Henning let the hand flop back onto the slab. “It may be a pebble, not a pearl, but considering that our recently departed friend here was a chemist, it could be that scribble is from one of the early books of secrets.”
“That’s the first useful thing you’ve said,” muttered Wrexford as he folded the sketch and tucked it into his pocket. A medieval manuscript on chemical compounds and medicinal formulas was often referred to as a “book of secrets” because of the arcane language used to describe the experiments. Out of curiosity, he had looked at a few of them during his time at Oxford. But he had dismissed them as incomprehensible fiddle-faddle. His own interests lay in more practical work based on modern methods.
However, he had a sinking suspicion that was going to change.
For what the term book of secrets really referred to was the art of alchemy.
“That very thought had occurred to me,” continued the earl. “I don’t suppose you know anything on the subject.”
Henning pursed his lips. “Not really. Much of it is based on wild superstitions rather than empirical knowledge, and teeters on the edge of witchcraft. But from what I understand, there is also much sound science in the early experiments.”
Wrexford nodded. “So I have been told.” He thought for a moment. “I wonder why he would make the mark on his palm? He was in his laboratory, with plenty of paper at hand.”
“The body stinks of smoke and there was soot on his clothing,” said Henning. “And the driver of the mortuary wagon said the laboratory was a half-burned shambles. Given that he was murdered, he might have sensed that he was in trouble, and feared that whatever the symbol means it was too dangerous to put down on paper.”
“That makes sense.” The earl blew out a harried sigh. “And yet it doesn’t. By all accounts, Drummond was a mediocre chemist. He spent most of his time at the Royal Institution. . . .”
Skulking around and spying on his fellow chemists.
Henning was watching him closely and slowly curled a smile. “Knowledge can be a dangerous thing, eh?”
“So it seems.” Wrexford rose, feeling perplexed. “My thanks for your help.”
“I have a feeling you may soon reconsider that,” said the surgeon dryly. “Watch your step, laddie. I’d like for the next autopsy I do not to be on your carcass.”
* * *
Tyler turned up the wick of the tall Argand lamp, brightening the illumination falling on the workbench holding the microscope. “I’ve pressed the fragments between glass, milord, and made sure the lenses are in proper alignment. The first one is ready for your inspection.”
Wrexford shrugged out of his coat and dropped it on the chair by the door. “A pox on secrets and shadows,” he growled. “Science is supposed to be about reason and logic.”
“I take it your day has not brought you any closer to solving either murder.”
The earl shook his head in disgust. “The path is only taking more twists and turns. Indeed, the mystery has deepened—it feels as if I’ve tumbled into a black hole.” A netherworld of suspicions, lies, and innuendos, slithering through a noxious mist.
“You are not usually so fanciful,” murmured his valet.
“I am usually not so frustrated.” Wrexford took a seat at the workbench and began fiddling with a few of the brass dials on the microscope. “What do you know about alchemy?” he asked abruptly.
“I’m no expert on the subject, but I did a fair amount of study on it while a student at St. Andrews,” answered Tyler.
“And here I’ve always credited your university with being a leader in modern scientific thought.”
“Many of the early practitioners were quacks and charlatans. But many were serious students of proper scientific method,” replied his valet. “Much of Sir Isaac Newton’s work involved explorations into alchemy.”
“I would have thought he had more sense,” muttered Wrexford.
“Don’t rush to judgment, milord. Some of their ideas might surprise you,” counseled his valet.
“I am heartily sick of surprises.” The earl leaned up against the eyepiece and brought the charred paper fragment into focus. He studied the words for a few moments, though the razor-sharp magnification of the precision lenses did nothing to make their meaning clearer.
“Any ideas?” he asked tersely. “I’m assuming you took a careful look at it before I arrived.”
“Yes and yes,” replied Tyler. “As for ideas, I do have a few to begin with. Alchemists tended to be a secretive lot. Their writings were often encoded with all sorts of obscure references, often mythological, to make them incomprehensible to a layman. For example, Golden One could refer to the mineral sulfur, or some arcane chemical compound.” He made a wry face. “I’ve seen recipes that call for one part fiery dragon, four parts dove of Diana, and seven eagles of Mercury. It may sound absurd to us, but other alchemists would understand the hidden meaning.”
“So you think it may refer to a chemical and not an actual person.”
“Possibly.”
Wrexford let out a frustrated oath.
“But as for the second term on the fragment, I can be more specific, milord. In writings on alchemy, it’s a common abbreviation for the philosopher’s stone.”
Wrexford vaguely recalled the term, but had long since forgotten its meaning. “Which is?”
“The holy grail of alchemy—by the by, alchemy was known as chymistry until the late sixteen hundreds, when Newton and his contemporaries began to call their scientific work chemistry, to differentiate it from the undisciplined efforts of the past.”
“A fascinating history lesson,” muttered the earl, “but might we return to the philosopher’s stone?”
“Very well.” Tyler sounded a little disappointed at having his explanations nipped in the bud. “It’s said to be a substance with unique powers to change one element into another. Add a drop of the philosopher’s stone to a common metal like lead, and it will be transmuted into gold,” he explained. “Naturally, the idea that such a powerful concoction could be formulated inspired an obsession among many to make the ultimate discovery.”
“Which would give the fortunate fellow unimagined riches as well as unimagined power.” Wrexford huffed a snort. “Little has changed since Adam gobbled down the Apple—men simply cannot resist the Serpent of Temptation, with its seductive promises of God-like powers.”
“True,” agreed Tyler. “Indeed, there were those who believe that the philosopher’s stone would not only turn lead into gold, but would also transmute the soul to eternal life.”
“Eternal life? Ha, if you ask me, that could be more of a hell than a heaven.”
“With all due respect, milord, you do tend to have an eccentric view of the world.”
“I prefer to call it realistic.” Wrexford turned his attention back to the fragment. “So, let us apply reason and logic to assess what we have here. Drummond believes something—or someone—is the Devil and is going to destroy . . . we don’t know what.”
“Presumably something of a grand nature—like Society, England, or the world,” suggested his valet.
“A reasonable assumption,” said the earl. “And presumably the philosopher’s stone is dangerous because it’s the instrument of this destruction.”
“My thinking exactly, milord.”
“So, we have Drummond’s message.” The earl rose and fetched the sketch he had made at Henning’s surgery. “And we have this.” He passed it over before resuming his seat. “Drummond had this symbol penciled on the palm of his hand. Do you have any idea what it means?”
Tyler took his time in studying the paper. “No, I don’t recognize it. But it looks very much like the type of pictograms used in alchemy.”
“Which simply leaves us spinning in circles trying to connect them.” Sarcasm shaded his voice. “We have deciphered Drummond’s dire warning. We see a clear link with ancient alchemy.” Wrexford gave another quick glance at the fragment, and then looked up. “And it all add
s up to damnably nothing.”
“Not yet.”
Tyler, ever unflappable, was a cursed nuisance at times. “Kindly refrain from being so reasonable,” he growled. “I would prefer to work myself into a truly foul temper and smash a few beakers against the wall.”
“I am aware of that, milord. But we are running short of specialty glassware, and the order from Lutz and Münch in Zurich won’t arrive for another fortnight.”
Wrexford felt his scowl twitch upward. “Oh, very well. I shall put aside thoughts of smashing glass, no matter how soothing the sounds would be, and concentrate on a more practical expenditure of energy.” He leaned back from the microscope, his fit of temper giving way to the challenge of solving the conundrum. “Let’s examine the other scraps, in case there is any other information to be gleaned. But I have been thinking, and trying to apply logic to the facts we have in hand. . . .”
Tyler perched a hip on the edge of the workbench. “Go on.”
“We know Drummond was a sneak, and spied on his fellow chemists. My guess is he either overheard something, or stole some papers from a colleague’s laboratory that put him in grave danger. And he didn’t realize just how lethal the threat was until it was too late.”
“So you believe he was in his laboratory the morning of his death trying to remove the incriminating evidence?” asked his valet.
“It seems a reasonable assumption,” he answered. “Once I discovered the unlocked chemical cabinet, and Drummond understood that his laboratory had been broken into, he might have been spooked and realized keeping the papers there could be dangerous. He intended to hide them somewhere, however, the villain beat him to it.”
“And so the villain kills Drummond, and as it’s too dangerous to spend time searching for the evidence, he simply decides to reduce the laboratory to ashes,” mused Tyler. “I see no flaw in your thinking.”
The earl rose and began to pace around the room. “Then it stands to reason that the villain is a fellow member of the Royal Institution. I must learn more about the chemists working there, and what experiments are going on.”
“Modern men of science tend to be just as secretive as the ancient alchemists. They may not literally be trying to make gold, but certain chemical innovations would be worth a great deal of money,” pointed out his valet. “They won’t respond well to direct questioning.”
Tyler was right, mused Wrexford. A host of new technologies—steam-powered engines, cloth manufacturing, the mass production of common implements like nails and cutlery—were revolutionizing everyday life, and all branches of science were fueling the changes.
“Then I must be discreet in how I gather information.”
Tyler strangled a laugh with a brusque cough. “Discreet. An excellent strategy, milord.”
The earl conceded the humor of his statement. But Tyler was not aware that he had a powerful ally in the fine art of uncovering secrets.
He halted by the hearth, the smile fading from his lips as he stared at the banked coals. Though in all honesty he was still conflicted about allowing Charlotte to put herself in mortal peril. The murderer had proved ruthless.
And remorseless. He would give no quarter.
“There are also The Ancients to consider,” he murmured. “I mean to learn more about their private little circle.”
“How?” inquired his valet.
“By exerting a bit more pressure on Lord Canaday. I sense he’s hiding something that he doesn’t wish to come to light. I—”
“Hidden scandals?” Sheffield threw open the closed door without knocking and strolled into the workroom. “Excellent. The day has been deucedly boring. I knew I could count on some excitement stirring here.”
Wrexford regarded his friend for a long moment. “You are acquainted with Lord Stoughton, are you not?”
“Yes.” Sheffield adjusted his cuff. “A nasty little prick, if you ask me. More than a few people at the Wolf’s Lair suspect he cheats at cards, though no one has yet caught how he does it.”
“Honor among thieves? How quaint,” quipped Wrexford. And yet the truth was, there was no greater insult to a gentleman’s reputation—innuendos that he had strangled his grandmother would be far less damaging.
“Ha, ha, ha,” chuffed his friend. “Unfortunately, you have the right of it. Lady Luck has shamelessly picked my pocket of late.”
“You make it excruciatingly easy for her. If you would bother to apply mathematics to the game of vingt-et-un, the results would be different. Pascal’s essay on chance proves—”
Sheffield silenced him with an offhand wave. “I’m not nearly so erudite as you are, Wrex.”
“And not nearly so frivolous as you would have everyone think.” He placed a chunk of coal on the embers and paused to watch a flame lick to life. “I wonder why that is?”
His friend’s jaw tightened, and though his smile remained in place, it did not come close to reaching his eyes. The placid blue momentarily froze to a silvery shade of ice. “Do you really wish to engage in a discussion of our respective behaviors—both in private and in public?”
There were far more pressing battles to fight, and this one could be bloody. His advice to Sheffield on changing reckless behavior—admittedly rather like the pot calling the kettle black—might be well meaning, but his friend was clearly in no mood for their usual verbal thrusts and parries.
“I see I am hoist on my own petard.” Shifting from the center of the fire, Wrexford leaned an arm on the marble mantel. “Let us put our blades away and cry pax.”
Sheffield walked over to the set of decanters by the window and poured himself a brandy. “Pax.”
The earl waited for him to take several swallows before asking, “If you’re willing, I could use your help.”
“It’s hard to say no when you serve such a fine vintage.”
“Find out as much as you can about Stoughton. I have reason to suspect he’s involved in some very dirty dealings.”
“Including murder?” asked Sheffield quietly.
The earl considered the question carefully before answering. “I’m not sure. But be discreet, Kit.”
“Moi?” Sheffield contrived to look injured. “I am the very soul of discretion.”
Tyler lifted his gaze to the ceiling, making his expression impossible to read.
“When I so choose,” added his friend.
“I’m deadly serious. Confine your risk taking to the gaming tables. Our unknown adversary is dangerous.” The earl suddenly realized that Sheffield had likely not heard of Drummond’s demise. “There was another murder this morning, and likely connected to Holworthy, though I cannot yet connect how or why. But I intend to do so.”
Tyler cleared his throat. “As to that, milord, I have just recalled that there is an important lecture taking place at the Royal Institution tomorrow. Davy is delivering further thoughts on his Bakerian Lecture, which drew such accolades. All of the members will likely be in attendance, along with most of the beau monde.”
“A good place to begin,” mused the earl
“I’ll come along,” volunteered his friend. “Two pairs of eyes and ears may prove useful. I will, of course, need to know what we are looking for.”
Wrexford hesitated. “I—”
His reply was cut off by a soft knock on the door. “Forgive the interruption, milord,” intoned his butler, the dark oak making the man’s murmur even more muted. “But the man from Bow Street is here. And he is demanding to speak with you.”
Wrexford went to the decanter and filled a glass with a dark amber malt from Scotland. “Sláinte,” he muttered to his friend, raising a sarcastic toast. “To yet more chaos and confusion raising hell with my peaceful existence.”
“He is being very insistent, milord,” pressed the butler.
“Lucky you,” murmured Sheffield.
“Show him to the Blue Salon.” The earl tossed back a swallow. “I shall be there in a moment.”
* * *
Charlot
te put away the bread remaining from breakfast and poured herself a cup of tea. The boys had scampered off after the simple meal, leaving the house quiet. A fresh sheet of drawing paper lay ready on her desk, ready for the idea that had come to mind in the midnight hours. And yet, after the first few desultory lines had been sketched in, she set down her pencil, too distracted to focus on the task at hand.
Anthony. Alchemy.
When she had laid her husband’s body in the grave, she had tried to bury the memories of that terrible ordeal—and her terrifying suspicions—along with him, God rest his soul.
But recent events had brought them back to life. Ghostly whispers begging for justice to be done. A part of her was afraid to listen. She had managed to scrape out a niche for herself here in London, one that kept food on the table and a roof over her head. Dare she risk destroying all she had worked for by challenging gentlemen of power and influence? Gentlemen who could, with the flick of a finger, quash her like a bug.
“And yet, dare I risk living with my conscience if I choose prudence over principle?” whispered Charlotte. Wrexford had counseled caution, and she knew he was right.
But her head had rarely listened to her heart. Passions had always been the ruling force of her life, that fierce force of emotion that bubbled like liquid fire through her blood, that burned through reason and restraint like a flame through dry tinder.
Ironic, really, that she understood all too well the power of alchemy. Mix together the right combination of volatile elements and its sorcery cast a potent spell.
Huffing a sigh of surrender—a tiger was a tiger and could not change its stripes—Charlotte pushed aside her paper and rose to fetch her cloak.
Despite the spitting rain and swirling fog of the storm-tossed morning, the twenty-minute walk through the puddled streets did nothing to dampen her ardor. Casting caution to the wind was no more a choice than breathing. Arriving at a shabby brick building backing onto a back alleyway, she entered through the unlocked door and hurried down the ill-lit corridor to the back office.
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