Page 14 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)
“E xplain yourself,” said Wrexford. “Not that I’m entirely sure I can trust your answer.”
“Then I shall try to be very convincing, because I wasn’t jesting about the possible threat to our nation,” retorted Pierson. “And though it pains me to admit it, you are the one person we trust with this secret.”
“I’m listening.”
“One of our operatives in Paris discovered a certain letter that raises some profoundly disturbing questions.”
The mention of France prompted Wrexford to sit up a little straighter. “But the newly restored Bourbon king is our ally—and a grateful one at that.” A pause. “Isn’t he?”
“Don’t be so na?ve, milord. We don’t just spy on the official government.
Our network keeps a close eye on foreign operatives, as well as any other groups that may pose a threat to our interests.
” Pierson tapped his fingertips together.
“As you can well imagine, there are a great many people in Paris whose sympathies lie with someone other than the king.”
Wrexford remained silent.
“Getting back to the letter, it was written by Pierre-Simon Laplace, who as you know is considered the French Sir Isaac Newton—in other words, a genius in scientific thinking. It was written to André-Marie Ampère, another leading man of science in France who has been experimenting with something he calls electromagnetism.”
Electricity and magnetism—the exact subject of Boyleston’s presentation to the Royal Society , thought the earl. And suddenly a current of sparks was prickling down the length of his spine.
“The letter implies that Ampère’s work in developing a theory of electromagnetism—if such a force actually exists—may be leading him to experiment with a revolutionary means of communication—an electric telegraph, if you will,” explained Grentham’s operative.
“One that could send a message almost instantaneously from one point to another.”
“Revolutionary, indeed,” murmured the earl.
“As you can imagine, this discovery would have momentous implications for the world of economics, politics …” Pierson allowed a deliberate pause. “And, of course, for military applications.”
“But the world is at peace,” pointed out Wrexford.
“So it is,” responded Pierson.
Which was, decided the earl, an oddly evasive response.
“Nonetheless,” continued Grentham’s operative, “we have our operatives doing all they can to discover whether or not the French have created such a technology.”
“So what does that have to do with me?”
“Don’t play the fool, milord.”
“You think that Boyleston was experimenting with the same concept?” said Wrexford.
“It seems highly likely, given his fraternization with the French luminaries of science over the course of the last decade,” replied Pierson.
“As I said, finding Boyleston’s killer isn’t our main concern.
We need you to find out whether Boyleston’s research papers reveal whether the French have a working telegraph—and at the same time discover whether Boyleston has succeeded in creating one, too. ”
The earl turned to stare out the small paned windows of the carriage, watching the familiar buildings of Mayfair pass by as he considered what he had just heard.
“So, will you agree to take on the mission?” asked Pierson, after the carriage turned onto Berkeley Street.
“First of all, I need to ask the key question—what’s the threat to our government?”
A humorless laugh. “Oh, come, you’re a clever fellow, Wrexford. Use your imagination.”
The earl took his time to mull over what he had just heard.
It required damnably little imagination to comprehend what Pierson meant.
A former ruler and indisputable military genius sitting just a stone’s throw from his former throne?
Much as he wished to dismiss the threat of Napoleon seeking to recapture his former glory as absurd, he couldn’t in good conscience do so.
“So, you think Boyleston was murdered to keep him from sharing his momentous invention of an electrical telegraph with our government?”
“Possibly. But we can’t afford to merely guess.”
“Is there any other information that you’re holding back from me?” he demanded.
“No.”
“And do you give me your word that I have free rein to investigate without your minions attempting to shadow my every move?” said Wrexford. “I refuse to be constantly tripping over their clumsy feet. You either trust me, or you don’t.”
“I don’t quite know how you manage it, but your operatives do seem to be cleverer than ours,” said Pierson. “So it would be foolish of me to stand on protocol.”
“Lastly, you must inform Durs Egg that his relative’s incarceration is needed for a time to help the government in an important investigation. He’s proved his trustworthiness regarding sensitive government secrets, so you owe him that.”
“Fine,” muttered Pierson.
“Then, yes. I’ll accept the assignment—on the understanding that I’ll withdraw in a heartbeat if I sense that you’ve reneged on any of your promises.”
“Excellent, we have a deal.” Pierson’s face was in shadow, so it was impossible to make out his expression. But Wrexford thought he detected an uncharacteristic note of relief in the operative’s voice.
“There is just one administrative matter to add. I will be leaving the country this evening, so any further communication about this matter must be with Lord Grentham—and only Lord Grentham.”
The two bits of news only amplified the crackling of tension in the air. “Where are you going?”
“I have some business to attend to in the Mediterranean,” answered Pierson. “I can’t stress enough that the reason for this investigation must remain a secret.”
Wrexford didn’t bother to reply. “Anything else?”
“Don’t let us down.”
Wrexford clicked open the door and stepped out of the carriage.
“Good luck, milord. And good hunting.”
“Well, did you manage to winkle any information out of Tyler?” demanded Hawk, looking up from the watercolor sketch he was making of an orchid as Raven hurried into the schoolroom.
“Yes and no.” He made a face and punctuated the answer with a frustrated sigh.
Aware of the activity in the earl’s laboratory since early morning, the boys had been all afire with curiosity to know what was going on. But with their lessons looming, they had wisely decided to defer any investigation until after their tutor had left.
“It seems that the varlet who shot at us and his cohorts were indeed up to something havey-cavey,” continued Raven.
“Wrex and Mr. Sheffield went to the warehouse late last night to have a look around—as did m’lady and Tyler …
” He quickly explained about the encounter, as well as the burned papers that had been fished out of the fireplace.
“What do the papers say?” pressed Peregrine.
“Dunno yet. Tyler has them soaking in a chemical solution that Wrex concocted to see if the ink can be brought back to life. He said it will be another few hours before he can begin the process of drying them.”
“Then it seems we must be patient,” mused Peregrine. He was lying on his belly, tinkering with the balky winch mechanism that had nearly cost Raven his life. A metallic rattling sounded as he sorted through a can of screws and chose one. “There’s nothing we can do at the moment to help.”
“Oiy, Falcon is right,” agreed Hawk. “We ought not go flapping around on our own. Wrex and m’lady appear awfully unsettled by recent events. It’s best for us to wait for specific orders.”
“I don’t like it.” Raven’s expression turned mulish. “If they think that they can start coddling us as if we are normal little aristocratic schoolboys with no clue as to what goes on in the wolf-eat-wolf real world, they had better think again.”
“They wouldn’t,” assured Hawk. His brow puckered. “ Would they?”
The question hung in the air, the silence growing heavier with every passing moment.
Harper stirred from his sleep and pricked up his ears.
“As m’lady is wont to say, let’s not start seeing specters lurking in every corner when there’s naught but harmless shadows flitting in circles,” counseled Peregrine.
Raven muttered something under his breath, but aware that his fellow Weasels were watching him intently, he gave a gruff nod. “I s’ppose that makes sense.” A pause. “For now.”
Hawk and Peregrine returned to their projects, but after picking up a book on mathematics and finding it impossible to concentrate on the contents, Raven quietly closed the covers and left the room.
It was a short walk from Berkeley Square to the Sheffield residence on Half Moon Street. The butler, who was used to Raven’s frequent visits for his mathematical lessons with Cordelia, welcomed him with a smile.
“She is in her workroom, Master Thomas.” Like all proper butlers, he was a stickler for the rules of Polite Society and insisted on calling Raven by his official name. “Mister Sheffield is with her.”
A pause. “Brush the crumbs from your jacket before you enter. A gentleman must mind his manners.”
After obeying the admonition—though not without rolling his eyes—Raven hurried down the corridor to the rear of the house.
Cordelia had chosen a light-filled room overlooking the back garden as her study. The door was half-open, and loath to interrupt the conversation in progress, he paused for a moment to comb his fingers through his unruly hair and straighten his lapels.
“… As I’ve mentioned, over the last few years, David Ricardo has participated in several syndicates which have brought to market large flotations of British government debt, which our country has issued for the last sixty years to pay for our military activities abroad—in particular, the last two decades of our wars with France. ”
It was Sheffield speaking.