CHAPTER 12
Henning shifted, carefully uncurling the dead man’s fingers to display the pale palm. “See for yourself.”
Crouching down, Wrexford strained to make out the faint marks penciled on the lifeless flesh. “What the devil is it?”
“Haven’t a clue, laddie.”
The surgeon’s irascible demeanor was proving even more abrasive than usual. “Any other pearls of wisdom to offer?” he asked sarcastically.
A rusty chuckle. “Only that you might wish to make a copy of it, to study at your leisure. I daresay they will be coming to cart off the corpse for burial sooner than later.” He tore off a non-too-pristine blank page from his dissection notebook and placed it on the stone slab, along with a heavily chewed pencil.
Wrexford looked at the offerings and heaved a martyred sigh.
“Bothered by a little blood and saliva? Good God, what a fastidious fellow you have become. The lordly life is making you soft as a sow’s underbelly.”
“Stubble your infernal nattering and angle the hand a little higher.” The earl leaned in closer. Ignoring the unpleasant odors wafting up from the corpse, he quickly copied the strange symbol onto the paper.
Henning let the hand flop back onto the slab. “It may be a pebble, not a pearl, but considering that our recently departed friend here was a chemist, it could be that scribble is from one of the early books of secrets.”
“That’s the first useful thing you’ve said,” muttered Wrexford as he folded the sketch and tucked it into his pocket.
A medieval manuscript on chemical compounds and medicinal formulas was often referred to as a “book of secrets” because of the arcane language used to describe the experiments.
Out of curiosity, he had looked at a few of them during his time at Oxford.
But he had dismissed them as incomprehensible fiddle-faddle.
His own interests lay in more practical work based on modern methods.
However, he had a sinking suspicion that was going to change.
For what the term book of secrets really referred to was the art of alchemy.
“That very thought had occurred to me,” continued the earl. “I don’t suppose you know anything on the subject.”
Henning pursed his lips. “Not really. Much of it is based on wild superstitions rather than empirical knowledge, and teeters on the edge of witchcraft. But from what I understand, there is also much sound science in the early experiments.”
Wrexford nodded. “So I have been told.” He thought for a moment. “I wonder why he would make the mark on his palm? He was in his laboratory, with plenty of paper at hand.”
“The body stinks of smoke and there was soot on his clothing,” said Henning.
“And the driver of the mortuary wagon said the laboratory was a half-burned shambles. Given that he was murdered, he might have sensed that he was in trouble, and feared that whatever the symbol means it was too dangerous to put down on paper.”
“That makes sense.” The earl blew out a harried sigh. “And yet it doesn’t. By all accounts, Drummond was a mediocre chemist. He spent most of his time at the Royal Institution. . . .”
Skulking around and spying on his fellow chemists.
Henning was watching him closely and slowly curled a smile. “Knowledge can be a dangerous thing, eh?”
“So it seems.” Wrexford rose, feeling perplexed. “My thanks for your help.”
“I have a feeling you may soon reconsider that,” said the surgeon dryly. “Watch your step, laddie. I’d like for the next autopsy I do not to be on your carcass.”
* * *
Tyler turned up the wick of the tall Argand lamp, brightening the illumination falling on the workbench holding the microscope. “I’ve pressed the fragments between glass, milord, and made sure the lenses are in proper alignment. The first one is ready for your inspection.”
Wrexford shrugged out of his coat and dropped it on the chair by the door. “A pox on secrets and shadows,” he growled. “Science is supposed to be about reason and logic.”
“I take it your day has not brought you any closer to solving either murder.”
The earl shook his head in disgust. “The path is only taking more twists and turns. Indeed, the mystery has deepened—it feels as if I’ve tumbled into a black hole.” A netherworld of suspicions, lies, and innuendos, slithering through a noxious mist.
“You are not usually so fanciful,” murmured his valet.
“I am usually not so frustrated.” Wrexford took a seat at the workbench and began fiddling with a few of the brass dials on the microscope. “What do you know about alchemy?” he asked abruptly.
“I’m no expert on the subject, but I did a fair amount of study on it while a student at St. Andrews,” answered Tyler.
“And here I’ve always credited your university with being a leader in modern scientific thought.”
“Many of the early practitioners were quacks and charlatans. But many were serious students of proper scientific method,” replied his valet. “Much of Sir Isaac Newton’s work involved explorations into alchemy.”
“I would have thought he had more sense,” muttered Wrexford.
“Don’t rush to judgment, milord. Some of their ideas might surprise you,” counseled his valet.
“I am heartily sick of surprises.” The earl leaned up against the eyepiece and brought the charred paper fragment into focus. He studied the words for a few moments, though the razor-sharp magnification of the precision lenses did nothing to make their meaning clearer.
“Any ideas?” he asked tersely. “I’m assuming you took a careful look at it before I arrived.”
“Yes and yes,” replied Tyler. “As for ideas, I do have a few to begin with. Alchemists tended to be a secretive lot. Their writings were often encoded with all sorts of obscure references, often mythological, to make them incomprehensible to a layman. For example, Golden One could refer to the mineral sulfur, or some arcane chemical compound.” He made a wry face.
“I’ve seen recipes that call for one part fiery dragon, four parts dove of Diana, and seven eagles of Mercury.
It may sound absurd to us, but other alchemists would understand the hidden meaning. ”
“So you think it may refer to a chemical and not an actual person.”
“Possibly.”
Wrexford let out a frustrated oath.
“But as for the second term on the fragment, I can be more specific, milord. In writings on alchemy, it’s a common abbreviation for the philosopher’s stone.”
Wrexford vaguely recalled the term, but had long since forgotten its meaning. “Which is?”
“The holy grail of alchemy—by the by, alchemy was known as chymistry until the late sixteen hundreds, when Newton and his contemporaries began to call their scientific work chemistry, to differentiate it from the undisciplined efforts of the past.”
“A fascinating history lesson,” muttered the earl, “but might we return to the philosopher’s stone?”
“Very well.” Tyler sounded a little disappointed at having his explanations nipped in the bud.
“It’s said to be a substance with unique powers to change one element into another.
Add a drop of the philosopher’s stone to a common metal like lead, and it will be transmuted into gold,” he explained.
“Naturally, the idea that such a powerful concoction could be formulated inspired an obsession among many to make the ultimate discovery.”
“Which would give the fortunate fellow unimagined riches as well as unimagined power.” Wrexford huffed a snort. “Little has changed since Adam gobbled down the Apple—men simply cannot resist the Serpent of Temptation, with its seductive promises of God-like powers.”
“True,” agreed Tyler. “Indeed, there were those who believe that the philosopher’s stone would not only turn lead into gold, but would also transmute the soul to eternal life.”
“Eternal life? Ha, if you ask me, that could be more of a hell than a heaven.”
“With all due respect, milord, you do tend to have an eccentric view of the world.”
“I prefer to call it realistic.” Wrexford turned his attention back to the fragment. “So, let us apply reason and logic to assess what we have here. Drummond believes something—or someone—is the Devil and is going to destroy . . . we don’t know what.”
“Presumably something of a grand nature—like Society, England, or the world,” suggested his valet.
“A reasonable assumption,” said the earl. “And presumably the philosopher’s stone is dangerous because it’s the instrument of this destruction.”
“My thinking exactly, milord.”
“So, we have Drummond’s message.” The earl rose and fetched the sketch he had made at Henning’s surgery. “And we have this.” He passed it over before resuming his seat. “Drummond had this symbol penciled on the palm of his hand. Do you have any idea what it means?”
Tyler took his time in studying the paper. “No, I don’t recognize it. But it looks very much like the type of pictograms used in alchemy.”
“Which simply leaves us spinning in circles trying to connect them.” Sarcasm shaded his voice. “We have deciphered Drummond’s dire warning. We see a clear link with ancient alchemy.” Wrexford gave another quick glance at the fragment, and then looked up. “And it all adds up to damnably nothing.”
“Not yet.”
Tyler, ever unflappable, was a cursed nuisance at times. “Kindly refrain from being so reasonable,” he growled. “I would prefer to work myself into a truly foul temper and smash a few beakers against the wall.”
“I am aware of that, milord. But we are running short of specialty glassware, and the order from Lutz and Münch in Zurich won’t arrive for another fortnight.”
Wrexford felt his scowl twitch upward. “Oh, very well. I shall put aside thoughts of smashing glass, no matter how soothing the sounds would be, and concentrate on a more practical expenditure of energy.” He leaned back from the microscope, his fit of temper giving way to the challenge of solving the conundrum.
“Let’s examine the other scraps, in case there is any other information to be gleaned.
But I have been thinking, and trying to apply logic to the facts we have in hand. . . .”