CHAPTER 10
“A voltaic pile,” repeated Charlotte. It sounded vaguely sinister. She had heard the term, but had no notion of what it was.
“It’s a scientific apparatus that creates an electrical current through chemistry,” explained Wrexford. “It consists of alternating metal discs of copper and zinc, separated by cloth or pasteboard soaked in a weak acid. One can adjust the strength of the current through the number of discs used.”
“What’s it used for?” she asked. Aside from unspeakable acts on the human body.
“It’s proved invaluable in scientific experiments. Humphry Davy, working in his laboratory at the Royal Institution, made a number of important chemical discoveries using one—he isolated sodium, potassium, calcium, boron, and magnesium, just to name a few.”
“Nicholson and Carlisle isolated oxygen and hydrogen at the turn of the century, right after the voltaic pile was invented by Alexander Volta,” added Locke, his eyes coming alight. “A momentous discovery. And who knows what other ones lie ahead in the future?”
It was the first real show of life from him, she noted.
“You have only to look at the phenomenon of lightning to comprehend what awe-inspiring powers are waiting to be unleashed when we learn more about electricity.”
“Lightning may be an impressive display of pyrotechnics,” pointed out the earl. “But it’s also illustrative of power run amok. When uncontrolled, electricity can be a force for terrible destruction.”
Locke winced and held clasped his arms tighter to his chest. “That’s what Mr. DeVere says. One must be careful, rational. Restrained.”
Wrexford nodded. “DeVere worked with Davy on several of his chemical experiments, though his main interest now lies with living organisms. He studies plant reproduction and has a reputation for disciplined thinking, as well as an orderly approach to empirical research.”
High praise, indeed, coming from the earl, thought Charlotte. He considered most of his fellow men of science bloody idiots.
“Which is why,” went on Wrexford, “I would find it hard to believe he had any knowledge of what Chittenden was doing.”
“No, I don’t believe he did.” Locke shifted uncomfortably. “Must we drag Cedric’s name through the mud over this? I’m not saying he was right to be so driven to make a name for himself in the world of science. But surely he deserves some dignity in death. The public will seize on the tawdry details to turn him into a gruesome joke—urged on by that damnable scribbler. A. J. Quill.” There was a tiny catch in his voice as he added, “I will gladly go to the gallows if it means he can rest in peace.”
“Murder strips away all dignity,” said Charlotte softly. “Secrets are bared, truths are twisted. And your sacrifice would only throw oil on the fires of ugly gossip. The best way to honor Cedric is to give him some measure of justice by finding his killer.”
“The answer doesn’t lie in the Eos Society—”
“Cut wind, Locke,” interrupted Wrexford. “You claim to be a man of science, so you know that only a bacon-brained fool assumes to have the answer to an inquiry before it’s made.”
A sudden banging in the corridor set off a chorus of howls and catcalls.
“Tell us who else shared your brother’s fascination with electricity,” pressed the earl.
Locke bit his lip. Charlotte saw the clash of conflicting emotions twist his features and knew all too well what inner demons he was fighting. It wasn’t simply out of loyalty that he was loath to speak, it was out of fear.
Fear of what awful truths he might discover about his brother.
How well do we know our loved ones? Not well enough, reflected Charlotte. Her late husband had . . .
She blinked as a blade of sunlight momentarily cut through the narrow window. Then it was gone and the murky gloom felt even darker. Yes, it was tempting to cower in the shadows. But uncertainty was ultimately more terrible than truth. It slowly ate away at one’s soul.
“Errare humanum est, in errore perservare stultum, Nicky,” she murmured, hoping he remembered their childhood Latin lessons.
His head jerked up.
“It’s human to make a mistake—it’s stupid to persist in it,” he whispered, a question rippling in his eyes.
“You’re trying to protect Cedric—and yourself—from his human flaws and frailty. It can’t be done, and you’ll end up destroying all that you value in yourself if you persist in it.”
Charlotte could feel Wrexford’s lidded gaze fix on her. Strangely enough, it helped steady her own jumpy nerves. It was he who had helped her summon the strength to unravel the tangled lies and deceptions around her husband’s death. The truth had liberated her from the ghosts of the past.
“Listen to her, Locke,” counseled the earl, breaking the tense silence among the three of them.
Locke took his head in his hands. His shoulders were trembling. “Dear God,” he mumbled.
She waited.
“Sir Kelvin Hollister.” The words rasped through his clenched teeth. “And Westmorly. Somehow the three of them were drawn into . . . the devil’s own fire.”
“Go on,” said Wrexford, when nothing more followed.
Palms still pressed to his temples, Locke slowly shook his head from side to side. “I can’t tell you more than that. Truly, I can’t. Cedric wouldn’t confide in me.” He forced himself to look at Charlotte. “You remember, don’t you, Charley, that we studied the Greeks, as well as the Romans? Well, I fear that they dared to open Pandora’s box.”
* * *
“A dramatic young man,” murmured Wrexford, once they were back inside his carriage. “I take it the plays of Sophocles and Aeschylus—thundering with the fire bolts of Fate raining down from Mount Olympus—were also on your curriculum of study.”
“That’s not humorous,” snapped Charlotte.
“It wasn’t meant to be.” He leaned back against the squabs and crossed his legs. “You believe him?”
“Yes,” she answered without hesitation. A wry grimace tugged at her mouth. “When faced with a difficult dilemma, Nicky has always needed to go through several acts of wrestling with his demons. His position is a complicated one—jealousy is, after all, a primal human passion. But his good nature always triumphs.”
“People do change,” he replied. However obvious, he felt compelled to say it.
“I know that.” Over the clatter of the iron-rimmed wheels, he heard her draw in a shaky breath. “And not always for the better. But let’s just say, intuition tells me Nicky is finally telling the truth.” Clack-clack. “As far as he knows it.”
The earl slanted a sidelong look at her face through the flitting shadows. “I daresay we’ll need to dig through a great deal more muck before we uncover the truth.”
“If you’re asking me whether I’m prepared to get my hands dirty, the answer is yes.” Charlotte straightened the placket of her jacket. “The truth, however black, is better than the gilded glitter of self-deception.”
The answer was what he expected. And yet, judging by what he had already seen, the truth was going to drag her emotions through the flames of hell.
“At the risk of having my words crammed back down my throat, allow me to remind you that the human heart isn’t sculpted out of cold steel.” Charlotte’s fierce sense of independence demanded that she never allow herself a whit of weakness.
“I won’t flinch from the answers we find, Wrexford,” she replied. “No matter what they are.”
“Fine. Then we need to move quickly. The government will be anxious to have a trial date set as quickly as possible. An aristocrat accused of murder is an acute embarrassment, especially during this time of social unrest. The sooner a sentence is meted out, the better.”
“No matter whether the accused is guilty.”
“But of course, Mrs. Sloane,” he shot back. “You, of all people, know that pragmatism takes precedence over such sentimental notions as innocence or guilt.”
She looked on the verge of replying, then merely turned to stare out the window. A thick covering of storm clouds had blown in to block the sunlight, dulling the already-drab streets around the prison to a muddle of gloomy grey hues.
“As it happens, I should be able to speak with both Hollister and Westmorly tonight.” Tyler, with his usual show of efficiency, had learned that there was a meeting of the Eos Society scheduled at the Royal Institution, right before a lecture by a noted chemist visiting from Prussia. “They won’t want to miss the talk on hydrogen by von Krementz.”
“Given what Nicky said about a possible romantic conflict between Cedric and Sir Kelvin, it also seems imperative to speak to Lady Julianna Aldrich,” mused Charlotte. “Women see things differently. Her observations could be invaluable.”
“Perhaps. But I doubt a dewy-eyed young innocent is going to open up to a dark-as-the-devil rogue like me.” A pause. “Assuming I would be allowed within twenty paces of her before her chaperone summoned a regiment of Hussars to chop me into mincemeat. So, I’m afraid we’ll have to forgo that line of inquiry.”
Her mouth tightened, and Wrexford understood her frustration. The highest circle of London society was the one place where all her considerable skills—including the art of disguise—were of no use to her. The beau monde was a closed world. A small world, where everyone knew everyone. A stranger could not simply waltz in with a charming smile and well-practiced lies.
However . . .
Charlotte suddenly slid forward on the seat. Fisting a hand, she rapped on the trap, signaling the driver to halt.
“I’ll get out here.”
“Where—” began the earl.
But she was already out the door and moving with quicksilver stealth to disappear in the sooty shadows of the narrow streets.
“Damnation,” he muttered at the fast-disappearing blur. Whatever she was up to, he wasn’t going to like it. When one danced on a razor’s edge, disaster was never more than a hairsbreadth away. And sure-footed though she was, the smallest slip . . .
Wrexford wrenched himself back from such brooding. Logic, logic—while she chased after the specters of her intuition, he must turn his own mind to piecing together the puzzle of tangible clues.
* * *
“Milord,” said Tyler as the earl threw open the door to his workroom. “Mr. Henning has sent a note regarding his examination of the . . .” He paused to cough and dart a quick glance at the far end of the counter, where Raven sat polishing the microscope.
“The, er, object he retrieved last night,” finished the valet. “It’s on your desk, along with an accompanying packet.”
Wrexford shrugged out of his coat and wordlessly took up the items from the leather blotter. After skimming over Henning’s message, he carefully tore open the packet. A wink of red-gold flashed in the lamplight as he shook a small sliver of metal onto his palm. Now cleaned of all gore, it was revealed as a slender bit of copper wire.
The earl reread the surgeon’s note, then set it aside. “Have the Weasel polish something else,” he said gruffly. “We need to have a closer look at this under our lenses.” The surgeon’s instruments were not as sophisticated as his own.
Raven slipped off his seat and quickly cleared away the rags and rubbing compound. The boy was quick, but very careful, noted Wrexford. The fact that Tyler, who was as possessive about his instruments as a gentleman was about his mistress, didn’t flinch spoke volumes about how well Raven was fitting in.
“You want me to fetch the slides, Mr. Tyler?”
“Bring one of the shallow glass dishes instead,” replied the valet. “Use the felt cloths, as I showed you. We don’t want finger smudges.”
Wrexford notched up his brows.
“The lad seems eager to learn, and has proved himself a quick study,” murmured Tyler. “I trust you have no objections.”
“None at all.” He watched Raven sort through the dishes. “Though if we need to order a new shipment of laboratory glass from Switzerland, I shall take it out of your salary.”
“I’m not going drop it,” said Raven without looking up from the task.
He had forgotten about the boy’s batlike hearing—and received an even more compelling reminder a moment later.
“Is that what you pulled from the murdered toff’s corpse last night at the morgue?” Raven went on.
“I ought to birch your bum for eavesdropping on your elders.”
The boy made a rude sound. “First you would have to catch me.”
“Ye gods, you’re a mouthy little beast this afternoon.” To Tyler, he said, “After we finish here, put him to work scrubbing out the chemical buckets. That should take some of the wind out of his sails.”
The valet grimaced.
“Now stop shilly-shallying and step lively, lad,” barked the earl. “We have work to do.” The banter ceased as he sat down in front of the microscope and began fiddling with the levers. “We need the highest level of magnification. Henning thinks the wire shows a bit of melting at its tip, but given he used a quizzing glass for his examination, he can’t be sure.”
Tyler nodded thoughtfully. “Let me angle the reflectors to catch the light . . .” They worked together for the next few moments in preoccupied silence, making a few more minute adjustments.
“Hand me the dish, lad,” said Tyler. Using a pair of tweezers, he placed the copper wire in it and set it under the lens.
Raven edged closer, his gaze intent on what they were doing. “Why would the wire be melted?”
Wrexford slowly spun a dial, trying to decide how to reply. Would Charlotte rake him over the coals for answering honestly, no matter that it would expose a dark facet of human nature? He mulled over the question for a moment and then made up his mind.
“A strong enough jolt of electrical current would generate sufficient heat to soften the metal.”
“How—”
“From a scientific apparatus called a voltaic pile,” answered Tyler. “I’ll explain it later, but it creates a current.”
Raven’s face screwed up in thought. He plucked at his sleeve. “But if the wire was stuck in the toff’s flesh, and it was hot enough to melt metal, wouldn’t that hurt?”
“Yes,” said the earl brusquely.
The boy took heed of the warning note and bit back any further questions.
“Shift the reflector to the right,” ordered Wrexford. The shadow over the wire disappeared, allowing the copper fragment to snap into sharp focus. “Hmmph.”
Shifting his position on the eyepiece, he studied the metal for a few moments longer before chuffing another grunt and looking up at Tyler. “Have a look for yourself. You’ve more experience with voltaic piles than I do, but it looks to me as if a strong current has been run through the wire.”
The valet took his place and recalibrated the dials. “I agree.” Another oiled whisper of brass turning brass. “Heat has flattened the oval shape. My guess is, it was indeed a strong current.”
That would explain the ugly, half-healed burns on Chittenden’s body. Wrexford had thought as much, but the evidence now confirmed his suspicion. As to what led a titled lord to practice self-torture and mutilation raised a whole new set of questions.
None of which, he suspected, were going to have pleasant answers.
Raven was holding himself very still and watching them intently. His dark eyes were guarded—far too guarded for a boy his age. No doubt he had seen and heard far worse horrors in his short, savage life. But that didn’t dispel the niggling of guilt Wrexford felt at exposing the boy to such depravity.
Ye gods, I must be getting soft in my old age. A conscience was a cursed encumbrance. He couldn’t recall having one until he had begun to butt heads with Charlotte.
Tyler, on the other hand, seemed to have no compunction over involving Raven in the investigation. “Here, would you like to have a look, lad?”
Raven jumped at the offer, and as the valet began to explain the fine points of metallurgy and electricity, the earl paced back to his desk.
“By the by, don’t forget about the snuff that Mrs. Sloane found at the scene of the crime,” he muttered.
Tyler nodded. “I’ll get to that. But to be honest, milord, I wouldn’t be too sanguine about it yielding any useful information.”
Answers—they needed some answers. Wrexford frowned. In death, Chittenden had told him as much as he could. To learn more about the late baron’s secrets, he would have to find a way to make Hollister and Westmorly talk.
* * *
Charlotte’s nose told her she had found her quarry, though there were still a half dozen steps left before the narrow passage opened onto the street.
“Eel pasties!” bellowed the beanstalk-thin girl tending the barrow on the corner.
It was hard to believe such a skinny mite could emit such a prodigiously loud sound.
“Hot ’n’ tasty as a lightskirt’s kiss. C’mon’n’ gettum!”
“Halloo, Alice.” Charlotte dug out a few coins from her breeches. “I’ll take one for me, and one for you. Selling your wares is hard work.”
Raven and Hawk’s friend—known to their little band as Alice-the-Eel-Girl—gave a grateful grin. “Oiy, but ’s been a gud day. Been so busy I ain’t had time te fill me breadbox.” She handed Charlotte her pasty, and then hurriedly gobbled down a big bite from her own.
“Mmmm . . .” Juice dribbled down her pointy little chin as the girl let out a blissful sound. “Thank’ee kindly, Magpie.”
“Come, let’s sit for a minute and enjoy them.” Charlotte indicated the low wall flanking the well-worn steps leading down to one of the many landings that dotted this part of the river. In a lower voice, she added, “I have a few questions to ask you.”
The more she had thought about it, the more it seemed her comment about women seeing things differently was important. Grasping at straws, perhaps. But right now, she had naught but a fistful of thin air.
Alice’s gaze sharpened. She was a clever, observant girl, and had proved very helpful during their previous investigations. There was little that happened around her that went unnoticed.
And she knew that Charlotte paid generously for accurate information.
They found a spot where the shadows cast by the adjacent warehouse allowed them to blend in with the sooty stone.
“By the by, these are very good,” murmured Charlotte, licking the greasy crumbs from her fingers. She had been too preoccupied to eat anything since breaking her fast at first light.
“Peg, the wife of Shoo-fly, who sweeps the horse droppings from Chancery Lane, makes ’um. She’s a werry good cook.”
“Indeed, she is.” Though mention of her husband’s profession gave Charlotte momentary pause for thought. After wiping her hands on her breeches, Charlotte looked around to check that they were alone. “As I said, I’m looking for information. I know Raven and Hawk have already asked you about the night of the murder in the Kensington Palace Gardens.”
Alice sheltered at night with several other urchins in a spot close to one of the entrances to the gardens. Between her and her friends, very few movements in and out of the royal grounds escaped them.
“However, they were looking for the description of a stranger—someone who looked like he didn’t belong.”
Alice nodded thoughtfully.
“I’m now more interested in the fancy toffs you saw that night.”
“Oiy, there was more of ’um than usual,” volunteered the girl. “That’s because there was a party at the Palace. It was all lit up, brighter than the sun.”
Ah, but all that glitters is not gold. If Nicky could be believed, there was devilish darkness lurking beneath the polished charm and scintillating smiles.
“Yes, I imagine it was quite a sight,” said Charlotte. “There were a great many guests invited, and I imagine some of them left the grounds on foot rather than by carriage.”
“Oiy.” The girl’s attention was on full alert.
“I want you to think very carefully about the gentlemen you saw leaving the gardens.” She took out Hawk’s sketch. “Do you recall anyone wearing a hat like this one?”
Alice took the sketch.
“Take your time. It’s important that you’re sure of your answer.”
Eyes narrowing in concentration, the girl studied it intently.
Charlotte held herself still and remained silent.
“Oiy.” Alice finally looked up. “A cully came out early, before the crush o’ carriages. And his hat . . .” Her grubby finger tapped the paper. “His hat was jes’ like this one.”
“You are sure?” pressed Charlotte, careful to keep her voice neutral despite the quickening of her pulse.
“I remember becuz o’ the brim. It’s got a funny little dip in the front and back.” Alice noticed the little details. “An’ becuz there was a wink o’ something shiny in the band. Ye see, when the cully passed unner the tree, a branch hit his hat and almost knocked it off. He reached te set it back, like dis . . .”
Alice mimed a motion of resettling a hat on her head. “That’s why the liddle flash caught my eye.”
Excitement was now fizzing through her blood. Even Wrexford, who bent over backward to explain things through logic, would have to admit that the presence of the same hat at two different murder scenes couldn’t be dismissed as mere coincidence.
“Can you remember anything about the gent?”
Alice thought hard, then shook her head. “Only that I’d remember iffen he’d been real tall or real short.”
“What about the shiny object in the hat—could you tell what it was?”
“Naw, ’fraid not. It looked like mebbe it was silver, but udder than that, I can’t say.”
“No matter.” Charlotte quickly dug out some more coins from her pocket and put them in Alice’s lap. “Thank you.”
Alice hesitated at taking them. “Wuz it helpful?”
“Oh, very. More than you know.”
A smile lit up the girl’s plain-as-pudding face as the coins disappeared into her tattered skirts. “Ye think the Runners snatched up the wrong man fer the murder?”
“Yes, I do,” answered Charlotte.
Now she just had to prove it.