Page 19 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)
T he murmur of masculine voices, its buzz mellowed as it resonated off the dark wood paneling of the reception room, was punctuated by the clink of crystal and the fizz of champagne—leaving no doubt that the gathering in honor of the French artist was already in high spirits.
“Wipe that scowl off your phiz,” advised Sheffield as Wrexford paused in the shadows of the entrance archway.
He had been informed that morning of the latest developments, and Charlotte had deemed it a good idea for him to accompany the earl to the reception.
“One coaxes out more information with honey than with vinegar,” he added.
“I’ve no desire to sweeten up Monsieur Ducasse,” Wrexford muttered. “Though given Grentham’s concern and what we discovered from the warehouse papers last night, he must be considered a possible suspect.”
“That’s why Charlotte insisted that I come with you,” replied his friend. “I have far more experience in acting like a super ficial fribble. I shall do my best to strike up a camaraderie with the fellow and see what I can learn.”
“Ah, welcome, Wrexford. I wasn’t sure that we would have the pleasure of your company.
” Brande gestured for the earl and Sheffield to join the circle of dignitaries gathered at the refreshment table.
“And you, Mr. Sheffield. We rarely have the pleasure of your company here at the Royal Institution.”
“Oh, you know me—I haven’t got a serious bone in my body,” drawled Sheffield. “However, Wrex informed me that you are known for holding very festive parties.”
“A fellow bon vivant?” Ducasse raised his glass in salute. “Thank heavens I’m now not alone in having no head for science.”
“Monsieur Ducasse is an artist,” explained Wrexford.
“Who very much wishes to paint your friend’s portrait,” added the Frenchman.
“I wish you luck.” Sheffield took a glass of wine from one of the waiters and returned the salute. “Though Lady Wrexford has often mentioned that she would like to add his likeness to the family portrait gallery.”
“Indeed?” Ducasse made a tsking sound. “Surely you don’t wish to disappoint Her Ladyship, milord?”
“My friend exaggerates,” replied the earl.
Sheffield waggled his brows. “I assure you I don’t.
Indeed, if you care to meet me tomorrow afternoon at the Royal Academy of Arts, I should be happy to introduce you to Lady Wrexford, who is a discerning connoisseur of art.
I am escorting her to view the new winter exhibit, which opened last week. ”
“ Merci! I accept with great pleasure,” exclaimed Ducasse. “I shall, as you English say, be able to kill two birds with one stone.”
An interesting choice of metaphors , thought Wrexford.
“The Royal Academy exhibit is high on my list of things to see in London,” continued the Frenchman. “And now I will not only be able to do so with a knowledgeable guide.” A wink. “But I shall also have the opportunity to plead my case to Her Ladyship.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” said the earl. “My wife has a mind of her own.”
“Ah, but I like challenges,” said Ducasse.
The earl’s response was a cool smile.
“Shall we meet at the exhibit entrance at three o’clock?” suggested Sheffield.
“ Bien! I am very much looking forward to it.”
Brande cleared his throat. “Lord Wrexford, might I also introduce Monsieur Hubert Odilon, one of the leading members of the French émigré community here in London and an influential force in rebuilding good relations between our countries?”
“I’m delighted to hear that our Parisian men of science are expressing their respect for Britain’s scientific luminaries by creating a wall of honor for them at the Académie des Sciences,” said Odilon. “It is yet another sign that our two countries have put the past conflicts behind them.”
The earl forced a polite smile.
“His Lordship and I consider it a very generous gesture,” replied Sheffield. He raised a toast. “To a long-lasting fraternité between Britain and France.”
The mellow clink of crystal sounded.
“Aside from the Royal Academy exhibit, what other cultural attractions here in London would you recommend, Mr. Sheffield?” asked Ducasse.
Leaving his friend and the two Frenchmen to exchange polite pleasantries about the city and its attractions, Wrexford drifted away to greet several colleagues.
He joined in their discussion regarding a recent engineering innovation before moving on and taking up a position in one of the secluded alcoves of the room, which afforded a good vantage point from which to observe the gathering.
However, he quickly realized he wasn’t alone. Two other gentlemen had also retreated to the quiet spot.
“Greetings, Wrexford.” One of them was a casual acquaintance—the earl and Norwood had served together as fellow officers for a short time during the Peninsular War—who now worked as a senior aide to the Home Secretary.
Norwood raised his glass in friendly salute. “I’m surprised that you’re here to honor a Frog.”
“I’m on the board of governors and was asked to make an appearance,” he replied.
Norwood’s companion smiled. “And I am here because Brande can be counted on to serve an unlimited flow of very fine French champagne.”
“I assume you are acquainted with Fogg,” said Norwood, indicating his companion. “He’s a senior official at the Foreign Office.”
Wrexford acknowledged the fellow with a nod. Their paths had crossed at various receptions, but they had never exchanged anything more than passing greetings. “Yes, of course.”
“I confess that I, too, stopped by because the spirits always flow quite liberally at these events,” continued Norwood. “I just finished attending the lecture on the geology of Cornwall and decided to wet my whistle before heading home.”
He regarded Ducasse for a long moment. “I can’t say that I’m quite ready to make peace with the idea of France as an ally. There’s too much intrigue for my liking still swirling through Paris.”
Mention of geology reminded Wrexford that Norwood had an interest in mineralogy and was a member of the Royal Society …
“Speaking of intrigue, were you perchance at the meeting where Boyleston met his demise?” Wrexford knew for a fact that the answer was yes because he suddenly recalled that Norwood’s name was on the list that the Society’s secretary had given him.
“I was,” said Norwood. “A nasty business, though I have some sympathy with Redding.”
“As do I,” said Fogg.
“You were there as well, weren’t you?” queried the earl. “I seem to recall being told that, like Redding, you were rather vocal in haranguing Boyleston for his collaboration with the French.”
“Yes, I was,” answered Fogg without hesitation. “I think Boyleston’s actions bordered on treason.”
Wrexford decided to take advantage of the opportunity to do a bit more probing. “I also heard mention about a stranger at the reception. Did either of you notice him?”
Norwood’s expression sharpened. “Are you involved in the case?”
“Bow Street has already made an arrest for the murder,” he replied. “I’m simply curious.”
“Ah.” Norwood took a sip of his wine but didn’t appear to have swallowed the explanation.
“The Runner took my statement, but I’m happy to repeat it to you.
The fellow in question was tall and broad-shouldered—and looked younger than his silvery hair and side-whiskers indicated.
He also had dark eyes and a pointy chin.
As for his attire, he was wearing an expensive-looking evening jacket and some sort of blue sash, though I didn’t spot any medals or diplomatic insignias on it. ”
That echoed what Wrexford had heard from the other gentlemen he had interviewed. But knowing that Norwood had proved himself to be a careful observer during his wartime activities, he pressed for further details, however small. “Anything else?”
His former comrade hesitated, giving the question careful consideration. “I doubt it’s helpful, but I did notice a slight hitch in his gait. It was barely perceptible, but when he turned to his left, his knee seemed to buckle for an instant, as if from an old injury.”
A shrug. “Old habits die hard, so I tend to spot such tiny nuances. Quite likely nobody else saw it.”
“As we know, tiny nuances often mean the difference between life and death,” murmured Wrexford.
“On the battlefield,” said Norwood softly. “But, of course, those days are over.”
“And you, sir?” he asked Fogg.
“Hmm.” Fogg pursed his mouth in thought and then shook his head. “Sorry, I didn’t notice anyone of that description,” he replied, and then gave a friendly wave to a gentleman in the group conversing with Ducasse. “If you’ll excuse me, I really must have a word with Shillingham.”
Norwood took several meditative sips of his champagne, and then his lips gave a wry twitch. “Fogg must have a foggy memory, for my recollection is that he was part of a small group that conversed for quite a while with the stranger.” A shrug. “But most people aren’t overly observant.”
The comment reminded Wrexford his former comrade had risen to serve as an aide-de-camp to Wellington during the bloody march across Spain. “How are you enjoying civilian life? You seemed suited to a military career.”
“My mother is a Grenville,” responded Norwood, naming one of the most powerful aristocratic families in Britain.
“After I was wounded at Badajoz, she asked her uncle, the former prime minister, to find me a less dangerous position. The work with Addington and the Privy Council is interesting and challenging.”
Norwood smiled as he gave a small gesture at the opulent room and elegantly attired gentlemen. “And far more comfortable.”
“You’ve earned a modicum of comfort,” said the earl.
“We both have.” Norwood set his glass on the nearby decorative marble plinth. “Well, I’ve had my fill of the festivities. Enjoy the rest of the evening.”
As the earl pondered on what he had just heard, Sheffield ambled over to join him.