CHAPTER 7
Wrexford sat up a little straighter. “Now you have my attention.”
“I thought I might.” Sheffield took a swallow of wine.
“Ye god, you should have pursued a career on the stage,” he groused. “You bloody well play a dramatic moment to the hilt.”
“While often overacting the role of court jester,” conceded his friend. “Now, about Canaday—word around the gambling salon last night was that Canaday and Holworthy did indeed know each other. Holworthy was also a member of The Ancients, and they shared an interest in religious poetry.”
“Interesting,” murmured Wrexford.
“Yes, but even more interesting is the fact that they apparently had a recent falling-out. One of the gamesters heard that there was quite a shouting match between them, and it ended with Canaday threatening the reverend with violence.”
“Over what?”
“No one seemed to know.”
“Well done, Kit.” Finally, a lead that felt as if he wasn’t just chasing after shadows. “I think I shall have to pay Canaday a visit.”
“I thought you might say that.” Sheffield looked very pleased with himself. “I’ve learned that he engaged to dine at White’s with Yarmouth tonight. After their meal, they will be playing whist with Fielding and Barbury in the card room.”
Wrexford angled a look at the mantel clock. He had a few hours to spare, and he found that the solitude of his laboratory and the precise focus needed to perform an experiment often stimulated sudden moments of clarity concerning other problems.
The mind, he had discovered, worked in strange ways.
“Excellent. I shall plan on meeting him there.”
“Would you care for company?” asked Sheffield casually.
“By which you mean you want me to pay for your supper.”
“A man can’t live on thanks alone.”
That provoked a laugh. “You look to be living quite well on the largesse of my wine cellar and kitchens.”
“You can afford it.”
“Leave me in peace for a few hours and I shall consider it. I have a few things to attend to in my laboratory.”
Sheffield drained his glass. “Then I shall return anon.”
* * *
“A moment, Canaday.” Wrexford caught up with the baron as he and his friend turned down the corridor to the card room. “Might I have a word with you?”
“I’m engaged for a game of whist right now,” answered Canaday. “Perhaps tomorrow—”
“It won’t take long,” interrupted Wrexford. He indicated one of the side rooms. “And I’d rather not wait until tomorrow.”
The baron frowned, but after a slight hesitation, he signaled for his friend to go on without him. “Very well. I can spare a moment. But no more.”
Wrexford closed the door behind them. On spotting Sheffield standing by the mullioned window, Canaday’s tone turned even sharper. “I say, what’s this all about?”
“Your close friendship with the late Reverend Holworthy. I understand the two of you were members of a club called The Ancients.”
“Yes, we were both members, but I would hardly call us friends.”
“And yet you were overheard having a very heated argument. One that you ended by threatening the reverend with violence,” countered the earl. “Would you care to explain that?”
The baron bristled. “No, sirrah, I would not! Indeed, I don’t intend to answer any of your damnably insolent questions. Now kindly step away from the door.”
“I shall do so, but first allow me to point out that either you may answer my questions here in private, gentleman to gentleman, or you may answer a Bow Street Runner’s questions in whatever venue he chooses for the confrontation.
” Wrexford paused. “And I daresay his will be a good deal more insolent than mine.”
Canaday’s fleshy face tightened and turned a mottled red, but after releasing an angry huff, he retreated a step.
Some vestiges of athletic quickness remained, but his large body was turning flabby.
“As I said, I was not friends with Holworthy. We shared an interest in poetry and occasionally discussed Wordsworth and some classical Latin works, but that was the extent of our acquaintance. In fact, if you must know the reason of the quarrel, it concerned poetry books.”
“You threatened to come to blows over books?” Wrexford raised a brow. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”
“Nonetheless, it’s true,” insisted Canaday. “My estate library in Kent is known for its collection of rarified books. Holworthy sent me an urgent request several weeks ago asking if he could borrow some volumes of Elizabethan poetry. Said he needed them for a sermon.”
The baron grimaced. “Thinking him a gentleman, as well as a man of God, I agreed. He came down the following day and spent a number of hours perusing the shelves. In the end, he took away three books. And then, to my shock, the scoundrel refused to return them! So yes, I threatened to box his ears. They were very valuable books.”
Wrexford darted a glance at Sheffield, who appeared equally nonplussed. The claim was plausible, he decided. But whoever killed the reverend had shown himself to be cold-bloodedly cunning. Canaday still had a great deal of explaining to do.
“So you say,” he replied gruffly. “But what about the nocturnal visits you and Holworthy made to your laboratory at the Royal Institution over the last few weeks?”
“What utter fustian, Wrexford!” said Canaday hotly.
“I never invited Holworthy to my lab, sir. Why would I? He had no interest in science. Granted, he tried to ask me some bizarre questions about medieval alchemy, but I told him that while I have no expertise in chemistry, I have enough scientific knowledge to know alchemy is naught but hocus-pocus nonsense.”
“Mr. Drummond says he saw you and the reverend visit your laboratory,” he pressed. “Several times.”
“Then he is spouting bald-faced lies,” snarled Canaday.
“Drummond’s a smarmy, spying little weasel, always sneaking around the corridors, trying to sniff out what others are working on.
I once found him skulking around inside my laboratory.
He claimed he had found the door half open and was merely trying to ascertain whether I needed assistance—”
“Did you keep it locked?” demanded Wrexford.
“Yes, of course I did. I simply figured I had been careless and not turned the key properly. You can be sure I was far more careful after that.” The baron scowled at the memory. “I rang a peal over his head that is likely still ringing in his ears.”
Wrexford felt the interrogation slipping away from him. “According to Drummond—”
“You’re more of a fool than I thought if you believe a word he says,” cut in Canaday.
“Ask anyone who works in that section of the building. Drummond is considered an odious piece of shite. The only reason he has a position at the Institution is because he’s some sort of distant cousin of Davy’s wife.
Otherwise he wouldn’t be tolerated.” A snort punctuated the assertion.
“He has naught but an inferior intellect—and certainly no discernable skills in chemistry.”
Making one last effort to put the baron on the defensive, Wrexford countered, “Drummond was quite specific about his claim to have seen you and Holworthy. He claims he saw you there last Thursday evening, somewhere around nine o’clock.”
Canaday let out a rude sound. “That’s impossible. Last Thursday evening I was at a meeting of the Royal Geological Society.”
“I assume the Society will confirm that,” said Wrexford. He was beginning to have more sympathy for a Bow Street Runner. It wasn’t very edifying to be made to look like a donkey’s arse.
“By Jove, of course they will,” retorted Canaday. “I was one of the featured speakers of the evening, and my lecture on the history of tin mines in Cornwall began at exactly the hour you just mentioned.”
Wrexford thought hard but couldn’t come up with any other questions to ask.
“Now, unless you have any other absurd accusations to make, my friends are waiting.”
Maintaining a grim silence, the earl stepped aside, allowing Canaday to brush by.
Sheffield made a wry face as the door slammed shut. “Well, that did not go according to the script.”
Wrexford shot him a daggered look.
“Er, quite right—it may not be the right moment for frivolous humor,” murmured his friend, assuming an air of contrition. “All jesting aside, it strikes me that he is telling the truth.”
“The lecture is certainly easy enough check, and I will do so. But yes, my sense is it’s not Canaday who is telling the lies,” he replied grimly. “Which means I will be paying another visit to Mr. Drummond in the morning. He has a great deal of explaining to do.”
* * *
Charlotte set down her packages on the table and hung her cloak on the wall peg. The rain was growing heavier, the chill drops taking on an extra sting in the gusting wind. A gunpowder greyness shrouded the streets, muddling with the mists blowing in from the river.
The boys had not returned to the house the previous evening after taking her finished drawing to the print shop.
That wasn’t unusual, but she found herself feeling more and more unsettled at the idea of them roaming the stews on their own.
Were they dry? . . . Were they hungry? . . . Were they safe? . . .
She forced herself to stop fretting. Worry would only beget worry, and she wasn’t yet sure what she wanted.
Love was a two-edged sword. A force of light and dark. Of joy and pain. For now, she was taking care to stay just beyond reach of its flashing blade.
Turning to her work desk, Charlotte began to straighten up the jars of powdered pigments and check that her brushes were properly cleaned and pointed.
No new gossip on Holworthy’s murder had come in from her regular sources.
She would need to come up with yet another jab at the king’s profligate sons.
The public never tired of seeing the Royals skewered by her pen.
The Duke of Cumberland would make an easy target. He was said to have—
“Oiy! M’lady!” Raven’s shout rose above the patter of running steps.