CHAPTER 15 #2
Ignoring the head librarian’s startled reaction to her knowledge of history, she thought for a moment and then added, “The grand duke was interested in the arts and scientific learning, so my guess is he might have commissioned a number of works reflecting those interests in the first years of his rule.”
“Ja,” said von Münch, “that makes sense, milady.”
The head librarian gave a grudging nod. “Then let us start in the Renaissance section.” He took the next turn and led them through a passageway that connected the main section of the palatial house with the East Wing.
On entering the second of a suite of cavernous rooms—this one was shaped like an octagon and topped by a massive dome with arched windows set in its base—the head librarian gestured at the towering shelves that filled all eight of the walls.
“I suggest we each start at a different wall and move on from there.” He gestured at the rolling ladders affixed to a set of brass rails on each side of the cases. “Assuming the rigors of research aren’t too demanding for Her Ladyship?”
“I shall manage,” she replied.
“Then let us get to work.”
Charlotte rolled her ladder to the left edge of the nearest wall and climbed up for a clear view of the top shelf.
Not all the spines had a title, so many of the items would have to be pulled out and the title page checked.
She flexed her shoulders and gave a grim smile. It was going to be a long afternoon....
But the first one to tire won’t be me, she vowed.
They toiled in scholarly silence, the only sounds the flutter of paper, the creak of wooden ladders, and the ticking of the tall case clock near the entranceway. After having no luck with her first wall of books and manuscripts, she moved on to another one.
She eventually developed a comfortable rhythm for checking the shelves, though on several occasions she inwardly cursed her skirts, as they snagged her shoes and nearly sent her tumbling to the floor.
A mishap that likely would have greatly pleased the head librarian for reinforcing his prejudices concerning the weaker sex . . .
Distracted by such musing, Charlotte nearly snapped shut the leatherbound manuscript that she was checking with only a cursory look. But the last two words of the handwritten title caught her eye.
Non Possit—
Bracing herself for balance, she carefully raised the cover to reveal the full page.
Nihil Est Quod Hominum Efficere Non Possit.
A smile touched her lips as Charlotte ran a fingertip over the inked lettering.
“Eureka!” she called to the others.
No luck.
Wrexford muttered an oath as he shut the door to his workroom, frustration rising bitter as bile in his throat.
His former comrade had heard naught but vague rumors about a British traitor, and though he promised to make some inquiries, he held out little hope that they would lead to an actual name.
After closing his eyes for an instant, he crossed the carpet and took a seat at his desk.
Every little contour of the padded leather seat fit him perfectly, every item on his desk—the piles of paper, the notebooks crammed with scientific observations, the books and periodicals, the pens and pencils—was intimately familiar.
And yet he felt as if his world was all askew.
The townhouse’s unnatural silence was also affecting his equilibrium.
Charlotte was with von Münch. McClellan had escorted the boys to their fencing lesson and then was taking them for an afternoon visit and supper with the dowager.
As for Tyler, he was attending a chemistry lecture at the Royal Institution.
Even the age-old beams and woodwork had ceased their usual little symphony of creaks and groans.
Which only amplified the unnerving whispers that were coming to life inside his head. Wrexford pressed his fingertips to his temples, as if trying to hold himself together. He had never felt so lost.
Grief and guilt over his brother’s death had come back to haunt him. But this cursed investigation was also forcing him to face a more elemental mix of emotions. Ones that he had tried to keep locked away in the deepest crevices of his consciousness.
Fathers and sons.
He had always suspected that his father had loved Thomas best.
“And in all honesty, I can’t blame him,” whispered Wrexford. His own prickly, introspective nature did not match up well with the affable, outdoor-loving late earl. The two of them were like flint and steel, constantly rubbing up against each other and setting off sparks.
After Thomas’s death, Wrexford knew that he should have made an effort to comfort his father.
Instead, he had avoided ever paying a visit to the Yorkshire estate that was his father’s chosen home.
At the time, he had told himself it was done as a kindness, so as not to remind the late earl of his loss.
But that, admitted Wrexford, was a self-serving lie.
He hadn’t visited his father because he had been afraid of reading regret in the late earl’s eyes—regret that the wrong son had survived.
And so, for two years after his brother’s death, he had seen his father only on the rare occasions when the late earl had felt compelled to visit London.
A few days of stilted dinners and uncomfortable conversation over port and cigars.
And then, without warning, his father had dropped dead one morning after riding to hounds.
His chest tightened, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.
In a fit of pique, he had once accused his father of loving Thomas best. The late earl had appeared flabbergasted and vehemently protested that he loved his sons equally. At the time, Wrexford had thought it a polite platitude.
But now that he was guardian to two boys—boys who were like sons to him despite having no ties of blood—Wrexford understood what his father had meant.
That knowledge, however, had come too late to change the past.
Suddenly desperate to escape his maudlin thoughts, Wrexford rose and hurried to exit the townhouse through the French doors of the music room. Hyde Park, with its vast stretch of meadows, glades, and footpaths, was just a few streets away. Once there, perhaps he could outrace his demons.
At least for now.
A winged flying machine . . . a war machine bristling with weapons . . . a revolving bridge . . . Charlotte turned back to the beginning of the manuscript. “I can’t make any sense of this,” she said to von Münch.
After much discussion—and von Münch’s veiled threat to have King Frederick of Württemberg intercede with his father-in-law, who owned the King’s Library—they had been permitted to borrow the manuscript and take it back to Berkeley Square.
Charlotte had been disappointed to find that Wrexford was still out—Tyler knew not where—but she and von Münch were now ensconced in the earl’s workroom, sitting side by side at one of the work counters so as to be able to study the pages of the manuscript together.
“Shall we take a second look?” she added.
“Here, allow me.” The librarian took over the duty of turning the sheets of illustrated parchment. “Many of the illustrations seem like mere flights of fancy. But others appear grounded in science.” His voice trailed off as he studied the details. “Oddly enough, their style looks very familiar.”
After turning back and forth between the pages for closer study, he suddenly announced, “Ach du lieber! I know why I recognize them.” Looking up, he added, “The title page says the manuscript is a copy of a secret Renaissance notebook. I am now quite sure that the original was made by Leonardo da Vinci!”
“Da Vinci?” repeated Charlotte. “He was a great Renaissance artist. But this?” She shook her head in confusion.
“He was far more than an artist, milady,” said von Münch.
“Da Vinci was a genius in a great many fields—and excelled in technological and engineering ingenuity. For example, he was hired as a military architect and engineer by the city of Venice to design its defenses against naval attack. He also created war machines for sieges and a series of movable barricades to protect the city of Milan from rival armies.”
After pausing for a moment, von Münch added, “As I recall, da Vinci was also a visionary far ahead of his times, creating mechanical inventions like hydraulic pumps, reversible cranks, and steam cannons.”
Charlotte’s gaze moved to a drawing at the bottom of the page. “This appears to be some sort of—of aerial screw.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Good heavens, I think it is supposed to fly a man up into the skies.”
“There’s some writing in the margin,” observed von Münch, who adjusted his spectacles as she shifted to let him lean in for a closer look.
“It says ‘If this instrument made with a screw be well made—that is to say, made of linen of which the pores are stopped up with starch and be turned swiftly, the said screw will make its spiral in the air, and it will rise high.’ ”
“Hmmph.” The librarian looked puzzled as he pondered over what he had just read. “I confess, I have no idea as to why it would rise.”
Charlotte made a face. “Nor do I.” She resumed leafing through the manuscript.
“Interestingly enough, there are a number of sketches of swirling water and currents on these pages. But what he sees in them is beyond me. Perhaps Wrexford will comprehend what secrets lie within the sketches.” She pressed her palms to her eyes.
“However, I find that it’s all becoming an incomprehensible blur. ”
“Ja. I, too, make no claim to understand the scientific mind.” Heaving a sigh, von Münch rose. “We have at least accomplished something today in finding the manuscript. Though I can’t see how it helps us discern who might have wished to kill Mr. Greeley.”
Charlotte closed the covers. “Nor can I.”
“As you said, perhaps your husband will have some ideas.” He took an appreciative sip from his glass and smiled. “By the by, Lord Wrexford possesses a very fine selection of German wines. Few Englishmen appreciate our Württemberg varietals. . .”
He stopped in mid-sentence, a furrow forming between his brows. “Forgive me—a sudden thought has just occurred to me, and I need to leave now if I am to pursue it.”