“So you think Canaday murdered him? And that somehow Drummond discovered the fact and was killed to keep him from revealing it?”
Wrexford shook his head. “No, actually I’m convinced Canaday is not involved in the murders. He hasn’t the nerve for it. Holworthy is at the center of whatever evil is afoot. He took advantage of the fact that the baron was in financial trouble.”
The earl paused. “By the by, Canaday possesses a magnificent painting by Rembrandt. As an artist, you would have appreciated the exquisite nuances of detail. I’m no expert, but he used lights and darks to create a very powerful portrait of a Dutch burgher in all his glory.”
Charlotte felt a sudden tightening in her chest. Her heart began to thump against her ribs. “Could you describe it to me?”
His brows arched in bemusement. “I understand you are passionate about the subject, but given the other pressing concerns, perhaps we should defer a discussion on art until later.”
“Please. It could be important.”
Though still looking faintly puzzled, he did as she asked.
Charlotte quickly fetched a small portfolio from the tiny back room and spread out some pastel sketches on the table. “Was it like this one?”
She heard a sharp intake of breath.
“Yes, that’s it exactly.”
“Good Lord. I think I may know . . .” Charlotte had an idea but it seemed too awful to put into words. And yet, its very smarminess was exactly the reason why it might be right.
“Know what?” pressed Wrexford.
“What attracted Stoughton and his friend—I’ve remembered that his name was St. Alban or something like that—to Anthony.”
Wrexford went very still and his gaze turned shuttered. In the silence, she could almost hear the gears whirring inside his head.
“Copying masterworks is an exercise many painters do in order to keep their technical skills sharp. It’s a little like a musician playing scales, though the added benefit is that by seeing a subject through the eyes of a great artist one gains a new perspective on creativity.” She studied the sketches, feeling a surge of both sadness and anger well up inside her. “I assumed Anthony was simply copying a painting on display at the Royal Academy. But in this light, it seems like it had a more sinister purpose.”
“You think he was recruited to forge the painting?”
“It makes sense of all the things that seemed inexplicable until now.” Charlotte thought back over the hellish last months of her husband’s life. “His long absences, his mental anguish.” She bit her lip. “His guilt. Anthony loved the idealism of art. He would have hated himself for perverting that.”
“But you said he repeatedly mentioned the wordalchemyin his final days,” pointed out Wrexford. “And that he had strange burns on his hands. How do you explain that?”
“I can’t.” Her hands balled into fists as she thought about the drawing she had made the previous night. “However, I am positive that we’ve discovered part of the answer, and I would bet my life that the other part also lies within the group of miscreants who call themselves The Ancients.”
He rose and began to pace, thethump-thumpof his boots on the rough-planked floor beating an agitated tattoo.
“Old Masters paintings are worth a great deal of money,” she went on. “A ring who could create superb forgeries of the originals and then sell them to wealthy collectors could have a very profitable business.”
“I’ve a friend who is acquainted with St. Aubin and says he’s a veritable son of Satan,” he muttered. “So I can well believe he’s mixed up in some havey-cavey business.”
Wrexford pivoted and retraced his steps. He was a very large man in a very small space—he must feel like one of the caged lions on display at the Tower.
“Facts.” The earl was frowning. “We need to find the facts that tie alchemy and art together.”
“And just how do you intend to do that?” It came out a little more sarcastically than she intended. “From what I hear, Bow Street is within a hairsbreadth of arresting you for both murders.”
“I shall solve this blasted conundrum by taking care that the distance between Mr. Griffin’s grasping hands and my humble self does not get any narrower,” he answered.
Confident words, bordering on arrogance. Charlotte wondered what it would be like to feel that aura of invincibility. In her experience, the gods did not look kindly on such hubris.
Still, she found her spirits buoyed by his attitude. “You harp on facts—very well, let us compile a list of them.”
Paper and pencil was close at hand. Charlotte slid over a sheet of foolscap and wrote two headings at the top, then drew a dividing line down the middle to make two columns. “It seems we have two different conundrums going on. One that concerns art and one that concerns alchemy. Let’s start with art, which seems the simpler one to assess.”
Together they created a numbered list, based purely on the knowledge they had in hand, not conjecture. Then they moved on to start filling out the second column.
