Holding himself very still, the earl carefully maneuvered his tweezers into the remains of the notes. It required extreme delicacy. The paper was fragile, a mere breath away from crumbling to dust. One errant move . . .
Tyler gave an involuntary wince as a large fleck of ash broke off.
Damnation. Steadying his hand, Wrexford slowly extracted the top fragment and placed it in the undamaged book. His valet ever so gently covered it with several pristine pages.
They repeated the process until all of the fragments had been retrieved. Whether it would yield enough to reveal the dead chemist’s full message remained to be seen.
“Anything else, milord?” inquired Tyler.
Wrexford took a few cursory glances inside the half-burned books. “Nothing of interest here. And we haven’t much time.” He handed his valet the fruits of their labor. “Hide this under your coat and wait in the corridor. I’d rather no one see what we’re removing. I’ll make a quick circuit of the work space and see if I spot any other useful evidence.”
Tyler took the extra precaution of wrapping an old rag around the book. “Very good, sir.”
Wanting to avoid another clash with the Runner, Wrexford hurriedly checked through the instrument cases on the center table and the fallen drawers, hoping to find Drummond’s laboratory journals with the records of his experiments. But they were either burned or buried under the debris. He paused over the chemist’s corpse looking for . . .
He wasn’t sure what. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on what.
“Milord, are you finished in there?” Lowell entered gingerly, taking care to keep his well-polished boots clear of the muddled ash and liquids. “Mr. Griffin will be . . .” His voice trailed off in a sharp exhale as he halted abruptly. “Good Lord, what a gruesome sight.”
The earl straightened. As murders went, it was actually quite civilized. However, he kept that thought to himself.
“Hopkins!” Lowell called to one of the unseen workmen. “Send for someone to remove the, er, remains of Mr. Drummond—discreetly, and as soon as possible, mind you.”
“Where will the body be taken?” asked Wrexford.
The question made Lowell grimace. “Good Heavens, what difference does it make? I just want it out of here.”
Wrexford nodded, and left the agitated supervisor to begin the process of clearing the damage. Spotting Tyler near the doorway to one of the side stairs, he joined him and led the way down to the main floor, where they exited the building through the lecture hall.
“Wait here,” he said in a low voice as they turned down Albemarle Street. “I want you to intercept whatever mortuary wagon is called, and have the body taken to Henning’s surgery.”
“Given my charm and your money, that should present no problem, milord,” replied his valet. His tone then turned serious. “Did you spot something irregular?”
“I’m not sure. But Henning has an eye for reading the details of foul play.”
“Very good, sir.” He shifted his hold on the wrapped book.
“In the meantime, I have several visits to make.”
“I shall have the parcel unpacked, and your microscope and magnifying lenses set up by the time you return home,” responded Tyler.
“That may not be for a while,” said Wrexford, thinking about the Runner’s unexpected mention of A. J. Quill’s latest satirical print.
“Aye, well, just remember to keep your temper—and your cutthroat blade—in check,” said Tyler dryly.
His valet might not be speaking so glibly if he knew the truth about Quill.
“After all, they say the pen is mightier than the sword.”
CHAPTER 9
The pen, fumed Wrexford, jamming his hands into his pockets as he walked away from the print shop window, was in this case mightier than a battalion of cavalry sabers. It certainly sliced with far more deadly precision, each stroke a perfectly designed cut.
With an inward wince, he admitted that the satire was perhaps deserved. Neither he nor Canaday had showed to advantage. Though how Charlotte had learned the embarrassing details was a matter for further exploration. A man’s club was supposed to be sacrosanct, a haven where a strict code of honor ruled within its walls, a refuge where one was safe from ridicule.
But apparently those pillared, patrician walls had ears.
And Charlotte would likely retort by asking why should women play by the rules when they were all written by high-and-mighty men.
