“I’m relieved to hear that. Too much of it has already been spilled in this gruesome affair.”
“Indeed.” He held her gaze for a moment longer. “All the more reason for us to unravel the mystery surrounding Ashton’s murder and find the real killer—before he strikes again.”
CHAPTER 12
“Lord Wrexford.”
To the earl’s surprise, it was Isobel, rather than Ashton’s laboratory assistant who opened the drawing room door.
“Forgive me, but I heard you had arrived to speak with Benedict, and I couldn’t help wondering . . .” She glanced back into the corridor and then shut the door behind her. “Did you have any success in finding the man who penned the note to Elihu?”
“Be assured I had no intention of leaving without telling you about the evening,” he replied.
“I didn’t mean to imply . . .”
“My apologies,” he quickly added. “I should have sought you out first.” Itwastrue that he had planned to put it off until after the interview with Hillhouse. Disappointing news was never easy to deliver.
“I take it things did not go well,” she said softly.
“No,” admitted Wrexford. “We did find the man who wrote the note, but he was merely an unwitting player in what he thought was a harmless jest.”
Her expression remained stoic. “I see.”
“However, we learned the name and address of the real culprit,” he went on reluctantly. Having to recount the events made him acutely aware of all the little mistakes he had made. “Unfortunately someone else reached him first.”
Her breath seemed to catch in her lungs.
“Alas, he’d been stabbed just minutes before we arrived.”
“Dear God.” For an instant he feared she might swoon, but she steadied herself and with a wry smile waved off his outstretched hand. “I’m not quite so fragile as I look. It’s just that I thought . . . I hoped . . .”
“I’m sorry. He was still alive, but the injuries were far too severe for him to survive.”
“H-He wasn’t able to tell you anything?”
Wrexford shook his head. “I’m afraid not.” A lie seemed kinder than offering yet another false hope. The list of numbers could hardly be considered a viable clue.
“I see.” Isobel turned in a rustling of heavy black bombazine fabric and gazed out the window. “So that leaves us with nothing to go on.”
“Not precisely,” he answered. “The man who used the note to lure your husband to his death appears to be part of a radical group called the Workers of Zion. It’s possible they are behind your husband’s murder. I’m going to press Bow Street to investigate them.”
“Radicals?” Her body tensed, and suddenly she reached for the bell on the side table and rang for a servant. “Before you meet with Mr. Hillhouse, there is someone else with whom I’d like you to speak.”
When the butler arrived, Isobel murmured instructions, and within minutes he returned with a tall, well-muscled man who was dressed in plain-cut, dark-hued clothing.
“Lord Wrexford, allow me to introduce Mr. Geoffrey Blodgett, who arrived here from Leeds early this morning,” said Isobel.
Blodgett darted a quick look around, appearing a little uncomfortable at being in such opulent surroundings.
“He’s the supervisor of the mill,” she explained, “and has known Elihu since he was a boy.”
“A terrible tragedy, milord,” murmured Blodgett after exchanging perfunctory greetings with the earl. “Such a loss, both for his family and for our country. Mr. Ashton’s innovations touched so many lives.”
Wrexford imagined the man hadn’t been brought in simply to spout platitudes. “Yes, yes, a brilliant fellow,” he agreed, then angled an inquiring look at the widow.
Isobel met it with a knowing nod. “Much as Mr. Blodgett’s sentiments are appreciated, he’s come here not merely to express his sympathies. There are a number of important matters to deal with in order to keep the mill running without interruption.” She gave a sad smile. “I’m fortunate that he’s worked with my husband for years and understands all the technicalities of the operation.”
Blodgett bobbed his head in acknowledgment of her words.
