CHAPTER 27
“The bloody dastard is proving slippery as an eel,” muttered Wrexford as he finished a quick check of Hollister’s rooms. “It looks like he’s wriggled through our fingers again.”
“Wherever he’s gone, it appears he was in a hurry,” observed Sheffield as he looked around at the half-open bureau drawers and items of clothing scattered on the floor of the bedchamber.
“Perhaps because of your interrogation, he sensed the noose drawing tighter around his neck and is fleeing the country.”
The earl heard the hopeful note in his friend’s voice. “Perhaps, Kit. But don’t let your hopes take wing quite yet.” He slid the lock pick back in his boot. “However, now that we are here in his private quarters, let us make a thorough search of the place.”
“If there’s a shred of evidence here as to his guilt, I vow I shall find it.”
It took the better part of an hour, but a grunt of triumph finally slipped from Sheffield’s lips.
Wrexford hurried into the dressing room, where his friend was crouched down beside a small trunk. A pile of dirty linen was strewn around his feet, but several books were in his hands.
“Have a look at this!”
He took the top one, which was cracked open to a spread of illustrations. They depicted the hideous experiment Aldini had done on the newly dead body of George Foster, the criminal hung at Newgate.
“Look at the handwritten notes in the margin,” urged Sheffield.
A quick read showed them to be notations on why Aldini had failed to reanimate the dead man and what changes in the procedure would likely result in success.
“The other book is on Galvani’s experiments. Surely, if we take these to Griffin, he can go arrest Hollister.”
Wrexford hated having to throw water on his friend’s fire. “Even if this turns out to be Hollister’s handwriting, it’s not proof of any wrongdoing. He can claim it’s merely scientific speculation.”
“Do you believe that?” asked Sheffield.
“No,” he answered. “When you put it together with the other circumstantial evidence, I think it’s clear Hollister is involved in something terrible. But we need to know exactly what.”
“Then let us find him and get the truth out of him,” Sheffield’s expression turned hard as stone. “No matter if it means shoving a hand down his gullet, and pulling out his vital organs, one by one.”
* * *
“You are sure?” whispered Charlotte.
“Oiy,” answered Hawk. “Raven had Mr. Tyler write it down, cuz he thought I’d like te see what a mouthful the scientific names are. The expert from the Royal Society says it only grows in a certain area of northern India.”
Charlotte felt another chill take hold of her flesh and turned to McClellan.
“Wrexford found no incriminating evidence in either of DeVere’s two laboratories.
” She hesitated as she looked at Hawk, but then recalled that both boys already knew all the sordid details about the investigation.
“But that doesn’t mean there isn’t some hidden place, filled with the ghastly electrical implements designed to reanimate the dead. ”
She made a wry face. “Though I confess, that sounds like a scene from one of Ann Radcliffe’s horrid novels.”
“Would that all this was naught but mere fiction,” said McClellan. “But your cousin is dead and Evil is still afoot in the streets of London.”
Charlotte nodded, grateful for the maid’s unflappable aura of calm, and took a moment to think.
“Hawk, as soon as we arrive home, you and your brother must go and let Wrexford know what we’ve discovered,” she said.
A glance out the window showed the landscape was passing with agonizing slowness. “We need to have a council of war.”
“Oiy!” Grimacing, he tugged at the collar of his new shirt and grumbled, “If I weren’t dressed like a bloody street fiddler’s monkey, I could jump outta the carriage sooner.”
“Language, young man,” warned McClellan. “Or would you rather I wash your mouth with soap rather than stuff it with sweets?”
Forcing her innards to unclench, Charlotte allowed a smile, and then turned the talk to the morning activities, and all the marvelous sights they had seen. It was a long ride back to Town, and the darkness of Death mustn’t be allowed to overshadow all else.
Hawk laughed at something McClellan said and she felt a lump rise in her throat. The boys were growing so quickly and developing their own interests. She wanted with all her heart to give them good guidance and encouragement.
And love. But that went without saying.
Nothing mattered more than love. It gave one the strength to face any adversity.
“Look, look, m’lady!” Hawk was paging through the book of Bauer’s art and suddenly held up a page. “He’s drawn a bug on one of the leaves!”
“It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” She patted the seat beside her. “Come, shall we look at it together . . .”
His lively chatter and the exquisite colors and details of the art made the journey pass more quickly than she thought possible. The carriage clattered to a halt and the three of them hurried into her house.
“I’ll go fetch Raven,” called Hawk, flinging off his jacket as he raced for the stairs, “and we’ll fly to alert His Lordship.”
“Would you care for some tea?” asked McClellan as Charlotte removed her bonnet and shrugged off her cloak.
“Thank you, but no.” What she desperately needed was some solitude in which to think.
“Well, then . . .” The maid picked up Hawk’s jacket, her brows rising as she surveyed the streak on its front. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. This may require some witchcraft to remove.”
“Thank you,” repeated Charlotte, but her mind was already spinning, spinning, spinning . . .
Once seated at her desk, she set a fresh sheet of paper on her blotter. Is it possible the trail leads back to DeVere? Wrexford had searched carefully for any incriminating evidence and had found nothing.
And yet . . .
Her pencil moved over the paper, sketching in the sword-shaped plant at its center and a series of lines and arrows radiating out to the confusion of clues—grains of snuff, a slender knife, a voltaic pile, a Wellington hat, the shadowy outline of a figure. Something had to tie them all together.
She just had to see it.
* * *
“Sir Kelvin Hollister?” The grizzled porter at Boodle’s scratched at his chin. “Aye, he was here earlier, milord, closeted in one o’ the private rooms with a gent I didn’t recognize. But you’ve just missed him.”
Wrexford cursed. He and Sheffield had spent the last few hours searching through Mayfair, trying to catch up with their quarry. It appeared they were getting closer. But not close enough.
He took out his purse and gave it a discreet shake. “Any idea what other haunts he favors in Town?”
The porter’s eyes widened at the muted clink of gold against gold. “You could try the Golden Cockerel in St. Giles, milord.” He looked around before adding, “I’ve heard murmurs here in the club that it’s known as a place where a gentleman who needs a hidey-hole can take refuge.”
Wrexford passed over several guineas. “Let’s be off, Kit. If we hurry, perhaps we can finally run him to ground.”
* * *
“His Lordship ain’t—isn’t—at home,” announced Hawk in a rush as he pushed open the door to her workroom. “Mr. Tyler says he and Mr. Sheffield went off to confront Sir Kelvin Hollister, and they’ve been gone fer hours.”
Repressing an oath, Charlotte looked down at her scribbles. Hollister was another maddening thread in her tangled sketch. His connection with her slain cousin was through science . . .
And through Lady Julianna Aldrich.
She suddenly felt a prickling between her shoulder blades.
“Raven stayed with Mr. Tyler,” continued Hawk, “so he can come tell you when His Lordship returns.” He edged closer to her desk, watching her intently. “You want for me to run any other errands?”
“No, there’s nothing for us to do but wait,” she answered.
His gaze shifted to the drawing paper. “What’s that?”
“Just random doodles,” replied Charlotte, still contemplating the crisscrossing squiggles and arrows. “They sometimes help me think.”
Think.
All at once, the idea that had been lurking at the edge of her consciousness snapped into sharp focus.
He craned his neck. “Why—”
“I fear I’m too exhausted to contemplate any more questions tonight,” she cut in. “It’s been a very long day. We should both get some sleep.”
Hawk’s eyes betrayed a tiny flicker, but he reluctantly lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Oiy, I s’ppose so.”
Charlotte pulled him close and pressed a kiss to his tangled curls. “Rest easy, sweeting. Because of you, we are gathering more and more clues that may lead us to the killer.”
“We’ll find him, m’lady.”
From the lips of a child to the ears of the Almighty. Charlotte prayed that would be so. Time was slipping away. Nicholas’s trial was scheduled to begin in two days.
She forced a smile. “Of course, we will—if only for Mr. Tyler’s sake. Lord Wrexford gets very ill-tempered when logic refuses to unravel a conundrum.”
Hawk’s expression remained solemn. “Raven says he gets angry because he doesn’t like to disappoint you.”
Her throat seized. Charlotte looked away, unable to muster any reply. The earl’s feelings weren’t a subject she dared contemplate right now. Life and Death. Hope and Fear. They were too entangled, too confusing. For now, all her thoughts must be on Nicholas and keeping him from the gallows.
“If you don’t wish to disappoint me,” she said lightly, “you’ll fly up to your aerie without further argument.”
He hesitated, then backed away and slipped out into the shadows.
Charlotte waited, listening for the creaks of the steps leading up to the attic. Satisfied, she extinguished the lamp and moved into the corridor.