She hurried to allow the surgeon entrance.
Sheffield was with him, his look of grim concern lightening somewhat on spotting the earl. “Thank God you’re here. Tyler sent me to warn you,” he said in a rush. “You can’t return home. Griffin is waiting there—with a warrant for your arrest.”
* * *
“Bloody hell,” swore Wrexford. “Just when the pieces of this infernal puzzle have finally come together.” Frowning in thought, he asked, “Did Griffin give a reason? I doubt he would have dared make the move without some new piece of evidence.”
“He said he has an incriminating letter,” answered Sheffield. “One addressed to the Institution’s board of governors in which Drummond says he overheard you admitting that you had lured Holworthy to the church in order to silence his attacks on you. It seems that Lowell found it behind the work counter when he was supervising the carpentry repairs to the fire damage.”
“Diabolically clever of him,” muttered Wrexford. “He just needs to keep Griffin occupied until he’s made his final move.”
“Any idea what that might be, laddie?” asked Henning.
“No,” he conceded.
Sheffield cleared his throat. “As to that, I’ve been thinking—an admittedly rare occurrence, I know—and an idea came to mind.”
Wrexford shifted impatiently. “Go on.”
“Well, there was a lecturer of logic at Oxford who used to repeat an old Latin adage when trying to solve a certain type of conundrum:Cui bono.
“Who benefits?” murmured Charlotte.
The earl stopped his fidgeting.
“Yes, precisely, Mrs. Sloane,” agreed Sheffield, giving her a quick, curious look before going on. “So I asked myself the same question in regard to a percussion cap for firing weapons, and the obvious answer is the military.”
Well reasoned, Kit, thought Wrexford. He had always assumed that Sheffield slept through all the droning of their dons.
“The thing is, if Lowell had been working on it for our government, there might have been great secrecy—indeed, I’ve heard rumors that Humphry Davy nearly lost an eye experimenting with explosives for our war effort at a special laboratory in Tunbridge—but no need for murder and skullduggery.”
“The rumors are correct,” interjected Wrexford. He had been privy to the private details. “Davy was mixing chlorine and ammonium nitrate, based on a formula given to him by Andre Ampere. It was for the Royal Engineers to use in blowing up the siege fortifications of cities on the Peninsula. But it proved far too dangerous to handle.”
“My point is, if Lowell isn’t working for our side, might he be working for the French?” said Sheffield. “The Little Corsican would likely pay an emperor’s ransom for anything that might help turn the war back in his favor,” explained Sheffield. “Look, it’s not always easy being a younger son in an aristocratic family. One often resents the power, prestige, and money that goes to the heir simply by virtue of a quirk of birth. What better way to avenge the unfairness of it all than to strike at the system? Revolutionary France rewards ability, not the degree of blueness in one’s blood.”
A prolonged silence followed. Henning and Charlotte looked to the earl, waiting for a reaction.
“Right. It’s likely a foolish conjecture,” said Sheffield, lifting his shoulders in apology.
“No, it’s likely a brilliant one, Kit,” replied Wrexford, giving himself a mental kick as he recalled the billets doux written in French that he had seen in Lowell’s desk drawer. They had appeared to be love notes making assignations for a clandestine liaison. But they could very well have disguised a more sinister meaning. “The one thing missing is motive, and you’ve hit on a compelling one.”
“Be that as it may,” pointed out the surgeon, “if we can’t find Lowell, all our fancy conjectures are worth no more than a pile of horse dung.”
“Lowell is clever but he’s not infallible. He will have left a telltale clue. We just have to find it.” The earl fixed his gaze on Charlotte. “I’m thinking about what it could be. As is Mrs. Sloane.”
Charlotte had quietly seated herself at her desk during Sheffield’s explanation. She now had pen in hand and was sketching random doodles on a sheet of paper.
Perhaps, Wrexford mused, she was trying to draw divine inspiration from the familiar feel of the sharpened quill. The alchemists of old had understood an elemental truth about human nature. Symbols and talismans possessed a mystical power.
“Any ideas yet?”
She didn’t look up.
“Think harder. We haven’t much time.”
Henning uttered a low oath. “Don’t badger the lassie. I’m sure she is doing the best she can.”
“Aye,” agreed Sheffield.
