“I’ve an idea. But it requires your help.”
CHAPTER 21
After giving a brusque wave in answer to the porter’s greeting, Wrexford hurried through the grand colonnaded entrance of the Royal Institution and took the stairs up to the laboratory area two at a time. Horatio Johnson, an irascible fellow to begin with, tended to become insufferably grumpy if kept waiting.
“Hmmph. About time.” A tall, reed-thin man with a thick shock of ginger hair and prominent side whiskers, looked up from an assortment of machine parts on his workbench and shot an irritated glance at the ship’s chronometer mounted above his bookshelf.
The hands, noted the earl, read precisely 2:53.
“Anything less than a minute does not qualify as late,” he said, regarding the jumble of pistons and rods with interest.
“Precision, Wrexford. Precision,” chided Johnson. “You’re a decent natural philosopher—as shown by your chemistry in creating different tensile strength in iron—when you pay attention to the minute details.”
“I’ve not your talent for patience.” Men of science, who, for the most part, toiled and tinkered in solitude, were prone to alittle flattery, so Wrexford added. “Nor your genius for precision.”
“Hmmph.” The grunt was a good deal less huffy than the first one.
“I was wondering whether I might ask your opinion on a concept concerning steam and the power it can generate.” Johnson’s passion was the internal combustion engine, and he’d been working for over four years on refining the hydrogen-and-oxygen-powered design patented by the Swiss inventor, Francois Isaac de Rivaz. But his background in steam power made him an authority in that field as well.
Johnson sat back and tugged at the points of his waistcoat. “I daresay I can be of some assistance to you,” he replied with exaggerated modesty, “having a small degree of experience in that field.”
Wrexford unfolded the notes he had made after analyzing Ashton’s plans. “Say one could engineer a way to put four valves in a cylinder and create a controlling valve gear for steam admission and exhaust which did away with the wide swings in temperature during the cycle,” he explained. “That would generate a whole new level of power, wouldn’t it?”
“Fourvalves?” Johnson frowned in concentration. “A radical notion . . .” After a search of his pockets, the inventor found a small notebook and the stub of a pencil. Opening to a page, he began to scribble a quick diagram. “You’d need to transfer motion from a single eccentric to the four valves . . . trip valves . . . some sort of wrist plate . . .”
He pursed his lips. “Yes, it’s theoretically possible—and yes, it would be a revolutionary advance in power. But it would take a technical wizard to design a workable model.” A few more scribbles andharrumphs. “No, too deucedly difficult. I doubt that even Hephaestus, the Greek god of metallurgy could create such an innovation.”
“Difficult, but not impossible,” mused the earl.
“And then, of course, there would be the question of the iron. The added pressure of such valves would require a very strong metal, as you well know.”
“I imagine that could be done,” replied the earl. “Again, difficult, but not impossible.”
“Don’t tell me you are thinking of taking up engineering? I wouldn’t advise it. It takes great patience, which I’ve heard isn’t your strength.” Johnson pulled a face. “But perhaps you’ve got a prototype of your valves ready to unveil to the public.” The idea seemed to amuse him. “Ha, ha, ha.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” echoed Wrexford. “Alas, no. A friend and I were discussing the matter and disagreed over the concept. You’ve been very helpful in settling the argument.” He refolded his papers and tucked them back into his pocket. “Thank you. I’ll not take up any more of your valuable time.”
“Quite all right,” said the inventor, his eyes straying back to his notebook. “Hmmph, you’d need a ratchet gear . . . a dash-pot. . .”
Wrexford left Johnson muttering to himself, and after stopping to speak with a few other fellow members took his leave from the Institution. No one had heard any word about McKinlock having new plans on the drawing board.
From there he made a stop at a toolmaking workshop renowned for its precision work. The proprietor, Joseph Clement, was a gruff, rough-spoken man, but his technical skill was unquestioned throughout the scientific community. Anyone looking to build complicated mechanical devices sought him out. A short conversation—and that only because he had greased Clement’s palm with a few guineas—confirmed Johnson’s assessment that Ashton’s valves could work with the right engineering and materials.
The plans found in the ceramic rooster were indeed worth a fortune, thought the earl as he began walking back to BerkeleySquare. Assuming someone had the expertise to finish the last little details not shown on the drawings.
And as he further mulled over the matter, the only name that came to mind was that of Benedict Hillhouse.
* * *
“It will demand a steady nerve if we are to be successful,” Charlotte went on to explain. “If my hunch is right, we may find the evidence we need to prove Mrs. Ashton’s perfidy. However, we must be very careful. If we make a mistake, it will have grave consequences.”
Octavia didn’t bat an eye. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
“I need to get upstairs and have access to Mrs. Ashton’s bedchamber. I’m assuming, given the layout of the house, that your quarters are close to hers?”
“Yes, but how—”
“I’m going to have a sudden attack of megrims and will need to lie down for a bit. You’ll escort me up to your chamber with a great show of solicitous concern, of course.”
