CHAPTER 8
“Bloody hell, Wrex!” An oath suddenly echoed off the wainscoting of the corridor, followed by the familiar gravelly growl of their good friend, Basil Henning. “Why is it that every time you stumble over a dead body, you have it sent to me?”
“I send the bodies to you, Baz,” answered Wrexford as the surgeon entered the parlor, “because you have an ungodly knack for coaxing secrets from the dead.”
“Be that as it may . . .” Henning ran a hand over his bristly jaw. “I’m not overly fond of having such an intimate conversation with a man who was a good friend and comrade.”
The admission took Charlotte by surprise.
Basil Henning—a crusty Scottish surgeon whose sarcasm was as sharp-edged as Highland granite—was not one for betraying any flicker of sentimentality.
But as he had served in the military with Wrexford during the Peninsular War, she realized that he must have known Greeley.
“I’m so sorry, Baz. It must have been . . .” Shocking? Upsetting? She hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t reduce a flesh-and-blood individual to a trite condolence.
Unable to summon any lofty sentiments, she simply said, “It must have been heartbreaking.”
Henning moved to the side table by Wrexford, leaving a trail of mud on the carpet, and splashed a generous measure of whisky into a glass. “As you know, lassie, I don’t have a heart,” he muttered after taking a noisy slurp.
His gruff demeanor didn’t quite hide the sadness shading his scowl.
“But you definitely have a stomach,” she replied, forcing a show of humor. Henning wouldn’t thank her for dwelling on emotions. She glanced at McClellan, who had already risen from her chair.
“I’ll fetch another tray of food from the kitchen,” said the maid.
“Sustenance would be very welcome, Mac,” said the surgeon as he slouched down into the chair facing the earl.
“So,” said Wrexford, after allowing Henning to take several long swallows of his whisky. “Did Greeley’s mortal remains have anything to say about the person who killed him?”
“Just that whoever wielded the weapon knew how to use it,” answered the surgeon. “The thrust was perfectly aimed—it didn’t even nick a rib—and death was instantaneous.”
“My impression was the same,” said Wrexford.
“The killer may have just been lucky,” pointed out Sheffield.
“Perhaps,” conceded the earl. His brows knitted together. “But what I cannot fathom is why anyone would murder Greeley. He was a quiet recluse, a threat to nobody.”
Charlotte fisted her hands in her lap. “And yet,” she said softly, “someone wanted him dead.”
McClellan returned with a fresh platter of meat and bread and set it down on the table beside Henning’s chair.
“Bless you.” The surgeon sliced off a morsel of roast beef and wolfed it down before heaving a sigh. “We may never know the reason. The Grim Reaper feels no compunction to explain himself to us mere mortals.”
An uneasy silence settled over them. The talk of death—a topic that touched her husband and Henning in a very visceral way—seemed to squeeze all the air from the room.
It was Sheffield who ventured to break the tension. “The only clues seem to be the missing manuscript and the fact that Greeley mentioned Wrex shortly before he was killed. So the question is . . .” He frowned. “How the devil do they tie together?”
Try as she might, Charlotte couldn’t muster even a ghost of an answer.
Sheffield waited, but when nobody ventured to speak, his gaze moved to Wrexford. “I understand your desire for justice. But how the devil do you intend to solve the murder if you also intend to help Charlotte gather information about the mysterious fire at Maudslay’s laboratory?”
“Griffin,” said Charlotte. “You must hire Griffin to help you.”
She and Wrexford had first met the Bow Street Runner when the earl was the prime suspect in a grisly murder.
Their initial antagonism had turned to respect—and then to friendship.
Griffin’s taciturn demeanor and plodding movements fooled many people into thinking he was slow-witted, though in truth he possessed a clever, methodical mind.
He had proved to be a valuable ally in their subsequent investigations.
“Yes,” confirmed Wrexford. “I plan to meet with him first thing in the morning.” Bow Street Runners were permitted to take on private commissions. “I shall, of course, sweeten the offer by footing the bill for a sinfully expensive breakfast.”
Griffin was very fond of hearty meals—especially when the earl was paying for them.
“A wise move,” responded Sheffield. “If anyone can help you sniff out the truth, it’s Griffin.”
The earl blew out his breath. “I am under no illusion that it will be easy,” said Wrexford.
“One place to start is with the missing manuscript. Greeley’s assistant librarian did some research on it.
Only five copies were made, and there is documentation that three have been destroyed over the centuries.
However, he was told by the under-librarian at the Balliol College Library that the fifth copy, though rumored to have been lost in a shipwreck in the Tyrrhenian Sea, may in fact be in the King’s Library at Buckingham House. ”
His eyes flicked to Charlotte. “By the by, the manuscript is a copy of a late fifteenth-century Renaissance workbook, and its title is Nihil Est Quod Hominum Efficere Non Possit.”
“There is nothing that man can’t accomplish,” she translated. “What sort of workbook? Is it considered an important scholarly work?”
“I’ve no idea,” replied Wrexford. “The catalogue notes at the Balliol College Library had no information on its contents.”
“Mysteries wrapped in mysteries,” muttered Sheffield.
Charlotte felt a cold-as-ice pebbling of gooseflesh skate down her arms. That she and her loved ones had been drawn into not one but two difficult—and possibly dangerous—investigations stirred a frisson of fear.
The earl said nothing.
“Too damn many of them,” added their friend. “You both need to be careful.”
“That goes for you, too, Kit, if you intend to help Charlotte gather information about the race to build an oceangoing steamship,” said Wrexford. “Asking questions about the government and its research could stir up a nest of vipers.”
He turned to Charlotte. “And you, my dear—be damnably sure that you don’t deliberately poke your pen into Grentham’s eyeball just as a personal challenge.”
She understood his fears. Britain’s shadowy spymaster was not a man with whom to trifle. But she had promised herself never to let fear or expediency nudge the needle of her moral compass away from the Truth.
“You know that I take my responsibilities to the public very seriously, Wrex,” responded Charlotte. “I have sworn an oath to myself never to be petty or reckless.”
“Yes, it’s one of the myriad reasons I admire you.” He released a grudging sigh. “It’s also one of the myriad reasons you terrify me.”
“Bah!” Henning refilled his glass. “I still say Grentham wouldn’t dare reveal A. J. Quill’s identity, even if he knew it. The government would be the laughingstock of the country if it were known that a woman has been bedeviling the high and mighty for years without them knowing it.”
Sheffield bit back a laugh. “I have to say, I agree with Baz.” But after a glance at Wrexford he hastily added, “However, it would be best not to put the assumption to the test.”
The lamplight flickered, accentuating the sallow hue of her husband’s face and the lines of fatigue etching out from the corners of his eyes.
“I think we’ve had enough shocking revelations for one night,” said Charlotte. “I suggest we . . .”
She looked around on hearing footsteps in the corridor. A moment later, Tyler came through the doorway. The look on his face didn’t bode well.
“I learned some unsettling news this evening while out with a few acquaintances.” The valet had a wide range of contacts all around Town, including in less salubrious places where angels feared to tread.
She and Wrexford had never inquired as to why, but it had proved very useful in their previous investigations.
“And?”
Tyler looked away, but not before she saw a spasm of guilt. “The authorities have arrested a man and charged him with setting the blaze that destroyed Maudslay’s laboratory.”
Recalling Sheffield’s uneasiness about Maudslay’s missing technical drawings and her own bad feelings about the incident, Charlotte drew in a deep breath. “So, it seems I was right to suspect that the fire wasn’t simply an unfortunate accident.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Tyler closed his eyes for an instant and released a sigh. “Indeed, I happen to know for sure that it was arson.”
“How—” began Wrexford.
“I was waiting for your return, milord, to explain how the truth came to light,” interjected the valet.
He looked to Charlotte with an apologetic grimace.
“I’m sorry, m’lady. You seemed troubled by other concerns .
. .” His gaze slid to McClellan for an instant.
“So I thought it might be best to hold off until His Lordship came home.”
“That bad?” she asked.
The valet had the grace to flush. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Nonetheless,” replied Charlotte, “we need to hear it.”
Tyler cleared his throat. “The Weasels overheard you and His Lordship and Mr. Sheffield discussing the situation on the night of the fire and decided that they wanted to help . . .”
Charlotte listened with growing dismay as he recounted what the boys had done.
“Peregrine was not involved in the foray,” the valet hastened to add. “And though I know I shouldn’t say such a thing, it was quite clever of the Weasels to think of gathering the glass fragments and bringing them to me for examination under the microscope.”
A pause. “Given that a violent crime had been committed—one that could have killed innocent workers—I did take the liberty of telling Griffin that the fire had been an act of arson.”
Tyler paused. “It seems he assigned some of his junior Runners to investigate, and they found a witness—a tailor’s apprentice who was returning home late at night—who had seen the man running away.
Based on his description of the man and his clothing, several suspects were rounded up, and the witness was able to identify the arsonist.”
“Who is the accused man?” asked Charlotte. “And why did he commit the crime?”
“I’m sorry, m’lady, but I don’t know the answers to those questions,” replied the valet.
“You did, however, make an analysis of the substance used to start the fire?” inquired Wrexford.
“Yes. The accelerant was a sophisticated chemical compound, not simply lamp oil.”
“Which would mean,” intoned the earl, “that it needed to be made in a laboratory.”
“That is my surmise, milord,” said Tyler.
Charlotte understood what that meant. And a glance at the others showed that they did as well.
“I wonder who hired the fellow?” muttered Sheffield.
“That is for the authorities to discover.” Wrexford shifted, throwing his face into shadow.
“Bloody hell, it’s clear that the competition to create a marine propulsion system is fraught with hidden dangers.
” He waited for a moment, allowing his words to sink in before adding, “And the villains aren’t the only ones playing with fire. ”
His voice had taken on a grim edge. “I will say it again, my love. You and Kit must be very careful in how you go about investigating the race to build an oceangoing steamship. Otherwise, you both run the risk of getting burned.”
For a moment the room was deathly still.
Then Henning cleared his throat with a rusty cough. “Bloody hell, this group is always setting off sparks, laddie.” Candlelight glinted off his glass as he drank down the last of his whisky.
“And we haven’t yet gone up in flames.”