“True.” Lowell expelled a mournful sigh. “Which is why you must die. A pity. You, of all the members of the Royal Institution, possess a modicum of creative thinking.”
“High praise, indeed,” said Wrexford dryly. Keep the man talking—the boy needed more time to make his way to safety.
“Humor me before putting a period to my existence,” he went on. “I’ve figured out most of your plan, but several pieces of the puzzle still elude me. What drew you and Holworthy together in the first place? I’ve deduced that his interests lay in alchemy, while yours are decidedly more practical.”
“Far more practical,” agreed Lowell. “Holworthy was seeking eternal life.” A curt laugh. “While I merely wish to enjoy my allotted time here on earth as a very wealthy man.”
“The philosopher’s stone,” murmured the earl.
“Correct. The right reverend was obsessed with the idea that the medieval alchemists had discovered the secret of immortality. He had contrived to steal a number of very rare books and manuscripts on the subject from church and university archives.”
“Including works by Newton, Boyle, and Philalethes,” he interjected.
“Yes, hidden among all the claptrap he had collected was some priceless knowledge—that is to say, priceless scientific knowledge. The men you mentioned possessed brilliant minds, and had made discoveries that I sensed would help me reach my own goal.”
“How did you learn about Holworthy’s endeavor?” prodded Wrexford.
“One night, when I was making the rounds of the Institution laboratories—my position as superintendent made it easy to steal the chemicals I needed for my own experiments—I overheard a clandestine meeting between Holworthy and Canaday. The reverend asked for his help in concocting the philosopher’s stone, claiming he had priceless manuscripts from which a man of science could decipher the formula.”
Drummond had been right, thought Wrexford. At night, the Institution’s corridors had been slithering with serpents intent on no good. Unfortunately, he himself had been one of them.
“The baron refused, calling it nonsense,” continued Lowell. “But as it happens, I was searching for rare books that related to my own research. So I approached Holworthy—masked, as I couldn’t afford to have him know my real identity. Unfortunately, he noticed my signet ring.”
“Golden One,” said the earl. “So you had to kill him.”
“As soon as he brought me the book I needed, he had outlived his usefulness.”
“I assume you met with him several times in Canaday’s laboratory. And at some point you realized Drummond had overheard one of your conversations.”
Lowell smiled. “I knew Drummond had a large amount of mercury, and I happened to see his notes when I entered his laboratory to steal it. He was a filthy sneak, and had also overheard me meeting with an agent from Paris.” A smirk pulled at Lowell’s lips. “In which we discussedmylife-altering chemical compound.”
“An enhanced version of mercury fulminate,” said Wrexford. “I assume they offered you a king’s ransom for the formula.”
“They did,” answered Lowell. “I will soon be rich beyond my wildest dreams. Let that be a lesson to England and its unfair inheritance system, which gives all the prestige and money to eldest sons, leaving the others to scavenge for pennies and a scrap of respect.”
Hubris and greed. Was there a more volatile combination?
“You’re a man of intelligence,” added Lowell. “Surely you agree that a man ought to be rewarded for his talents, not simply an accident of birth.”
Put that way, it sounded so reasonable. But then, Lucifer was known for his seductively smooth tongue.
“Even when such talents include slitting throats and beating children?” he replied.
“Advances in science often demand great sacrifice.”
As long as it is the blood of others, thought Wrexford. “We could parse the fine points of morality until Doomsday.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve no time for that, thanks to you and that gadfly Quill.” Lowell gave a curt flick of his weapon. “Enough chin wagging. I admit, it was ungentlemanly of me to strike the brat. I lost my temper, but it was A. J. Quill’s fault. She’s even more cynical than I thought. And by sacrificing the gutter scum to keep her pen pointed at me, she’s forcing me to move more quickly than I had wanted.”
“I’m still curious about one thing. Quill’s husband—the artist working here—why kill him?”
“Simple. He was here often enough that he might have seen me slipping into the laboratory. And I suspected he had been snooping around in the cellars. I couldn’t take a chance of him gabbling about it.”
“How did you poison him?”
“Another easy answer. There are a number of hidden passageways in this building. I set up a small burner by a ventilation shaft in his workroom and sent a steady stream of mercury fumes into the space. It quickly addled his wits.” Lowell smiled. “For good measure, I switched oil of vitriol for the turpentine he used to clean his brushes. The burns spooked him from coming back.”
“Clever,” murmured Wrexford. “But you didn’t anticipate that his wife would prove an even greater danger, did you?”
