A grunt, impossible to interpret.
“So, you are of the opinion the killer possessed physical strength, and a familiarity with the art of murder,” he said. “A soldier, perhaps?”
Henning blinked several times, the lamplight setting off a winking of sparks on the tips of his lashes. “Or a student of medicine.”
“Which unfortunately doesn’t help to cut down the list of possible suspects,” responded the earl. “The Royal Institution is the center of the scientific community in London. Many of its members have training in medicine.”
A shrug. “Tracking down the criminal is up to you, laddie. I can only pass on what Mr. Drummond’s recently abandoned mortal coil tells me.”
“And I take it,” said Wrexford dryly, “the mortal coil has nothing more to say?”
“Ah, a good question.” Henning hunched over and appeared to be examining the dead man’s hands. “The answer would be yes. . . .” More movement, light flickering softly off the dexterous play of the surgeon’s fingers.
“If not for the strange symbol penciled on his left palm.”
* * *
After rinsing her brushes and putting away her paints, Charlotte carefully set to work with her penknife to put a fresh point on her quill.Snip, snip.It was a ritual that served to calm both mind and spirit after the intensity of creating a new satire.
However, her thoughts refused to quiet.Snip, snip.Each small cut seemed to add a new question to the unsettling ones already colliding inside her head. Had the earl been right? Should she have closed her eyes to the new evidence connecting The Ancients to the present murders?
There were, after all, plenty of other scandals at which to poke her pen. She could have left it to him.
“Honor.” Charlotte whispered the word, feeling a chill skate down her spine as her breath tickled over her lips. She had thought cynicism had rubbed away all vestiges of such pompous platitudes. But maybe some things simply remained ingrained in one’s being.
Whatever Anthony’s weaknesses—and she hadn’t been blind to the frailties of his character—he didn’t deserve to have his life and his death dishonored by the foul manipulations of Stoughton and his fellow club members.
Snip, snip.The quill’s point was now razor sharp. A test to her fingertip drew a tiny bead of blood.
Setting aside the pen and the knife, she stared down at her bare desk. Twilight was falling, the muddled shades of purple and pewter filtering in through the window warning that a squall was scudding in to cloud the night sky. The boys had taken her latest drawing to the engraver, and whether they returned before the rain began to fall would depend on Raven’s mood.
He seemed unsettled of late, and she hadn’t wanted to press for the reasons. No one else could fight his battles. He must wrestle with his personal demons, no matter that the match was an unfair one.
Her gaze strayed to the row of books lined up against the wall. The gilt titles stamped on the leather spines glowed with a mellow warmth, and Charlotte ran her hand along the bindings, hoping the familiar textures would help lift her spirits.
She hated feeling so helpless. Wrexford moved freely within aristocratic circles, allowing him to follow the clues. While she was shut out.
Charlotte inhaled deeply and let the air out in awhooshof frustration.
Or was she?
The bookish scent of mingled paper, ink, and leather stirred an idea.Alchemy.However tenuous, there was a connection between the alchemy and the death of both her husband and Drummond. Learning more about the subject might allow her to discover something useful.
Charlotte quirked a wry grimace. But for that she would need a different selection of books. Her collection of history, poetry, and Latin classics would cast little light on the arcane mysteries of volatile chemicals and bubbling crucibles. And she didn’t dare walk into the fancy bookstores or lending libraries of Mayfair.
There was, however, one person who might possess the books she needed to borrow.
CHAPTER 12
Henning shifted, carefully uncurling the dead man’s fingers to display the pale palm. “See for yourself.”
Crouching down, Wrexford strained to make out the faint marks penciled on the lifeless flesh. “What the devil is it?”
“Haven’t a clue, laddie.”
The surgeon’s irascible demeanor was proving even more abrasive than usual. “Any other pearls of wisdom to offer?” he asked sarcastically.
A rusty chuckle. “Only that you might wish to make a copy of it, to study at your leisure. I daresay they will be coming to cart off the corpse for burial sooner than later.” He tore off a non-too-pristine blank page from his dissection notebook and placed it on the stone slab, along with a heavily chewed pencil.
