Wrexford looked at the offerings and heaved a martyred sigh.
“Bothered by a little blood and saliva? Good God, what a fastidious fellow you have become. The lordly life is making you soft as a sow’s underbelly.”
“Stubble your infernal nattering and angle the hand a little higher.” The earl leaned in closer. Ignoring the unpleasant odors wafting up from the corpse, he quickly copied the strange symbol onto the paper.
Henning let the hand flop back onto the slab. “It may be a pebble, not a pearl, but considering that our recently departed friend here was a chemist, it could be that scribble is from one of the early books of secrets.”
“That’s the first useful thing you’ve said,” muttered Wrexford as he folded the sketch and tucked it into his pocket. A medieval manuscript on chemical compounds and medicinal formulas was often referred to as a “book of secrets” because of the arcane language used to describe the experiments. Out of curiosity, he had looked at a few of them during his time at Oxford. But he had dismissed them as incomprehensible fiddle-faddle. His own interests lay in more practical work based on modern methods.
However, he had a sinking suspicion that was going to change.
For what the termbook of secretsreally referred to was the art of alchemy.
“That very thought had occurred to me,” continued the earl. “I don’t suppose you know anything on the subject.”
Henning pursed his lips. “Not really. Much of it is based on wild superstitions rather than empirical knowledge, and teeters on the edge of witchcraft. But from what I understand, there is also much sound science in the early experiments.”
Wrexford nodded. “So I have been told.” He thought for a moment. “I wonder why he would make the mark on his palm? He was in his laboratory, with plenty of paper at hand.”
“The body stinks of smoke and there was soot on his clothing,” said Henning. “And the driver of the mortuary wagon said the laboratory was a half-burned shambles. Given that he was murdered, he might have sensed that he was in trouble, and feared that whatever the symbol means it was too dangerous to put down on paper.”
“That makes sense.” The earl blew out a harried sigh. “And yet it doesn’t. By all accounts, Drummond was a mediocre chemist. He spent most of his time at the Royal Institution. . . .”
Skulking around and spying on his fellow chemists.
Henning was watching him closely and slowly curled a smile. “Knowledge can be a dangerous thing, eh?”
“So it seems.” Wrexford rose, feeling perplexed. “My thanks for your help.”
“I have a feeling you may soon reconsider that,” said the surgeon dryly. “Watch your step, laddie. I’d like for the next autopsy I do not to be on your carcass.”
* * *
Tyler turned up the wick of the tall Argand lamp, brightening the illumination falling on the workbench holding the microscope. “I’ve pressed the fragments between glass, milord, and made sure the lenses are in proper alignment. The first one is ready for your inspection.”
Wrexford shrugged out of his coat and dropped it on the chair by the door. “A pox on secrets and shadows,” he growled. “Science is supposed to be about reason and logic.”
“I take it your day has not brought you any closer to solving either murder.”
The earl shook his head in disgust. “The path is only taking more twists and turns. Indeed, the mystery has deepened—it feels as if I’ve tumbled into a black hole.” A netherworld of suspicions, lies, and innuendos, slithering through a noxious mist.
“You are not usually so fanciful,” murmured his valet.
“I am usually not so frustrated.” Wrexford took a seat at the workbench and began fiddling with a few of the brass dials on the microscope. “What do you know about alchemy?” he asked abruptly.
“I’m no expert on the subject, but I did a fair amount of study on it while a student at St. Andrews,” answered Tyler.
“And here I’ve always credited your university with being a leader in modern scientific thought.”
“Many of the early practitioners were quacks and charlatans. But many were serious students of proper scientific method,” replied his valet. “Much of Sir Isaac Newton’s work involved explorations into alchemy.”
“I would have thought he had more sense,” muttered Wrexford.
“Don’t rush to judgment, milord. Some of their ideas might surprise you,” counseled his valet.
“I am heartily sick of surprises.” The earl leaned up against the eyepiece and brought the charred paper fragment into focus. He studied the words for a few moments, though the razor-sharp magnification of the precision lenses did nothing to make their meaning clearer.
“Any ideas?” he asked tersely. “I’m assuming you took a careful look at it before I arrived.”
