The Runner nodded thoughtfully. “Just one thing puzzles me. If the other two conspirators were killed by the Prussian, then who shot von Stockhausen?”
“I can’t say, Mr. Griffin,” she answered with a hitch. “What with the fog and commotion—the crew of the ship was rowing away in the other longboats—it was all very confusing.”
“Yes, I can well imagine it was. However—”
“However,” interrupted Wrexford as he and Tyler returned, clad in clean and dry clothing, “we’re all too damnably tired and thirsty to answer any more questions. Come back in the morning and you can pepper me with your queries over breakfast.”
“Fair enough.” Griffin rose and moved toward the door with his usual slow-footed gait. But as he passed Wrexford, he paused to place a hand on the earl’s shoulder. “I trust it goes without saying that I’m very relieved to see you alive, milord.”
“There was no need to worry,” replied Wrexford. “As I said, I’ve bequeathed a meal stipend to you in the event of my demise.”
“Yes, but who else would feed me a steady diet of sarcasm?”
Charlotte smiled as Griffin turned and made a surprisingly polished bow to the rest of them. “Good night, everyone. I’m not capable of fancy speeches, so I shall just say thank you.”
* * *
Wrexford handed Tyler a glass of whisky before pouring one for himself. The glow of the lamplight accentuated the nasty bruising on the valet’s face. He had taken a rough beating from his captors, and the earl could see McClellan eyeing him with concern . . . and what looked like a flicker of remorse for her own blow.
“Slàinte,” said Henning, raising his own drink in salute. “I think the occasion calls for a formal toast of thanksgiving—”
“Wait!” The pounding of the dowager’s cane punctuated her call from the corridor. Hawk darted into the room, several steps ahead of her and Wolcott.
“I sent word to Alison that we were all safe,” said Charlotte, unwinding herself from Hawk’s hug.
“I say . . .” Wolcott cleared his throat. “Has the solving of murders become a regular occurrence in this family? Alison seemed to take the news of your chasing a dangerous killer with remarkable calm.”
“You had better get used to it,” said Wrexford as he uncorked a fresh bottle of malt. “Your sister is no ordinary lady.”
Her brother allowed an uneasy chuckle. “I’ve known that for years.” He accepted a glass from the earl and gave it a meditative swirl. “Allow me to add an addendum to the original toast . . .” His gaze moved around the room. “To unconventional ladies, and their keeping us gentlemen on our toes.” A pause. “God help you, Wrexford. But clearly you know that.”
Once the laughter died down, the earl motioned for everyone to take a seat. “Before we all seek some well-deserved sleep, I’d like to fit the last few missing pieces of the puzzle into place, so that the picture is finally complete.” He looked to Tyler. “And it seems to me that you managed to ferret them out, though at no small cost to your phiz.”
“By the by, is your nose broken?” asked McClellan.
“No—just my chin bone,” retorted the valet in an injured voice. “Why the devil did you hit me?”
“Because your running off half-cocked put the Weasels, along with Lady Charlotte and Lord Wrexford, in terrible danger.” The maid huffed a sigh. “And, if you must know, because it scared me half to death when I heard you were captured.”
“On the other hand, if he hadn’t been so cork-brained, we wouldn’t have learned all the gory details,” pointed out Wrexford. “So without further ado, Tyler . . .”
“Right.” The valet set aside his empty glass. “The key factor that kept us running in circles for so long was the fact that there weretwosets of villains, each with a different criminal plan. And adding to the confusion was the fact that DeVere and Quincy were originally trying to wheedle Becton into partnering with them on his discovery. However, despite being despicable individuals, it appears they weren’t willing to commit murder for it.”
“Are you implying that they never intended to steal it?” asked Charlotte.
“Apparently not,” said Tyler. “According to Lyman and Adderley, who lie at the heart of both nefarious plots, DeVere and Quincy came up with another plan to profit from Becton’s discovery.”
“One that involved the importation of enslaved souls,” mused Wrexford. “But what is the connection between the two?”
“The plant!” replied Tyler. “Think about it. Quincy owned vast plantations in America, and had the botanical expertise in growing crops for commercial sale.”
“And Becton’s discovery would require his miracle tropical plant to be cultivated on a large scale,” realized the earl.
“Precisely,” said the valet. “Adderley, who as you know had been hired by Quincy for his botanical knowledge, explained that Quincy had a large tract of hot, swampy land, perfect for growing Becton’s plant, but it had never been able to be used for anything because enslaved workers died in droves from malaria if put to toiling there.”
“So the irony of the plot was that Quincy could grow the plant profitably because the new medicine would keep them healthy,” said Charlotte, her face darkening with anger. “What a horribly ingenious plan.”
“DeVere helped concoct it. His experiences in India helped inspire the idea,” explained Tyler.
