Wrexford closed the door behind them. On spotting Sheffield standing by the mullioned window, Canaday’s tone turned even sharper. “I say, what’s this all about?”
“Your close friendship with the late Reverend Holworthy. I understand the two of you were members of a club called The Ancients.”
“Yes, we were both members, but I would hardly call us friends.”
“And yet you were overheard having a very heated argument. One that you ended by threatening the reverend with violence,” countered the earl. “Would you care to explain that?”
The baron bristled. “No, sirrah, I would not! Indeed, I don’t intend to answer any of your damnably insolent questions. Now kindly step away from the door.”
“I shall do so, but first allow me to point out that either you may answer my questions here in private, gentleman to gentleman, or you may answer a Bow Street Runner’s questions in whatever venue he chooses for the confrontation.” Wrexford paused. “And I daresay his will be a good deal more insolent than mine.”
Canaday’s fleshy face tightened and turned a mottled red, but after releasing an angry huff, he retreated a step. Some vestiges of athletic quickness remained, but his large body was turning flabby. “As I said, I was not friends with Holworthy. We shared an interest in poetry and occasionally discussed Wordsworth and some classical Latin works, but that was the extent of our acquaintance. In fact, if you must know the reason of the quarrel, it concerned poetry books.”
“You threatened to come to blows over books?” Wrexford raised a brow. “Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.”
“Nonetheless, it’s true,” insisted Canaday. “My estate library in Kent is known for its collection of rarified books. Holworthy sent me an urgent request several weeks ago asking if he could borrow some volumes of Elizabethan poetry. Said he needed them for a sermon.”
The baron grimaced. “Thinking him a gentleman, as well as a man of God, I agreed. He came down the following day and spent a number of hours perusing the shelves. In the end, he took away three books. And then, to my shock, the scoundrel refused to return them! So yes, I threatened to box his ears. They wereveryvaluable books.”
Wrexford darted a glance at Sheffield, who appeared equally nonplussed. The claim was plausible, he decided. But whoever killed the reverend had shown himself to be cold-bloodedly cunning. Canaday still had a great deal of explaining to do.
“So you say,” he replied gruffly. “But what about the nocturnal visits you and Holworthy made to your laboratory at the Royal Institution over the last few weeks?”
“What utter fustian, Wrexford!” said Canaday hotly. “I never invited Holworthy to my lab, sir. Why would I? He had no interest in science. Granted, he tried to ask me some bizarre questions about medieval alchemy, but I told him that while I have no expertise in chemistry, I have enough scientific knowledge to know alchemy is naught but hocus-pocus nonsense.”
“Mr. Drummond says he saw you and the reverend visit your laboratory,” he pressed. “Several times.”
“Then he is spouting bald-faced lies,” snarled Canaday. “Drummond’s a smarmy, spying little weasel, always sneaking around the corridors, trying to sniff out what others are working on. I once found him skulking around inside my laboratory. He claimed he had found the door half open and was merely trying to ascertain whether I needed assistance—”
“Did you keep it locked?” demanded Wrexford.
“Yes, of course I did. I simply figured I had been careless and not turned the key properly. You can be sure I was far more careful after that.” The baron scowled at the memory. “I rang a peal over his head that is likely still ringing in his ears.”
Wrexford felt the interrogation slipping away from him. “According to Drummond—”
“You’re more of a fool than I thought if you believe a word he says,” cut in Canaday. “Ask anyone who works in that section of the building. Drummond is considered an odious piece of shite. The only reason he has a position at the Institution is because he’s some sort of distant cousin of Davy’s wife. Otherwise he wouldn’t be tolerated.” A snort punctuated the assertion. “He has naught but an inferior intellect—and certainly no discernable skills in chemistry.”
Making one last effort to put the baron on the defensive, Wrexford countered, “Drummond was quite specific about his claim to have seen you and Holworthy. He claims he saw you there last Thursday evening, somewhere around nine o’clock.”
Canaday let out a rude sound. “That’s impossible. Last Thursday evening I was at a meeting of the Royal Geological Society.”
“I assume the Society will confirm that,” said Wrexford. He was beginning to have more sympathy for a Bow Street Runner. It wasn’t very edifying to be made to look like a donkey’s arse.
“By Jove, of course they will,” retorted Canaday. “I was one of the featured speakers of the evening, and my lecture on the history of tin mines in Cornwall began at exactly the hour you just mentioned.”
Wrexford thought hard but couldn’t come up with any other questions to ask.
“Now, unless you have any other absurd accusations to make, my friends are waiting.”
Maintaining a grim silence, the earl stepped aside, allowing Canaday to brush by.
Sheffield made a wry face as the door slammed shut. “Well, that did not go according to the script.”
Wrexford shot him a daggered look.
“Er, quite right—it may not be the right moment for frivolous humor,” murmured his friend, assuming an air of contrition. “All jesting aside, it strikes me that he is telling the truth.”
“The lecture is certainly easy enough check, and I will do so. But yes, my sense is it’s not Canaday who is telling the lies,” he replied grimly. “Which means I will be paying another visit to Mr. Drummond in the morning. He has a great deal of explaining to do.”
