CHAPTER 11 #2
“Could have been worse, I s’ppose,” allowed the older boy.
He was always far more wary about showing enthusiasm than his brother.
Perhaps because he had several more years of experience in seeing how quickly and cruelly the world could crush hope and happiness.
One learned early that it was best not to put a hex on the things one cared about.
“High praise, indeed,” she said dryly. “Though it seems I shall have to ask Mr. Keating to spend more time on proper pronunciation of the English language.”
That drew a grin from Raven. “Oiy ken natter the King’s English wivout sounding like me mouff is full o’ marbles iffen Oiy want to.”
“Then pull your stool up to the table and prove it to me and your brother while we have some tea.” She moved to put the kettle on the hob. “And apple tarts.”
“Hooray!” cried Hawk, as he hurriedly climbed to a perch on his seat and set his elbows on the table.
Charlotte decided to overlook the less than lordly table manners. “I managed to save them from the jaws of Lord Wrexford, which was no small feat. He was very hungry, but I insisted two brothers deserved two tarts.”
It was said lightly, but the words dispelled the boyish gleam in Hawk’s eyes. His gaze grew troubled as he slowly traced a finger over one of the many scars in the old wood. “Lord Wrexford had a bruvver,” he said in a small voice. “But he’s dead.”
Dear Lord. Her grip tightened on the kettle handle. She couldn’t imagine what had provoked the earl to mention such a thing.
“He—he sounded sad. But I s’ppose even a high-and-mighty lord can’t stop the Reaper.” Hawk looked up through his lashes in mute appeal for her to tell him he was wrong.
“No. That’s beyond the power of any man, be he prince or pauper,” said Charlotte, knowing it would do more harm than good to tell him false fairie stories.
The boys needed to trust that she would always be truthful with them, no matter how much it hurt.
“None of us knows when the Reaper’s blade will strike.
That doesn’t mean we should hide in the shadows of despair.
It’s even more reason to live our lives with hope and optimism. ”
She saw Raven watching her intently and added, “We mustn’t fear loving someone. Yes, there may be pain, but it’s far overshadowed by joy.”
Raven wiped his nose on his sleeve, using the gesture to dart a sidelong look at his younger brother. “His Nibs didn’t look very joyful.”
“Lord Wrexford may be sad,” countered Charlotte quickly. “But I am sure he wouldn’t give up the happy memories for all the tea in China.”
“China,” mused Hawk, “is a werry big place on the globe—much bigger than England. It must have an awful lot of tea.”
“It must, indeed!” She let out an inward sigh of relief. A hardscrabble life in the stews had at least taught the boys resilience. A cloud of fragrant steam rose up as she quickly filled the teapot from the whistling kettle and carried it to the table. “Now, tell me more about your lessons.”
* * *
His boots crunching over the rubble of loose stones and broken bricks, Wrexford entered Henning’s outbuilding.
Flies were buzzing around the lantern that hung above the stone slab, leaving a trail of black blurs in the beam of oily light.
Metal scraped against metal, though he couldn’t make out the source of the sound.
“Have you found anything of interest?” he asked without preamble.
The surgeon dropped his scalpel into a metal bowl. “The human body, whether dead or alive, is always interesting, laddie. But I doubt you meant it as an abstract philosophical question.”
“Correct.” Wrexford moved closer. “I was hoping for something more practical, like what weapon might have caused the fellow’s death.”
“It was very neatly done, a clean stroke angled perfectly to pierce the heart cleanly through the left ventricle.” Henning looked up, his habitual scowl looking even more pronounced in the yawing shadows. “Would you care to have a look?”
The earl noted an amorphous fist-sized shape sitting in the belly of a brass scale. Its dark surface had a liquid sheen in the wavering light.
“Thank you, but I saw enough butchered body parts in Portugal. I trust your professional eye to have caught the important details.”
A laugh scratched at Henning’s throat. “Aye, my peepers are still sharp as a saber.”
“Dare I hope that means you can tell me what weapon killed Drummond?”
Henning rubbed a hand over his unshaven chin. “A carpenter’s awl, an ice pick—you may take your choice between any number of everyday tools. All I can tell you is it was done with a needle-like length of metal, not a blade. And whoever wielded it knew what he was doing.”
Wrexford considered the information. With a waggish lift of his brow, he couldn’t resist challenging the surgeon. “Not a she?”
“Not unless she was tall as an and as muscled as that mythical Warrior Queen to whom you and your countrymen bow and scrape.” Fiercely Scottish, Henning had no love for the English.
“Boudicca,” murmured Wrexford. “Actually you should find her a kindred soul. She was fighting to keep her people from being oppressed by an invading force.”
A grunt, impossible to interpret.
“So, you are of the opinion the killer possessed physical strength, and a familiarity with the art of murder,” he said. “A soldier, perhaps?”
Henning blinked several times, the lamplight setting off a winking of sparks on the tips of his lashes. “Or a student of medicine.”
“Which unfortunately doesn’t help to cut down the list of possible suspects,” responded the earl. “The Royal Institution is the center of the scientific community in London. Many of its members have training in medicine.”
A shrug. “Tracking down the criminal is up to you, laddie. I can only pass on what Mr. Drummond’s recently abandoned mortal coil tells me.”
“And I take it,” said Wrexford dryly, “the mortal coil has nothing more to say?”
“Ah, a good question.” Henning hunched over and appeared to be examining the dead man’s hands. “The answer would be yes. . . .” More movement, light flickering softly off the dexterous play of the surgeon’s fingers.
“If not for the strange symbol penciled on his left palm.”
* * *
After rinsing her brushes and putting away her paints, Charlotte carefully set to work with her penknife to put a fresh point on her quill. Snip, snip. It was a ritual that served to calm both mind and spirit after the intensity of creating a new satire.
However, her thoughts refused to quiet. Snip, snip. Each small cut seemed to add a new question to the unsettling ones already colliding inside her head. Had the earl been right? Should she have closed her eyes to the new evidence connecting The Ancients to the present murders?
There were, after all, plenty of other scandals at which to poke her pen. She could have left it to him.
“Honor.” Charlotte whispered the word, feeling a chill skate down her spine as her breath tickled over her lips. She had thought cynicism had rubbed away all vestiges of such pompous platitudes. But maybe some things simply remained ingrained in one’s being.
Whatever Anthony’s weaknesses—and she hadn’t been blind to the frailties of his character—he didn’t deserve to have his life and his death dishonored by the foul manipulations of Stoughton and his fellow club members.
Snip, snip. The quill’s point was now razor sharp. A test to her fingertip drew a tiny bead of blood.
Setting aside the pen and the knife, she stared down at her bare desk.
Twilight was falling, the muddled shades of purple and pewter filtering in through the window warning that a squall was scudding in to cloud the night sky.
The boys had taken her latest drawing to the engraver, and whether they returned before the rain began to fall would depend on Raven’s mood.
He seemed unsettled of late, and she hadn’t wanted to press for the reasons. No one else could fight his battles. He must wrestle with his personal demons, no matter that the match was an unfair one.
Her gaze strayed to the row of books lined up against the wall. The gilt titles stamped on the leather spines glowed with a mellow warmth, and Charlotte ran her hand along the bindings, hoping the familiar textures would help lift her spirits.
She hated feeling so helpless. Wrexford moved freely within aristocratic circles, allowing him to follow the clues. While she was shut out.
Charlotte inhaled deeply and let the air out in a whoosh of frustration.
Or was she?
The bookish scent of mingled paper, ink, and leather stirred an idea. Alchemy. However tenuous, there was a connection between the alchemy and the death of both her husband and Drummond. Learning more about the subject might allow her to discover something useful.
Charlotte quirked a wry grimace. But for that she would need a different selection of books.
Her collection of history, poetry, and Latin classics would cast little light on the arcane mysteries of volatile chemicals and bubbling crucibles.
And she didn’t dare walk into the fancy bookstores or lending libraries of Mayfair.
There was, however, one person who might possess the books she needed to borrow.