CHAPTER 16
The sun was setting the next evening as Charlotte paused in the courtyard of Somerset House’s North Wing, home to the Royal Society, one of Britain’s most respected scientific institutions.
The gala reception for the delegations attending the international conference on transportation had already begun, but she took a moment to look up at the oversized grandeur of the architectural detailing.
Soaring pilasters, elongated windows crowned with pediments . . .
“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Cordelia with a half-mocking smile.
“It’s meant to be,” she answered after dropping her gaze to the arched entrance.
“A reminder that the gentlemen who congregate within these walls are doing important work.” The sonorous notes of a cello concerto drifted out of the open doors, accompanied by the mellifluous sounds of people enjoying fine food and wine. “And for the most part, they are.”
“But even the most exemplary organizations have their share of scoundrels,” remarked Cordelia. Her expression turned pensive. “As we both have good reason to know.”
Genius and madness. Sometimes the two went hand in hand.
“Money can corrupt the soul,” observed Charlotte. “As can the lust for fame.”
On that note, they passed through the entrance portal.
Given that Mademoiselle Benoit was already wary from their previous encounter, Charlotte had decided that she and Cordelia, aided by the dowager, would have better luck in trying to elicit information from her without the presence of the earl.
Instead, Wrexford and Sheffield intended to confront Garfield, for thanks to Tyler’s sleuthing earlier in the day, they had discovered what secret passion could have driven the man to betray his fellow society members for money.
It had also been decided that the Weasels would follow Mademoiselle Benoit back to her residence after tonight’s reception and arrange with a cadre of their urchin friends to keep the Frenchwoman under surveillance round the clock in order to report on any visitors and where she went during her daily activities.
“This way,” said Charlotte, indicating an elegant reception hall decorated in muted shades of cream and taupe.
Once she and Cordelia had greeted the Royal Society dignitaries who were hosting the reception, Charlotte needed only a moment to spot their quarry.
However, Mademoiselle Benoit was just as sharp-eyed and quickly sought refuge among a circle of men near one of the soaring windows overlooking the river.
“Drat,” she muttered under her breath.
“Flighty little thing, isn’t she?” intoned Alison, as she appeared from behind a display of potted palm trees. “Never mind—I have an idea.” The dowager gestured for Charlotte and Cordelia to follow her into one of the side alcoves before continuing.
“Mademoiselle Benoit doesn’t know of our family connection.
So Sir Robert and I shall contrive to draw her away from her present companions for a private conversation.
I daresay she won’t dare risk giving offense by refusing,” explained Alison.
“Then, when you two come over to join us, we shall make an excuse and withdraw.”
The strategy proved successful, and although the Frenchwoman fixed Charlotte and Cordelia with a mutinous scowl, she made no move to quit their company.
“Alors, I have told you all zat I know,” said Mademoiselle Benoit in a low, tight voice. “Je ne comprends pas what you want from moi.”
“The truth would be an excellent start,” responded Charlotte. “And by the by, you may cease the charade of mangled English. Lady Peake happens to know that your grandmother was the younger daughter of a British diplomat posted to Paris before the Revolution.”
A look of anger—or was it fear—flickered for an instant in her eyes, but then the Frenchwoman quickly regained her sangfroid. “Just because I speak excellent English doesn’t mean that I’m a criminal.”
“Nobody is accusing you of a crime,” assured Cordelia. “We simply want your help in finding Oliver Carrick.” She drew in a breath and let it out in a shaky sigh. “He is my cousin, and I wish to help him. I fear that he may be in grave danger.”
“I—I wish I could help you, madame.” The quiver in Mademoiselle Benoit’s voice betrayed a hint of raw emotion . . .
Which was, decided Charlotte, the first glimmer of honesty from the Frenchwoman, and she reacted quickly to take advantage of it.
“You can trust us—” she began.
“Isabelle!”
A tall man with a beaky nose and a shock of unruly auburn hair curling over his forehead hurried over to join them. Charlotte guessed that he must be Jean-Paul Montaigne.
“Excusez-moi, madame, my apologies, but I must ask my colleague to come with me tout de suite,” he added brusquely to Charlotte, though he didn’t look the least repentant. “A governor of the Royal Institution wishes to speak with the officers of our scientific society in one of the side salons.”
“Mais, Jean-Paul . . .” Mademoiselle Benoit bit her lip, but after a flicker of hesitation, she accepted the man’s arm and allowed him to hustle her away.
“Hell’s bells,” muttered Cordelia. “I think she was about to tell us something.” A sigh. “And so did her colleague. But I doubt that he will allow us anywhere near her after this tête-à-tête.”
“Yes, I’m quite sure he won’t,” agreed Charlotte.
“Based on Raven’s description of who he saw last night negotiating with Garfield, and the fact that mademoiselle just called him ‘Jean-Paul, ’ we can now be sure that Jean-Paul Montaigne, the president of the French scientific society, is mademoiselle’s co-conspirator. ”
She considered the situation for a moment.
“But few people suspect that an elderly dowager can be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Let us find Alison. She will be able to get close to Mademoiselle Benoit and under the guise of making polite conversation can tell her that for the next three days at noon we will be waiting by the Piccadilly entrance to Green Park for a rendezvous.
Perhaps she’s getting cold feet about her involvement in such sordid skullduggery and will come and confide in us. ”
As they turned and surveyed the reception room, Charlotte suddenly spotted a gentleman wearing a distinctive striped sash over his formal diplomatic dress coat. “You go on and arrange things with Alison. I will join you shortly.” Another glance. “I need to have a quick word with someone.”
* * *
Wrexford and Sheffield turned the corner of Duke Street and entered Mason’s Yard, a discreet enclave tucked in between Jermyn Street and St. James’s Square that housed one of London’s most exclusive purveyors of rare books.
An auction was taking place the following day, and the shop had remained open for the evening, allowing collectors to make a private appointment to examine the items up for sale.
They took up a position near the gated entrance of the adjoining building. Tyler had paid an earlier visit to the store and confirmed the time of Garfield’s scheduled visit.
“We shouldn’t have long to wait,” said the earl after clicking his pocket watch shut.
Sheffield cracked his knuckles. “I’m not a violent sort of fellow, but anyone who would murder a friend to possess a few bibliographic treasures, no matter how special, deserves to be beaten to a pulp.”
“I don’t disagree.” Though Cordelia was doing her best to put on a brave face, Wrexford knew that the murder of her childhood friend—perhaps by the hand of someone she knew and trusted—had left her badly shaken. “But let us leave it to the proper authorities to mete out punishment.”
“Hanging is too good for the varlet,” muttered Sheffield. “What sort of monster kills a close friend for personal gain?”
Alas, human nature is such that it happens far more often than one would like to think, reflected Wrexford.
The well-oiled whisper of a door opening and shutting alerted them that their wait was over. A shadow skittered over the cobblestones as a lone figure moved through the lamplight and into deepening twilight.
“Mr. Garfield, might we have a word?” Wrexford stepped out to block the man’s way, while Sheffield took up a position behind him, making it clear that the question was not really a request.
Garfield stopped short, his eyes widening in surprise. “I’m sorry, but I am in a bit of a hurry.”
“Whatever it is, it can wait,” said the earl.
A nervous laugh. “Come, come, auctions are meant to be civilized competitions between gentlemen. It’s rather unsporting to stoop to intimidating another player in the game.”
“We don’t give a rat’s arse about books,” snarled Sheffield.
Garfield flinched and turned to face him. “Then w-who are you?”
“Lady Cordelia’s husband.”
The fluttery lamplight caught the sheen of sweat beginning to bead on the man’s forehead.
“And my companion is Lord Wrexford.”
“I—I don’t understand,” stammered Garfield. “W-What could you possibly want from me?”
“The truth—and without having to ask for it again,” retorted Sheffield. He flexed a fist. “I dislike the idea of having to bruise my knuckles in beating it out of the likes of you.”
Garfield edged away in panic, as if seeking to flee back to the book emporium, but Sheffield shoved him back a step.
“I don’t know what you mean!” bleated Garfield.
“Then allow me to explain.” Wrexford gave a flash of teeth that only a lackwit would mistake for a smile. “To begin with, you have been conspiring to sell the innovation of your good friend Jasper Milton before his corpse has grown cold in the grave.”
“I—”
“Which begs the question—did you murder Milton?” continued the earl. “Or did you keep your lily-white hands clean and hire someone else to wield the blade?”
Eyes widening, Garfield began to sputter in shock. “M-MMe? Good Lord, no! I—I didn’t kill Jasper!”
“And yet he is dead, and you were overheard making a deal to sell his calculations to members of the French scientific delegation, who are here in London to attend the transportation conference,” said Wrexford.