CHAPTER 22
The earl held his breath as Thornton passed by the stairwell. For an instant, the candle flame flitted over his rain-spattered face, catching the wild light in his eyes as he darted a nervous glance over his shoulder.
And then his visage was once again swallowed by the darkness.
Picking up his pace, the marquess continued down the corridor, the flapping of his coat adding to the blur of light and dark patterns skittering through the gloom. To Wrexford’s surprise, he didn’t stop at the entrance to his own laboratory, but kept going and darted into the adjoining corridor.
“What’s happening?” whispered Sheffield as the sound of the steps faded away.
“It’s Thornton,” replied the earl. “He’s heading to the back of the building.” He eased the door open. “Whatever mischief he’s up to, let us catch him in the act. Stay close.”
Drawing the pistol from his pocket, Wrexford set off in pursuit.
Hugging close to the wall, they followed Thornton into the side corridor. The darkness seemed to squeeze the air from the narrow space. The earl shallowed his breathing, the thud of his heart sounding unnaturally loud in the stifling silence.
Another turn and he spotted a flare of light up ahead. He halted and felt Sheffield brush up against his back. Thornton had set his candle down on the floor and was crouched down by a door, working with a steel probe to open the lock.
Wrexford took a moment to gauge the distance, then gave a quick tap to Sheffield’s sleeve. They covered the distance swiftly, and reached their quarry just as a soft snick sounded and the door released.
Thornton picked up the light and placed a palm on the paneled wood—
Grabbing the marquess’s collar, Wrexford shoved him inside as Sheffield drew the door closed behind them.
“W-What the devil,” sputtered Thornton, then fell silent as the snout of the pistol jammed up against his throat. The candle had gone out, leaving them shrouded in blackness.
“Devil is an apt word,” muttered Wrexford as he swung his prisoner around and pushed him up against the near wall. “Find a lamp and light it, Kit. And then let us have Lord Thornton explain to us why he just broke into Justinian DeVere’s laboratory.”
Glass rattled against metal, flint struck steel, igniting a soft hiss as a wick burst into flame.
The oily glow illuminated Thornton’s face. It was pale as death.
“Go to hell,” said the marquess through clenched teeth.
“I’ve got nothing to say to you, Wrexford.
” He inhaled through his nose. “Save for the fact that I’m surprised at your perfidy.
I would have thought you possessed more honor and more intelligence than to be conspiring with a madman on such despicable experiments. ”
Wrexford frowned in consternation . . . and then chuffed a quick laugh. “A clever ploy to play the innocent—but, clearly, you’re a diabolically clever fellow. However, I know what evil you’re up to, so don’t bother trying to gammon us.”
Sheffield picked up a scalpel from the work counter and waggled it to punctuate the warning. “The only words we want to hear from you are a confession as to why you murdered Lord Chittenden and Benjamin Westmorly.”
It was Thornton’s turn to look nonplussed. “I? A murderer?” He lifted his chin, unflinching as the pistol’s barrel dug deeper into his flesh.
Wrexford could feel the jumpy pulsing of the fellow’s blood against the steel.
“It’s you who are mad,” continued the marquess. “Let us not waste our breath in whatever word games you are playing. Go ahead—pull the trigger and be done with it. I may have failed to bring you miscreants to justice, but someone eventually will.”
“Another eloquent avowal. However . . .” Wrexford reached out slowly and took the hat from Thornton’s head.
“You made a crucial mistake by wearing such a distinctive head covering to the scenes of the Bloody Butcher murders. We’ve found witnesses who have described it.
” As he angled the hat to the lamp, light winked off the silver button on the band.
“Bloody hell—that isn’t my hat!” sputtered Thornton. “I hung my hat and my coat in the private cloakroom of my corridor earlier today. When I went to fetch them this evening, someone had taken mine—by mistake, I assumed, as this one was hung on the peg. But as it was raining, I took it.”
A grimace spasmed over his face. “The damnable thing doesn’t even fit—it’s too small!”
If Thornton was putting on an act, thought the earl, he ought to take up a career on the stage. He handed the hat to Sheffield. “Put it on him, Kit, and let us see if he’s telling the truth.”
Sheffield did as requested, taking great care to test how it sat on the marquess’s brow. “It does appear to be the wrong size.”
Still, Wrexford remained wary. The dastard they were chasing was diabolically cunning. “If you’re not the murderer, why were you breaking into DeVere’s laboratory?”
“Because,” shot back the marquess, “I’m trying to piece together what evil is afoot here in the Institution, and I have good reason to believe the heart of it lies with DeVere’s protégés . . .”
“Go on,” said Wrexford, seeing that Thornton hesitated.
“That is, the three young leaders of the Eos Society—Chittenden, Westmorly, and Hollister. I thought I might find some clue among DeVere’s work as to what dark mischief they were doing.” Another pause. “And as you know, two of them are dead. Surely, that in itself should stir suspicions.”
“Indeed, it does,” said the earl. “But given your recent actions, those suspicions fall squarely on you at this moment. You’ll have to give more than vague innuendoes and an ill-fitting hat to convince us of your innocence.”
A flush darkened Thornton’s cheekbones. “Then listen carefully and judge for yourself.” He hitched in a breath. “Might you kindly remove your weapon from my windpipe?”
Wrexford allowed a sliver of space. “Be quick with your tongue. I’m not known for my patience.”
“For the past year, DeVere has held frequent soirees for the scientific community,” began Thornton.
“He’s an excellent host—the suppers are superb and the company is always interesting, so I frequently attended them.
It quickly became apparent that he paid particular attention to the three young men and saw to it that they were included in the inner circle of influential guests.
They, of course, were flattered, and I had the sense that they looked up to him as a mentor. ”
The marquess hesitated. “After several weeks, DeVere began inviting them to stay, after the other guests took their leave, for a private scientific salon within a salon.” He smoothed his lapel.
“His ward, Lady Julianna Aldrich, also took part in the discussions. She’s apparently quite knowledgeable in a variety of subjects and could hold her own. ”
“Yes, DeVere described her to me as brilliant,” said Wrexford. “She’s also beautiful. And young men being young men, I would guess that the desire to impress the lady added an extra edge to the gatherings.”
“Much as we like to think otherwise, mankind is, for the most part, ruled by its most primitive urges,” observed the marquess dryly. “I was told the competition for her regard turned . . . fierce.”
Ah, here we are finally coming to the crux of the matter, thought Wrexford. “Told by whom?”
With a whisper of wool, Thornton shifted his shoulders against the plaster wall. “Chittenden. He came to me several weeks ago, seeking my counsel, and—”
“Why you?” interrupted the earl.
“Chittenden had attended my lecture on iode, an element recently discovered by Davy and Gay-Lussac that may have medical uses. Afterward, he approached me with some queries, and I invited him to discuss them over a brandy at White’s.
” A shrug. “I liked him. He was friendly and well-spoken, as well as intelligent and inquisitive. After that, we met on occasion to talk about science.” Thornton shook his head.
“As to why he came to me for counsel, I couldn’t tell you. I suppose he trusted my judgment.”
Wrexford considered the unvarnished answer. It struck him as truthful. “I see. So, on what pressing matter did he wish your advice?”
Thornton pursed his lips. “If I knew the exact answer to that, I might have an idea of why he’s dead.”
A low growl rumbled in Sheffield’s throat. The scalpel rose a notch. “As His Lordship said, we’re in no mood for playing games.”
“Nor am I,” countered the marquess angrily. “This is a deadly serious matter. Not only am I concerned about the lives of bright young men, but I’m also gravely worried about the reputation of the Royal Institution—and science in this country—if scientific knowledge is being used for Evil.”
Thornton slowly raised a hand—the pistol was still within a hairsbreadth of his throat—and ran his fingers through his hair.
“All I can tell you is that Chittenden came to me a week before his death in a state of great mental agitation. He was clearly confused—even fearful—about something, and asked some very pointed questions about the morality of scientific experiments, and how far one should push the boundaries. I tried to get him to confide exactly what he was talking about. But he wouldn’t. ”
The marquess paused to draw in a measured breath. “I did get him to promise to think about confiding whatever dreadful secret it was. However . . .”
“However, someone murdered him before he could do so,” finished Wrexford. He slid his pistol back into his pocket. “You suspect that the young men were repeating the electrical experiments of Galvani and Aldini on living—or recently living—creatures.”
Thornton’s eyes widened. “How did you guess—”
“Never mind that now,” said the earl. “But I surmise that’s why the voltaic pile and animal remains were in your laboratory.”