CHAPTER 15
The ominous grey clouds of early morning were fast giving way to patches of cerulean blue sky. . . .
“The day looks to be clearing,” said Charlotte as she turned away from the window overlooking the back gardens.
“The rain squall that blew through early this morning will likely have washed away any footprints that the shooter may have left at the edge of the park,” said Wrexford, not looking up from writing down some notes on the previous evening.
“Though I doubt they would have provided any real clues. However, Tyler is going to examine the bullet that I recovered with our microscope to see if it yields any information on what type of firearm was used.”
“Do you think Kurlansky could have been the assailant?” Charlotte had told him about the encounter with the Russian. “I saw him heading down to the lake . . .” She made a face. “But why would he have done such a thing?”
“Kurlansky is both very capable and very clever. If he wanted the Frenchman dead, he wouldn’t have made a hash of it,” Wrexford answered dryly.
He jotted a few more thoughts down on paper.
“But more importantly, as you pointed out, he has no motive. Whatever byzantine intrigue has brought him back to London, I don’t see that it can have any connection to a British traitor from a bygone war. ”
“I suppose not,” conceded Charlotte, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced.
Her brow furrowed in thought. “But what if there is a connection between Greeley’s death and the race to create an oceangoing propulsion system?
As Kit pointed out, there is reason to believe that the tsar of Russia would dearly love to get his hands on the plans for that technology. ”
He put his pen down. “The only connection is a purely personal one involving our family. I am investigating Greeley’s death, and you are investigating the skullduggery surrounding the propulsion system.”
“Perhaps Kurlansky is targeting you because he knows that I am poking around in the matter and is trying to distract me.” Her expression betrayed a very un-Charlotte-like flicker of fear. “Or scare me into giving up.”
Wrexford wasn’t sure why she was being so stubborn, though he sensed that the Russian had somehow gotten under her skin. “I fear you are allowing emotion to overrule logic and color your judgment.” As he said the words, he realized the irony of the accusation.
Charlotte did as well. “You, me, Kit, Cordelia—it seems we all are finding it hard to separate feelings from facts as we try to deal with all the conundrums.”
“True. But we must try,” he replied. “As for Kurlansky, let us not create specters out of thin air. We have enough flesh-and-blood villains to track down and bring to justice.”
Charlotte moved to the hearth, where she took a long moment to run a hand along the carved marble of the mantel.
“I confess that I dislike Kurlansky. He is both arrogant and unfeeling. For him, international intrigue is a game that the high and mighty play. Innocent lives are merely pawns on a chessboard, to be sacrificed without batting an eye if it serves his purpose.”
Her mouth quivered in outrage. “Ye gods, he threatened our friends and our family during the last investigation, and then had the gall to come to us and suggest that we all chuckle and let bygones be bygones.” She watched a shadow play over her fingers before adding, “I’m quite sure that the real reason he came was to boast about his cleverness. ”
“I daresay he’s no worse than our own intelligence operatives,” observed Wrexford. “The job of keeping the balance of power from tipping too far in any one direction requires getting one’s hands dirty.”
Silence. And then a sigh. “Much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. I concede that I am overreacting,” Charlotte muttered. “I shall heed your advice to put Kurlansky out of my thoughts.” A pause. “But that leaves unanswered the key question of who fired the shot at you.”
She fixed him with a searching stare. “Do you think it could possibly be the same man who murdered Greeley?”
“That’s a more logical surmise.” Not that logic was proving any real help in the investigation. “And yet . . .” Griffin had been meticulous in examining Greeley’s personal and professional life and had yet to find any thread that might tie him to his killer.
“The damnable truth is,” he continued, “I still can’t begin to guess as to who might be responsible for either act of violence.”
If Greeley’s murder had something to do with treachery from six years ago, he asked himself, why had the killer waited so long to act?
Why now?
The most obvious answer was that Greeley had remembered something and summoned the killer for a confrontation. But that didn’t explain . . .
Pushing aside the unanswered mysteries, Wrexford rose from his chair.
“Forgive me, but I must be off. A fellow member of military intelligence with whom I worked during my time in Portugal has agreed to meet with me. I want to ask him if he ever heard rumors about a British traitor—just in case Dalambert’s friend doesn’t choose to reveal what he knows. ”
“Good luck,” said Charlotte.
“Luck seems to be playing a pernicious game of hide-and-seek with us. But perhaps it will turn in our favor.” He put one of the samples of the traitor’s handwriting into a portfolio case.
“Speaking of luck, let us hope that you and von Münch will be permitted access to the King’s Library at Buckingham House to search for a copy of Nihil Est Quod Hominum Efficere Non Possit. ”
“I like von Münch.” Charlotte tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear.
During their nighttime meeting with the librarian, it had been decided that she would accompany him to the King’s Library, as her sharp eyes and skill in Latin would be helpful in scouring the shelves for the missing manuscript.
“He’s not only extremely intelligent and observant, but he seems to possess a deeply felt sense of humanity, which makes him care about Right and Wrong. ”
“I don’t disagree.” The earl checked the priming of the pocket pistol on his desk and then tucked it inside his coat.
“However, let us bear in mind that whatever forces of evil we are facing possess a cunning cleverness—and ruthlessness. So it’s best not to trust anyone fully, save for our inner circle of family and friends.”
* * *
“Hmmph.” The head of the King’s Library at Buckingham House handed back von Münch’s credentials—which were, Charlotte noted, an impressive confection of flowery script, heraldic crests, and ornate wax seals dangling from scarlet ribbons.
“All looks in order,” he said in Latin. “We are, of course, happy to welcome a representative of our king’s son-in-law.”
After a disapproving look at Charlotte, he nodded politely to von Münch.
“Please follow me into the connecting wing, which houses the book and manuscript rooms. I’m sure the lady won’t mind waiting here .
. .” He gestured to a small sitting room off the main entrance hall.
“While we search through the shelves for the manuscript you seek.”
“Actually the lady would prefer to come with you,” announced Charlotte in equally flawless Latin. She batted her lashes. “Surely three sets of eyes will accomplish the task faster than two.”
“Why, that’s an excellent suggestion, milady,” agreed von Münch. To the head librarian, he added, “I’m sure you have no objection to the Countess of Wrexford joining the hunt.”
The man looked scandalized over the idea of a female setting foot in his sanctum sanctorum, but on hearing von Münch’s mention of her title, he swallowed any protest. Few people went out of their way to provoke the earl’s ire.
“I have checked a master compendium of European manuscripts in our reference room, which was compiled by scholars at the Sorbonne at the beginning of the last century.” The head librarian had left off his earlier pretensions and was now speaking in English.
“It says that the manuscript entitled Nihil Est Quod Hominum Efficere Non Possit was a copy of a secret workbook of drawings made for Grand Duke Ferdinando I de’ Medici of Tuscany, who ruled from 1587 to 1609. ”
They passed through a set of double doors and into a long corridor.
“The notation also says that five copies of the manuscript were made,” he continued. “Three are known to have been destroyed in the late 1500s. One is in the collection of Balliol College at Oxford—”
“That is the one which has gone missing,” said von Münch.
“Which leaves one for which there is no information as to its whereabouts.” The head librarian came to a halt and made a face. “As I told you, we have no record of having it here in our collection.”
“But from what I have read about the King’s Library, all the books and archival materials were first kept in the Old Palace at Kew before being moved here to Buckingham House,” said Charlotte. “So it’s possible that records may have been lost.”
A curt nod acknowledged the truth of the statement.
As the head librarian resumed walking, he turned to the question of where to begin their search.
“Given the date of the manuscript in question, we are looking at a transition period from Renaissance to Baroque. Which means the manuscript in question could be housed in either of those two sections of our library.”
He glanced at von Münch. “You have no further details that might help us decide where to look first?”
“I’m sorry. I know nothing about it, save for the title.”
“A thought occurred to me,” ventured Charlotte.
“The title itself seems to embody the very essence of Renaissance humanism. Unlike his immediate predecessors, Grand Duke Ferdinando was an enlightened ruler, harkening back to the likes of Cosimo the Great, the celebrated patron of the arts in Florence.”