“Secretive. Obsessive.” Locke closed his eyes for an instant. “God knows, I’ve let myself be seduced by London’s enticements, and my behavior has been less than exemplary. But for him to rake me over the coals for partaking in normal pleasures, when his own passions were taking a dangerous turn.”
“You knew about the marks on his body?” she asked.
Locke released a shuddering exhale. “I came into his room one morning as he was dressing and caught sight of his chest. He . . . He refused to tell me anything. Said I wouldn’t understand.”
“Can you hazard a guess as to what caused them?” asked Wrexford.
The question hung suspended for a moment in the sour fugue of smells before Locke gave a grim nod.
“A voltaic pile.”
CHAPTER 10
“Avoltaic pile,”repeated Charlotte. It sounded vaguely sinister. She had heard the term, but had no notion of what it was.
“It’s a scientific apparatus that creates an electrical current through chemistry,” explained Wrexford. “It consists of alternating metal discs of copper and zinc, separated by cloth or pasteboard soaked in a weak acid. One can adjust the strength of the current through the number of discs used.”
“What’s it used for?” she asked. Aside from unspeakable acts on the human body.
“It’s proved invaluable in scientific experiments. Humphry Davy, working in his laboratory at the Royal Institution, made a number of important chemical discoveries using one—he isolated sodium, potassium, calcium, boron, and magnesium, just to name a few.”
“Nicholson and Carlisle isolated oxygen and hydrogen at the turn of the century, right after the voltaic pile was invented by Alexander Volta,” added Locke, his eyes coming alight. “A momentous discovery. And who knows what other ones lie ahead in the future?”
It was the first real show of life from him, she noted.
“You have only to look at the phenomenon of lightning to comprehend what awe-inspiring powers are waiting to be unleashed when we learn more about electricity.”
“Lightning may be an impressive display of pyrotechnics,” pointed out the earl. “But it’s also illustrative of power run amok. When uncontrolled, electricity can be a force for terrible destruction.”
Locke winced and held clasped his arms tighter to his chest. “That’s what Mr. DeVere says. One must be careful, rational. Restrained.”
Wrexford nodded. “DeVere worked with Davy on several of his chemical experiments, though his main interest now lies with living organisms. He studies plant reproduction and has a reputation for disciplined thinking, as well as an orderly approach to empirical research.”
High praise, indeed, coming from the earl, thought Charlotte. He considered most of his fellow men of science bloody idiots.
“Which is why,” went on Wrexford, “I would find it hard to believe he had any knowledge of what Chittenden was doing.”
“No, I don’t believe he did.” Locke shifted uncomfortably. “Must we drag Cedric’s name through the mud over this? I’m not saying he was right to be so driven to make a name for himself in the world of science. But surely he deserves some dignity in death. The public will seize on the tawdry details to turn him into a gruesome joke—urged on by that damnable scribbler. A. J. Quill.” There was a tiny catch in his voice as he added, “I will gladly go to the gallows if it means he can rest in peace.”
“Murder strips away all dignity,” said Charlotte softly. “Secrets are bared, truths are twisted. And your sacrifice would only throw oil on the fires of ugly gossip. The best way to honor Cedric is to give him some measure of justice by finding his killer.”
“The answer doesn’t lie in the Eos Society—”
“Cut wind, Locke,” interrupted Wrexford. “You claim to be a man of science, so you know that only a bacon-brained fool assumes to have the answer to an inquiry before it’s made.”
A sudden banging in the corridor set off a chorus of howls and catcalls.
“Tell us who else shared your brother’s fascination with electricity,” pressed the earl.
Locke bit his lip. Charlotte saw the clash of conflicting emotions twist his features and knew all too well what inner demons he was fighting. It wasn’t simply out of loyalty that he was loath to speak, it was out of fear.
Fear of what awful truths he might discover about his brother.
How well do we know our loved ones?Not well enough, reflected Charlotte. Her late husband had . . .
She blinked as a blade of sunlight momentarily cut through the narrow window. Then it was gone and the murky gloom felt even darker. Yes, it was tempting to cower in the shadows. But uncertainty was ultimately more terrible than truth. It slowly ate away at one’s soul.
“Errare humanum est, in errore perservare stultum,Nicky,” she murmured, hoping he remembered their childhood Latin lessons.
