CHAPTER 18
Wrexford slung the bolt back, admitting the surgeon, then relocked the door.
“I’m pleased to see you’re taking the threat of trouble seriously, lassie,” said Henning, eying her pocket pistol. “But for now, you may put your weapon aside.”
Stepping back a pace, Charlotte eased the hammer down.
“You, too, laddie,” quipped the surgeon. “I’d prefer not to have to dig a bullet out of my bum.”
“I doubt a ball of lead could penetrate your ornery hide,” replied the earl, his tone a little testy. The sudden interruption had reinforced just how alone and vulnerable Charlotte was.
Ignoring the comment, Henning took off his hat and combed his fingers through his untidy hair.
“The coffeehouse on Red Lion Square is all abuzz with speculation about your latest print,” he said without preamble to Charlotte.
“To hint that there’s such rot beneath the polished veneer of the aristocracy is a very provocative charge. ”
“It was meant to be,” she answered.
“Well, I do hope you know what you’re doing. And given his presence here, it would seem His Lordship has the same concerns.” The surgeon raised a brow at the earl. “I don’t suppose you can convince her to dull her quill?”
“No,” he answered curtly. “Mrs. Sloane has an iron will. One that refuses to bend to reason.”
“Reason, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder,” she shot back.
“Hmmph.”
Wrexford wasn’t sure whether Henning’s snort signaled disapproval or amusement at her stubbornness.
“Yes, well, unfortunately death leaves no room for interpretation, Mrs. Sloane,” replied the earl.
“Crossing your pen with a murderer’s blade was a reckless move.
” Seeing a protest form on her lips, he quickly added, “And spare me the platitude about the pen being mightier than the sword. Let the idiot who said such drivel try walking through the stews of London at night.”
“I can’t match the miscreants in physical strength or lordly influence, so I fight with the weapons I have.”
“As I have taken pains to point out, there is a third option,” said Wrexford. “You may leave the fight to me.”
Charlotte turned her back, an answer more eloquent than words. “Would you care for a cup of tea?” she asked of Henning. An offer that had not been made to him, noted the earl.
“Nay, I’ll not be troubling you for social niceties.” The surgeon set a slim book on the table. “I simply stopped by to drop off a book.”
Wrexford had a feeling that despite Henning’s prickly demeanor, he felt protective of the young widow.
“I remembered it last night, and thought it may be of use to you,” continued the surgeon.
“It’s the text of a lecture given at the University of St. Andrews by Edward Charles Howard a number of years ago.
In it he discusses the work of the early chemists, like Newton and Boyle, and the transition from alchemy to a more disciplined approach to science. ”
“Howard—the Duke of Norfolk’s younger brother?” asked Wrexford. “He was an early member of the Royal Society, wasn’t he?”
“Aye. Along with Banks and Rumford, he helped to pioneer a respect for science in this country. He’s a brilliant chemist in his own right. If I recall correctly, he won the Copley Medal at the turn of the century for his work with mercury.”
Wrexford straightened from his slouch against the doorway. He had forgotten that. His gaze shifted to Charlotte and their eyes locked for an instant before he moved to the table. “Indeed? Might I have a look?”
Henning picked up the book and tossed it over.
“I’ve only a rudimentary knowledge of chemistry, so he loses me in his later ramblings.
However, the first part on the ancient practitioners and their interest in mercury might interest Mrs. Sloane.
There are several engravings showing the arcane symbols. ”
“Mrs. Sloane has already made momentous progress in deciphering the art of alchemy. In fact, she’s identified the drawing on Drummond’s hand. It’s a dragon—which is the symbol of mercury.”
The surgeon let out a low whistle.
“His Lordship has made some interesting discoveries as well,” offered Charlotte. “He discovered papers in Drummond’s laboratory that warn of evil brewing within the Royal Institution.”
Wrexford quickly explained about the charred fragments of writing and his interpretation of their meaning.
“You think Drummond’s accusations are credible?” asked Henning.
“The man was murdered,” he pointed out. “And we’ve also uncovered a connection between Reverend Holworthy, Canaday, and a batch of rare books on alchemy.”
“Well, that certainly tosses a few more ingredients into the bubbling crucible,” observed the surgeon. “Tell me more.”
Charlotte, who had been drawing random images on her sketchpad, looked up, a troubled expression clouding her eyes.
Wrexford felt a pinch of guilt. At this moment, she must be feeling as if her carefully constructed world was in danger of crumbling into dust.
His own life was, he supposed, hanging in the balance, but he hadn’t spent any time worrying over the vagaries of Chance. A certain sense of fatality, perhaps. Or, more likely, a casual confidence that Lady Luck, who had always been sweet on him, wouldn’t withdraw her favors quite yet.
He watched the subtle play of emotions on Charlotte’s features as she stared into the shadows.
Then again, the heart of it was that he didn’t really care enough about anything to feel as deeply as she did.
Sheffield, in a moment of alcohol-induced honesty, had accused him of using detachment as a defense.
You hide behind a facade of devil-may-care indifference, Wrex.
Was it true? Wrexford quickly dismissed the thought. Let Byron and his fellow poets plumb the depths of regret and despair. He wasn’t much interested in introspection.
And while he admired Mrs. Sloane’s passionate belief that truth and justice mattered, he wondered whether she had fully realized until now that passions always come with a price.
Or whether she was truly willing to pay it.
Death had a way of bringing out secrets. The revelation of A. J. Quill’s true identity would end her life as she knew it.
Henning cleared his throat with a cough, drawing Wrexford out of his musing.
“Mrs. Sloane found evidence that Holworthy had a book on alchemy with him when he was murdered,” he answered, and then went on to give a summary of what they had pieced together so far.
Listening to his own words only amplified his frustrations with the investigation. For an instant, he was bedeviled by the sensation that in spite of all the discoveries, the shadows still had no substance. Poof—like vapor, they simply dissolved into nothing as his fingers closed around them.
Logic, logic, Wrexford reminded himself. Scientific method called for an orderly sequence of steps in order to discover the correct answer.
“At this point, the next reasonable step seems to concentrate on identifying any of the Institution members who are fair-haired. It may be a wild goose chase, I know, and yet it’s the only solid clue so far.
” He paused, feeling another clench of frustration.
“It would be enormously helpful if I could ask Lowell, but given his position at the Royal Institution he might feel compelled to inform the Runner.”
“Lowell?” repeated Henning. “Slender fellow, of average height with auburn hair?”
“Yes.”
“I hadn’t heard that he’d been appointed as a lecturer,” mused Henning. “But it doesn’t surprise me. Davy has a knack for spotting the best minds in the scientific world, and Lowell is a brilliant chemist.”
Wrexford shook his head. “You’re mistaken,” he replied. “The fellow has no interest in chemistry. His only scientific focus is butterflies, and that’s merely a hobby. As for his position at the Institution, it’s merely administrative.”
“Nay, it’s you who’s got it argle-bargled, laddie,” insisted the surgeon.
“Lowell spent a year in Scotland studying under a good friend of mine. McLachlan’s an odd duck—got himself dismissed from the faculty at St. Andrews University for feuding with the powers-that-be, so he’s now a curmudgeonly recluse who works alone.
But he’s still considered a brilliant mind.
And he told me that Lowell’s skills in the laboratory bordered on supernatural. ”
If that was true, then Lowell had deliberately lied. “Are you positive?”
“Aye. Julian Lowell was a veritable wizard when it came to analyzing arcane elements and understanding their potential. I believe he created a new formula for a lucifer match during his time there, which allowed for a flame to be struck under damp conditions.”
“Ah. Wrong Lowell,” said Wrexford, feeling himself relax. “Our fellow is Declan Lowell, the Marquess of Carnsworth’s younger son.”
Henning gave a grunt. “Nay, McLachlan’s Lowell certainly didn’t sound like an aristocrat. My friend said he was a strange fellow, with an intensity about his work that bordered on frightening.”
“And ours is known for his polished charm and easy manner.”
“Which leaves you still stumbling around in the dark about your Golden One,” observed Henning grimly. He sat on one of the stools and took out his pipe. “D’you mind if I blow a cloud, Mrs. Sloane? It helps me cogitate.”
She nodded absently.
A spark flared, and a silvery plume of smoke curled up, only to be quickly swallowed by the gloom.
A taunt from the cosmos? Wrexford watched another puff rise. However faint, the murderer had left a trail.
They just had to see it.
* * *
Charlotte couldn’t shake off the niggling sensation that a telling clue was hovering just beyond the outer edges of her consciousness. Special books, intricate images, strange phrases—they all seemed to be tangling together, trying to tell her something.
Uno. With a sinuous whisper, the Latin word for one slowly uncoiled from the amorphous jumble.
She exhaled a harried sigh. Yes, one thing seemed certain—her life was tumbling to hell in a handbasket.