Raven tucked the folded missive inside his grubby shirt. “C’mon, Hawk, let’s fly.”
* * *
Wrexford paused in his pacing around the room to pull a book down from the shelf above his worktable. Something about the cursed print was niggling at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.
The colors depicted by A. J. Quill could be meaningless, a simple artistic artifice to convey the gruesome look of burned flesh.
But in his experience—which had become far too personal of late—Quill’s pen was uncannily accurate in showing all the little details.
Once again he wondered how.
He resumed walking, this time his boots beating a steady tattoo back and forth in front of the blazing hearth as he thumbed through the pages.
The logs crackled, punctuated by the muffled thump, thump of leather on the polished parquet.
“Damnation.” Wrexford had no sooner uttered the oath when his fingers stilled. He read over the section several times before turning to where he had tacked the print up on the wall.
He was still standing there, lost in thought, when his valet let himself into the workroom.
“Have you discovered something?” asked Tyler, noting the open book and gleam in the earl’s eyes.
“Perhaps.” Wrexford handed him the leather-bound volume. “Read that section.”
Tyler skimmed over the pages. “Hmm, yes. I daresay that’s possible.”
“I’m going to the workroom. I want to experiment with a few things. . . .” The earl’s voice trailed off as he was already making mental note of some chemical combinations.
“We could try different percentages of the acids and test the effects.” His valet quirked what might have been a smile. “That is, if you care to sacrifice your cheeks.”
“It’s more than acids,” mused Wrexford. “As to empirical observation, let me remind you that I pay you very well for your services.”
“Not well enough to be disfigured for life. But you—think of it this way, better your face than your neck.”
“Your feeble attempt at humor falls far short of the mark.” Wrexford crossed his arms. “I trust you did better with Mr. Fores.”
“Alas, no. The man refused to divulge anything about the artist’s identity or where he lives. Claimed he didn’t know, and added that even if he did, A. J. Quill was worth more to him in the long run than your gold.”
“Bloody hell! You, of all people, I expected to show more ingenuity—”
Tyler waved him to silence. “Do permit me to finish, milord.”
The earl pressed his lips together, though the corners were quivering with ire.
“As I said, Fores was unhelpful, but when he left me to help another customer, I strolled to the side room and the clerk there was decidedly more friendly.”
“Get to the point. My patience is wearing thin.”
Tyler heaved a martyred sigh. “I purchased several copies of the infamous print, adding a generous tip. In return, I learned that A. J. Quill’s drawings are delivered to the print shop by a ragged little guttersnipe—or sometimes two of them. They usually arrive in the late afternoon, which gives the engravers time to make the printing plate and run off an edition in time for the following morning. But in a sensational case, like Holworthy’s murder, the timing can run closer to midnight.”
“How—”
“If you were about to ask how many drawings Quill does every week, the answer is at least three, and sometimes four, especially when a scandal is on the tip of every tongue.”
“Which means one may arrive tonight,” mused Wrexford.
“Yes.” The valet’s expression turned somewhat smug. “And before you ring a peal over me for not being hidden in some damp, dirty, malodorous crevasse keeping the shop under surveillance, allow me to add that I took the liberty of hiring a Scottish compatriot to stand sentinel and follow the urchins back to their lair. Quiggs is very good—he can stalk a Highland deer through gorse and over sheer granite.”
Wrexford exhaled a pent-up breath. “It appears that for once you’ve earned your weekly salary.”
“I’ll take that as a thank-you.” Tyler turned to go. “Oh, just one more thing.” He paused, his hand on the ornate door latch.
“I think I know where the chemicals that burned Holworthy’s face came from.”
CHAPTER 3
Charlotte sat back to study the nearly done drawing of the Bow Street Runner interrogating the Earl of Wrexford. She was pleased with the result. Exaggerating the bulk of the Runner to bull-like proportions had created a good visual drama to the composition....
Dipping her brush in the paint, she quickly darkened the red of his waistcoat just a shade, which made it even stronger. Granted, the snarling leer and the unshaven face were pure artistic license, but for most of the public, figures of authority were viewed with dislike and distrust. Poking fun at them was good for business.
As for the earl . . .
Charlotte regarded his pen-and-ink profile. She had seen him only once in the flesh, during one of her infrequent visits to the haute monde enclave of Mayfair. He had been walking down Bond Street, conversing with a friend, and their paths had crossed for merely a moment. And yet, the planes of his face had remained indelibly etched in her mind’s eye. Or, rather, the air of haughty detachment that seems sculpted into every subtle curve and angle.
Most aristocrats wore their sense of privilege and entitlement like a second skin, but Wrexford’s attitude was different, though she was hard pressed to explain why.
Go to hell—that was the message that seemed to radiate from every pore.
She touched a finger to the long, wildly curling strands of coal-black hair she had drawn on the paper. Well, it seemed possible he would be meeting Satan sooner than he might wish.
It would take an act of the House of Lords for England to execute a peer of the realm. But given the sensational nature of Holworthy’s murder, the public would be clamoring for blood. And the bluer, the better.
“If there is to be a trial, may it turn into a long one.” Her livelihood demanded that she harden her heart—she couldn’t afford a groat of sympathy, not with her own survival depending on her cutting commentary. Taking up her pen, Charlotte put the finishing touches on the drawing.
“If he is to suffer, I might as well profit from it.”
* * *
“This way, milord.” Tyler led the way down a long, dark corridor. The air was heavy with a fugue of sour smells.
“Humphry Davy’s laboratory is located in a far more central part of the building,” observed Wrexford, who was familiar with the rambling layout of the Royal Institution building. “But no doubt that has to do with the hordes of highborn ladies who flock to his public lectures and demand to see where their God of Enlightenment discovers the wonders of the universe.”
Founded in 1799 by a group of the leading men of science in Great Britain, the Royal Institution was created to educate the public about the heady new advances in a variety of scientific disciplines. Its ornate new building on Albemarle Street housed laboratories and lecture halls, and the frequent presentations and demonstrations had become wildly popular within the highest circles of Society.
“Do I detect a note of jealousy over Davy’s popularity with the opposite sex?” quipped his valet.
The earl made a rude sound. “I merely think he’s a fool to mix business with pleasure. Davy possesses an excellent intellect and his methods are first rate.”
Despite his diminutive stature, the charismatic Cornishman had become one of the darlings of London Society. His lectures on chemistry attracted overflow crowds, and talk of the wonders of science filled the drawing rooms of Mayfair.
“But,” went on Wrexford, “he’s an obsequious toadeater to the rich and famous, and that distracts him from his work.”
“True.” Tyler came to a halt in front of a closed door and knocked brusquely. “Be that as it may, this section of the Inst
itution is, as you know, where the less exalted members do their research.”
“Then why the Devil did you roust me from my work to come here?” he muttered. Second-rate minds bored him to perdition. Without a spark of originality—
A muffled call bade them to enter.
“Patience, milord,” counseled his valet. “What Mr. Drummond has to say may be important.”
The earl followed his valet into a dimly lit room. The fumes were even stronger here, and he quickly saw the reason why. On a table in the center of the space, a large metal crucible was suspended over a spirit lamp. The apparatus was turned up to full force, and red-gold tongues of fire were lapping against the dark metal, causing the contents to boil furiously.
Wrexford sniffed. Whatever the specific experiment, it wasn’t going to yield very interesting results, he decided. The ingredients were too mundane.
A figure moved out from behind the table. The flickering play of flame and vapor gave him an otherworldly aura. An acolyte of Hephaestus, the ancient god of fire.
“Ah, it’s you again, Mr. Tyler. As I told you earlier this afternoon, this meeting will have to be brief.” Drummond’s voice had a nasal quality, as if he had been breathing in too many noxious chemicals. “My experiment requires precise timing.”
“We understand such things,” said Wrexford, moving up to stand abreast of his valet.
Drummond’s gaze flared for an instant in recognition, then turned guarded. “I didn’t realize the figure of authority that Mr. Tyler mentioned would be you, sir. Dare I hope that means the Higher Powers have finally consented to give my protests the attention they deserve?”
Though the earl chose to conduct his research in his own private laboratory, he was a generous benefactor of the Institution. His recent large donation of funds to purchase a special collection of rare chemistry books from the late Lord Strathern’s library had earned the governing board’s gratitude, along with the title of Honorary Warden.
“That remains to be seen, Drummond,” replied Wrexford. “As you are pressed for time, I shall dispense with the usual pleasantries and cut to the chase—”
“An unfortunate turn of phrase, given recent events,” murmured Tyler. “But you take His Lordship’s meaning.”
Drummond looked at him blankly.
Ignoring the quip, the earl hurried on, though he was fairly certain that allowing his valet to bring him here had been a lapse in judgment. It already had the smell of a wild goose chase. “I understand you were heard complaining about a theft from your laboratory several days ago.”
“Yes, and precious little good did it do me.” Drummond glowered. “The head watchman dismissed it as nothing more than a puerile prank among colleagues. But I know it had darker significance!”
“And why is that?”
“Jealousy,” he replied hotly. “A man of your exalted position may not know such things, but it’s a viper’s nest of intrigue here in this section of the building, with everyone competing to catch the attention of Mr. Davy and his inner circle. I believe someone deliberately sabotaged my work by stealing some of my supplies.”
“Can you tell us exactly what went missing?” asked Tyler.
Drummond rattled off a list of chemicals.
The earl frowned. They almost matched the ingredients of his own experiments as to what might have caused the burns on Holworthy’s face. A coincidence, perhaps. But as the combinations were rather esoteric, Wrexford conceded that the odds likely favored a different explanation.
“Was that all?” he probed. The chemist struck him as a pompous ass, one whose delusion of specters lurking in every shadow provided a convenient excuse for his mediocre talent. But beneath the self-pitying complaints, there seemed an odd tension. Wrexford wondered why.
Drummond shifted his stance and brushed a lank shock of hair off his forehead. For an instant, the dull straw color was gilded a bright gold by the gaseous flames. “I think I know the contents of my laboratory, sir!” He glanced at the clock on the work counter. “Now if that’s all, I need to perform the next step in my experiment.” A sniff. “In precisely thirty-four seconds.”
“Do go ahead,” said Tyler pleasantly. “We’ll wait.” He darted a glance at the earl. “Won’t we, sir?”
Wrexford gave a curt nod. It seemed a waste of time, but he agreed because he sensed it would vex Drummond.
As the chemist turned and began to fiddle with an assortment of canisters, the earl moved to the opposite end of the room, where a pair of shelves flanked a narrow counter on which was set an elaborate brass scale. The titles stamped on the book spines revealed nothing out of the ordinary. In the background, Tyler continued with his routine questioning, but Wrexford was fast losing interest. Coincidences did happen, and Drummond seemed far too unimaginative to be involved in a ghoulish murder.
The scale, at least, offered a diversion. It was precision crafted, with the weights and balances designed for measuring miniscule amounts....
In shifting for a better look, he noticed a small, shallow metal storage cabinet on the back of the counter, half hidden in the shadow of the scale. It looked to be heavy and the door boasted several intricate levers. Out of idle curiosity, he pressed the main latch to see if it would open.
Click.
Inside were four horizontal shelves, each filled with a neat row of glass-stoppered vials and containers.
Save for a spot on the bottom one, where a gap appeared.
Wrexford looked more closely and saw three circles visible in the faint powdering of dust, which seemed to indicate that the items had only recently been removed. Also catching his eye was a small pocket notebook lodged beneath the bottom shelf.
A glance across the room showed Drummond was still at work. Turning back to the cabinet, the earl opened the book and began to thumb through the pages.
The clatter of the canisters soon quieted. A momentary whoosh of the flame reigniting filled the air, followed by Drummond’s querulous voice. “I really don’t know what more I can tell you, Mr. Tyler. Now, I really must turn all my attention to—”
“Perhaps you can clarify what happened to the three bottles that appear to have gone missing from this cabinet?” called Wrexford.
Drummond dropped his stirring spoon and rushed over.
“According to your very detailed notes, the missing substances are rhodium, palladium, and mercury.” Which also matched the ingredients of his own experiments. Wrexford held up the notebook. “You list the position of each container and the date it is used up. There is no entry for those three, so I assume they, too, were stolen.”
The chemist blinked. A sheen of sweat coated his forehead. Whether it was from the heat of the crucible or some other cause was impossible to discern. “That cabinet should have been locked!”
“It wasn’t,” said Wrexford. “Rhodium is quite expensive. And the amount of mercury listed is rather large. Did you have them for a reason?”
“I . . . I wished to try out an idea I had in mind, once the current phase of my experiment is finished,” answered Drummond stiffly. “I would rather not elaborate on the details, milord. I believe it to be a very original idea.”
“I have no intention of stealing a march on you,” said Wrexford dryly. “Tell me, do you keep the main door to your laboratory under lock and key?”
“Yes, of course. And as I told Mr. Tyler, there was no sign of forced entry,” replied Drummond. “Perhaps now the Institution will take my complaints seriously. It’s plain as a pikestaff that this was no random prank. Someone who is familiar with the laboratories here wants to discredit my reputation with Davy and ruin my career!”
The chemist’s mouth pinched to a pout. “I had high hopes of presenting some very exciting results at the next meeting of our members, but I was forced to start over on my experiment, as the theft ruined the timing.”
“Did you report the theft to the authorities as well as the superintendent here?” inquired Tyler.
“No, I didn�
��t waste my breath. Do you really think a Runner is going to bother hunting for a few bottles of powders and liquids?” snapped the chemist. “Especially as the Institution has not deigned to take any of my complaints seriously.”
The earl made no reply.
Bitterness welled up in Drummond’s voice. “And nor, it seems, do you. Why are you asking me these questions? I’ve given all the details I know to the head watchman. You should be interrogating the others who work in this section of the building to find out who the culprit is.”
“You truly believe one of your fellow men of science was responsible?” asked Wrexford.
“Yes!” insisted Drummond, his face flushing in anger. “I told you, there are vipers here who are up to no good. I often work late and I’ve seen the slithering that goes on late at night when they think no one is paying attention.” He sucked in a sharp breath. “Strange noises, odd packages, people who clearly have no business being in a laboratory.”
Wrexford held back the sarcastic retort that immediately came to mind. “Suspicious people, you say? Like whom?”
Drummond let out his answer in a huff. “Like that reverend who has been preaching sermons about the evils of science.”
* * *
Charlotte turned from the stove, hearing the metallic clink of the outer door latch. The lads trooped into the room a moment later, looking well pleased with themselves. A telltale smudge of strawberry jam on Hawk’s chin explained why.
“Sorry we was—were—late, m’lady,” said Raven. “We were asked to wait for the gentleman to write his reply, and then we stopped by Bow Street to see what we could learn—”
“The Runner asked His Nibs where he was last night, and His Nibs admitted he had been out walking—alone!” interrupted Hawk in a rush.
His brother shot him an aggrieved look.
“Sorry,” apologized Hawk in a small voice.
Murder on Black Swan Lane Page 4
