Page 23 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)

A wintry darkness blanketed the streets, though the afternoon had barely given way to early evening.

The earl’s carriage clattered over the cobblestones, turning from High Street to make its way to the York Gate and the entrance to Regent’s Park.

The sounds of the city had died away, and Wrexford saw no sign of movement anywhere, adding to the aura of quietude.

He leaned back and closed his eyes, taking a moment to reflect on the morning council of war and all the events it had set in motion.

And all the worries .

Had he sent Charlotte to confront a ruthless operative of Napoleon?

And were the Weasels scampering into danger by seeking to find the secret workspace of the murdered inventor?

Every creak and rattle of the carriage seemed to carry with it the taunting question of whether he had put his family at undue risk.

His edginess had been exacerbated by a mid-afternoon meeting with Durs Egg, who had appeared at Berkeley Square to report that his brother-in law had absolutely no idea of who might have wished to frame him for the murder of Boyleston.

Information.

They needed to find some actual clues to follow. And quickly.

The wheels slowed and then came to a halt, signaling that they had arrived at their destination.

Shifting his thoughts to Mrs. Marcet and the questions he had for her, Wrexford climbed down from the carriage and headed to the imposing front entrance of the mansion.

The butler ushered him into a drawing room, whose understated elegance reflected both wealth and taste. “I will inform Mrs. Marcet that you have arrived, milord,”

Charlotte would have approved of the intriguing art, decided the earl, on spying several exquisite watercolors hung above a Chippendale console table. They looked to be Turner seascapes—

“Have you an interest in art, Lord Wrexford?”

He turned as a short, slender woman rounded the sofa and came to join him.

She was dressed in a dove grey silk gown whose simplicity accentuated its exquisite cut and quality.

Her only jewelry was a double strand of pearls and matching ear-bobs.

But what he noticed most was the spark of intelligence that lit her otherwise unremarkable brown eyes.

“I enjoy viewing it and trying to discern what separates the sublime from the ordinary,” he replied.

“That often depends on the eye of the beholder,” she observed.

“True. But as in any discipline, having an understanding of the subject helps one to make an informed opinion,” said Wrexford.

“My wife is quite knowledgeable about art and would enjoy discussing such interesting observations with you.” A pause.

“She met you briefly at one of Lady Thirkell’s soirees and found the conversation about your experience studying painting with Thomas Lawrence quite fascinating. He is a great favorite of hers.”

“I very much look forward to further talks with your wife, milord.”

The earl responded with a belated bow. “Forgive my egregious lack of manners in neglecting to introduce myself formally, Mrs. Marcet.”

“Ritual is all very well, but I tend not to stand on ceremony, Lord Wrexford,” she replied. “Please, let us sit.” A gesture indicated one of the two armchairs facing the sofa. “Might I offer you a glass of brandy?”

“Only if you will join me in a libation.”

A flash of amusement. “I quite enjoy sherry.” Rather than summon a servant, Mrs. Marcet moved to the sideboard and poured the drinks from a selection of handsome crystal decanters.

“I am sorry that my husband had a previous engagement at the hospital this evening,” she added as she passed the earl his brandy.

“He is an enthusiastic amateur chemist and would have very much enjoyed speaking with you on metallurgy—assuming a discussion of basic principles wouldn’t bore you to perdition. Word is you don’t suffer fools gladly.”

Wrexford allowed a small smile. “It seems we both have done a bit of research into our subjects.”

“Preparation is always a sensible strategy for any endeavor.” She took a sip of her sherry.

“I confess, I can’t contain my curiosity any longer as to why you have sought a meeting with me, milord.

Somehow I doubt that you have any questions regarding my book that simplifies the basics of chemistry for those who are unfamiliar with science in general. ”

“On Michael Faraday’s recommendation—by the by, he credits you with sparking his passion for science—I have purchased it for my wards, and on a quick perusal I can see why Faraday admires it.

It’s very well done,” replied Wrexford. “But you’re right.

I wish to inquire about an entirely different subject. ”

Mrs. Marcet nodded for him to continue.

“Faraday mentioned that you were a good friend of Atticus Boyleston.”

“Ah, Atticus.” Mrs. Marcet ran a finger around the rim of her glass.

“A brilliant but complicated man. I’m not sure that friend is the right word.

I’m not sure he had any. However, I can’t think of an alternative.

” She looked up. “It’s my understanding that a man has already been arrested for the murder, so I can’t imagine that you’re investigating the crime. ”

“No,” said the earl. “I’m hoping you can tell me something about his experiments with electricity.”

A sigh. “Atticus was comfortable talking with me, but only about gardening. He was very secretive about his work. And suspicious of anyone who asked about it. All I can tell you is that he recently seemed excited about something and told me he would soon silence all the naysayers who thought he was a loose screw.”

“But he didn’t say how?” pressed Wrexford.

“He implied that it would be some sort of public demonstration.” Mrs. Marcet made a face. “I’m sorry, that’s all I can tell you.”

His mouth thinned in frustration. “Have you any idea where he might have been working on this exciting discovery? His official space at the Royal Institution contains nothing out of the ordinary, so he must have had a private, personal space hidden somewhere in the city.”

She gave an apologetic grimace. “I’m afraid not.”

Damnation.

Mrs. Marcet regarded him thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose you can be more specific about why you are so interested in Atticus’s experiments with electricity?

He was a very interesting and original thinker, but my sense is he wasn’t terribly good at turning his ideas into practical innovations.

If I know what you are looking for, I may be able to be of more help. ”

Wrexford considered the request. From what Charlotte had told him, the lady’s intellectual circle of friends were made of up of highly regarded luminaries in the world of arts and science.

And Michael Faraday’s endorsement of her intelligence and character was another mark as to her trustworthiness.

Still …

“Forgive me for asking,” she said. “I am aware that you are sometimes involved in matters that are highly confidential.”

“Correct,” he replied. “However, I do have one additional question, and your answer may help resolve a matter of great importance. More than that, I cannot say.”

Mrs. Marcet nodded.

“Do you know of anyone else who, like Boyleston, believes that electricity and magnetism are the same basic force and that this “electromagnetism” is capable of creating some new and wondrous innovations?”

“Why, yes,” she responded without hesitation.

“It happens that I do, milord.” A smile.

“Not personally, mind you, but my good friend, the astronomer Mary Somerville, knows of him because she is well acquainted with his mother. Both of them are avid gardeners, and Mary often visits Kelmscott House, the lady’s family residence in Hammersmith, which is set on a scenic piece of property overlooking the River Thames. ”

The earl sat back in surprise at the unexpected reply, hope warring with the knowledge that this was likely just another wild goose chase. “Please tell me more.”

“The young man’s name is Francis Ronalds, and Mary thinks he’s an extraordinary young scientific talent, though he’s quite unassuming and happy to simply putter about with his research at home.

He’s been working with electricity for the last four years and recently published a paper on dry piles, which apparently are a type of voltaic battery. ”

“And I may find this Francis Ronalds at Kelmscott House?” asked Wrexford.

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Marcet. “If you pay him a visit, you must be sure to have a look at his mother’s gardens, despite the season. Mary says that Francis has spent several years creating some sort of bizarre device out there, though she hasn’t a clue as to what it is.”

“Thank you.” For an instant, a tiny spark of excitement lit, then quickly fizzled as he reminded himself of how unlikely it was that a young man mucking about in a garden was going to prove helpful.

Having no further questions, Wrexford set aside his untouched brandy. “Again, I appreciate your willingness to meet with me, but I ought not take up any more of your time.”

Mrs. Marcet rose with a gentle rustle of silk. “I do hope you and your wife will attend one of our soirees so that we might continue to converse about our mutual interests.”

“I look forward to it,” he replied, and followed her lead back to the entrance hall, where the butler was waiting with his hat and overcoat.

“If I think of anything else concerning electricity that may be helpful, I will send word to you, sir,” she added.

After acknowledging the offer with a bow, Wrexford stepped out into the chill of the night.

There was a brittleness to the surrounding silence—as if every sound was frozen in place.

Unsure of what to make of the new information, he paused on the bottom stair of the landing to compose his thoughts, aware of how different the quiet felt here on the fringes of the city, where the meadows and groves of trees created a strange sense of solitude.

He was just about to step down to the graveled courtyard when a series of quick scuffs caught his ear,

Boots moving lightly over stone.

But not lightly enough.

The earl pivoted and hurried over a swath of frozen lawn. On reaching the decorative fluting that edged the mansion’s facade, he peered around the corner.

Nothing.

He felt rather than saw a presence in the muddled darkness. And so he waited, carefully muffling his breathing with the lapel of his coat as he watched for a telltale puff of vapor.

A moment passed, and then another.

After standing still as a statue for a number of minutes, Wrexford retreated, wondering whether all the uncertainties of the investigation had his nerves on edge. Perhaps the bootsteps had been naught but a figment of his imagination.

Unsettled by the incident, he quickly returned to his carriage and gave orders for home.