CHAPTER 1 #2
However, the talk quickly shifted to safer ground as one of the scholars brought up a recent lecture given at the Royal Society on minerals—a subject that greatly interested the earl. “Now, it seems that Sir Humphry Davy tested the hypothesis by performing a chemical analysis . . .”
Charlotte allowed her attention to wander as Wrexford shifted away to join the gentlemen discussing the technical details.
The drawing room was growing more crowded as the guests made their way into the palace from the conservatory.
The lilt of foreign languages—French, German, Spanish, Italian—twined with all the different accents of English, creating a lively buzz.
The swirl of the Continental fashions, with the colorful sashes and fancy medals highlighting the various styles of cravats and waistcoats, couldn’t help but catch her eye.
Already she was composing a drawing in her head—
“Charlotta?”
She spun around, her eyes widening in surprise. “Marco!”
“Why, it is you!” A tall, slender gentleman, with curling black hair and the fine-boned features of a Renaissance sculpture, flashed a winsome smile.
“And looking lovelier than ever.” His gaze quickly took in her elegant gown and the lustrous pearl necklace—an engagement gift from Wrexford—nestled at her throat.
“How is Anthony? I’m sure his career is flourishing here in London. He’s an immensely talented—”
“Anthony passed away several years ago,” she interrupted. “As you might remember, his constitution was delicate, and the return to a cold, damp climate proved injurious to his health.”
“I’m so sorry.” Sympathy pooled in his hazel eyes. “Please accept my condolences.”
“Thank you—but let us speak of happier things,” said Charlotte. “I see your star has continued to rise in the firmament of Italian science.”
She and her late husband had met Marco Moretti while living in Rome.
The Florentine scholar, who, like all their acquaintances, was dancing on the razor’s edge of poverty, had been finishing his advanced scientific studies at the university.
But his interest in art and literature, as well as politics, had led him to join their bohemian circle of painters and poets . . .
All of us barely scraping by, surviving on lofty dreams, macaroni, and cheap wine, reflected Charlotte.
Moretti gave a self-deprecating shrug. “I’ve been lucky enough to write several papers, which have attracted a bit of attention, and I’m quite excited to have been invited here to present a lecture.
It may even lead to an opportunity for advancement and recognition in my field of study—as well as a secure financial future.
” Another shrug. “As you know, teaching pays but pittance.”
“That sounds very promising,” she said.
“I hope it will be so,” replied Moretti, his voice holding a hint of longing. “There is a new scientific society about to be formed, one dedicated to discovery. Its patron is a worldly, wealthy man of science who is very generous in funding research, and he’s expressed some interest in my work.”
A flicker of curiosity lit beneath his lashes.
“And what brings you here, Charlotta? You were very skilled in botanical drawing. I still have several sketches you made of wildflowers growing around the ruins of the Coliseum. Are you helping with making a visual catalogue of collections here at the Royal Botanic Gardens?”
“No, I’ve not kept up my drawing of plant life,” she answered. “I’m here because my fiancé is a noted man of science here in Britain, and is a member of the Royal Society.”
“Ah.” Moretti smiled politely. “Felicitations on your upcoming remarriage. Your fiancé sounds like a very admirable and interesting fellow.”
“He is.” Charlotte looked around and spotted Wrexford some paces away. “Come, allow me to introduce you.”
She started to squeeze through the press of guests, but just as she managed to circle around a trio of chattering Germans and approach him, a gentleman slipped free from the crowd and touched the earl’s arm.
“Lord Wrexford.” It was said in a discreet murmur, but Charlotte heard the note of tension in the speaker’s voice.
The earl did as well, for she saw him stiffen as he looked around. She recognized the man as Lord Bethany, the secretary of the Royal Society, and one of the organizers of the symposium.
“Forgive the interruption, sir.” The look of alarm in his eyes belied his smile as he drew Wrexford aside. “But might I ask you to come with me to the conservatory? There’s been an . . . unfortunate mishap.”
* * *
Mist swirled through the evening gloom as they hurried down the walkway, the vapor giving a ghostly sheen to the angled silhouettes of glowing glass and brass.
“Why fetch me?” demanded Wrexford, once Bethany had finished his account of the gardener’s discovery of Mr. Becton’s corpse among the exotic specimens.
“I confess, I’m not entirely sure, sir. But Dr. Hosack was insistent that I bring you to him, and as he is head of the American delegation, I felt it my duty to accede to his wishes, given the circumstances.
” The secretary grimaced. “Political relations are strained enough between our two countries without any bad feelings arising over any imagined snub by us in dealing with this incident.”
The sharp crunch of their steps on the gravel seemed amplified by the peaceful quiet of the surrounding gardens.
“But I only know Hosack by reputation,” mused the earl.
“Apparently, he knows of your reputation, too, milord.”
Keeping his temper in check, Wrexford held back a sarcastic retort, even though the allusion to his previous murder investigations made no sense. From what Bethany had told him, the man who had dropped dead had a history of ill health, and there was no reason to suspect foul play.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, Bethany quickening his pace, clearly anxious to complete his good deed for Hosack.
The American doctor was waiting in the main foyer of the conservatory, the lantern clasped in his hand illuminating the grim set of his face. Several other men were standing together in the far corner, conversing in muted tones. At the earl’s entrance, they looked up and stopped talking.
“Thank you for coming, Lord Wrexford.” Hosack gave a gruff nod of greeting.
“Might I ask that you conduct your meeting with the earl as quickly as possible so that the mortuary men may be permitted to remove Mr. Becton’s mortal remains to a more appropriate resting place?
” Despite the chill air, Bethany’s brow was beaded with sweat.
He took a moment to blot them away with his handkerchief.
“As I hope you can appreciate, sir, the Royal Society would prefer that the untimely demise of your colleague doesn’t overshadow the mission of the symposium,” he continued.
“We have brought together all these international scholars—no easy feat in these uncertain times of war and strife—in order for them to share their knowledge and discoveries with each other for the good of all mankind.”
“I couldn’t agree more with your goals, milord, and I applaud the Society’s impressive work to make the world a better place for all,” replied Hosack. “I simply wish to solicit Lord Wrexford’s opinion on something before my friend’s remains are disturbed.”
“I still question why—” began the earl, but a quick mute appeal from Hosack caused him to leave off with a shrug. “However, I’m happy to comply with the doctor’s request.”
“Then, of course, I have no objection,” conceded Bethany, though his expression remained troubled.
“I’m very grateful to you, Lord Wrexford.” Hosack gestured toward the corridor leading to the rear section of the building. “Please come with me, sir.”
The lush greenery and flowering specimens soon enveloped them in a heady perfume of sweet and spicy scents.
Moonlight scudded over the skylights, adding a pearly glow to the bright flicker of the hanging lanterns that dotted the walkway.
Leaves whispered softly as they brushed past the delicate fronds of a Ravenea rivularis.
Hosack led the way through one of the display rooms before slowing and coming to a halt behind an arrangement of potted Theobroma cacao trees. “I know how irregular my request must have appeared to you.”
“It did, indeed,” agreed Wrexford. “Seeing as I don’t know you from Adam.”
“But I have heard a great deal about you, sir . . .” For just an instant, a glimmer of amusement softened the look of distress in the American’s eyes. “From Gideon Tyler, a friend from my time spent studying in Scotland.”
Tyler was a man of many talents, two of which were serving as both the earl’s valet and his laboratory assistant.
Alas. An oath hovered on the tip of Wrexford’s tongue. Another was a penchant for grossly exaggerating the ghoulish exploits of their previous murder investigations.
“Tyler’s tales ought to be taken with a grain of salt,” he responded, now having an inkling of why his presence had been requested. “I imagine the sudden death of your colleague has come as a shock, sir. But most such incidents, however unfortunate, have nothing to do with foul play.”
“Under most circumstances, I couldn’t agree more, milord.
I’m a physician, and thus am no stranger to death,” answered Hosack.
“I simply hope you’ll bear with me and agree to have a look at the scene.
Tyler speaks of you as a man who sees things with a sharp-eyed clarity, unclouded by emotion.
So I would greatly value your objective observations. ”
A reluctant sigh stirred the air. “I’ve come this far. I might as well have a look.”
They resumed walking. Wrexford liked that the doctor didn’t feel compelled to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. Hosack moved purposefully, his footsteps tapping a brisk tattoo on the stone flagging as he led the way through several more turns.
Up ahead, through a low archway, Wrexford saw that extra lanterns had been positioned near one of the display pedestals.
“This way, milord,” murmured the American, cutting around a potted arrangement of brightly blooming Bougainvillea glabra. The cheery fuchsia hue, noted Wrexford, seemed oddly out of place with the somber tableau behind the plants.
A body—Mr. Becton, he presumed—lay sprawled on the stone tiles, the black of the scholar’s evening clothes melding with the crisscrossing shadows cast by the surrounding displays.
Hosack stopped and touched the earl’s sleeve. “Before you go any closer, sir, please take a moment to look carefully at the scene.”
Wrexford replied with a brusque nod and then focused his attention on the small swath of space.
One of the pedestals looked askew, and a few small terra-cotta specimen pots had fallen, scattering crumbs of earth and burnt-orange shards across the slate . . . all confirming the scenario of a man seized with a sudden spasm and toppling over to the floor.
What am I missing?
Puzzled, Wrexford edged around for a different perspective.
Hosack struck him as a steady, sensible fellow, unlikely to see specters where there were none.
Still, nothing unusual caught his eye. Narrowing his gaze, he probed the nooks and crannies near the corpse before lifting his shoulders in a silent signal that he was ready to move on.
The doctor didn’t ask any questions, but merely gestured for the earl to join him in crouching down beside the body.
Becton was lying on his belly, with his face twisted to one side, one sightless eye staring up at the flickering lantern flame overhead.
It was, noted Wrexford, a shade of blue that reminded him of a smoke-tinged sky.
Charlotte would know the exact name for it.
Flattening his palms on the tiles, Hosack angled his head and dropped his cheek to within inches of the dead man’s visage. A moment slid by, then another. Wool rustled as he shifted back and made room for the earl.
“And now, I have one last request, milord,” said the doctor, rising and adjusting the beam of the lantern. “Please take a close look at Mr. Becton’s mouth.”
Wrexford leaned low—low enough to feel the coolness of the flagging rise up to prickle against his chin. At first, he saw nothing other than the usual signs of death—a slightly protruding tongue, the lips surrendering their color to a waxy pallor . . .
Then he spotted the white crystalline grains dotting the corners of the corpse’s half-open mouth.
“Any idea what that substance might be?” he asked.
“I was hoping you might tell me,” came the dry reply.
“It could be any number of things, depending on what medicines your friend was taking—”
“That’s just it. He wasn’t taking any medicine. His symptoms had greatly improved, and we had both agreed several months ago that he could stop taking the distillation I had created for him.” A pause. “And there was nothing in it that would have formed such crystals.”
“It’s odd, I grant you,” said the earl. “In the course of his storytelling, I’m assuming Tyler mentioned to you that I’ve a friend who’s very skilled at coaxing secrets from the dead.”
“He did, milord.”
“And so I take it, you wish to have the mortuary wagon take Mr. Becton to my friend’s surgery, rather than the local morgue.”
“I would be exceedingly grateful,” answered Hosack.
“Very well.” Wrexford rose and dusted his palms on the front of his coat. “Though I counsel you not to let your imagination run away with you. There are any number of innocent explanations for the grains. Perhaps he ate a pastry beforehand, and they are merely bits of sugar.”
“I realize that,” answered the doctor. “But I suspect that he drank rather than ate something. There was a puddle of liquid on the stones when I found him. It looked to be champagne.”
“That’s hardly surprising,” replied the earl. “In fact—”
“Yes, but if he was drinking champagne when he died, what happened to the glass?”
The question gave the earl pause for thought.
“Actually, I can come up with several very logical answers to that.” He took another look around the alcove and saw nothing further to explain the American’s suspicion of foul play.
“I confess, I’m puzzled by why you’re so ready to assume that your friend’s death wasn’t from natural causes. ”
Hosack drew in a troubled breath. The wagging leaves overhead deepened the lines of worry etched around his mouth.
“That’s because I haven’t yet told you about the revelation Becton was planning to make at this symposium.”