Page 12 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)
“Not particularly, lad.” He took a moment to stir the bubbling brew. “Though I concede that it was clever of you three to think of asking your friends whether they had witnessed anything suspicious.”
The earl folded the papers and put them on the work counter.
“These are simply the notes for Boyleston’s lecture to the Royal Society.
Apparently his talk was mostly about the history of research into electricity over the past few centuries and gave no details regarding the scientific paper he planned to submit for publication in the Society’s journal. ”
Raven’s face fell. “What else can we do?”
“At the moment, nothing,” said Wrexford. “Given how much time you’ve spent on your outside activities over the last few days, I would imagine that your primary concern should be preparing for your upcoming lessons with your tutor.”
At the mention of schoolwork, the boys slunk away without further comment.
Wrexford finished the final steps of brewing his concoction and then left a note for Tyler, delegating him to oversee the tedious task of soaking the papers in the chemical bath he had just designed to bring the ink back to life.
After grabbing a few hours of sleep—Charlotte was still in the Land of Nod—he headed off to track down Edward Milton, the Royal Society member who had initiated the confrontation with Atticus Boyleston on the night of the irascible engineer’s murder.
Knowing that Milton was a member of Boodle’s, the gentlemen’s club that catered to the gentry rather than the aristocracy, the earl cut through the center garden of Berkeley Square and headed for St. James’s Street.
“Really, sirrah, there is nothing more I can add to my account of the confrontation with Boyleston,” said Milton, lowering his newspaper with ill-disguised impatience as Wrexford approached him in the reading room of Boodle’s and requested a moment of his time to discuss the altercation with the murdered gentleman.
“I told that lummox of a Bow Street Runner everything that occurred—which had nothing to do with the ghastly crime that followed.”
“Nonetheless, I ask that you humor me,” replied Wrexford. “I have just a few additional questions.”
A wordless grumble, followed by an aggrieved sniff. “Very well. But only because you are known to be a gentleman of razor-sharp reason and logic.”
Wrexford made himself comfortable in the leather armchair next to Milton, which only deepened the man’s scowl. “As I understand it, the unpleasantness was instigated by you challenging Boyleston’s scientific conclusions.”
“His conclusions were not science, they were quackery!” exclaimed Milton. “Surely that’s evident to you.”
“My expertise is in the field of chemistry, and my understanding is the argument had to do with electricity and magnetism,” replied the earl. “As I have little knowledge in either discipline, might you explain to me why you think Boyleston’s ideas are all wrong?”
Newsprint crackled as Milton crumpled The Morning Gazette and let it fall to the carpet. “ Because …” Milton paused to modulate the sharpness of his tone. “Because it’s obvious that electricity and magnetism are two completely different forces.”
“Could you explain that to me in a little more detail?”
A sigh. “Surely you are familiar with the esteemed man of science Alessandro Volta, who invented the voltaic pile in 1800.”
Wrexford confirmed the assumption with a nod.
“Then as you know, the voltaic pile uses copper or zinc plates interleaved with cloth or paper soaked in liquid brine to create a chemical reaction, which in turn creates an electrical current.”
Milton stabbed a finger into the air, his sallow cheeks suddenly turning an angry shade of crimson. “Magnetism is a completely different force! Bloody hell, you’ve seen a lodestone or a compass, milord—it’s a force that attracts certain metals.”
“I understand your examples, which offer empirical evidence that the two forces can effect different reactions,” replied the earl. “But according to most people—even his detractors—Boyleston possessed a brilliant scientific mind, so I’m finding it hard to dismiss him as a quack or idiot.”
Milton looked away and muttered something under his breath.
“Boyleston thought his discovery was revolutionary—and he promised a momentous demonstration. Did he really give no hint as to what it was?”
‘He blathered on about some papers written by the French men of science with whom he worked in Paris, and several experiments conducted by the French Academy,” came the grudging reply.
“Can you be more specific?” prodded the earl.
“No, I cannot, sirrah!” blustered Milton. “I give little credence to ‘Continental science’! Why, since the days of our great Sir Isaac Newton, it has proved far inferior to our own understanding of natural phenomena.”
“I didn’t realize that science had a nationality,” murmured the earl. He couldn’t help but add, “By the by, isn’t the esteemed man of science Alessandro Volta an Italian?”
Milton’s only answer was an ill-tempered sniff.
Sensing that he would get no further useful information out of the pompous arse, Wrexford rose and with a brusque word of thanks took his leave.
Annoying though the encounter had been, he at least had a clue to follow. His next step was to identify someone in London who was familiar with the experimental work in electricity being done in France since the turn of the century.