CHAPTER 16
“Oh, Dio del cielo!” Beneath his bruises, Moretti had turned white as a ghost. “I—I—I haven’t killed anyone—I swear it, milord!” He was trembling so badly that his knees would have collapsed if the earl hadn’t kept him pinned to the wall.
“Then what the devil are you doing here?” demanded Wrexford, giving him another shake.
“I was asked to come!” replied Moretti in a strangled voice.
“Why?” asked Sheffield. “And, Wrex, do take your hand off his throat so that he might give us a coherent answer.”
It was, decided Wrexford, a reasonable request. He released his hold, but balled his hand into a fist. “Go on, Moretti. However, you had better tell the truth or I’ll knock your lovely pearly teeth down your gullet.”
Hosack looked a little rattled. “Would His Lordship really do such a thing?” he whispered to Tyler.
“Not usually. But he’s in a rather foul temper at the moment.”
Moretti swallowed hard. “I will tell you all I know, though I fear it won’t shed any light on . . . on w-what h-happened here tonight.”
“Nonetheless, go on,” encouraged Sheffield.
“I—I met Signore DeVere at the beginning of the Royal Society’s symposium.
He was very friendly and complimented me on my research papers, which was, of course, very flattering, as I’m a mere nobody in the world of science.
He invited me to dine on several occasions, and showed me some of the famous sites of the city—”
“Get to the point, Moretti,” growled the earl.
“Patience, Wrex. I believe he’s trying,” said Sheffield.
“Yes, I am!” The Italian’s face was sheened in sweat. “The point is, he said he was impressed with my scholarship and offered me a very generous stipend and a laboratory to stay on in England after the symposium and spend a year pursuing my research.”
“What is your specialty?” asked Wrexford.
“B-Botanical medicine,” replied Moretti. “I work on a sickness called malaria.”
The admission should have been yet another black mark against the man.
And yet, now that his initial fury had died down, Wrexford found that logic had reasserted itself.
He had already noted that Moretti had no blood on his hands or clothing—an impossibility if he had wielded the knife that had slit Quincy’s throat.
Even more telling, the Italian simply didn’t have the demeanor of a murderer. His shock and terror were, alas, all too genuine.
A mean-spirited thought, he conceded. Murderer or not, he didn’t much like Moretti. However, he wouldn’t let that cloud his judgment.
“And DeVere wished for you to continue research on that subject?” he pressed.
“Yes,” answered the Italian. “As I said, he told me he thought my work had . . . exciting potential.”
Wrexford shot a look at Hosack. “Are you familiar with Mr. Moretti’s research?”
The doctor shook his head. “I’m not, but my concentration has been on other medical challenges.”
The earl thought for a moment. “I suggest you recall my earlier comment about truth before answering my next question. We think DeVere and Quincy murdered Becton and stole papers and specimens—”
“M-Murder.” Sheffield had lit a lantern, and the light filtering through the palm fronds had turned Moretti’s face a ghastly shade of green. He looked truly bewildered. “This is the second time you’ve mentioned Becton’s murder. I—I thought he had succumbed to natural causes.”
“A botanical poison made it look that way,” said Wrexford. “You see, Becton was on the verge of revealing a new cure for malaria at the end of the symposium, and making the formula and ingredients public knowledge, without asking for any remuneration.”
“Dio mio.” The Italian looked like he might faint. “I swear, I knew nothing about that. I—I thought Signore DeVere admired my work . . .” Closing his eyes, he let out a shaky sigh. “But I now see . . .”
“See what?” asked Wrexford, hoping for more than histrionics.
“I think I see why DeVere asked me to come here tonight.” He grimaced. “In truth, it was more of an order than a request, but despite the odd hour, I was, of course, happy to oblige.”
“How did you get in?” queried Sheffield, before Moretti could go on. “Did he have you come to the main house, or did he let you in through the conservatory?”
It was a good question, acknowledged the earl. His friend was acquiring a knack for investigating.
“I was told the north door of the conservatory would be open, and I was to come meet them in the study room,” answered the Italian. “I had been here once before, so I knew the way.”
A pause. “I arrived at the appointed hour and started down the walkway when I heard a muffled bang. I—I assumed a shovel or rake had fallen from its rack, or that a crate had tipped over. So I thought nothing of it.”
He swallowed hard before continuing. “When I arrived at the room, I saw Mr. Quincy lying on the floor. At first, I thought he may have been struck by apoplexy and that Mr. DeVere had run for help and to send for a physician. It was only when I got closer that I saw the blood.”
A spasm passed over Moretti’s face. “My first instinct was to check whether he was still alive, but as I started to crouch down, I saw Mr. DeVere’s body. A-And then I heard voices and I . . . I panicked, thinking it might be the murderer returning. So I ran and hid.”
“That’s very understandable,” said Sheffield. “It must have been quite a shock.”
The Italian stared down at his boots, which were speckled with clots of dried blood. “Sì,” he whispered.
Moretti had explained his actions, thought Wrexford, which all seemed to fit into place. However, it seemed to him that the key piece of the puzzle was still missing.
“What I’m wondering is, why did he summon you here, and at such a late hour,” he said. “There must have been a compelling reason, but as of yet, you’ve not told us what it is.”
“He wanted to see the drawing—and it’s now clear as to why,” answered Moretti in a rush.
* * *
For an instant, the air went completely still. Even the leaves seemed to be holding their collective breath.
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Moretti,” growled the earl. “What bloody drawing?”
In response came the rustle of wool and a whispery crackle as the Italian shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “The one Mr. B-Becton gave me.”
Wrexford took it from Moretti’s outstretched hand and carefully smoothed open the creases as the halting explanation continued.
“I met him in one of the study rooms at the Royal Botanic Gardens the day before the symposium officially opened. We were both looking at specimen drawings from the Royal Society’s vast collection.
Mr. Becton was very friendly—he had been pointed out to me as a very distinguished scholar, and not many of them deign to converse with young nobodies. ”
Moretti took a moment to steady his voice.
“He asked me about my work, and when I told him of my interest in treating malaria, and the experiments I was working on back in Rome, he was very encouraging. We had a fascinating exchange on the concept of experimenting with medicinal botanicals from the same genus to see if those types of combinations would create more potent medicines.”
“Did he mention his own work?” interrupted Hosack.
Moretti shook his head. “No. He merely smiled politely when I inquired. He then passed me this drawing from his own portfolio of papers and said that I should consider it an invitation to attend his keynote lecture at the end of the symposium.” The Italian took a moment to compose himself.
“And added that I might find the topic very interesting in light of our discussion.”
Wrexford wordlessly passed the drawing to Hosack, who studied it carefully before lifting his shoulders to indicate it meant nothing to him. “Sorry,” he murmured, and handed it back.
“I was saddened to hear of Mr. Becton’s collapse, but I confess, as I was unaware of his field of interest, I didn’t give it much thought,” continued Moretti.
“It was only a passing reference to him during a conversation this afternoon with Mr. DeVere that prompted me to mention the drawing to him.”
Moretti’s brow furrowed. “He gave no indication of any interest at the time. But then, early this evening, I received an urgent summons, requesting that I come here for a meeting with an associate of his who wished to see the drawing without delay.”
That answered a number of questions, reflected Wrexford as he folded the drawing and tucked it into his pocket. But it raised even more ominous ones.
As in—who the devil murdered DeVere and Quincy?
As to the reason why, that seemed obvious. But he was beginning to think that nothing about this conundrum was as it seemed.
Moretti slumped back against the wall. The effort of telling his story, along with having to relive the grisly discovery of the bodies, seemed to have sapped the last of his strength.
“Kit, I’d like for you and Hosack to take Moretti into the main house and find him a measure of brandy, while Tyler and I have a quick look around the entrance that was left unlocked. It seems likely that the murderer also came in by that way.”
“You think there may be a clue?” asked Sheffield.
“It’s worth checking.”
As his friend and the doctor went to assist Moretti, Wrexford and Tyler moved stealthily into the gloom. “You search through the side galleries and see if you find any sign of disturbance,” he whispered, “while I check whether the doorway and outside path yield anything of use.”
The valet veered off down one of the narrow walkways, taking care not to rustle the greenery.
Another winding turn through a cluster of trees—some deciduous specimens that looked to be varieties of the hardwood genus Betula—brought him within sight of the brass-framed double doors.
Wrexford slowed his steps as he approached, scanning the stone flagging for any sign of footprints.
A bit of mud streaked the tiles, but closer inspection showed no other details.
The latch was, as Moretti had indicated, unlocked. He stepped outside, but the footpath was graveled and all he found was the indentation of a barrow wheel that had recently rolled over the stones.
The earl returned to the moist warmth of the conservatory, and after a moment’s pause, he began to make his way along the outer glass walls, heading toward the opposite end of the structure, and the door through which he and his friends had entered.
He wasn’t sure why. Charlotte would call it intuition.
But as Wrexford paused in the shadows of a soft-needled alpine larch tree and stared out into the night, he wasn’t feeling anything other than a frustrated confusion.
A state that prickled uncomfortably against his penchant for order and precision.
He stood for a little longer, watching the moonlight wax and wane over the nearby grove of oaks. The clouds were beginning to clear. Dawn would soon be dappling the horizon.
Then, just as he started to turn and begin retracing his steps, a tiny creak caught his ear.
He froze, and waited. The snick of a latch followed, and Wrexford suddenly realized that there must be another exit door close to him.
He started to move, only to spot movement within the long shadows cutting across the lawn.
A shape—a man moving stealthily—disappeared into a glade of elms. A moment later, he suddenly broke free of the trees. For a heartbeat, he was visible in the muted light before darting through the opening in the walled gardens that sloped down to the main road.
Pursuit was pointless. The runner would be long gone before Wrexford reached the door.
And yet, for the brief instant the man had been visible, the moonlight had shone a little brighter. And although he had a muffler hiding half his face, his head had been bare . . .
Allowing a telltale flicker of sun-bleached mahogany-colored hair.
“Well, well, Captain Daggett,” muttered Wrexford. “What mischief is America up to on British soil?”