Page 81 of Murder on Black Swan Lane

“There are still some facts about alchemy that I’ve not yet had a chance to mention.” Wrexford turned abruptly and came over to perch a hip on a corner of the table. “My valet and I were able to salvage some charred papers from Drummond’s laboratory and remove them to my town house before Griffin was allowed to examine the room. They caught my eye because a small fragment held a very strange message.”

He shifted slightly. “It said, ‘the Golden One is the Devil and must be stopped from destroying. . . .’ There was a hole, and then the worddangerous, followed by an abbreviation that we interpreted to mean the philosopher’s stone.”

“From my readings, I know that the philosopher’s stone lies at the heart of alchemy,” said Charlotte. “It’s the elemental substance that has the power to transmute one material into another, like lead into gold.”

“Yes,” agreed the earl. “And its exact composition has been the Holy Grail of alchemy for centuries.”

“But,” she said slowly, “most practitioners agree that mercury has to be one of the key ingredients.”

Their eyes met and for a moment the air seemed to thrum with an unseen energy.

Wrexford looked away first. “At first we thought that ‘Golden One’ was a code word for a chemical—possibly sulfur. But on closer inspection of the other scraps, which were magnified under the lens of my microscope, we found the partial remains of what looked to be a letter. This second mention made it clear that Golden One referred to a person.” He made a face. “And before you ask, I’ve set my friend—”

“Mr. Sheffield?” she interrupted, her curiosity roused by what she had overheard in Berkeley Square.

“Yes. He’s trustworthy, and in any case, I’ve told him nothing about A. J. Quill’s involvement in my investigation.”

“And what have you set him to doing?”

Wrexford made a wry face. “Compiling a list of all members of the Royal Institution who have fair hair.”

“I suppose that makes perfect sense to think ‘Golden One’ refers to appearance.”

And yet . . . A niggling thought stirred somewhere in the back of her head, but for the moment it remained naught but a vague shadow within shadows.

She shook it off. “So on one hand, all the evidence points to an evil chemist who is concocting an unknown substance, most likely containing mercury, in order to destroy an unknown target.”

“Which is a great deal more than we knew a half hour ago,” quipped the earl.

“It still leaves us nowhere.”

He took up the list.

“And then we have what looks to be a ring of art forgers,” mused Charlotte. “What the devil ties them together?”

“Holworthy has to be the key,” said Wrexford decisively. He reached for a pencil and some paper. “I need to sit down and think.”

Hide-and-seek sunlight tangled in his dark hair as he set to work constructing a diagram of connections. Leaving him to the faint scratch of his scribblings, she turned away, suddenly feeling terribly unsettled.

A part of it had to do with the new revelations about her late husband. Sorrow warred with exasperation, a conflict she had yet to sort out in her own mind. Anthony had been such a perplexing mix of idealism and weakness. That his craving for recognition had allowed him to be seduced into betraying all that art stood for was disappointing.

But, at heart, she could not say she was completely surprised. His character had been too malleable. He was easily led.

Was that disloyal to admit?

Charlotte found she had wandered into the tiny back room that held his easel, his paint box, and the array of powdered pigments and linseed oil used to mix his gorgeous colors. Spiderwebs covered the small mullioned window, the angle of the sun causing the finespun filaments to cast exaggerated shadows over the supplies.

Art, she reflected, was all about perspective, and the infinite number of ways one could view a subject. Even here, in this cramped space, everything was constantly changing. Color and shading shifted. The air rippled, sending flickers of light undulating over the walls.

But principles should be unyielding. Integrity had but one form.

“I forgive you, Anthony,” she whispered.

To honor his memory—or perhaps to redeem his memory—she would not rest until this particular evil was stamped out.

A loud banging on the front door jolted her out of her brooding. Spinning around, she shot out of the room—

And hit up against Wrexford.