Charlotte couldn’t hold back a low laugh. “Word is, you don’t have a heart.”
He gave a mournful sigh. “True. Cut me and likely I would bleed claret, not blood. But it would be from an excellent vintage.”
“I shall keep that in mind for a cartoon on a day when scandal is quiet. I’m sure all of London would lap it up.” As she shifted, the open book on her blotter caught her eye, a reminder that she should be concentrating on more serious endeavors than trading clever quips with the earl.
“Now that we’re done with social pleasantries, sir, you said you had a question for me. What is it?”
Rather than reply right away, he turned away and let his gaze wander around the room.
You are wasting your time, Lord Wrexford. If the answers to life’s mysteries were hidden in the woodwork, I would have found them by now.
Charlotte, however, decided to let him speak first.
“Likely I’ve come on a fool’s errand,” he finally said. “I wanted to show you a sketch and see if it meant anything to you. Not that I expect it will.” His eyes shifted back to meet hers. “I suppose I simply wanted an excuse to discuss the investigation. Each clue along the way has been a Pandora’s box—lifting its lid for a closer look has released a whole new slew of conundrums instead of answers.” His dark brows pinched together. “There seems to be no rhyme or reason as to how they are all connected.”
On impulse, Charlotte reached for her sketchpad and a stick of charcoal. “And that troubles you?”
“It troubles me greatly,” he confirmed, though she would not have guessed it from the Sphinx-like smoothness of his face. “As a man of science, I am skeptical about the notion of random coincidences. In my experience, most things can be explained by logic.”
“Your experience,” said Charlotte softly as she began to draw, “has been different than mine.”
His expression altered, and yet remained a cipher. She had never met a man so hard to read.
“Sometimes random patterns can be just that, like the way the pigment spatters from a brush onto drawing paper when one makes an errant flick of the wrist.”
“Newton’s laws of motion,” he murmured.
“You are being too literal, sir. Sometimes one must apply artistic sensibilities to a problem in order to see it clearly.”
“I shall take your word for it, Mrs. Sloane.” The lamplight flickered over the contours of his face, accentuating the shadow of doubt pooled in the hollows beneath his eyes. He looked tired, and tense. Charlotte guessed it wasn’t often that he second-guessed himself.
She could assure him that it wasn’t a feeling that grew more comfortable over time.
“What are you doing?” Wrexford asked, suddenly taking note of the movement of her hands.
“Making a drawing of your face,” Charlotte replied. “Remember, it was part of our agreement.”
Uncertainty shaded his face. She guessed he wished to protest, but something was holding him back.
“I’ll be done in a moment. I just wanted to capture the way the light is playing over your features.” In truth, it was the conflicting look of hardness and vulnerability that had caught her eye. “Keep talking. You truly think everything can be explained by strict rules of logic?”
He didn’t answer right away. The light from the lamp showed the crinkling of his eyes as they narrowed in thought. That pensiveness was something she had noticed from their very first meeting.
“There is an underlying order to the way things work,” he finally replied. “One only has to look at the natural world to see that. So yes, I do believe there are universal rules. For eons, the change in seasons was thought to be ruled by divine whim. But Kepler, through careful observation and the application of mathematics, formulated his laws of planetary motion, which rationally explain them. Many complex forces may be beyond our power to comprehend right now, but that does not mean they can’t eventually be figured out.”
“A very intriguing philosophy, sir.” Charlotte added a few quick strokes, hoping to catch the look in his eyes. “You like pushing the boundaries.”
“That is the essence of science.” He turned to face her full on. “Just as it is the essence of art.”
“If the two have anything in common, it is imagination. It’s what inspires discovery.”
Wrexford’s gaze was suddenly unnerving. As if he were able to see through her skin.
She set her pad aside, the drawing done. “Where is the sketch you wanted to show me?”
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and wordlessly passed it over.
“Is that blood?” she asked as she gingerly set it on her desk and smoothed it open.
“I imagine so. And given that it came from Henning’s mortuary notebook, blood is likely the least offensive substance gracing its surface.”
The image quickly dispelled all such distractions. Leaning closer, Charlotte carefully studied the penciled lines and felt her flesh begin to prickle. “Where did this come from?”
“Drummond had drawn it on his palm,” answered Wrexford. “God only knows for what reason.”
God—or the devil, thought Charlotte. “Is it an accurate rendering of the original? I am trying to make out this tangle of squiggles at the bottom. . . .” She looked up in question.
The earl gave an apologetic shrug. “I have no pretensions to being an artist. My rendering is likely crude. But Drummond used a pencil and appeared to have been in a rush.” He rose and joined her at the desk. “What a hodgepodge. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know—”
His voice cut off abruptly as he spotted the open books she had pushed aside. “Hell’s teeth, what are those?” he demanded.
“Books on alchemy,” she replied. “I borrowed them from Mr. Henning.”
Wrexford slowly turned a page, and then another.
“I cannot move within the highest circles of Society in pursuit of clues, so I decided to delve into the one realm that is easily open to me,” Charlotte continued. “Granted, I know nothing of science, but there is a chance that my talents may be of use.” She pointed to the top of the sketch. “Already that part of the drawing looks familiar. From what I’ve read so far, it’s the symbol of divine geometry, which is an elemental image in alchemy.”
Perching a hip on the edge of her desk, the earl continued to page through the book. “And it means what?”
“Ye god, I’m no seer or soothsayer!” She expelled a harried breath. “But even if I were, I sense there is no simple answer to that.”
“Light and darkness . . . resurrection . . . ladder . . . serpent.” He looked up from reading the headings interspersed among the images. “This is not science, it’s fantasy.”
“There are different planes of perception, milord.” Charlotte watched the sway of the lamp’s flame. “How we interpret them may lead to surprising discoveries.”
“I am not sure whether you are a genius or a Bedlamite, Mrs. Sloane,” he muttered.
Charlotte made a face. “Neither am I.”
They sat in silence for a long moment. In the stillness, the sounds drifting in through the window seemed unnaturally loud—a dog howled, a costermonger cried out the price of his cabbages. Ordinary life. Which seemed a world away from the swirl of shadows and secrets that held them in thrall.
“But whether I am mad or not, it can do no harm for me to keep studying these books. Perhaps I’ll stumble on something that will help answer some of our questions.”
“Hope springs eternal,” said Wrexford sarcastically. “Unlike us mortal creatures, no matter how much we might rail against a finite existence.”
“Oh, ye of little faith,” murmured Charlotte.
That drew a grudging smile. “True. As I said, I prefer to base my beliefs on empirical knowledge.”
“Then leave the more nebulous artistic and spiritual matters to me. If it’s merely a wild goose chase, you’ve lost nothing in the bargain.”
“I am happy—nay, grateful—to do
so, Mrs. Sloane. Though I’m not very sanguine about your chances.” He stood, and she was once again reminded of what a large and imposing figure he cut.
Shifting out of his shadow, she looked up and asked abruptly, “Is there a reason you told the boys you had a brother—and that he’s dead?”
“Should I not have done so?” His expression was back to its usual granite-like hardness. “They seem to have a healthy awareness of life’s realities. Death is a part of that.”
“Yes, I am aware of that, but for heaven’s sake, sir, they are brothers. And Hawk was . . .” She bit her lip, realizing how foolish she must sound. “Oh, why bother trying to explain. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Quite right. The Devil Incarnate has no use for children—save to eat them for breakfast.”
Beneath the sarcasm, there was a hint of some other emotion. Uncertain of what it was, she pretended not to notice. “Actually, I imagine you would much prefer a plump beefsteak to skin and bones.”
A smile softened the stone. “Correct. So you see, the fledglings are safe from my jaws.”
Loath to part on that strange note, Charlotte quickly changed the subject.
“Have you any more promising leads to follow?”
“I’ve yet to talk to Canaday about the library mark you found. If we could discover what book Holworthy had with him when he was murdered, that might be helpful,” answered Wrexford. “And my valet is taking a closer look at the charred scraps of paper from Drummond’s laboratory, in case there is some other clue hidden there.”
“And the Runner, sir? Has he not found any new evidence that might lead him to the real killer?”
“Mr. Griffin does not appear to be looking beyond his nose. And said nose is locked firmly on my scent. He came by my town house for yet another interview last night. And though he’s not yet dared to arrest me, I suspect that may change sooner than later.”
“Then we must do his job for him,” said Charlotte, “and identify the guilty party before he can act.”
The earl reached for his hat. “Carpe diem quam minimum credula postero,” he murmured.
Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future. She nodded. “Yes, indeed we must.”
He paused, and fixed her with an odd stare.
Damnation, a foolish slip of the tongue. “That is,” she quickly added, “I’m assuming anything that sounds so impressive must be a call to arms—like all those fancy mottos under the lordly crests in Debrett’s.”
“Yes, well, I find that Latin adds a certain gravitas to any words,” replied Wrexford slowly. “No matter if those around you have no idea what you are actually saying.” With a quick touch to his brim, he turned and was swallowed by the shadows.
“Damnation,” whispered Charlotte as the door fell closed. She must be more careful. Paper crackled as she shifted the sketch to make room for the alchemy books.
The chase was on. Though just who was stalking whom was far from clear.
* * *
Lost in strange thoughts—he couldn’t shake the images of mythological beasts dancing over shields emblazoned with Latin aphorisms—Wrexford entered his town house and passed by his butler without hearing a word the fellow said.
To his consternation, when he turned down the corridor to his workroom, he found Tyler blocking the way. “I think you had better go to the Blue Salon first, milord. Griffin is back, and is in a roaring fit of pique.”
In no mood for another pointless confrontation with the Runner, he grimaced and snapped, “Have one of the footmen throw him out. Preferably so he lands on his arse.”
“I don’t think that would be wise. He’s learned that we entered Drummond’s laboratory after we had been ordered to leave.”
“How—” began the earl.
“Read this,” said Tyler, thrusting a letter at him.
Wrexford took it and immediately noted that the wax seal had been cracked.
“It arrived just before Griffin, and as the messenger said it was urgent, I took the liberty of opening it,” explained his valet quickly. “Lowell sent a warning that the Runner would be coming, along with his apologies for having to admit our transgression to the authorities. He had no choice—two of the workmen saw us enter and revealed it when Griffin questioned them about the morning’s activities.”
“So, the fellow is more competent than I thought,” he observed.
“So it would seem,” replied Tyler. “As Lowell points out, had he tried to lie it would have painted us in an even blacker light.” A pause. “And what he didn’t add was that it would have put him in danger of losing his position at the Institution.”
The earl skimmed the contents for himself and uttered an oath. “Bad luck we were spotted,” he muttered. “But you’re right. I don’t expect the fellow to put his neck in the noose for me.”
“Now it remains to be seen whether we can extract yours from a precarious position,” said his valet dryly.
He thought for a moment. “Griffin didn’t enter the workroom, did he?”
Tyler made a pained face. “Do you think me an utter lack-wit?” Lowering his voice, he added, “Speaking of the workroom, I was able to salvage several more scraps. I have the microscope all prepared. There’s something you should see.”
“I’ll be there shortly.”
His valet headed off to the rear of the house, leaving Wrexford to retrace his steps and enter the salon.
“This is getting rather tiresome, Griffin,” he announced, letting the double doors slam shut behind him. “Have you any new evidence?”
“I might have found just what I needed to confirm the identity of the murderer had you and your lackey not stolen it away from under my nose,” countered the Runner.
“A serious charge,” said the earl softly. “I assume you have proof of that.”
Griffin’s face darkened in anger. “I may not need it. There is more than one way to skin a cat—and you are fast using up your nine lives.”
“Did you come simply to spout aphorisms, or is there a reason for your visit.”
“Given Mr. Lowell’s admission, I’ve a few more questions about your activities on the morning of Mr. Drummond’s murder.” Griffin made a show of pulling out his notebook and touching the tip of his pencil to his tongue. “Now, sir, let’s begin with what time you left your residence. . . .”
Wrexford held his ire in check as the Runner repeated the same set of questions he had asked during his previous interrogation.
“As you see,” he said, after the brusque exchange was finished, “I have not changed my story. Nor will I, so you may spare us both another visit here.”
The notebook snapped shut. “Privilege protects you now, but it can stretch only so far, Lord Wrexford. The next time I appear here, it will be to arrest you for the cutthroat killer you are.”
The earl flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. “As you are familiar with my residence, I assume you can see your own way out.”
As the Runner stalked off, Wrexford moved to the sideboard and poured himself a measure of brandy. But the fiery liquid felt like acid, leaving a raw trickle of unease burned at the back of his throat. Candlelight darted through the cut-crystal facets of his glass, casting shuddering fragments of amber over the pristine white plaster of the far wall.
Hubris was, he conceded, an elemental flaw of his character. Dangerous to others as well as himself.
A painfully obvious truth, and yet by its very nature, it refused to let him learn from past mistakes.
He stood very still, gripping the glass so tightly that its intricate etching nearly drew blood. His gaze was drawn unwillingly to a gilt-framed painting hung in the shadows of a recessed alcove. Death seemed to take a perverse pleasure in haunting him. This time, however, it was time to break the pattern. It was time to slay its ghost.
Setting down the drink, Wrexford quietly let himself out of the salon and went to join his valet.
Intent on the charred paper beneath the lens, T
yler did not look up from the microscope when he entered the room. “Griffin did not clap you in irons?”
“Not yet. But his fingers are twitching.” He approached the worktable and angled a look at the scrap pressed between the two thin sheets of glass. “What have you discovered?”
“Stuck between the heavier notepaper was a sheet of stationery. It looks like Drummond was writing a letter to the governing board of the Institution warning them that something. . .” Tyler slid out of his chair. “Here, look for yourself.”
Wrexford took charge of the microscope and turned the brass dial to adjust the focus. The fire had darkened what was left of the paper, and heat had altered the ink, making it hard to read. Drummond’s spidery script added to the challenge. Squinting, he shifted the polished metal reflectors ever so slightly to catch the lamplight.
The scrap brightened, accentuating the charred holes that had eaten away most of the message. As the earl slowly moved the glass plates in order to view the entire contents, he saw there were only a few fragments of disconnected writing:
Golden One must be stopped . . . I appeal to the board of governors . . . discover his identity and stop his . . . dangerous discovery . . . threatens
“What do you make of it?” asked Tyler when finally he looked up from the eyepiece.
“It appears Drummond was writing a letter to Davy and the board of the Institution accusing someone of creating something dangerous.”
“So it would seem,” agreed the valet.
“Let us think,” mused Wrexford. “Combined with the other fragment we found, what more can we piece together?”
Tyler pursed his lips. “Given the reference to the philosopher’s stone and the word discovery, I’d say it’s reasonable to assume Drummond was talking about some sort of chemical compound.”
“Agreed.” The earl propped his elbows on the worktable and steepled his fingers. “Furthermore, based on the first scrap, you pointed out that ‘Golden One’ could be an alchemy term for a chemical substance. But based on this new evidence, I think it’s clear Drummond is referring to a person.”
Murder on Black Swan Lane Page 18
