“Mrs. Sloane has already made momentous progress in deciphering the art of alchemy. In fact, she’s identified the drawing on Drummond’s hand. It’s a dragon—which is the symbol of mercury.”
The surgeon let out a low whistle.
“His Lordship has made some interesting discoveries as well,” offered Charlotte. “He discovered papers in Drummond’s laboratory that warn of evil brewing within the Royal Institution.”
Wrexford quickly explained about the charred fragments of writing and his interpretation of their meaning.
“You think Drummond’s accusations are credible?” asked Henning.
“The man was murdered,” he pointed out. “And we’ve also uncovered a connection between Reverend Holworthy, Canaday, and a batch of rare books on alchemy.”
“Well, that certainly tosses a few more ingredients into the bubbling crucible,” observed the surgeon. “Tell me more.”
Charlotte, who had been drawing random images on her sketchpad, looked up, a troubled expression clouding her eyes.
Wrexford felt a pinch of guilt. At this moment, she must be feeling as if her carefully constructed world was in danger of crumbling into dust.
His own life was, he supposed, hanging in the balance, but he hadn’t spent any time worrying over the vagaries of Chance. A certain sense of fatality, perhaps. Or, more likely, a casual confidence that Lady Luck, who had always been sweet on him, wouldn’t withdraw her favors quite yet.
He watched the subtle play of emotions on Charlotte’s features as she stared into the shadows. Then again, the heart of it was that he didn’t really care enough about anything to feel as deeply as she did. Sheffield, in a moment of alcohol-induced honesty, had accused him of using detachment as a defense.
You hide behind a facade of devil-may-care indifference, Wrex.
Was it true? Wrexford quickly dismissed the thought. Let Byron and his fellow poets plumb the depths of regret and despair. He wasn’t much interested in introspection.
And while he admired Mrs. Sloane’s passionate belief that truth and justice mattered, he wondered whether she had fully realized until now that passions always come with a price.
Or whether she was truly willing to pay it.
Death had a way of bringing out secrets. The revelation of A. J. Quill’s true identity would end her life as she knew it.
Henning cleared his throat with a cough, drawing Wrexford out of his musing.
“Mrs. Sloane found evidence that Holworthy had a book on alchemy with him when he was murdered,” he answered, and then went on to give a summary of what they had pieced together so far.
Listening to his own words only amplified his frustrations with the investigation. For an instant, he was bedeviled by the sensation that in spite of all the discoveries, the shadows still had no substance.Poof—like vapor, they simply dissolved into nothing as his fingers closed around them.
Logic, logic, Wrexford reminded himself. Scientific method called for an orderly sequence of steps in order to discover the correct answer.
“At this point, the next reasonable step seems to concentrate on identifying any of the Institution members who are fair-haired. It may be a wild goose chase, I know, and yet it’s the only solid clue so far.” He paused, feeling another clench of frustration. “It would be enormously helpful if I could ask Lowell, but given his position at the Royal Institution he might feel compelled to inform the Runner.”
“Lowell?” repeated Henning. “Slender fellow, of average height with auburn hair?”
“Yes.”
“I hadn’t heard that he’d been appointed as a lecturer,” mused Henning. “But it doesn’t surprise me. Davy has a knack for spotting the best minds in the scientific world, and Lowell is a brilliant chemist.”
Wrexford shook his head. “You’re mistaken,” he replied. “The fellow has no interest in chemistry. His only scientific focus is butterflies, and that’s merely a hobby. As for his position at the Institution, it’s merely administrative.”
“Nay, it’s you who’s got it argle-bargled, laddie,” insisted the surgeon. “Lowell spent a year in Scotland studying under a good friend of mine. McLachlan’s an odd duck—got himself dismissed from the faculty at St. Andrews University for feuding with the powers-that-be, so he’s now a curmudgeonly recluse who works alone. But he’s still considered a brilliant mind. And he told me that Lowell’s skills in the laboratory bordered on supernatural.”
If that was true, then Lowell had deliberately lied. “Are you positive?”
“Aye. Julian Lowell was a veritable wizard when it came to analyzing arcane elements and understanding their potential. I believe he created a new formula for a lucifer match during his time there, which allowed for a flame to be struck under damp conditions.”
“Ah. Wrong Lowell,” said Wrexford, feeling himself relax. “Our fellow is Declan Lowell, the Marquess of Carnsworth’s younger son.”
Henning gave a grunt. “Nay, McLachlan’s Lowell certainly didn’t sound like an aristocrat. My friend said he was a strange fellow, with an intensity about his work that bordered on frightening.”
