Page 7 of Murder at Somerset House (A Wrexford & Sloane Mystery #9)
Griffin’s brows twitched, which for the taciturn Runner was an unusual show of emotion. “Yes, it is.” He shuffled his feet. “Though perhaps too convenient. It’s a rather distinctive weapon.”
“My understanding is that Boyleston had an ugly altercation with several fellow Royal Society members. It could very well have been a crime of uncontrollable passion, sparked by the heat of the moment. And the killer—normally a law-abiding gentleman of sound moral character—then panicked on realizing what he had done.”
“Aye, all signs point to that,” admitted Griffin. “In fact, I am off to question the gentlemen with whom Boyleston quarreled.”
“Cheer up. Sometimes crimes do prove to have simple solutions,” quipped the earl. “I daresay you’ll be in a better mood once your breadbox is full.”
“No doubt you’re right, sir.” And yet the tautness at the corners of the Runner’s mouth said just the opposite.
Charlotte picked up her pen. But rather than reach for a sheet of watercolor paper, she took out a piece of stationery from her work-desk drawer and centered it on her blotter.
How to begin?
“Hmmm … My dear Ernst is far too intimate,” she murmured aloud, “while Greetings, Herr von Münch feels too breezy.”
She was quite certain they weren’t enemies, but whether they were truly friends was a question she couldn’t honestly answer.
“To me, real friendship means there is a bond of trust,” she mused. “It demands honesty, no matter that a lie might be more expedient.” And despite her defense of the fellow to Wrexford, she didn’t trust von Münch farther than she could spit.
Charlotte pondered the dilemma, the muted ticking of the mantel clock an unwelcome reminder of her dithering. And then with a harried sigh, she made her decision.
Where the devil are you? she wrote in a bold black script, echoing Wrexford’s frustration. And when are you going to keep your promise?
She didn’t bother signing it.
As for an address … Assuming he hadn’t fobbed her off with a tarradiddle, von Münch had told her that any correspondence sent to the Ludwigsburg Palace in the Kingdom of Württemberg would reach him.
After taking that leap of faith, Charlotte quickly folded the note and sealed it with a wafer of rose pink wax stamped with the earl’s armorial crest.
Alea iacta est. There is no turning back .
The enigmatic von Münch had hinted on several occasions that he held the key to unlocking a secret about Wrexford’s father. And she meant to wrest it from him.
Forcing aside all thoughts of murder and monkeys, Wrexford turned his attention to the chemistry experiment he had begun the previous day.
The liquid mixture had sat for the allotted time, and before continuing, he wanted to observe a drop of the compound through the magnifying lens of his microscope.
The rhythm of experimentation—the clink of glass and metal as he prepared the scientific equipment, the tingle of heat in the air as he used a flame to alter the chemicals, the soft scratch of pencil on paper as he kept a careful record of his observations—had its own unique allure.
Empirical observation was, in many ways, the opposite of emotional response.
There was no good or bad. One simply sought to identify the results as accurately as possible.
Wrexford enjoyed the challenge of careful observation, unaffected by personal preferences. It required discipline and detachment, skills that didn’t come easy to many people.
He had always thought that way of looking at things was best. But because of Charlotte, he had come to see that emotion added color and texture to Life in ways that no scientific explanation could. Head and heart. Together they were greater than the sum of their parts.
Another truth that defied rational explanation.
And that made him smile.
After putting his microscope and glassware away, he carried his notes and rough sketches back to his desk in the main workroom and began meticulously transcribing all the information into his laboratory logbook.
He was so engrossed in the task that it took several moments for him to realize that the vague thumping sound teasing at corners of his consciousness was someone knocking on the door.
“Come in,” he called reluctantly.
The earl’s butler clicked open the latch and then discreetly retreated into the shadow of the corridor.
A short, slender man with his grey hair pulled back in an old-fashioned queue took a tentative step into the room, bringing with him the faint scent of wood shavings and gun oil.
“Lord Wrexford, please forgive my presumption in calling on you at your home—”
“No apologies are necessary, Mr. Egg.” The earl rose. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.” He indicated the chairs by the hearth. “Come, let us make ourselves comfortable.”
Egg’s features pinched in embarrassment as he looked down at his baggy breeches, which had several greasy stains darkening the mud-brown wool. “I—I would rather not impose on your hospitality, sir.”
Sensing the man’s deep discomfort—Egg was not used to consorting with the aristocracy outside the tiny kingdom of his workshop, where he reigned supreme—Wrexford gave a solemn nod and reseated himself at his desk. “I take it this isn’t a social call.”
That drew a ghost of a smile. “It is not, milord.”
Durs Egg, a Swiss émigré, was one of London’s most eminent gunsmiths, a man greatly admired by the cognoscenti of firearms for both his artistry and his technical innovations.
Many of the most prominent gentlemen in the country owned weapons made by Egg, including the Prince Regent and the Duke of Wellington.
And me , thought Wrexford.
“How can I be of help?” he asked. The question was entirely sincere.
Egg was not only a modest, self-effacing fellow, but unknown to most people, he had also provided technical expertise to the government on several important top-secret military projects.
Indeed, it was because of Egg’s razor-sharp memory that the earl had managed to catch a cunning traitor the previous year.
Now he was ready to return the favor if he could.
“I—I hardly know where to begin, sir.”
“No need to dress it up in fancy words,” he encouraged. “Just tell me the problem.”
Egg blew out his breath. “There was a murder at Somerset House last night …”
On recalling Griffin’s words, Wrexford gave an inward sigh. “And you are about to tell me that one of your pistols was the murder weapon.”
“Alas, yes. However, that’s not the worst of it.” Egg shuffled his stance, his already pale face now looking leached of all color. “My brother-in-law has just been arrested for the crime.”
“The pistol was his?”
“It was not. The only firearm from my workshop that my brother-in-law owns is a military-size pistol with a burled walnut stock and rifled bore that I made specially for him as a wedding present. The murder weapon is a short-barreled pocket pistol, a prototype design that my nephew Joseph Egg and I were working on. When Bow Street’s Runner came to confront me about the murder, I discovered that it had been stolen from the building behind my shop that houses our indoor shooting range. ”
The shadows beneath Egg’s eyes turned dark as bruises. “But the authorities think that despite my sworn testimony, the coincidence is too great to believe that my brother-in-law isn’t the murderer.”
“What coincidence is that?” asked the earl.
“As we’ve just discussed, the murder weapon was made by my workshop.” The gunmaker hesitated before adding, “But even more damning in the eyes of Bow Street is the fact that my brother-in law was known to have a long-time grudge against the victim.”
“What sort of grudge?” encouraged Wrexford when the gunmaker’s voice once again faltered.
“His son was killed in the Peninsular War, and he felt that Boyleston’s time in Paris working with French scientists during the Peace of Amiens and again two years ago had been treason-in-spirit.”
Egg paused to steady his voice. “And it seems that the two of them had a very ugly confrontation witnessed by a number of their fellow Society members just a short time before the crime was committed.”
Wrexford felt an immediate twinge of sympathy.
His beloved younger brother had perished in that same conflict, a brutal and bloody back-and-forth clash of armies and partisan guerillas until Arthur Wellesley—now the Duke of Wellington because of his battlefield victories—had finally booted the French out of the region.
“Forgive me, but I must ask you—”
“Whether I think that my relative is guilty?” interjected Egg.
A moment of silence hovered between them.
“Please be assured that I would not impose on your goodwill or your sense of honor, milord, if I didn’t wholeheartedly believe him to be innocent,” added the gunmaker with grave dignity.
“Well, then.” Wrexford tapped his fingertips together. “It seems that I must get to work and endeavor to prove that you are right.”