CHAPTER 4
The word seemed to come alive, its grim echo growing louder and louder as it reverberated against the wall.
“Money,” mused Tyler. “I suppose that should come as no surprise. It’s the root of most evil in this world.”
“Aye,” repeated Hosack. He looked as exhausted as Charlotte. “I can explain, if you wish.”
“Please do,” urged the valet.
“Getting back to malaria, it’s a pernicious illness that strikes all over the globe—the New World, your Indian colonies, the African continent, and even here in Britain.” The doctor grimaced. “Indeed, we scientific scholars suspect that Shakespeare’s mention of the ague refers to malaria.”
“Hosack, as I said, let us please leave history for later,” growled Wrexford.
“Sorry, sorry.” The American paused for a sip of his now-cold tea.
“The discovery of cinchona bark, and its curative properties, was brought back to Europe from the Spanish colonies in the New World by Jesuit missionaries. And while the Spanish tried to prevent others from getting hold of the plant, in order to have a monopoly on the medicine, it grew too widely to keep it to themselves.”
“I see what you mean,” interjected Tyler. “Imagine what a unique medicine would be worth. It would likely have generated more riches than their silver trade.”
“Precisely,” agreed the doctor.
“A pox on all those whose selfish greed makes them value money over human lives,” muttered Henning, who had been roused from sleep by the mention of money. “Discoveries like that should be shared, not kept secret in order to make an obscene profit.”
“Yes, it’s morally wrong,” whispered Charlotte.
Wrexford didn’t bother pointing out that lofty principles rarely triumphed over the baser urges of human nature. Instead, he pressed, “As you’ve just pointed out, cinchona is readily accessible, though it doesn’t come cheap. So I’m still waiting for your revelation.”
“I think,” replied Hosack, “that Becton discovered a way to make cinchona even more effective by combining it with a certain other botanical. And that he was going to speak here at the symposium about his research and reveal his new formula.”
He hesitated. “More than that, I believe he was going to gift specimens of the unknown plant to the Royal Botanic Gardens so that they could propagate them, and share seeds with other important botanical gardens around the world.”
“Making the miracle medicine available to all physicians and apothecaries,” said Wrexford.
“Correct, milord,” answered the doctor. “Which is why I suspect that Becton was murdered for his formula and the plant specimens. A person possessing them would then have the ability to sell the potion”—his expression tightened—“and at whatever price he wishes to name.”
It made perfect sense in theory. But Wrexford preferred to base his conclusions on fact, not conjecture. “Have you any evidence to support such a claim?”
Henning muttered an unflattering word.
“That’s unfair—His Lordship is right to ask,” chided Charlotte. “We ought not to let our imaginations run wild without some clue, however small, to support such suspicions.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” said Hosack. “I’ll tell you what I know, and leave it to you to decide whether I’m merely whistling into the wind.”
Wrexford began drumming his fingertips together.
The doctor took the tapping as permission to continue.
“Becton was a member of our most learned scientific society in New York and was happy to talk about his discovery at our meetings, but only in general terms. Out of courtesy to the Royal Society, he had pledged not to reveal the actual formula or ingredients until this symposium. Most of the members respected his decision. But not all.”
Hosack appeared to be considering his words before going on.
“In particular, there’s a very wealthy merchant by the name of Tobias Quincy, one of the pillars of New York Society, who handles all the sales and shipping for his cousin’s vast cotton plantations in South Carolina.
He kept pressing Becton to renege on his commitment to the Royal Society, and instead to create a highly profitable venture within Quincy’s business consortium. ”
The tapping stopped. “You mean the merchant asked Becton to make a fortune with his miracle medicine, rather than giving it away.”
“Precisely, milord.”
“But Becton was too ethical to even consider the proposal,” guessed Charlotte.
“Yes,” confirmed Hosack.
“To be fair to Mr. Quincy, he’s in business to make a profit,” said Wrexford, deciding to play devil’s advocate. “Hearing of an opportunity that could potentially produce untold riches, he can’t be blamed for trying to convince Becton to transform his brilliance into gold.”
“Modern alchemy?” murmured Tyler.
“These days, new concepts, new innovations are bubbling up with increasing frequency in every field of endeavor,” Wrexford pointed out. “Commerce is no exception.”
“There’s nothing wrong with exercising a bit of persuasion,” responded Hosack. “As long as words don’t give way to outright treachery.”
Wrexford heard a slither of silk as Charlotte sat up a little straighter.
“And did they, sir?” she demanded.
“Tired of the merchant’s constant badgering, Becton finally asked in no uncertain terms that Quincy drop the matter,” answered the doctor. “Two days later, my friend returned to his home after an evening engagement with friends, only to find the place had been ransacked.”
“It’s hard to imagine it was a mere coincidence,” said Tyler.
“Thank heaven Becton had set the specimens on the window ledge outside his bedchamber that afternoon to soak in a passing rain shower, and had not yet retrieved them,” Hosack went on.
“As for his formula, by sheer good fortune, he had taken his document case with him, in order to show some of his other papers to his friends.”
“Are you suggesting Quincy arranged for your friend’s murder from across the ocean—”
“He didn’t have to, milord,” interrupted Hosack. “He’s here in London, and attending the symposium.”
That, conceded Wrexford, put some flesh on the bones of Hosack’s fears.
“Quincy crossed the Atlantic with a group of other scientifically-minded Americans who are also taking part in the lectures and discussions,” stated the doctor.
“Including a former army officer by the name of Adderley, who has an expertise in botany—and an unsavory reputation for intrigue. Rumor has it, he tried to steal some botanical specimens from the viceroy of New Granada’s conservatory while in South America as part of an official United States naval diplomatic mission a number of years ago.
” Turning to Charlotte, he added, “The Spanish are known for guarding any commercially valuable plants within their territories. It’s strictly forbidden for anyone other than government officials to possess valuable botanicals. ”
Charlotte nodded. “I see.”
“As for Adderley,” said Hosack, resuming his narrative, “a short while after the naval delegation returned to the United States, he resigned his military commission.” A pause. “I find it unsettling that he’s now employed by Quincy to work on ways to improve the yield of the cotton plant.”
Wrexford heard Charlotte draw in a harsh breath. A bad sign, as it meant her sense of moral outrage was sharpening.
“I understand your alarm,” he said. “Have you any idea where Becton’s specimens and formula are now?”
“Alas, no. Though he told me he had taken pains to ensure their safety until he announced his discovery and turned them over to the Royal Society.”
Rising from his chair, Wrexford moved to the hearth and stirred the dying flames. Much as he regretted the murder, he and Charlotte couldn’t right all the sordid wrongs in the world.
Though he feared she would disagree about trying.
“I can put you in contact with a Bow Street Runner who is extremely skilled in solving complicated crimes,” he said.
“Mr. Griffin doesn’t come cheap when he takes on private commissions.
. .” Seeing Hosack’s face fall, he quickly added, “But I will, of course, cover the costs of seeing that justice is done.”
“That is more than generous of you, milord.” The doctor rose and gave a jerky bow. “I would never have reached out to you, had I known of your impending nuptials.” He looked to Charlotte. “Forgive me, milady.”
“Come, sir.” Seeing the doctor was a little unsteady on his feet, Tyler took his arm. “I’ll see you back to your hotel. In the morning, I’ll return and we’ll arrange to meet with Mr. Griffin.”
* * *
Charlotte awoke with a throbbing head and a sour taste in the back of her throat. Wincing, she tried to sit up, only to find that her limbs were tangled in the bedsheets.
“Lud, what a nightmare.” Bad dreams had plagued her sleep, but as the memory of the previous night came flooding back, she pressed her fingertips to her temples and forced a few deep breaths, trying to loosen the clench in her chest.
Murder. Like a fanged serpent slithering through the darkness, it was a threat to poison everyone around it. Granted, her nerves were on edge for other reasons. And Wrexford had assured her that there was no earthly reason for them to be drawn into the investigation.
Still, Charlotte had a bad feeling about the crime. Call it intuition. . .
A sudden blade of sunlight speared through her gloomy thoughts. She glanced at the window and realized it must be nearly noon.
“Ye heavens, I’m never such a slugabed,” she muttered, pushing a tangle of hair back from her brow. From downstairs came the sounds of McClellan moving around the kitchen. Tidying up, no doubt. The boys would have had their breakfast long ago. Were they now at their lessons with their tutor?
Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut. Lud, she couldn’t remember what day it was—
Metal rattled, followed by several loud thumps.
Packing, realized Charlotte. Her maid was packing up the various household items in the pantries that would be moving along with them to the earl’s townhouse on Berkeley Square.