Page 17 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)
“Nonetheless, it’s true,” assured Faraday.
“I had little formal education and at a young age was forced to find work to help support my family. I procured a position as a lowly clerk in a bookshop, which is where I happened to discover Conversations in Chemistry—Intended More Especially for the Female Sex , a book Mrs. Marcet wrote explaining the work of Humphry Davy in simplified terms for those with no knowledge of chemistry.”
A smile. “For me, it was transformational.”
“Is she a chemist?” asked Wrexford. “And if so, why have I never heard of her?”
“Mrs. Marcet is well educated in a variety of subjects. Her father, a wealthy Swiss banker, was an enlightened fellow and allowed his daughter to be educated along with her brothers in a broad curriculum of subjects,” answered Davy’s assistant.
“But in answer to your question, no, she is not a scholar, though she does have an interest in chemistry, and she and her husband conduct experiments in their home laboratory.”
Faraday gazed at the elaborate voltaic battery, with its maze of metal plates and curling wires. “Her true skills lie in having the ability to simplify complex ideas and explain them clearly to others who have little or no background in the subject.”
“No easy feat,” murmured Wrexford.
“No, indeed,” agreed Faraday. “Mrs. Marcet and her husband are part of a literary and scientific salon, whose members also include the Scottish polymath Mary Somerville and the historian Henry Hallam. I believe that is where she came to befriend Boyleston.”
“Do you know where I might find her?” asked Wrexford.
“I don’t move in the same social circles as she does, so I’m not aware of where she resides. But I shall ask around and send word to you when I learn her address, sir.”
“Many thanks.”
The earl then took his leave of Faraday and headed back up the stairs, lost in thought as he pondered all the unexpected revelations of the afternoon. The murder investigation had, in the space of an hour, been knocked arse over teakettle, and he hadn’t quite regained his equilibrium.
Pierson had told him to forget about the murder itself because it wasn’t important who had actually killed Boyleston. But something about it stuck in his craw, though he couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was.
In retrospect, it seemed likely that the murderer had always intended to leave a pistol made by Durs Egg at the scene of the crime.
It was, he conceded, a clever red herring, given the fact that Egg’s relative was a member of the Royal Society.
Even without the quarrel, the evidence would have distracted the authorities. Allowing the killer to …
To do what?
Why go through all the trouble—the theft of a pistol from Egg’s workshop, the staging of the murder scene—if the purpose of the crime was simply to prevent Boyleston from passing his invention of an electrical telegraph to the British government?
The killer could easily have fled with little chance of being apprehended.
It made no logical sense. And that bothered Wrexford.
A great deal, in fact …
“ Alors, c’est magnifique! ”
An unexpected exclamation in French startled the earl out of his brooding. He looked around as he stepped from the top stair into the grand, marble-tiled entrance hall, wondering if his mind was playing tricks and he had merely imagined the voice.
But no—a quartet of gentlemen led by William Brande, one of the directors of the Royal Institution, was gathered by a display of gilt-framed oil paintings portraying the illustrious men of science from Britain’s past, and another burst of French sounded before the speaker switched to English.
“I am a great admirer of Sir Godfrey Kneller’s paintings, and this one of Sir Isaac Newton is a particularly fine example of his work.”
Brande spotted the earl and beckoned him to join the group.
“Ah, Wrexford, do come and meet Monsieur Pierre Ducasse, who is visiting us from Paris. He has been hired by the French Académie des Sciences to paint a series of portraits of Britain’s scientific luminaries to be displayed in their headquarters. ”
“As a symbol of amitié , now that our two great countries are at peace,” added Ducasse with a genial smile. He was, noted the earl, a handsome man, with a mane of wavy dark hair, a straight nose and a sensuous mouth that likely earned him fluttery sighs from the ladies.
“You ought to consider adding Wrexford to your list of subjects, monsieur,” said Brande, after he had performed the formal introduction. “He is one of the pre-eminent chemists in Britain.”
“Absolutely not,” replied the earl. “I lack the patience to sit for a portrait.”
“What a pity,” said the Frenchman. His amber-hued gaze subjected Wrexford to a prolonged scrutiny before he added, “You have a very interesting visage, milord.”
“Choose someone who enjoys such flummery, sir,” replied Wrexford. “I have no desire to have my phiz hung on a wall for strangers to ogle.”
Ducasse laughed. “We shall see. I can be very persuasive.”
“Lady Wrexford is a connoisseur of art,” offered Sir George Woburn, a fellow chemist who was part of the group, “and a very fine watercolorist, so perhaps you can enlist her to help change the earl’s mind.”
The suggestion was seconded by the gentleman next to Woburn, another of the earl’s scientific colleagues.
Wrexford raised a brow in warning at the two of them. “I assure you, my wife has better things to do with her time. As do I.”
“We are having a reception tomorrow evening for Monsieur Ducasse, which will include some of the leaders of the French émigré community here in London,” said Brande. “As an esteemed member of our board of governors, I hope you will be able to join us, Wrexford.”
Wrexford was about to demur but then decided that the opportunity to mingle with Ducasse and his fellow countrymen might be of use to his new mission. “Very well,” he responded.
“ Bon! ” exclaimed the Frenchman. “I look forward to furthering our acquaintance, milord.”
Another thought came to mind. “Faraday was just telling me about a scholarly woman named Jane Marcet, who made Humphry Davy’s chemistry more accessible to laymen. Perhaps we should show Monsieur Ducasse how broad-minded the scientific world is here in Britain and invite her to attend as well.”
Brande made a face. “The event is not a social event, milord. It is a serious gathering for gentlemen only, as we shall be discussing scientific issues as well as the business of forging closer ties with our French counterparts.” He forced a prim smile. “We would only bore the ladies.”
“Because those of the opposite sex have naught but feathers for brains?” retorted Wrexford.
Nostrils flaring in irritation, Brande chose to ignore the comment. He looked to Ducasse, whose eyes held a glint of amusement over the exchange. “Shall we move on to the library, where we have some champagne set out for a welcoming toast?”
“Would you care to join us, Wrexford?” asked Sir George.
“Thank you, but I must be going.” The earl took his leave from the group with a gruff nod, happy to have at least poked a pin into Brande’s puffed-up pretentions of male superiority, and made his way out to the street.
He was anxious to return to the quiet of his workroom and reflect on the sudden new twists in the investigation.