CHAPTER 17 #2
“Alchemy.” Charlotte said the word very softly and yet its echo seemed to transmute itself into a booming sound that filled the room. She waited a moment, and then added, “It’s clear it’s at the heart of the murders. But how and why still isn’t—”
“Patience, Mrs. Sloane.” Wrexford held up a hand. “I haven’t finished.”
She sat back.
“Yet another revelation—uncovered by a friend of mine—is that Canaday and Holworthy are cousins, and that the baron was lying about what books the reverend had borrowed from him. In truth, knowing that Canaday was in desperate need of money, Holworthy had purchased the four alchemy books for a large sum of money, but reneged on making the last payment.”
“So you think Canaday murdered him? And that somehow Drummond discovered the fact and was killed to keep him from revealing it?”
Wrexford shook his head. “No, actually I’m convinced Canaday is not involved in the murders. He hasn’t the nerve for it. Holworthy is at the center of whatever evil is afoot. He took advantage of the fact that the baron was in financial trouble.”
The earl paused. “By the by, Canaday possesses a magnificent painting by Rembrandt. As an artist, you would have appreciated the exquisite nuances of detail. I’m no expert, but he used lights and darks to create a very powerful portrait of a Dutch burgher in all his glory.”
Charlotte felt a sudden tightening in her chest. Her heart began to thump against her ribs. “Could you describe it to me?”
His brows arched in bemusement. “I understand you are passionate about the subject, but given the other pressing concerns, perhaps we should defer a discussion on art until later.”
“Please. It could be important.”
Though still looking faintly puzzled, he did as she asked.
Charlotte quickly fetched a small portfolio from the tiny back room and spread out some pastel sketches on the table. “Was it like this one?”
She heard a sharp intake of breath.
“Yes, that’s it exactly.”
“Good Lord. I think I may know . . .” Charlotte had an idea but it seemed too awful to put into words. And yet, its very smarminess was exactly the reason why it might be right.
“Know what?” pressed Wrexford.
“What attracted Stoughton and his friend—I’ve remembered that his name was St. Alban or something like that—to Anthony.”
Wrexford went very still and his gaze turned shuttered. In the silence, she could almost hear the gears whirring inside his head.
“Copying masterworks is an exercise many painters do in order to keep their technical skills sharp. It’s a little like a musician playing scales, though the added benefit is that by seeing a subject through the eyes of a great artist one gains a new perspective on creativity.
” She studied the sketches, feeling a surge of both sadness and anger well up inside her.
“I assumed Anthony was simply copying a painting on display at the Royal Academy. But in this light, it seems like it had a more sinister purpose.”
“You think he was recruited to forge the painting?”
“It makes sense of all the things that seemed inexplicable until now.” Charlotte thought back over the hellish last months of her husband’s life.
“His long absences, his mental anguish.” She bit her lip.
“His guilt. Anthony loved the idealism of art. He would have hated himself for perverting that.”
“But you said he repeatedly mentioned the word alchemy in his final days,” pointed out Wrexford. “And that he had strange burns on his hands. How do you explain that?”
“I can’t.” Her hands balled into fists as she thought about the drawing she had made the previous night. “However, I am positive that we’ve discovered part of the answer, and I would bet my life that the other part also lies within the group of miscreants who call themselves The Ancients.”
He rose and began to pace, the thump-thump of his boots on the rough-planked floor beating an agitated tattoo.
“Old Masters paintings are worth a great deal of money,” she went on. “A ring who could create superb forgeries of the originals and then sell them to wealthy collectors could have a very profitable business.”
“I’ve a friend who is acquainted with St. Aubin and says he’s a veritable son of Satan,” he muttered. “So I can well believe he’s mixed up in some havey-cavey business.”
Wrexford pivoted and retraced his steps. He was a very large man in a very small space—he must feel like one of the caged lions on display at the Tower.
“Facts.” The earl was frowning. “We need to find the facts that tie alchemy and art together.”
“And just how do you intend to do that?” It came out a little more sarcastically than she intended. “From what I hear, Bow Street is within a hairsbreadth of arresting you for both murders.”
“I shall solve this blasted conundrum by taking care that the distance between Mr. Griffin’s grasping hands and my humble self does not get any narrower,” he answered.
Confident words, bordering on arrogance. Charlotte wondered what it would be like to feel that aura of invincibility. In her experience, the gods did not look kindly on such hubris.
Still, she found her spirits buoyed by his attitude. “You harp on facts—very well, let us compile a list of them.”
Paper and pencil was close at hand. Charlotte slid over a sheet of foolscap and wrote two headings at the top, then drew a dividing line down the middle to make two columns.
“It seems we have two different conundrums going on. One that concerns art and one that concerns alchemy. Let’s start with art, which seems the simpler one to assess. ”
Together they created a numbered list, based purely on the knowledge they had in hand, not conjecture. Then they moved on to start filling out the second column.
“There are still some facts about alchemy that I’ve not yet had a chance to mention.
” Wrexford turned abruptly and came over to perch a hip on a corner of the table.
“My valet and I were able to salvage some charred papers from Drummond’s laboratory and remove them to my town house before Griffin was allowed to examine the room.
They caught my eye because a small fragment held a very strange message. ”
He shifted slightly. “It said, ‘the Golden One is the Devil and must be stopped from destroying. . . .’ There was a hole, and then the word dangerous, followed by an abbreviation that we interpreted to mean the philosopher’s stone.”
“From my readings, I know that the philosopher’s stone lies at the heart of alchemy,” said Charlotte. “It’s the elemental substance that has the power to transmute one material into another, like lead into gold.”
“Yes,” agreed the earl. “And its exact composition has been the Holy Grail of alchemy for centuries.”
“But,” she said slowly, “most practitioners agree that mercury has to be one of the key ingredients.”
Their eyes met and for a moment the air seemed to thrum with an unseen energy.
Wrexford looked away first. “At first we thought that ‘Golden One’ was a code word for a chemical—possibly sulfur. But on closer inspection of the other scraps, which were magnified under the lens of my microscope, we found the partial remains of what looked to be a letter. This second mention made it clear that Golden One referred to a person.” He made a face.
“And before you ask, I’ve set my friend—”
“Mr. Sheffield?” she interrupted, her curiosity roused by what she had overheard in Berkeley Square.
“Yes. He’s trustworthy, and in any case, I’ve told him nothing about A. J. Quill’s involvement in my investigation.”
“And what have you set him to doing?”
Wrexford made a wry face. “Compiling a list of all members of the Royal Institution who have fair hair.”
“I suppose that makes perfect sense to think ‘Golden One’ refers to appearance.”
And yet . . . A niggling thought stirred somewhere in the back of her head, but for the moment it remained naught but a vague shadow within shadows.
She shook it off. “So on one hand, all the evidence points to an evil chemist who is concocting an unknown substance, most likely containing mercury, in order to destroy an unknown target.”
“Which is a great deal more than we knew a half hour ago,” quipped the earl.
“It still leaves us nowhere.”
He took up the list.
“And then we have what looks to be a ring of art forgers,” mused Charlotte. “What the devil ties them together?”
“Holworthy has to be the key,” said Wrexford decisively. He reached for a pencil and some paper. “I need to sit down and think.”
Hide-and-seek sunlight tangled in his dark hair as he set to work constructing a diagram of connections. Leaving him to the faint scratch of his scribblings, she turned away, suddenly feeling terribly unsettled.
A part of it had to do with the new revelations about her late husband.
Sorrow warred with exasperation, a conflict she had yet to sort out in her own mind.
Anthony had been such a perplexing mix of idealism and weakness.
That his craving for recognition had allowed him to be seduced into betraying all that art stood for was disappointing.
But, at heart, she could not say she was completely surprised. His character had been too malleable. He was easily led.
Was that disloyal to admit?
Charlotte found she had wandered into the tiny back room that held his easel, his paint box, and the array of powdered pigments and linseed oil used to mix his gorgeous colors.
Spiderwebs covered the small mullioned window, the angle of the sun causing the finespun filaments to cast exaggerated shadows over the supplies.
Art, she reflected, was all about perspective, and the infinite number of ways one could view a subject. Even here, in this cramped space, everything was constantly changing. Color and shading shifted. The air rippled, sending flickers of light undulating over the walls.
But principles should be unyielding. Integrity had but one form.
“I forgive you, Anthony,” she whispered.
To honor his memory—or perhaps to redeem his memory—she would not rest until this particular evil was stamped out.
A loud banging on the front door jolted her out of her brooding. Spinning around, she shot out of the room—
And hit up against Wrexford.
“Shhhh,” he commanded in a low whisper, hooking an arm around her waist and thrusting her none too gently against the side of her desk. He had a pistol in his other hand and was already looking to the shadowed entryway. “Go back where you came from, and bolt the door.”
A grim calmness had hold of his features. Without waiting for answer, he moved in a blur of quick panther-like strides.
Be damned with retreating, thought Charlotte, fumbling in her desk drawer for her own little weapon. Steadying her hands with a gulp of air, she cocked the hammer and took up position at the inner doorway.
The hammering came again.
Her heartbeat kicked up another notch. Wrexford remained silent as stone.
“Mrs. Sloane?” The gruff hail had a distinct Scottish burr to it. “It’s Henning. Forgive me for stopping by unannounced, but I’ve found something that might interest you.”