CHAPTER 26 #2
“Enjoy the view, sir!” called Hopkins as Wrexford hurried away. The cathedral was built on Ludgate Hill, the highest point of London, and the outer walkway at the very top of the dome offered a spectacular panorama of the sprawling city and the River Thames.
A gust of wind ruffled his coat as Wrexford ducked through the opening leading to the narrow ironwork ring that ran around the base of the spire.
The walkway was deserted save for a single figure who was standing with his back half-turned as he gazed up at the tempietto—a crowning design made of four columned porticos facing the cardinal points of the compass.
“Mr. Wheeler?”
The man turned. “Yes?”
“It seems that designing bridges is a more perilous profession than one might imagine,” commented Wrexford, on seeing Wheeler’s right arm was in a sling and his hand was heavily bandaged.
“Any designer worth his salt often wields a hammer and chisel during the construction process, sir. It’s imperative to understand the materials used, and how they react to stress.”
“As someone who is also involved in scientific pursuits, I couldn’t agree more about empirical research,” responded the earl. “By the by, I’m Wrexford.”
“Ah. Your reputation proceeds you, milord,” replied Wheeler with a nod of acknowledgment. “Your work on improving the tensile strength of iron has allowed engineers to formulate better designs for bridges.”
He waggled his injured arm. “But as for my injury, it was actually not related to my work. It seems that being a tourist in Town is even more dangerous than climbing the heights of an unfinished bridge.”
Wrexford frowned. “What happened?”
“I was returning to my lodgings last night from an evening soiree given by a member of the Royal Society and chose to take a shortcut through Hyde Park, where I was attacked by footpads.” He made a face. “I should have known better, but I confess, I had imbibed more brandy than was wise.”
“The members of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society appear to be attracting a number of deadly attacks of late.”
Wheeler’s expression turned grim. “Milton’s murder and Carrick’s unexplained absence are indeed unnerving.”
“I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but things have taken an even more sinister turn,” said Wrexford. “Though it has not yet been made public, both Kendall Garfield and Mercer Wayland have met with violent deaths.”
“D-Dear God,” intoned Wheeler, his eyes flaring in shock. “Do you mean they were . . . murdered?”
“Yes.” Wrexford allowed a moment for his reply to sink in before adding, “As you know, my wife and I are close friends with Lady Cordelia and her husband, and so I have been doing some informal investigation into Milton’s murder.
” Another pause. “Can you think of anyone who knew that Milton was working on a technological breakthrough for bridge design—and would be willing to kill in order to steal it?”
“I . . .” Wheeler looked away to the river, watching a flock of gulls dip and dart above white-capped water. “I can’t think of anyone, save for . . .” His voice trailed off into the thrum of the swirling breeze.
“Save for Oliver Carrick?” suggested the earl.
A shrug was the only answer.
Wrexford hesitated, and then asked, “Are you acquainted with any friend of Milton who is called Axe?”
Wheeler pursed his lips as he considered the question. “No,” he said slowly. “But there are always a number of carpenters who work at a bridge-building site. Perhaps Milton had formed a friendship with one of them.”
“That’s an excellent suggestion, and one that hadn’t occurred to me.” There was, of course, another alternative for the murderer—Wheeler himself. Aside from Milton, the other members of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society had thought him aloof and a bit of an enigma.
But then again, reflected the earl, I, too, am considered eccentric and unsociable.
Glancing down at the lead-covered dome beneath the walkway, Wrexford decided to change the subject. “Are you interested in architecture, Mr. Wheeler? Domes in particular seem a very different type of engineering challenge from that of bridges.”
“I’m interested in any construction created by innovative thinking in structural engineering,” came the reply.
“Sir Christopher Wren had a bold new vision for a dome that appeared airy and light, and yet would be larger than any other one in existence. The technical difficulties he faced—how to deal with stability and the distribution of weight and force—were enormous, and yet he found a way to overcome them.”
Wheeler moved to the low railing and leaned forward to observe the lower parts of the dome.
“To do so, Wren created an ingenious design of three nested domes. The outer one that you see here is a majestic size and shape that dominates the skyline. Within it is a steeper dome, which is what people see from inside the cathedral. And then there is a hidden middle dome, which helps create strength and stability.”
“Interesting,” murmured Wrexford.
“As a man of science, you will appreciate the fact that Wren consulted with his good friend the legendary polymath Robert Hooke to use science to solve the structural challenges.”
“We are becoming more and more aware of how science is key to solving so many practical challenges.”
Wheeler’s face lit up with a look of passionate enthusiasm as he continued to expound on the innovative engineering ideas created by Wren. “Come, have a look at what I mean about the outer shape.”
As Wrexford approached the rail, Wheeler took hold of the earl’s coat sleeve with his good hand. “In my experience, most people get a little giddy when looking down from towering heights. Have a care. I’ll steady you.”
The earl leaned out, just as the wind changed directions and a gust from the opposite direction swirled around the spire.
Wrexford felt his weight shift, and for an instant he felt himself teetering. Another blast of wind hit . . .
And then suddenly he was pulled back. Wheeler retreated several steps and braced the earl’s back against the spire’s colonnading.
“One needs good balance and catlike footing when walking in high places,” counseled Wheeler.
“As well as nine lives,” murmured Wrexford.
That made the engineer chuckle. “Those of us who design bridges count on that old adage being true.”
“Speaking of lives,” continued the earl. “Given the fate of your fellow society members, and the attack on your own person—”
“A-Are you suggesting that the incident with the footpads in the park wasn’t a random attack?” interjected Wheeler.
“Let’s just say that I find it an unsettling coincidence,” he answered. “So if I were you, I would leave London until the crimes are solved and the culprit is apprehended.” The wind gusted again, once again reversing direction. “After all, better safe than sorry.”
“Egad.” Wheeler blew out his breath. “Well, as it so happens, I have been invited to visit the provost of Eton to discuss taking charge of an important bridge renovation near Windsor Castle, and I’ll be spending a week as a guest of the school in order to inspect the nearby site.
” He paused to blot his brow. “I leave at first light tomorrow.”
“A fortuitous happenchance. I am glad to hear it,” said the earl. “One never knows when trouble might rear its ugly head.”
* * *
“My dear Falcon, if you think something is amiss, then it likely is,” said Charlotte. “So please don’t hesitate to tell us about it, no matter how unconnected it might seem.”
“Very well.” Peregrine drew in a deep breath. “To begin with, on the first day of classes, it was announced that Eton’s long-time drawing master was taking a leave of absence for the coming term, and that his replacement was a Frenchman—”
“A Frenchman,” she exclaimed. “You are sure?”
“Yes, m’lady. We were told that we were lucky to have him, for he had lived for the past decade in Rome and so was highly skilled in teaching the elements of classical design and proportion.” A pause. “The thing is, Mr. Valencourt knew nothing about art.”
He hesitated. “The other boys didn’t notice.
But because of you and things you’ve explained to us about the basics of drawing, it struck me as very odd.
His lessons consisted of passing out paper and pencils and giving a few muddled platitudes about trusting our eye.
He then would tell us to draw a chair, or if the weather was pleasant, he would send us outside to sketch a tree or a detail from one of the buildings, and then went off—I know not where—and left us on our own. ”
“That does seem to raise some questions,” she mused.
“Then one night, I—I climbed out of the window of my quarters in town and returned to Eton,” confessed Peregrine, “where I made my way to the main courtyard and crept into the Upper School. I knew the under-master kept a private library of scientific books and a collection of chemicals for his own experiments in his study room,”
A sigh. “You see, scientific subjects are not part of our curriculum, so students aren’t permitted access to them.”
“Because heaven forfend that such a respected bastion of education should deign to teach the boys any useful subjects for modern life,” muttered Cordelia.
“Indeed, it’s antediluvian thinking,” agreed Charlotte, but then quickly encouraged Peregrine to continue.
“I know it was wrong of me, but I wanted to find a way to make my stink bombs more noxious,” he said.
“So I took one of the books and the box of chemicals to a nook just below one of the windows, so I could read by the moonlight. But then, I heard the door creak open and saw Mr. Valencourt enter. He had a small shuttered lantern and angled the narrow beam of light so that he could riffle through papers on the under-master’s desk and in its drawers. ”
“Definitely havey-cavey,” said Cordelia.
“That’s not all, m’lady. The day before, I had hidden in the school chapel after my last class rather than return right away to my lodging house in order to borrow one of the glass bottles used for scented oils for my stink bomb.
And I overheard the provost of Eton talking to someone about a collection of very rare and valuable books that he had borrowed from the royal librarian at Windsor Castle, and how they were being kept under lock and key in the under-master’s study room to ensure their safety. ”
“What sort of books?” asked Charlotte.
“They moved on to the passageway leading to the Upper School, so I didn’t hear the rest of their conversation, m’lady.
But I saw Mr. Valencourt draw a length of thin steel from his boot—just like the type of lockpick that Wrex carries—and open one of the oak storage chests that is used to store valuables. ”
Peregrine stopped for a moment to steady his voice. “I was frightened out of my wits and didn’t dare move a muscle. Punishment for any infraction of the school rules is awfully harsh.”
“I’m well aware of the brutal traditions of these prestigious schools,” said Charlotte in a taut voice.
She knew that boys were often beaten with a cane for even the smallest offense, and while she decided to say no more on the subject for now, she made a mental note for A.
J. Quill to compose a commentary on the beastly practice in the near future.
“I trust that he did not spot you,” she added.
“No, m’lady. I have a good deal of practice at losing myself in the shadows.”
“As Kit is working with the provost of Eton on the Bristol Road Project, perhaps he can make a discreet inquiry about the contents of the specific books,” suggested Cordelia. “We can—”
She stopped in midsentence on hearing Mademoiselle Benoit give a tentative hail as she started down the stairs to the kitchen.
“Madame Sheffield? Are you down there?”
Charlotte gestured for Peregrine to exit the kitchens through the passageway leading to the scullery.
“Yes, yes, do come join us,” answered Cordelia.
“Would you care for some tea?” called McClellan.
“Merci. Tea would be lovely.” Lifting her skirts, mademoiselle crossed the kitchen threshold. “Oliver sent me to inquire whether I might bring him a pot of coffee and perhaps some biscuits.”
“But of course. Sit and enjoy your tea, while I assemble a more substantial array of refreshment than mere biscuits,” replied the maid, as she prepared a teapot and carried it to the table.
“Indeed, you two must be famished,” said Charlotte. “Mac will ensure that you don’t starve.”
“You are too kind,” murmured mademoiselle, ducking her head to put a spoonful of sugar into her cup.
As McClellan bustled around the kitchen, Charlotte sought to put the Frenchwoman at ease by asking a question about Paris.
Cordelia quickly chimed in with her own query, and the three of them conversed about the highlights of the city until the maid was ready to head to the earl’s workroom with the refreshments.
“Oliver, you must sample Mac’s famous ginger biscuits,” called Cordelia as she flung open the door.
No answer.
“Oliver?”
Nothing but a deafening silence.
Oh, surely Carrick hadn’t played them all for fools. Charlotte hurried to check the adjoining library.
But it, too, was empty.
“Merde!” Cordelia whirled around to confront mademoiselle. “Where did he go?”
The Frenchwoman quickly looked away and lifted her shoulders in a Gallic shrug. “I haven’t a clue.”