of grim acknowledgment chased the cynicism from the surgeon’s face. “I agree. Let me ask around about Lord Thornton. I have a few friends at the Royal College of Surgeons who might know of any clandestine work being done on Vitalism.”
“Do it quickly.” Feeling bone-weary and unsettled by the day, Wrexford turned to take his leave. “One of the other things I heard this afternoon was that a trial date has been set for Nicholas Locke. I haven’t had a chance to tell Lady Charlotte yet, but we haven’t much time.”
* * *
“Stop squirming, Weasels,” commanded Tyler, adding a brusque tap-tap of his baton on the pianoforte to punctuate his words. “It’s important that we help Lady Charlotte prepare for her first ball—and to do that, you’ll need to act like gentlemen.”
The boys immediately ceased their horseplay and stood at attention. Charlotte would have smiled at their solemn faces and clean—relatively clean—clothing if her own nerves weren’t stretched so taut.
“That’s better,” murmured the valet. “Now I’m going to demonstrate the basic steps of the waltz when McClellan plays the tune.” He gave a nod to the maid. “It’s a basic one-two-three rhythm. Watch my feet for a bit, and then we’ll practice together.”
One-two-three, one-two-three . . . Charlotte studied his steps, but after a few moments, she found her focus straying.
In her previous visits to the earl’s town house, she had never been outside the confines of his workroom, and curiosity drew her gaze up from the parquet floor.
The furnishings of the music room were obviously expensive, but they had an understated elegance.
The colors were muted and the polished woods wore a graceful patina of age.
Not a glint of gold leaf or ornate silver assaulted the eye.
More than that, there was an air of well-used comfort to the space. She had the sense that it was designed for living rather than as a showcase to impress visitors. The chairs and sofa looked invitingly rumpled, and the paintings on the walls seemed very personal choices.
A shiver of intimate awareness tickled down Charlotte’s spine as she spotted a portrait on the far wall of a lovely, dark-haired young lady with two young boys playing at her feet.
Could it be . . .