“From One, Learn All,” translated Charlotte.
“Ye god,” said Henning, echoing the earl. “I could have stared at that until Doomsday and not seen it.”
“I respond to visual images,” she said simply. “I suppose you can say that art gives me a different perception of the world.”
“And a brilliant one at that,” observed the surgeon. “Kudos to you, lassie.” He looked to the earl and raised his bushy brows. “It seems to me Mrs. Sloane has found your murderer.”
“Lowell is guilty of something,” said Wrexford slowly. “I’m just not quite sure of what.”
Puff, puff.A scrim of smoke now hazed the room. “You have the incriminating scrap from Drummond’s laboratory, and it clearly warns that Golden One is concocting some dangerous chemical substance for a nefarious purpose,” pointed out Henning. “Alchemy terms are mentioned, and you know that Holworthy got alchemy books from his cousin, was spotted within the Institution, and then was murdered. And on top of that, I told you about the recent thefts of mercury from a number of apothecaries. The superintendent of the Institution would have intimate knowledge of all the stocks of chemicals throughout London.”
Wrexham pursed his lips.
“Ergo,” finished Henning, “it seems a logical deduction that Lowell is the villain.”
“I doubt Griffin will agree,” countered the earl. “Logical though it may sound to us, it’s still mostly conjecture—and even more telling is the fact that we haven’t a shred of evidence to show what he’s supposedly concocting or how it is to be used.”
“Show him the charred fragments,” said the surgeon.
“The charred fragments thatIstole from the laboratory?” The earl slowly curled a sardonic smile. “Do you really think the Runner is going to be inclined to take my word for it that I didn’t try to burn them in the first place?”
“I have to agree with His Lordship,” cut in Charlotte. “You see, the question of guilt is not as clear-cut as we might wish, Mr. Henning. We’ve discovered another element to the mystery of the murders, and as of yet have not worked out how it fits in. It, too, may involve alchemy.”
“Alchemy rears its ugly head in yet another guise?” quipped Henning. “Well, well. We’ve certainly got a potent brew of unknown ingredients coming to a boil.” He flicked a bit of ash from his cuff. “Which threaten to transmute Wrexford from a Tulip of thetonto a rotting corpse.”
“How edifying that my situation serves as a source of amusement to my friends,” said the earl dryly.
The surgeon shrugged. “One must laugh at the vagaries of Life, laddie.” He blew out a perfect smoke ring and watched it float up to the rafters. “Now, tell me about the other problem.”
Charlotte looked to the earl, suddenly feeling too weary to explain. She was like a fly caught in a spider’s web, with the delicate filaments inexorably wrapping round and round, their deceptive strength squeezing and squeezing....
As Wrexford began to tell his friend about the suspected art forgeries and their connection to her husband’s death, she braced her elbows on the desk and pressed her palms to her eyes. Beneath her heat-prickled skin, her blood felt feverish.
It was I who dared spark the fire, she reminded herself. And fire was an elemental force in alchemy. She had known the ingredients were dangerous—The Ancients were powerful men—and yet she had gone ahead with her print. If Lowell, the son of a marquess, was allied with them, there was no telling what they would do to retaliate.
And the most likely target was Wrexford. Once a noose was around his neck, the murders would quickly be forgotten.
A touch to her shoulder drew her out of her chilling thoughts. “You’re pale as a cod’s underbelly, Mrs. Sloane. Take a drink of brandy,” counseled Henning.
“I don’t have any brandy,” answered Charlotte, feeling the absurd urge to laugh.
“Ah, but I do.” Taking her hands, he wrapped them around a flask. “Drink,” he commanded.
She did, and somehow the alchemy of fire mixed with fire was surprisingly comforting.
“Now, assuming you don’t mean to sit meekly and wait for the noose to loop around your neck,” said Henning to the earl, “what the devil are you going to do next?”
Wrexford seemed to retreat into himself. All the chiseled planes and angles of his face became as emotionless as granite. Charlotte was tempted to take up her sketchpad and try to capture the supreme sense of self-command. But she felt too spent to reach for paper and pencil. Far more appealing was the thought of taking refuge in her upstairs bedroom and seeking blissful oblivion in sleep.
But then, bad dreams might be even worse than her own wakeful imagination.
The earl finally responded to Henning’s question.
“As to that, I’ve an idea. It’s time for the hunter to become the hunted.”
CHAPTER 19
It was nearly midnight, but the shadows flitting through the dimly lit room couldn’t quite hide Tyler’s disgruntled expression. “Are you sure I shouldn’t come with you?”
