Wrexford took a moment to consider all that she had told him. “It seems to me that your concerns are reasonable, Mrs. Ashton.” He pulled a face as the pounding in his head came back with a vengeance. “But what I don’t understand is why are you coming to me. The authorities—”
“The authorities think I’ve been reading too many horrid novels!” she exclaimed. “I met this morning with a Bow Street Runner—a large, untidy man whose wits seemed as slow as his shuffling steps.” The Runners were a group of men under the formal command of the Magistrate at No. 4 Bow Street, and one of the few official forces tasked with solving crimes.
“He made it clear that my husband’s murder was—as he put it—an unfortunate result of a man straying into the wrong place at the wrong time,” continued Isobel. “And that the chances of capturing the culprit were virtually nil.”
However slow-witted the Runner was, Wrexford tended to agree with his assessment. Most murders in the stews remained unsolved.
“Be that as it may,” he replied. “I have no expertise in criminal investigations.”
“That’s not what Humphry Davy of the Royal Institution says,” countered Isobel.
Damnation.Davy was so fond of the sound of his own voice that he tended to talk too much.
“Mr. Davy was kind enough to call on me and offer hiscondolences,” explained the widow. “When I expressed my worries about the authorities, he mentioned that you were instrumental in solving a recent murder.”
Before he could respond, she added, “And I, like most of the public, saw the series of prints by A. J. Quill. The artist implied that it was through your efforts that justice was done.”
Wrexford squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he had followed his first instinct on waking and gone back to sleep.
“They both have greatly exaggerated the truth,” he muttered. “Contrary to what you may think, I am no crusader for justice. Any efforts I made were to save my own neck.”
“Please,” she said softly, lowering her gaze. “I don’t know where else to turn.”
Feminine wiles bored him to perdition. But Ashton was a colleague. And a brilliant man of science. Recalling the corpse lying in the muck of a deserted alleyway, he let out a long breath. “I can make some inquiries. But I can’t promise that they will do any good.”
“Bless you, milord,” she said, fixing him with a beatific smile.
“I doubt the Almighty would agree,” murmured Wrexford. “It’s the Devil who’s more frequently invoked when people mention my name.”
“Nonetheless, I have great faith in your abilities, sir.”
In his experience, faith rarely aligned with probability. But he kept such skepticism to himself.
“If I am to be of any help, I need to know everything I can about the possible reasons for your husband’s murder. To begin with, do you have any idea why he was in that part of Town so late at night?”
“He told me he was spending the evening at White’s with some fellow members of the Royal Institution. But upon our arrival in London several days ago, he had received a note from someone who seemed to know about his research and wished to discuss some very important implications—”
“Who?” interrupted the earl.
Isobel’s lips tightened for an instant before she answered. “The note was signedA Kindred Spirit in Science. I counseled him not to respond. But Elihu was trusting—too trusting—of people.” She looked down at her hands. “I fear he may have arranged a meeting despite my objections. Other than that, I can think of no earthly reason why he would have strayed to the stews.”
Wrexford made a mental note to learn whether Ashton had a taste for gambling or women. Wives, however sharp, didn’t always see a man’s every weakness.
“Do you still have the note?” he inquired.
“Yes.”
“I should like to see it.” The earl doubted it would be of any value, but at this point, any scrap of evidence was worth collecting.
“Of course,” she replied. “One of Elihu’s investors kindly offered us the use of his townhouse for our visit. I shall have one of the footmen bring it to you.”
“One last thing—I should like to see a list of all the people who knew about your husband’s research, and how close he was to a breakthrough.” He steepled his fingers. “And I should like your assessment of who among them might be willing to kill to possess it.”
Isobel shifted uncomfortably and averted her gaze. Shadows skittered over her profile and yet he could see that her face had turned deathly pale.
“Mrs. Ashton?”
“I’ll compile a list and send it to you, along with the note,” she whispered. “It pains me to think that anyone on it would wish my husband ill.” The skin tightened over the bones of her face, giving her beauty a fragile edge. “But if you must begin looking at possible motives, I suggest you speak with myhusband’s personal secretary, Octavia Merton, and his laboratory assistant, Benedict Hillhouse.”
