Page 18 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)

A short walk brought him home, and as he headed down the corridor toward the back of the townhouse, a peal of laughter from the Blue Parlor informed him that Charlotte’s great-aunt had returned from her stay in Bath.

“I trust you had a pleasant visit with your friends,” said Wrexford as he joined them.

“I did,” replied Alison, “aside from the dreadful hours spent soaking in the sulfurous-smelling pools of the spa.”

“You did admit that your knees feel better,” said Charlotte.

“Which is quite fortuitous, as it appears we have yet another diabolical intrigue to unravel,” responded the dowager.

Charlotte locked eyes with the earl. “Alison is now aware of all that has happened while she was away.”

“Be that as it may, things have changed considerably in the last few hours,” he replied. “I had a brief encounter with George Pierson, who as you both know is Grentham’s most trusted operative.”

The dowager darted a quick look at Charlotte before releasing a troubled sigh. “It’s always worrisome when our investigations cross paths with those of Lord Grentham.”

Wrexford didn’t disagree. There had been several times in the past when they all had feared that the minister of state security had discovered that Charlotte was, in fact, the infamous satirical artist A. J. Quill. But so far, there had been no indication that there was any truth to their worries.

However, the less they dealt with the minister, the better.

“Indeed,” he said. “I have agreed to undertake a mission for the government, but with the firm understanding that Grentham and his operatives stay well away from us and don’t interfere.”

“What sort of—” began Charlotte.

“I need to think things through a bit more before gathering our inner circle and having one of our councils of war,” interjected Wrexford.

Alison nodded in understanding. “Of course. Though it goes without saying that I’m to be included when the time comes.”

Wrexford eyed her cane and smiled. “I prefer my shins to remain unbruised, so you may count on it.”

He turned to go, then paused. “By the by, do either of you know a Jane Marcet?”

“Why yes,” answered the dowager. “She frequently attends Lady Thirkell’s salon for intellectually minded women, and I find her to be very engaging and quite knowledgeable on a wide range of subjects.”

To Charlotte, she added, “As I recall, you met her once and had an interesting conversation on the art of Thomas Lawrence, with whom she studied painting for a time.”

“Ah, I do remember her,” mused Charlotte. “A fascinating woman. She writes books on science that aim to explain complex ideas to those with little knowledge in the field.”

“I recently heard she’s in the process of penning a new work called Conversations on Political Economy ,” added Alison, “in which she aims to explain the ideas of Adam Smith, Thomas Malthus, and David Ricardo.”

“You’ve already proved to be an invaluable sleuth,” observed Wrexford, his interest in the lady further piqued by the mention of Ricardo. “Do you perchance know where she lives?”

“No, but it so happens that Lady Thirkell is having a soiree tomorrow evening.” She raised an inquiring brow at Charlotte. “Perhaps you should come. Mrs. Marcet occasionally attends the meetings.”

“A good suggestion,” agreed Charlotte. “I shall do so.”

The dowager raised her quizzing glass and regarded the clock on the mantel. “Good heavens, it’s later than I realized.” A sigh. “I ought to toddle home. I confess that I’m still feeling a trifle fatigued from the traveling.”

Charlotte quickly rose and offered her a hand up.

“Don’t forget, Wrex …” Alison grasped her cane and gave it a waggle. “I expect to be kept informed.”

After escorting the dowager to her waiting carriage, Charlotte re-entered the townhouse and made a beeline for the earl’s workroom. Wrexford was at his desk, papers filled with scribbled notes spread out across his blotter.

“What did Pierson want?” she demanded without preamble. “Nothing good, I imagine.”

The earl sat back in his chair, the flicking lamplight accentuating the lines of fatigue etched at the corners of his eyes.

“The government has reason to believe that the French may have invented a new technology that would give them a critical edge over all other competitors—including us—in economics, politics …” His pause seemed quite deliberate. “And warfare.”

“B-But …” Charlotte felt her innards clench. “We’re not at war.”

“Not at present.”

“Good God.” For a moment, she couldn’t seem to draw a breath. “Grentham thinks it’s a possibility?”

“So it would seem,” answered Wrexford softly.

“Pierson, who mentioned that he is leaving tonight for the Mediterranean, asked me for urgent help in learning whether the French have a working model of an electrical telegraph—a technology capable of sending messages within mere seconds or minutes rather than hours or days.”

He hesitated. “Even more important, Pierson wishes for me to discover whether Boyleston had succeeded in creating an electrical telegraph. For it’s possible he was killed not only to prevent him from sharing the invention with our government, but because the French haven’t succeeded and wished to steal the new technology for themselves. ”

She stared at him in mute shock.

“Granted, it may be some elaborate ruse to trick me into doing something that I wouldn’t otherwise accept.” He checked his notes. “But I don’t think so.”

“Even they wouldn’t be that manipulative.” Finding her legs a little unsteady, Charlotte took a seat on the edge of his desk. “Hell’s bells, so Grentham and Pierson think that the public demonstration Boyleston promised on the night of his murder was to unveil …”

“Yes, he had worked with the leading French men of science during his sojourns to Paris,” interjected Wrexford.

“And I just had a sobering conversation with Michael Faraday, who is one of our country’s leading experts on electricity.

He’s adamant that the technology is possible, and that it’s only a matter of time before someone figures out a practical way to build it. ”

He picked up his pencil and rolled it between his palms. “The question is, has that time arrived?”

She thought over the revelation. “So, the strategic advantage of an electric telegraph is—”

“The invention would revolutionize many aspects of life, but the government’s primary concern at the moment is communication on the battlefield,” interjected the earl.

“The ability to react to the action as it unfolds and send messages in a flash to the different divisions, rather than dispatch couriers on horseback, would be an incalculable edge.”

The ensuing silence seemed to squeeze the light from the lamp flame. It flickered for a moment before regaining its fire.

“You mentioned practicality,” said Charlotte. “My understanding is that the current from a voltaic pile flows along a wire. How would an army manage the logistics of stringing wires on a battlefield?”

“A good question,” conceded Wrexford. “But even a few wires covering short distances to divisional commanders would offer a huge advantage. However, you’re right. There is much we need to learn.”

“And you think Jane Marcet may be of help?”

“Faraday is under the impression that she had developed a friendship with Boyleston, apparently no mean feat given his crotchety personality, so I think it imperative that I meet with her.”

Wrexford ran a hand through his hair. “Right after my conversation with Faraday, I had an odd encounter, and given the government’s fears that a French threat is indeed looming in the shadows, it strikes me as unsettling.”

“How so?” she asked,

“I stumbled into a tour being given of the Royal Institution,” he continued.

“One of the directors was playing host to a Frenchman who has recently arrived in London and says that he’s been commissioned to paint portraits of our leading men of science for the Académie des Sciences in Paris.

It is supposedly a gesture of camaraderie for a new era of cooperation. ”

“And you think the man may be a wolf in sheep’s clothing?” asked Charlotte.

“Put that way, it does sound far-fetched,” admitted the earl. “And yet …”

“If we’re on the hunt for possible conspirators here in London, I think a more likely possibility are the three miscreants from the warehouse,” opined Charlotte.

“The tufts of silvery hair suggest that one of them might have been wearing a wig and false side-whiskers that night. Which could mean he was the unidentified stranger at the Royal Society—and thus Boyleston’s killer. ”

“Perhaps you think that because you’re taking the attack on the Weasels very personally,” he pointed out.

“Guilty as charged,” admitted Charlotte. “That still doesn’t make me wrong.”

That made Wrexford give a grudging smile.

“Has Tyler finished treating the paper scraps we found?” she continued. “If we find any writing in French, then I think you must take my suggestion seriously.”

“Or perhaps our suspects are all part of some nefarious plot whose ultimate purpose remains a total mystery.” Wrexford shrugged.

“But one step at a time. Tyler is in the final stage of drying the papers in the kitchen oven. In another half hour we should know whether anything of interest has been brought to light.”

Charlotte rose, impatient to act and yet aware that flailing around in the dark would do them no good. She moved to the hearth and stirred the coals to life as the earl turned his attention back to his notes.

“I have been invited to a reception in honor of the French portrait painter,” he continued, without looking up. “Alas, ladies are excluded from this particular gathering, as the discussions concerning science have been deemed too serious for their flighty intellect.”

“I shall refrain from voicing any gross generalizations concerning pompous prigs whose brains are pickled in brandy.”

“It’s a pity, as I would very much welcome your impression of the French artist,” continued Wrexford. “He tried to convince me to be one of his subjects—”

“Ha! You don’t have the patience to sit for a portrait!” she interjected.

“That’s what I told him. However, one of my colleagues mentioned that he might have a chance of changing my mind if he spoke with you.”

“Try to find out what other social engagements are planned for him, and I shall contrive to attend one of them.”

He nodded vaguely as he added a few more scribbles to one of his note papers.

“Milord, m’lady.” Tyler suddenly appeared in the doorway of the adjacent library. “You need to see this.”

Wrexford was out of his chair in a flash. Charlotte was right on his heels as he headed to the large worktable set by the arched windows looking out over the back gardens. The draperies had been drawn, and the only source of illumination on the objects came from a powerful Argand lamp.

The scraps of paper they had collected from the deserted warehouse lay on a piece of black pasteboard. Tyler had placed a sheet of glass over them to keep the curling edges flat.

“I’ve brought a magnifying glass,” said the valet, offering the silver-handled instrument to Wrexford.

Charlotte held her breath as he leaned down to inspect the enhanced scribbles of ink, not entirely sure of whether she wanted her suspicions to be correct.

He took his time, shifting his stance to scrutinize them from several different angles.

A glance at Tyler proved unhelpful. His expression gave away nothing.

At last, the earl looked up and offered her the magnifying glass. “ Voilà .”

Charlotte took it without comment and made her own examination. “So, at least one of the papers the men burned was written in French!” she exclaimed “And the message included the word rendezvous .”

A pause. “Before you say anything, I’m aware that it doesn’t necessarily mean they have anything to do with Grentham’s concern.” She put the magnifying glass down on the table. “But neither can we dismiss the possibility.”

“Which means that tomorrow we must begin trying to find some threads to follow,” said Wrexford, “so that we may quickly unravel the truth.”