Jeremy shifted and let out a low whistle. “It appears you will have plenty of material for your future drawings.” She had told him nothing about her partnership with the earl. “It appears Lord Wrexford is guilty after all.”
She didn’t believe it for an instant. But for all their efforts, they still seemed no closer to proving who was the real culprit.
Setting aside her dish, Charlotte looked up at her friend. “I’m so sorry to cast a cloud over this lovely interlude. But I fear I’m more fatigued than I thought. If you don’t mind, I think it best that I return home.”
“Of course.” He was on his feet in a flash, and guiding her out to the street. “But this time I’ll brook no argument from you. I’m taking you as far as Red Lion Square in a hackney.”
For once, she didn’t object. She needed to think—and to strategize. If the murderer was Canaday, or one of the other members of The Ancients, he was a powerful figure in London.
But so was she.
Her pen exposed dirty secrets, it influenced public opinion . . . it could draw scrutiny away from Wrexford and focus it elsewhere.
As Jeremy flagged down a hackney and helped her climb inside, Charlotte was already envisioning the design for tomorrow’s satirical print.
* * *
Shadows hung heavy in the high vaulted ceiling, casting a pall over the deserted library. It wasn’t just the cavernous silence or pervasive chill that gave the massive room a crypt-like feel. The books, decided Wrexford, had lifelessness to them, an aura of disinterested neglect. They sat slumbering on their shelves, the bindings cracking, the leather shriveling, the pages turning brittle with age, waiting to be awakened.
The only signs of stirring were the silvery clouds of dust motes kicked up when he moved from alcove to alcove.
The library ledgers, a set of three thick volumes penned in a number of different handwritings, were difficult to decipher. The index number given to each book in the collection seemed to be based on a bizarre system of logic only the first cataloguer could explain, and figuring out how they fit into the accompanying map of the room was a challenge. But finally, after several hours of poring over the faded pages, and exploring the alcoves formed by the jutting shelves, he began to make some sense of things.
A short while later, his diligence paid off. There, near the bottom of a page he matched the scrap found by Charlotte to an entry.
Artephius his secret Book. Manuscript 103.4—penned by Isaac Newton.
“Eureka,” he murmured, chafing some warmth back into his crabbed hands. He wished he had thought to bring the bottle of brandy with him. Setting the ledger aside, he took up the map. The next task was to track down its spot on the shelves and see what other volumes were grouped with it.
As he passed the central work cabinet, where all the ledgers and receipts were kept locked, Wrexford noted a magnificent gilt-framed oil painting hanging on the far wall. The daylight was weak in this section of the room, but something about it caught his eye.
He moved closer and studied it for a long moment. Though no expert in art, he had a modicum of knowledge on the subject and could recognize certain styles. This looked to be a Rembrandt—and a fine one at that. His own family seat had two similar works, but not nearly as grand.
A previous baron had possessed extremely good taste, he reflected. Or damnably good luck. It must be worth a fortune.
Which begged the question of why Canaday didn’t simply sell the painting if he were desperate for blunt. Discreetly, of course. No one liked to admit to stripping family treasures from future generations.
And there was always the possibility that the entail on the estate forbid the sale of such assets, he reminded himself. Like land, valuable items could be included in the patrimony that must be handed down through the ages. In many ways, a titled lord was merely a steward for his successor, though a goodly number of them squandered the family money, leaving their heirs with huge expenses and little recourse save to marry an heiress.
Wrexford gave it one last admiring look before turning back to the shelves. Whatever Canaday’s woes, they were not his concern.
Working methodically through the section indicated on the map, he found the manuscript’s assigned position. A quick search showed that according to the cataloguing system four, not three, other volumes were missing. He jotted down the numbers and headed back to the ledgers, his work almost done.
Another half hour passed before he stood and carefully tucked his notes into his pocket. At least he now had more than mere guesses as to why Holworthy had been murdered.
Not that the evidence made any sense. At least, not yet.
He found Canaday back in the main drawing room, his chair drawn close to a blazing fire, an empty bottle tipped over by his feet, its last dregs pooled darkly on the patterned carpet. He looked like death warmed over.
“I’m finished here,” he announced.
The baron raised his head. His throat muscles twitched, but he couldn’t seem to manage a word.
“What I found may be helpful in keeping both our necks out of the noose,” continued Wrexford. “Assuming what you have told me about not killing your cousin is true.”
A nervous nod and a croaked whisper. “As God is my judge, I’m not guilty of murder.”
“Your appeal ought to be directed to a more earthly power,” said Wrexford dryly. He retrieved his coat and hat. “By the by, if you’re so badly dipped, why not consider selling that striking Rembrandt painting hanging in the library? It’s worth far more than the books you dealt to Holworthy.”
