CHAPTER 22 #2
“Mrs. Sloane, we ought to escort you home,” began Sheffield as they filed through the narrow opening into the back alleyway. But as he turned, there was only a shiver of mist-shrouded shadows behind him.
“Damnation, she ought not be out on the streets alone—”
“Let her go, Sheff.” A fitful breeze tugged at Wrexford’s words, swirling them into the other night sounds. “It’s not for us to say what she can and cannot do.”
* * *
Her steps guided more by instinct than any conscious effort, Charlotte made her way through the labyrinth of byways back to the fringes of St. Giles.
Strangely enough, a search of all her most vulnerable places found only a dull numbness.
She had imagined that retribution would feel better than that.
Choices, choices. Could one truly choose to unwind the grip of guilt, of sorrow, and put them in the past? Or was it ruled by its own elaborate alchemy, an indefinable mix and measure of ingredients that defied mortal longings?
Wrexford would have an opinion. A sardonic one, no doubt.
Ah, but Wrexford was yet another complicated alchemy. At the moment Charlotte had not yet decided how she felt about his actions. Presumptuous, yes, but he had, through sheer force of will, helped reach a point of resolution and redemption.
She should feel gratitude, not resentment.
The sensation of relief was also sharp, but in a way she didn’t expect. Not that any of her emotions were making sense.
The streets had turned narrower and muddier, the sweetness of Mayfair giving way to the less salubrious scents of St. Giles.
Darkness pinched in from all angles, the crooked buildings and overhanging roofs crowding out the weak starlight.
But as she reached a fork in the way, Charlotte felt a small frisson tickle over her shoulders, as if the weight of past mistakes might be shifting.
Perhaps—just perhaps—it was possible to shed old burdens, to forge new paths.
Hope, however, was a two-edged sword, a dangerous weapon in careless hands. Those who chose to wield it must always be on guard.
Dawn was softening the night sky by the time she arrived at her door and let herself in.
Raven was curled up by the stove, a blanket snugged around his shoulders. But by how quickly he sat up as she relocked the door, it was clear he hadn’t been sleeping.
“The streets are dangerous at night, m’lady,” he chided. “You shouldn’t be scarpering around alone.”
“That’s rather the pot calling the kettle black,” replied Charlotte.
“Aye, we wuz out,” chimed in Hawk. “That’s because . . .” He looked to his brother.
“That’s because Billy Black Hat has a new set of ivories,” said Raven without hesitation. “And he was keen to teach us te play hazard.”
“Actually, it’s because Lord Wrexford asked you to create a disturbance at the Royal Institution,” she countered, deciding to dispel with any shilly-shallying around the events of the night.
He ducked his head. “Sorry. I know it’s wrong te tell a clanker, but we were sworn to secrecy. And a gentleman must always keep his word, right?”
Like most things in life, honor wasn’t always black and white.
“We will discuss the fine points of morality at another time,” she answered. “Be that as it may, in this instance it was more the earl’s fault than yours so you are forgiven.”
Both boys looked relieved.
“However, I ask that you don’t lie to me in the future. It’s important for us to be able to trust in each other.”
Looking pensive, Raven nodded.
His brother responded with fiercer enthusiasm. “I won’t! May I be struck dead and roasted on a spit in hell if I do.”
“A very noble gesture.” She smiled. “But I don’t require such an extreme sacrifice. I simply ask that you do your best to be a man of honor.”
“Besides, you wouldn’t be more’n a mouthful fer the Devil,” quipped his brother. “He wouldn’t squibble his time cookin’ you over the coals.”
“Speaking of meals,” interjected Charlotte. “I’m sure you are famished after all your activities. What say we have a treat of fresh-baked bread, butter, and some gammon for breakfast.”
Their faces lit up.
“And eggs?” asked Hawk hopefully.
“And eggs.” She fetched some coins from the purse in her desk and handed them over.
“No stopping to play hazard,” she murmured.
Raven grinned. “Billy does have a new pair of dice an’ he did ask us te come learn the game. So it was only a half lie, m’lady.”
Dear Lord, what a frightful little Sophist he was becoming.
“Run along,” she shot back. “Before I decide you only deserve a half portion of breakfast for your cheekiness.”
The lads scampered off, and though Charlotte was weary to the bone, she knew that sleep would be slow to come. Instead she took a seat at her desk and set a fresh sheet of paper atop the blotter.
Her fingers instinctively sought the pen.
However hopelessly tangled her personal emotions became in thought or words, her commentary on Society’s inequalities and injustices seemed to flow with a crisp clarity in her art.
Bold strokes of ink, confident colors—through line and paint she had the ability to cut to the heart of an issue.
It was, she knew, a flaw, a fundamental contradiction in character.
How could she be both weak and strong?
Even Wrexford, with his relentless logic, would likely have no answer to the conundrum. He would find that bedeviling, while in contrast, she did not expect to have rational answers for everything.
Which no doubt explained the drawing that was taking place as she was trying to parse the conflicting sides of her nature.
Charlotte stared at the outlines of the sketch with a rueful smile.
She was angry with Wrexford, and yet her sense of justice demanded that she use her influence with the public to raise the question of his innocence.
Hints about the Runner’s judgment, and his incompetence in missing telltale clues, would play very well to the vast majority of people who mistrusted the authorities.
Perhaps he didn’t need her help.
A quick flurry of lines and cross-hatching and she leaned back, satisfied with the composition. All that was left to do was paint in the color highlights and write a provocative caption.
Once the lads were finished with their breakfast, she would send them off to the print shop with the finished drawing.
* * *
“So that means the mystery is solved concerning the art forgeries and their connection to Holworthy’s murder?” asked Tyler. The earl had just finished giving a terse account of the confrontation and was pouring himself a glass of Scottish malt.
“Yes.” After an appreciative sip, Wrexford held the dark amber spirits up to the light.
“You know, the ancient Gaelic name for this is uisge beatha, which means spirit of life. Wise men, your fellow Scots. And brilliant alchemists.” He pursed his lips.
“Here Holworthy was obsessively chasing after the philosopher’s stone and its transcendent power to raise the soul to a higher plane when all he had to do was uncork a bottle of whisky. ”
“In all fairness, I should point out that the Irish claim it was they who first brewed the magical elixir,” murmured the valet.
“Be that as it may, you are digressing from the matter at hand. I assume you will be heading to Bow Street shortly to present the proof of your innocence and Lowell’s guilt.
Shall I pack up the vial of the remaining chemical sample in cotton wool and a sturdy box? ”
“Proof?” Wrexford finished the rest of his whisky in one smooth swallow.
“What we have is a fanciful story, based on scraps of evidence that a clever villain could easily have manufactured. As for corroboration, there is only the word of reprobate swindlers—assuming they haven’t already fled the country—who would sell their virgin sisters to the brothel in order to save their own skins. ”
He shrugged out of his coat and rolled up his shirtsleeves. “Griffin, while a thoroughly annoying fellow for his lack of imagination, has been meticulous in assessing the physical evidence. His conclusion is logical.”
“But the library mark that Mrs. Sloane found in Holworthy’s hand,” protested Tyler. “And the footprint she saw in the church.”
“Unfortunately, those things had disappeared from the scene of the crime by the time Griffin got there,” pointed out the earl. “I doubt he is going to take her word for it.”
“Surely you don’t intend to do nothing?”
“Come, you know what an indolent fellow I am.” Wrexford took down several books from the shelves above the work counter.
“But in this case, no. It greatly offends what few moral sensibilities I possess that Lowell has perverted science to serve his own nefarious plan. So I feel obliged to stop him.”
“How, if I might ask?” said Tyler as he watched the earl take a seat at the microscope.
Preoccupied with his own thoughts, Wrexford didn’t take any heed of the question. “Have you had any luck in identifying the elements in Lowell’s chemical compound?”
“All but two. The list is there beside the reflector. It’s the clear crystals and the greenish substance that are proving devilishly elusive.”
Wrexford read over the paper. “Bring over a selection of acids. I wish to run a few more tests. An idea occurred to me when I thought more about Forsyth and the problem he had with his original percussion cap. . . .” He twirled the instrument’s dials, increasing the magnification of the sample.
Tyler assembled the bottles, along with a selection of empty glass vials.
“You still haven’t answered my question as to how you intend to stop Lowell.
” He set the tray down on the worktable.
“Forgive me for pointing it out, but it seems there are more pressing things to be doing at this moment. Why are you spending time analyzing the compound?”
“Because I am curious.” The earl squinted into the lens and adjusted the reflectors. Charlotte would likely also say it was because he was trusting his intuition. “Move the lamp a bit to the left.”
The polished metal caught the light and angled a brighter beam onto the slide.
“And knowing the exact science behind his creation may help in understanding exactly what he is up to.”
Tyler made a skeptical face.
“It also may help pinpoint the location of Lowell’s secret laboratory. That’s the key to ending this—if we can lead Griffin to where he is working, the evidence will speak for itself.”
The earl leaned back. “Put a bit of the remaining sample in one of the testing vials and add one drop of spirits of salt.”
They both watched intently as the liquid fell onto the powder.
“Nothing,” murmured Tyler after a long moment.
“Excellent.”
“You are pleased?”
“Exceedingly,” answered Wrexford. “Attach the adapter to the lens and I shall show you why.”
The procedure increased the microscope’s power of magnification. The earl refocused on the sample and gestured for Tyler to take a look.
“What does the greenish powder look like to you?”
The valet hesitated. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was ground glass.”
“Sometimes the most obvious answer is the correct one,” answered Wrexford.
“I suddenly remembered reading an obscure text by Newton on the properties of glass, and how it could serve as a stabilizing substance.” He contemplated the sample in the vial.
“I think we can safely speculate that Lowell has come up with a formula for an improved mercury fulminate that may be used in practical applications.” A pause. “Such as weaponry.”
Tyler let out a low whistle.
“One other thing—that particular shade of green is typical of wine bottles from the Rhine Valley near Mainz.” He thought for a moment.
“Perhaps you’re right—identifying the last ingredient can wait.
Right now, I want you to start checking on whether there are any warehouses here in London that are used by German importers from that region. ”
“Yes, milord!”
“While you are engaged in that task, I will pay a visit to Mrs. Sloane,” went on Wrexford, “and see if she can remember any details from her husband’s last days that might indicate where he was working.
” Fatigue gave way to a rising sense of anticipation.
“I think we’re closing in on the bloody devil. ”