CHAPTER 23
“I don’t understand,” said Sheffield, breaking the heavy silence. “Granted, you two are far more knowledgeable about science than I am, but I seem to recall that both Aldini and Galvani ultimately acknowledged that they were wrong about electricity having the power to bring the dead back to life.”
“They did,” agreed Wrexford. “However, the history of science shows us that many things that were thought impossible in the past prove to be valid concepts when modern techniques and discoveries are applied to them.”
Thornton nodded. “The allure of making momentous breakthroughs is what drives many of us who are fascinated by science. There is so much we don’t know.”
Sheffield made a face. “And perhaps some of it is best left that way.”
“Perhaps,” said Wrexford. “But it’s rather like Pandora’s box—we have opened the lid on scientific inquiry, and it cannot be stuffed back into a dark hole simply because some of the results frighten us.”
He looked to Thornton. “You mentioned that something made your blood run cold. What is it that spooked you?”
“It’s merely a suspicion, based on a few things Chittenden let drop in his agitated ramblings,” replied the marquess. “But I think they were working on developing a more potent electrolyte—”
“What the devil is an electrolyte?” interrupted Sheffield.
“It’s a conductor, Kit,” explained the earl. “In the case of the voltaic pile, it’s a liquid solution that creates a chemical reaction, allowing the electrical charge to flow.”
Sheffield still looked baffled, but Thornton gave a grim nod. “I have no idea what the electrolyte might be—or even if I’m right. However, I was hoping I might find some answers here.”
“Then let us conduct a thorough search.” Wrexford found another lamp. “But carefully, so as not to leave any evidence that we were here.” He lit the wick and turned up the flame. “You didn’t worry that DeVere might be working late?”
“No,” answered Thornton. “I learned he has a supper engagement at Richmond House with the director of the Royal Botanic Gardens this evening, and plans to stay out at Kew for the next day or two.”
“Still, we ought to be quick about it.” The earl was already crouched down in front of the nearest storage cabinet.
Thornton moved to the work counter and its array of canisters and chemicals, but Sheffield hesitated.
“I’m happy to help, but I fear I might overlook some important clue because I have no idea what it means.”
“Take a seat at DeVere’s desk and have a look through the drawers,” said Wrexford, knowing his friend had an observant eye. “Let us know if you see anything that doesn’t have to do with botany.”
With the marquess’s hat still in hand, Sheffield did as he was told. Setting it down on the blotter, he went to work.
The lamplight pooled over a stack of shallow pasteboard boxes as Wrexford opened the cabinet doors. Next to them were four oversized books, piled atop one another. A look at the gold-stamped title of the top one showed it was a portfolio of botanical etchings from the seventeenth century. He shifted the others to check on their contents.
All artwork.
The boxes proved to hold naught but carefully labeled packets of seeds.
Ye gods—were there really that many different species of the Asteraceae family?
The earl shut the doors and moved on to the next storage cabinet. Hearing a low grunt from Thornton, he assumed the marquess wasn’t having any better luck.
DeVere appeared to be a man of meticulous habits. These shelves were as orderly as the previous ones. Wrexford continued to search carefully, but he couldn’t shake the sense that he was missing something.
He didn’t doubt Thornton’s story. However outlandish, it had the ring of truth.
And yet . . .
He finished with the last pile of papers and sat back on his haunches. “I have been thinking . . . two of the three men involved in the experiments are dead. Perhaps Hollister can now be convinced to tell us everything. He seemed a rather spineless fellow to me when we had a little chat.”
“Spineless?” Thornton shook his head. “My impression is quite the contrary. Yes, he’s capable of playing the obsequious toadeater when it behooves him. But I’ve watched him over the last few months, and at heart, he strikes me as a coldly calculating bastard.” His brows drew together. “Indeed, I’d be tempted to believe he might have murdered the other two if I could think of a compelling motive.”
“Immortality?” suggested Sheffield. “The fame of making a historic discovery and having your name known by countless generations to come.” His face looked unnaturally pale as he leaned closer to the glass-globed flame.
“Or the actual power to defeat death, if one controlled the dark, dreadful secret of reanimation.”
Shadows seemed to stir and slither like serpents through the darkness just outside the lamplight.
“God perish the thought,” intoned Thornton.
“Let us keep looking,” muttered Wrexford, shaking off the sudden tickling sensation at the nape of his neck. “Whatever unholy force is at play, we need to find a way to stop it.”
Blowing out his breath, Thornton shifted his attention to the shelves above DeVere’s collection of microscopes and magnifying glasses. Metal rattled as he began to search through a set of brass boxes.
Sheffield returned to riffling through the desk drawers.
Feeling a little shaken, Wrexford opened yet another cabinet. From the very start of this investigation, his usual sense of dispassionate logic seemed to have been turned topsy-turvy. He didn’t really wish to analyze the reasons why.
But I must.
Emotion had no place in objective reasoning. But concern for Charlotte and the upheavals she was facing were perhaps clouding his judgment . . .
He finished sorting through a pile of papers and carefully put them back in place.
Or was it a far more visceral feeling than mere concern? Unflinching honesty—with himself, as well as with others—was something in which he took pride. And honesty compelled him to admit that his heart was in danger of overruling his head—
“This may be nothing . . .”
Sheffield’s voice drew him from his thoughts.
“But you did say to speak up if I found something unrelated to botany.” His friend held up several coils of copper wire. “They are different widths, and there are tags hanging from the string wrapping with odd notations that make no sense to me.”
Thornton hurried over to examine them. After several long moments, he looked up at Wrexford. “Copper is the wire of choice for a voltaic pile. The writing looks to be some sort of mathematical notation. A private system, perhaps?”
The earl rose and joined the others at the desk. “I’m not an expert in botany, but I can’t think of any purpose for which these might be used.”
“Nor I,” replied Thornton.
“They were well hidden between several folders at the bottom of a drawer,” offered Sheffield.
“The type of electrical experiments we’re looking for require a goodly amount of space,” said Wrexford. “There’s no sign that anything like that has taken place here.”
“No,” intoned Thornton. “But having been a frequent guest in DeVere’s villa, I know that he has a large, well-equipped laboratory there. And given that the young men of the Eos Society spent time there . . .” His words trailed off, leaving the unspoken thought thrumming in the stillness.
“Are you suggesting—” began Sheffield.
“That we break into DeVere’s home and have a look around?” finished the earl. He raised a brow at Thornton.
“There’s a back entrance located close to the laboratory for the delivery of supplies. And the laboratory itself is located in a separate wing, well away from the living quarters. It should be easy to enter and leave the premises without anyone being the wiser,” said the marquess. “Especially as DeVere is spending the night in Kew.”
“We would have to move fast,” observed Sheffield.
Thornton picked up the mystery hat. “What say you, Wrexford?”
The earl cupped a hand over the lamp’s glass chimney and blew out the flame. “Let’s be off. Given what’s at stake, I think a clandestine visit to DeVere’s villa is in order.”
* * *
The drawing was done and sent off with Raven, but despite the lateness of the hour, Charlotte still felt too on edge for sleep to come. There was much to think about . . .
If only the whirling-dervish bits and bobs would come together to form some sort of coherent picture.
Heaving a sigh of frustration, she took out Lady Julianna’s colored cards, along with the numerical riddle and accompanying book, and spread them out on her worktable for another look. Wrexford would, she knew, dismiss them as habble-gabble nonsense, so it was pointless to broach the subject with him.
She could well imagine his huffs and snarls as he ridiculed the mystical system.
And somehow that made her smile.
Wrexford. A man of such maddening contradictions and conundrums.
“Which makes us birds of a feather,” she whispered. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, and yet the thought warmed the chill from her bones. His friendship was comforting. . .
Though there were times in the wee hours of the morning—those solitary moments of lying in bed wrapped in naught but the night’s black velvet darkness and her own wayward imaginings—when she let herself dream of a more intimate connection. Of how his flesh would feel against hers . . .
“Madness,” she chided. “Utter madness.”
Especially as Wrexford seemed to have retreated into himself of late. She could only guess at the reasons. Perhaps he was embarrassed by his show of vulnerability at the end of their last investigation, when the heat of the moment had sparked him to voice sentiments that he now regretted.
The threat of imminent death did strange things to the mind.
Charlotte looked out the window, watching the ghostly skeins of fog twine with the wind-ruffled ivy leaves.
There were still interludes where the special bond felt undeniable. Together they had moved through the figures of the waltz with perfect harmony. And in talking afterward of loss and regret, the simple act of holding hands had seemed to connect them in ways that defied words.
But for most of the time, Wrexford appeared intent on holding himself aloof. Perhaps it had become a habit. Or perhaps he didn’t wish for anyone to touch his heart.
Another smile tugged at her lip. An impossibility, as he claimed he didn’t have one. That was another thing she appreciated about the earl—he could laugh at himself. Few men could.
After a moment, she simply shook her head. Whatever confusions clouded their relationship, they were friends. And for that, she was profoundly grateful . . .
Forcing her attention back to the matter at hand, Charlotte picked up one of the cards and subjected the intricate design to a more thorough scrutiny. The drawing was superbly rendered, and yet it didn’t strike an inner chord. But then, art was subjective. To Lady Julianna, the twirling lines and subtle colors spoke to the heart.
She set the card aside and took a long look at the seemingly endless procession of number and spaces on the pages of Julianna’s puzzle.
“I might as well try and read Sanskrit,” she muttered. It was hopeless. She hadn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of deciphering the message . . . and Wrexford would likely just toss it in the fire.
However, she did know someone who might be up to the challenge. Come morning, she would see whether her hunch was correct.
* * *
“It seems DeVere has installed the latest-model German puzzle lock,” muttered Wrexford as he shifted his position beside the outer door to the villa and gave another jiggle of his metal probe.
“Is that a problem?” asked Sheffield.
“No.” Another jiggle, and then a smile as the mechanism released with a well-oiled snick. “It just requires a little coaxing.”
“Follow me.” Thornton edged past the earl and eased open the door. “And move lightly. The corridor floor is flagged in stone as DeVere moves a great deal of plantings and soil in and out of the laboratory.”
There were no lights burning anywhere in this wing of the sprawling residence, but the marquess led the way without hesitation. However, at the end of the short corridor, he was forced to stop. “This door is locked, too.”
“DeVere seems awfully concerned with preserving his privacy,” murmured Wrexford as he felt around for the keyhole. The portal itself, he noted, was reinforced with thick bands of iron.
“You know how secretive scholars can be in general. And if he’s up to something nefarious . . .” Thornton shifted nervously as a floorboard creaked close by. “I don’t mean to rush you, but the servants will be rising before long, and I’d like not to have to explain my presence here to a Bow Street magistrate.”
“Voilà,” said the earl, and gestured for his companions to enter.
Once the draperies were drawn, they lit lamps and without wasting words set to searching the space. Wrexford headed to the trestle tables by the windows, where containers of potting soil were filled with sprouting seedlings.
All looked in order.
Frowning, he slowly turned in a slow circle, making a careful survey of the room. Everything about the laboratory—the books, the beakers, the watering cans—confirmed it as a place of serious botanical research. There was no sign of a voltaic pile, nor any of the accouterments necessary to perform the grim experiments the young men had been performing on themselves.
For an instant, he wondered whether Thornton was part of a conspiracy to misdirect his investigation and make him look like a bloody fool.
But a low oath from the marquess as he hurriedly closed a drawer and moved on quelled the suspicion.
“It has to be here,” added Thornton. The lamplight showed his face had gone taut, and beads of sweat were forming on his brow. “I just know it does.”
“We haven’t finished looking,” said the earl. However, he had a sinking feeling that they weren’t going to find anything incriminating.
Charlotte would likely tease him unmercifully for saying so, but the space had no aura of evil to it. Which meant—
“Come have a look at this.” Sheffield’s urgent whisper cut short his musing.
Wrexford edged around to where his friend was crouched down in a narrow alcove beside a long, narrow terra-cotta planter. The lamplight played over a half dozen slender beanstalks of varying heights.
Each was fastened to a wooden support stake with several twists of copper wire—a thin gauge was used for the smallest plants progressing to a thicker gauge for the tallest.
“Damnation,” muttered Thornton as his gaze fell on the wires. “Damn, damn, damn.”
“This explains the coils of copper,” murmured Sheffield. “It would appear our surmise about DeVere was wrong.”
Which meant, thought Wrexford, that the evil had to be elsewhere. But at that moment, he hadn’t a clue as to where to start looking.
The clock was ticking . . . He clenched his hands, feeling his gut knot in guilt at having failed Charlotte.
And time was slipping through his helpless fingers, like so many mockingly elusive grains of sand.