Murder on Black Swan Lane

by Andrea Penrose

  He took out his handkerchief and swathed the delicate vial in a roll of silk before tucking it inside his shirt.

  Keeping rein on his impatience, the earl took the time to replace the specimen board and recheck that no sign of his search was evident. His gut feeling was that Lowell wouldn’t be returning here—whatever malevolent plan he was brewing, it was likely nearing completion.

  Which meant that time in which to stop him was ticking away....

  Wrexford blew out the candle and hurried to the door.

  CHAPTER 20

  Finding a small foothold in the brick, Charlotte scrambled to the top of the garden wall and dropped down on a patch of soft grass bordering a graveled path. A breeze ruffled through the well-tended ornamental plantings, stirring a swirl of mist fragrant with roses and the piney tang of yew.

  The scent of money, she thought, taking an extra moment to fill her lungs with its sweet, clean perfume. Outside of bastions of privilege like Berkeley Square, the London air was always edged with far less salubrious smells. But the rich, they lived in their own world, swathed in luxury.

  And their own insular arrogance. Which was, Charlotte reminded herself, why she was here.

  Rising, she dusted the dirt from the knees of her breeches and followed the path to the stone terrace at the rear of the mansion. Even though it was illuminated in nothing but the muted moonlight, its classical lines and elegant simplicity were striking. Pale Portland stone cornices and moldings faced the deeper-hued blocks of limestone, giving the tall building an airy, graceful feel despite its solid bulk and steeply pitched slate roof.

  A light shone through the dark draperies of the high mullioned double windows at the left corner. One of them was cracked open to the night air. She hesitated, but with her blood up, anger won out over prudence.

  A man raised his head from the eyepiece of a large brass apparatus as her boots tapped down upon the polished wood floor. “And who,” he asked calmly, “might you be?”

  “Where’s Wrexford?” she demanded. Was he a servant? His clothing said no. He was dressed casually, with his coat off and linen sleeves rolled up. A distinct brownish stain occupied the spot on his shirt where a cravat should have been.

  “Out,” he replied. His face was too thin and bony to be considered handsome, but there was something arresting about the sharpness of his hazel eyes.

  “So I suspected.” Charlotte moved to the large pear wood desk and took a seat in the very comfortable-looking chair. “I’ll wait.”

  He seemed amused by the statement. “Would you care for some warm milk and biscuits while you do so? I imagine it’s way past your bedtime, lad.”

  She was quite sure his basilisk stare had not failed to discern her sex. Had he learned from the earl that sardonic humor tended to intimidate people? Well, he was wasting his breath. In her current state of mind, nothing short of bodily force was going to remove her from the premises.

  There were a number of open books piled atop each other on the desktop. Others, she noted, were spread out over the work counters. Ignoring his question, Charlotte picked up one of them and began to read.

  That wiped the insouciant smile off his lips. “Put that down,” he said rather sharply. “It’s a rare edition and very difficult to come by.”

  A Scottish accent. Which explained his pale complexion and ginger-colored hair.

  Without looking up, she turned to the next page.

  A curse—at least, she suspected it was one. Everything said in Gaelic sounded a little rough around the edges. He rose abruptly. “I really must insist.”

  “Very well,” answered Charlotte calmly. “You may bring me the biscuits. But I would prefer brandy over the warm milk.”

  His jaw tightened. He was, she observed, no doubt trying to decide whether gentlemanly scruples allowed him to toss her out on her ear. Or perhaps his uncertainty centered around the small pistol she had seen him ease out of the workbench drawer the moment she had dropped into the room.

  Whatever the moral dilemma, it was interrupted by Wrexford’s hurried entrance.

  He appeared agitated. “Tyler—”

  Be damned if the book was rare. Before he could say more, Charlotte smacked it down on the desk with a ferocious thump and shot to her feet. “You, sir, are an unmitigated arse.”

  The earl stopped short.

  “How dare you!” she continued. “I swear, if I had a piece of rope right now, I’d hang you myself.”

  He had the grace to look a little abashed. “They were in no danger.”

  On hearing his curt reply, all her pent-up fears came bubbling up. “Has God suddenly given you the powers of Almighty omniscience to go along with your lordly arrogance? Or is it simply what the devil does it matter if two homeless brats get shipped off to the penal colonies half a world away! There are hundreds—nay thousands—of such worthless weasels roaming the streets of London.” To her dismay, Charlotte felt tears well up, but quickly blinked them back. “Of course they wouldn’t be missed.”

  His face expressionless, Wrexford fixed his stare not on her but rather on some spot on the far wall.

  Detachment, she thought bitterly, was a great gift to have when faced with inconvenient truths.

  Tyler didn’t move. The only sound was the sinuous whisper of the heavy silk draperies as they stirred in a gust of air.

  “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You are right. It was wrong of me to involve the boys without first discussing it with you.”

  She blinked again.

  “But rest assured, I would never have allowed them to come to any grief.”

  The unexpected apology drained away the rush of righteous anger, leaving her feeling naught but hurt and exhausted. Charlotte sat down again and folded her hands in her lap. There was an ink smudge on her calloused thumb, an all too visceral reminder that in both action and thought, her behavior was beyond the pale of Polite Society decorum.

  A black mark. She contemplated the thought, then decided to see it instead as a badge of honor. A pattern card of propriety had no more substance than the pasteboard on which it was printed.

  Let the beau monde consider her disgraceful for having passions.

  As to what the earl was thinking of her . . .

  It didn’t matter.

  Charlotte made herself look up and pretend to possess more strength than she felt. “I hope that the risk proved worth it.” Strangely enough, her voice sounded strong and steady.

  “It did,” answered the earl with equal calmness. “Indeed, we may soon know the truth about at least part of the mystery.”

  Without further ado, he gestured at the ginger-haired man. “Tyler!” Turning to her, he added, “By the by, this is Tyler. A mediocre valet but an excellent laboratory assistant.”

  Tyler inclined a courteous nod.

  “Allow me to introduce . . .” Wrexford hesitated.

  “A. J. Quill,” said Charlotte. Seeing as the valet was privy to the other secrets, it seemed silly to keep this one.

  If Tyler was surprised by the announcement, he hid it well. “What a pleasure to meet you,” he murmured. “I am a great fan of your work.”

  “Never mind that.” The earl had already moved to the central worktable, and with great care he took a wad of silk from inside his coat and placed it down as if he were handling the most fragile of eggs. “I need two of our thinnest glass squares, and be quick about it.”

  Tyler hurriedly prepared the items and carried them over. “Milord, I have been reading about Howard and his experiments while you were out—”

  “Hand me a scalpel,” said Wrexford, as he unwrapped a tiny glass vial and examined its top. “A sharp one.”

  The surgical tool was promptly handed over. “The top has been double sealed with wax. Which likely means—”

  The blade slipped as a chunk of the wax suddenly broke off, causing the earl to momentarily juggle the vial, spilling some of the contents.

  Moving with lightning quickness, Tyler grabbed
the earl, and in the same violent movement hustled him away as the grains fell to the floor.

  Charlotte cringed, expecting the worst.

  Nothing happened.

  “What the devil!” exclaimed Wrexford

  “My apologies, sir. After what I had read, I expected the substance to be extremely volatile. And extremely unstable.” Tyler stared balefully at the sample. “Apparently I was wrong.”

  “Unstable in what way?” asked Wrexford, looking curiously at the spill.

  “It should have exploded at the slightest impact.” The valet looked a little disappointed. “Land’s research was on—”

  Before Tyler could finish, the earl dropped a polished marble paperweight atop the grains—and was nearly knocked on his arse by the force of the thunderous bang.

  “Hmm. That’s very odd,” said Tyler, squinting at the charred oak flooring as the shower of sparks and smoke subsided.

  “Milord! Your trousers are on fire!” cried Charlotte.

  Tyler quickly smothered the flames with a rag.

  “Have you suffered an injury, sir?” she asked.

  “Only to my vanity. I take pride in always being faultlessly attired.”

  Sarcasm—blatant sarcasm. Lately his attitude had softened, so this sharpness clearly showed he was as unhappy with her as she was with him.

  Wrexford looked down at the badly singed wool and then at the vial, which was still clasped between his fingers. “Odd, indeed,” he mused, his full attention shifting back to the chemicals. “That had far more force than ordinary gunpowder.”

  “Quite a bit more,” agreed Tyler.

  “We had better take a closer look at Lowell’s hellfire invention. I wonder . . .”

  “Allow me, sir, just in case.” The valet held up a small pair of tongs padded in chamois. Taking hold of the glass, he carefully tipped out a small measure of the powder onto one of the pieces of glass, and ever so carefully covered it with the other, then stoppered the vial with a tiny piece of cork. “The microscope is ready to be calibrated, milord,” he said as he placed the remaining sample upright in a metal tube rack and then handed the slides to the earl.

  “How does looking at the powder tell you anything meaningful?” Charlotte couldn’t hold back her curiosity. Even magnified, the grains would be . . . simply grains, and the substance looked to be colorless.

  It was Tyler who answered. “Lord Wrexford is one of the most expert chemists in London. His skills lie in analyzing the structural nuances of different compounds. In fact, he’s identified a number of new elements. For example, he isolated sodium from molten sodium hydroxide—though he’s allowed Davy and Faraday to take the public professional credit.” He paused. “I suppose he worries that were it widely known that he possesses a serious scientific mind, it might ruin his reputation.”

  Charlotte hadn’t realized the full measure of his expertise. She had been under the impression that it was merely an odd hobby.

  “Hell’s teeth, do be quiet! Your chin wagging is an infernal distraction.” Wrexford slid the sample beneath a complicated array of brass tubes.

  Charlotte guessed they contained some sort of high-powered lens. Fascinated, she edged her chair closer to watch the procedure.

  “That’s close enough, Mrs. Sloane,” counseled the earl without looking up. “Just in case there’s an accident, the flying shards of glass and metal could be dangerous.”

  “It appears to require a strong percussive force to set it off. And yet . . .” Tyler made a series of adjustments to the tiny mirrors that amplified the light. “And yet, it seems to have the same properties of Land’s discovery . . .” His voice trailed off again.

  Wrexford took charge of the controls and leaned into the eyepiece. “Which was?”

  His valet drew a deep breath. “Mercury fulminate.”

  * * *

  A spin of the gears brought the chemical sample into focus. Wrexford was momentarily mesmerized by the sight. Under the high-powered magnification, its crystal structure had a striking abstract beauty. That such tiny elemental particles could combine in so many infinitely complex ways was still a source of never-ending fascination to him. Science was full of wonders.

  And terrors, if Drummond was to be believed.

  “Explain to me why you thought that,” he said, bringing his thoughts back to the problem at hand. His valet was a meticulous researcher and rarely jumped to wrong conclusions.

  “Based on Drummond’s accusation and the recent thefts of mercury, it’s a logical deduction. Land discovered the compound twelve years ago, and wrote extensively about its properties.” Tyler picked up one of the open books that were stacked along the work counter. “He presented a paper to the Royal Society called ‘On a New Fulminating Mercury,’ which was subsequently published in the Society’s journal.”

  “Philosophical Transactions is a very well-known scientific publication,” interjected Wrexford for Charlotte’s benefit.

  “At the time, there was great debate on how such a powerful substance might be used in practical applications,” explained Tyler. “The thing is, if it’s mercury fulminate, interest in it quickly died out because of its extremely unstable volatility.”

  His interest in chemistry was in other areas, however. Wrexford vaguely recalled reading about it. “One possible use was in mine excavation, wasn’t it?”

  “Correct.” Tyler’s expression tightened. “But what sparked an even greater interest was whether it could be used to revolutionize the way weapons fire bullets.”

  Charlotte’s brows pinched together in puzzlement. “How could that be possible?”

  “As we just saw, it’s a more powerful explosive than gunpowder. A number of inventors discussed the possibility of making a chemical primer encased in a copper cap to replace the traditional firing mechanisms,” replied Tyler. “The caplock system would make a weapon quicker to load, and be far more effective than gunpowder in damp weather.”

  He reached for one of the other books stacked on the counter. “In fact, a Scottish clergyman by the name of Alexander Forsyth invented just such a cap in 1807. But it was deemed impractical because mercury fulminate was considered too unstable—and too dangerous.”

  She still looked mystified.

  Tyler’s explanation sparked something in Wrexford’s memory. He took up a pencil and piece of paper from the worktable and drew a quick sketch. “Yes, yes—now I recall the concept. Pistols and muskets could easily be redesigned, eliminating the flint, frizzen, and flashpan. Boring out the flash hole would allow the insertion of a small cylinder with a tiny nipple at one end. A cap would be inserted into the cylinder, like so.”

  He added a few details to the diagram. “Pulling the trigger would release the hammer, which would strike the cap holding the mercury fulminate. The nipple would pierce the cap, igniting the chemical—and bang, the bullet and powder charge in the barrel would fire.”

  “It would no longer be necessary to use fiddle with a powder horn to load the flashpan,” added Tyler. “One would simply insert a cap, saving precious seconds during the heat of battle.”

  “Mother of God,” she whispered as the import of the invention dawned on her. “Anyone who possessed such a weapon would have an unbeatable military advantage against any adversary, wouldn’t they?”

  “Precisely,” said Wrexford grimly.

  “Yes, but as I said, tests showed mercury fulminate was too unstable to be reliable. It tended to explode unexpectedly, so any plans for practical use died,” pointed out the valet.

  “That was back at the dawn of the century,” murmured Wrexford. “Since then, we’ve made great strides in science. There are new discoveries being made all the time.”

  He drummed his fingertips together and shot a sidelong look at the glass vial. But as he studied the crystals, something didn’t look quite right. “Have you a list of all the elements that make up mercury fulminate?”

  “Yes,” answered Tyler.

  “Read them to me.”


  “Mercury, acqua fortis . . .”

  The earl made a few adjustments to the lenses as Tyler rattled off more chemicals, enlarging the specimen’s magnification. “No sulfur?”

  “Not according to Land’s recipe.”

  Wrexford was positive that this compound contained the mineral. But several of the other ingredients were puzzling. “Come have a look,” he said to Tyler. “Any idea what the diamond-clear granules might be? Or that pulverized greenish powder.”

  The valet took his time in studying the material. “I haven’t a clue,” he admitted.

  Several ideas came to mind. Highly unusual ones. But science was all about tossing aside preconceived notions. “Prepare some acids for testing.” Wrexford picked up the glass vial and grimaced. There was precious little with which to work. They would have to be precise.

  And lucky.

  “I’m convinced your surmise is right and that the basic compound is mercury fulminate. But it’s been altered.”

  “Y-You think . . .” Charlotte didn’t finish her question. She didn’t have to.

  “Do I think that Lowell has discovered the secret to making the explosive more stable?” he said. “Yes, I think that’s a reasonable conjecture, based on what we just witnessed. But conjectures are worthless. We need to prove it, and that will take time.”

  “Something of which we have little to spare,” mused Charlotte. “If that sample proves he’s succeeded in making a new explosive, he must be ready to put whatever plans he has for it in motion.”

  Wrexford was thinking much the same thing.

  “I’m so sorry.” Contrition shaded Charlotte’s voice. “My satirical print likely made him bolt, just when you might have caught him at work on his devil’s brew.”

  “I think not, Mrs. Sloane,” answered the earl. “Lowell was too cunning for that. My search showed that he didn’t use his laboratory at the Institution for brewing up his experiments. It’s too small a space, and chemical smells would have attracted unwanted attention from the other members. Based on Drummond’s claims of people prowling through the corridors, my guess is he used the room for collecting chemicals and research materials, like old books and manuscripts on chemistry, that he stole from other laboratories. As to the real work, I would guess he has another laboratory somewhere in the city.”