CHAPTER 3 #2
Finally a twitch of his lips. “I don’t have a conscience. I tend to act on ill-tempered impulses.”
“Bollocks,” she uttered. “You spoke earlier of a moral true north. Your heart is unerringly drawn to that same point on the compass.”
“There are times when one should temper idealism with pragmatism in order to protect—”
“Protect me?” Charlotte sighed. Ah, now they had come to the crux of the problem.
“Lud, Wrexford, our relationship has never been ruled by conventional strictures or expectations. I think we both might expire from boredom—or frustration—if we tried to stifle who we are.” A pause.
“Don’t pretend my impulses don’t drive you to distraction. ”
That drew a chuckle. “What a pair we make.”
“A well-matched pair,” she murmured.
“Like two finely crafted dueling pistols?” he quipped.
Thank heaven his sense of humor is back. “You have to admit, we are always primed to shoot off sparks.”
“True.” He took a swallow of whisky. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t take care to avoid being singed by every challenge that rears its ugly head.
Let us leave this to Griffin.” They had met the Bow Street Runner when Wrexford was the prime suspect in a grisly murder.
Antagonism had turned to respect—and then to friendship.
Griffin’s taciturn demeanor hid a clever, methodical mind and he proved to be a valuable ally in their subsequent investigations.
“If the higher authorities look to be ignoring what he turns up,” continued Wrexford, “A. J. Quill can always stir public sentiment in order to keep pressure on them to solve the crime. But I don’t see any reason to allow ourselves to be personally drawn into the conundrum of Becton’s murder. ”
That made perfect sense. And yet, as Charlotte rose in response to the boiling kettle, she couldn’t shake off a niggling feeling that reason might be overpowered by other forces.
* * *
His face grey with fatigue, Henning ran a hand over his unshaven jaw and blew out a harried breath, then paused in the doorway to stomp the mud off his boots before entering the room.
“Bless you, Lady Charlotte,” he rasped as she handed him a steaming cup of tea, well fortified with brandy.
Hosack flashed a grateful smile as he, too, watched her splash some spirits into his cup. “Thank you.” In response to her gesture, he took a seat on the sofa. “Once again, allow me to express my sincere regrets for having turned your evening plans topsy-turvy.”
“Please don’t give it a thought, sir,” replied Charlotte. “You’ve far more important things on your mind than whether I sat down to a fancy supper.”
Tyler smiled. “I told you there was no need to fret.”
“Indeed, let us put aside politeness,” said Wrexford, “and get down to brass tacks, as it were.” Henning’s face had been easy enough to read. “I take it that the examination has confirmed that Becton was murdered?”
“Aye, laddie, I’ve no doubt about it,” said the surgeon. “Hosack soaked up a spill of the champagne with his handkerchief. The three of us examined the crystals from the cloth, as well as those from the glass, under my microscope and concur that the concentration was lethal.”
“The question,” mused Wrexford, “now becomes how you will identify the culprit and prove the crime.” He looked to Charlotte, who nodded for him to go on.
“We can offer one small clue, yet I can’t say whether it will be ultimately of any use.
” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully.
“A witness saw the gentleman who tossed the glass into the greenery of a gallery near the scene of the crime—”
Hosack put down his cup with a clatter.
“But alas, it was dark and the person only caught a momentary glance. It was impossible to make out any distinguishing details, save for the fact that he was about my height.”
“Who was the witness?” demanded the doctor. “Perhaps if we press the fellow, he’ll recall more—”
“I’m quite satisfied that he won’t,” cut in Wrexford.
“His Lordship was involved in military intelligence during the Peninsular War,” explained Tyler to Hosack. “He’s very skilled at extracting information, so I think we can take his word on that.”
Hosack’s face fell, but he nodded in understanding. “Still, it tells us something . . .”
Us. Wrexford intended to nip that thought in the bud. But he decided to allow the American to finish.
“Logic dictates that the murderer was one of the invited guests,” continued the doctor. “After all, he and Becton were in the conservatory, drinking champagne together.”
“It’s an assumption, which we can’t yet prove,” Wrexford pointed out.
“But I believe we eventually will,” insisted Hosack. “Because I think I know the motive for the crime.”
For several long moments, silence seemed to have hold of all their tongues. Henning pursed his lips and rubbed his fingers down his bristly jaw, while Tyler frowned in thought. As for Charlotte, she sat still as a statue and watched the doctor intently.
What does she see? wondered Wrexford, finding it impossible to read her eyes through the flitting shadows.
“Yes, you hinted that Becton possessed some momentous secret earlier this evening,” he finally said. “Now that we have more time and privacy, can you explain more fully what you meant by that, and why someone would wish to stop him?”
“What I fear is . . .” Hosack pressed a palm to his brows, taking a moment to compose his thoughts. “But first, I think I had better explain what set all of this in motion.”
A curt nod indicated for him to continue.
“A little over a year ago, Becton had sent several members of the Royal Society’s governing council a brief overview on his research and several preliminary results,” recounted the doctor.
“They were very excited about its significance. They asked him to be one of the main speakers at this symposium so that the revelation would be made here at the Royal Botanic Gardens—the world’s most respected venue of botanical knowledge and innovation,” explained Hosack. “Becton was delighted to comply—”
“Forgive me, Doctor, having had little sleep in the last two days, I’ve no patience for flowery habble-gabble,” grumbled Henning. “Might you cut wind and simply tell us what the devil the discovery is?”
“In a nutshell, it’s a miracle potion that will save countless lives,” replied Hosack.
“What ingredients, and what illness?” shot back Henning.
The queries drew a wry grimace from the doctor. “Alas, there’s no simple answer to your questions. It requires a very long-winded tale of international diplomacy, exotic travel, dangerous hardships—and fortuitous luck.”
“Fair enough.” Henning reached for the whisky bottle and filled his empty teacup. “I shall endeavor to listen. But just ignore me if I fall asleep.”
“I’m not trying to play coy,” said the doctor.
“Becton was a very reclusive fellow, and tended to be closemouthed about his work. However, he had become even more secretive during his last weeks in America. He confided to me that he feared someone was trying to steal his research papers and specimens. So he thought it best not to tell me—or anyone—the details of his discovery, lest they be put in danger.”
Wrexford held back a sarcastic comment. He was of the belief that neither histrionics nor an overwrought imagination had any place in science.
“Yes, yes. I know it sounds like something out of an Ann Radcliffe novel,” said Hosack, correctly interpreting the earl’s expression. “Skulking villains, clanking chains, and dark dungeons full of torture instruments—”
A gusty snore from Henning suddenly rattled the saucers.
“Do go on,” urged Wrexford. The small paned window overlooking the backyard showed that mist was silvering the blackness of night, a harbinger that dawn was not far off. “As succinctly as possible, if you please.”
“I will try. But first, allow me to indulge in a bit of history, which I promise has some relevance.”
Charlotte signaled her agreement with a quick nod. “The motivation for murder can rarely be summed up in a simple sentence. If we are to understand the crime, we need to hear what the doctor has to say.”
Wrexford wasn’t convinced that was a good idea, but for the moment, he kept his reservations to himself.
Hearing no objections, Hosack picked up the thread of his story. “Are you all familiar with cinchona bark, from the Spanish colonies in South America?”
“It’s a genus of flowering trees and shrubs, and the bark of several species is highly effective in treating the disease we call malaria—which comes from the Italian mal aria, or bad air,” said Tyler.
Hosack’s grave expression gave way to a momentary glimmer of humor. “Perhaps I’ll tempt you to abandon chemistry and concentrate on botany. You clearly have an expertise in the subject.”
“A jack-of-all-trades and master of none,” replied the valet. “I fear my curiosity prevents me from committing to serious study in any one subject.”
Wrexford chuffed a laugh. “I could phrase that a little less elegantly.”
“If you wish your boots to maintain their impressive shine, you will leave it at that,” murmured Tyler.
Ignoring the retort, the earl let out an impatient growl. A glance at Charlotte showed that the night had taken its toll on her. Her face appeared ashen, accentuating the bruise-dark shadows pooled beneath her eyes.
“On second thought, Hosack, fascinating as your long-winded tale may be, might you save it for later and cut to the heart of why we’re all here? Surely, there has to be a simple answer as to why Becton was murdered.”
A fraught sigh. “In a word, it’s money.”