CHAPTER 30
Wrexford dug into the secret pocket hidden in the lining of his coat and extracted a tiny glass vial and packet of thin wooden sticks topped with a chemical compound—an experimental source of illumination that he and Tyler had recently developed.
“Let us hope these work outside the laboratory,” he muttered, as he removed the wax seal from the vial and quickly dipped the chemical tip in and out of the vitriolic acid.
A flame whooshed up, the fire-gold light catching the curl of the earl’s smile.
Holding up the brightly burning stick, he turned in a slow circle, getting his bearings within the stone chamber. For all their evil genius—Wrexford readily conceded that Fenway and Wheeler were intellectually gifted—the two villains had ignored a basic scientific principle.
“Forming a conclusion without knowing all the facts often leads to an erroneous conclusion,” he murmured, after aligning his back with the doorway and moving in a straight line to the opposite wall. Fenway and Wheeler had overlooked a small but key element in the earl’s educational background.
It was an understandable mistake. Wrexford never talked about the term—or rather, the three-quarters of a term—that he had spent at Eton.
His father had thought that he and his younger brother, Thomas, might enjoy the camaraderie of other boys after undergoing a rigorous course of study for a number of years with their private tutor. And so he had arranged admission to the elite school for his sons.
The earl’s smile stretched a touch wider as he began to tap his fingers over the rough blocks of mortised stone.
He and Thomas—who, alas, had perished in a French ambush during the Peninsular War—had been bored to perdition by the school’s uninteresting lectures and the emphasis on memorization rather than any real thinking.
However, the company of other boys had been great fun.
The two of them had marshaled a small number of them into an adventurous group that proceeded to raise hell with all the rules of the school—without getting caught in the act.
Tap, tap.
That, reflected Wrexford as he continued to examine the wall, was because he and his brother had heard rumors about secret passageways that had been built into the school two centuries ago during the Civil War between the Royalists and the Parliamentarians.
They managed to find a couple of them. And then, when he had found an ancient map in the school library’s archives, all of Eton’s secrets were at his fingertips.
The late-night mischief he and his brother had wrought throughout the school buildings—crowned by playing a movement of Mozart’s Requiem in D Minor on the chapel organ at midnight—had driven the headmaster and his under-masters to distraction.
They couldn’t prove who were the guilty culprits. But they had their suspicions . . .
And so the headmaster had finally begged Wrexford’s father to withdraw his two miscreant sons before the school’s reputation for strict discipline was blown to flinders.
Tap, tap.
Wrexford allowed another smile as he heard a slightly hollow sound from one of the stones. Placing both hands on it, he gave a hard push . . .
And was rewarded a moment later as the hidden door faced with a stone veneer gave a muted groan and swung open several inches.
The earl quickly lit another chemical match and then slipped into the passageway.
* * *
Raven pushed the newly unlocked door open, allowing him and Peregrine to enter a narrow foyer.
To the left were two archways, each giving access to a small room filled with all manner of old books.
Starlight from the narrow diamond-paned windows cast just enough illumination for the boys to see the rest of the layout.
To the right was a solid wall of mortared stone.
And straight ahead was another closed door.
Raven carefully relocked the door he had just opened before approaching it. Choosing the smallest of his hooked picks, he gave a tentative touch to the keyhole . . .
Only to have the door swing open on oiled hinges.
He cocked an ear and heard nothing.
Peregrine shifted to a different vantage point and signaled that there was no sign of lamplight inside the chamber.
Without further hesitation Raven darted inside.
Once Peregrine had joined him and closed the door, Raven decided to risk lighting one of the glass-globed lanterns on the entrance table.
The room was windowless, and as the flame steadied, it showed that the space was normally used as a storage space.
It was crowded with ancient wooden cabinets, crates of textbooks, and other items of schoolboy life.
However, to the right, sitting off on its own in a clearing near the wall, was a large desk stacked with open books and piles of papers. Several pencils and pens—one of them looked as if the point had been snapped off in anger—lay on the ink-stained blotter.
“Poke around and see whether you find anything suspicious among the flotsam and jetsam,” he said to his fellow Weasel after handing him the small candle lantern, “while I have a look at the desk.”
Peregrine nodded and crept off to explore the numerous nooks and alcoves of the room.
On closer inspection, the nearest pile of papers proved to be covered with scribbled equations. A few of them looked familiar, while others were bewilderingly complicated. And some seemed to trail off and make absolutely no sense.
Cordelia would likely have a better idea of what it all meant, decided Raven, and made himself move on.
After a brief glance at the spines of the books, which all looked to be well-known treatises on mathematics, Raven edged around to the other side of the desk in order to sift through another stack of papers. Frowning, he paged through more scribbles and crossed-out equations—
He looked up with a start on hearing a sudden thud but relaxed on seeing Peregrine stick his head out of the far alcove half filled with cricket bats and give an apologetic grimace.
So far, everything appeared to be disjointed scribblings. Surely a momentous innovation would look much more impressive. Raven drew a deep breath and started searching through yet another pile, only to find more random numbers and half-finished equations.
He was beginning to lose heart when finally, beneath a piece of torn oilskin cloth, he found a sheaf of water-stained papers, smaller in size than the rest of sheets that were scattered across the dark wood. And there was a notebook beneath them, its cloth covers frayed from frequent use.
Raven opened it and leaned in to study what was written on the first page. It wasn’t the numbers that drew his eye . . .
In the course of working to assess whether the documents that Wayland intended to sell to the French were fakes, Cordelia had taken the time to explain to him what she was doing—and shown him examples of Jasper Milton’s handwriting.
“Eureka,” he whispered.
From all that Charlotte had taught him about the little nuances that a pen or pencil could create on paper, he quickly recognized that he was looking at Milton’s missing notebook.
Feeling a surge of excitement, he gave a sharp hiss to draw Peregrine out from one of the nooks.
“I’ve found Milton’s papers—” he began, only to freeze on seeing Peregrine’s eyes flare wide in fear.
Raven spun around to see a mustachioed man holding a pistol.
“What the devil are you two imps doing in here?” The man took a step closer.
“M-Mr. V-Valencourt,” stammered Peregrine. “We . . .”
“W-We thought maybe we could find some noxious liquids in this storeroom to make stink bombs,” interjected Raven, hoping that in the dim light the drawing master wouldn’t recognize his former pupil and think them just two mischievous students out on a lark.
The explanation drew a menacing frown. “It’s dangerous to be here—” began Valencourt, but the sudden sound of approaching footsteps caused him to cut off with a low curse.
“Hide, lads!” he added. “And don’t make a sound.”
Raven reacted in a flash. Grabbing Peregrine by the arm, he dove into a side alcove where a jumble of academic robes hung from pegs protruding from the wall. The two of them wiggled beneath the heavy wool and velvet folds and went very still just as the drawing master turned to face the door.
* * *
Wrexford crouched down, the horrible smell forcing him to breathe through his mouth.
If he remembered correctly, this particular passageway led to a subterranean tunnel that ran under the Schoolyard and would bring him to the section of the Upper School that butted up to the Ante-Chapel.
That was where Peregrine had noticed the special lock, and they had all agreed it was the most likely location for any skullduggery going on.
“Damnation.” Wrex winced as his shoulders snagged on the rock spurs protruding from the rough-cut tunnel as it slanted deep into the bowels of the earth. The way was narrower than he remembered.
Ignoring the slime of centuries, he dropped down and began to crawl forward on his belly as fast as he could. Time was of the essence . . .
* * *
“Valencourt.” Wheeler gave a grunt of surprise. He, too, was armed—he had a pistol clenched in each hand. “Might I inquire what you are doing here at this hour of the night?”
“I was returning from the tavern in town and thought I saw a boy dart in the side door to the Upper School,” replied the drawing master in a slightly slurred voice.
“Knowing our provost’s attitude on strict discipline and deportment, I decided to have a look around to make sure no mischief was afoot. ”
He gave a careless wave of his weapon and let out a belch. “But it seems I was mistaken, and it was naught but a trick of the shadows.” A lopsided grin. “Or it’s possible that I might have had one too many mugs of ale.”
Raven ventured a peek through the folds of fabric. Wheeler did not appear amused by the response.
“How did you open the outer door?” he demanded.