“And I confess,” she added softly, “the idea of a murder investigation at this particular moment in our lives is a little daunting.”
The wedding was less than a month away . . . Her innards gave another clench. And a meeting with her long-estranged older brother was looming, one that was fraught with questions of whether a family reconciliation could ever be achieved.
“There’s no reason for us to be drawn into a murder investigation,” said Wrexford. “Becton’s death has nothing to do with us.”
And yet murder had an insidious way of twining its way into their lives.
“Perhaps not us personally,” she responded. “But given the venue and the occasion, A. J. Quill can hardly ignore the crime and its ramifications.”
Wrexford’s expression altered, but in the uncertain light, she couldn’t read it.
“And please don’t suggest that I can choose to conveniently turn away from it.” Charlotte couldn’t keep a brittleness out of her voice. “A tiny side step here, a small turn there, and before you know it, one’s moral compass has lost all sense of direction.”
“True north is etched indelibly on your heart,” he replied softly. “You’ll never lose your way between Right and Wrong. And I think you know by now that I would never, ever ask you to compromise your principles.”
She closed her eyes for an instant. “Oh, fie, Wrexford—it’s notyouI’m questioning. It’s myself. There are so many complications to consider, and I can’t help but worry—”
The clatter of a carriage pulling to a halt in the narrow street beyond the yard’s outer walls interrupted the exchange.
“Uncertainties are always part of life. We shall deal with them as they arise.” Wrexford caught her hand and gave it a squeeze as Tyler’s voice rose above the squelch of steps in the mud.
The warmth radiating from his touch steadied her shaky nerves.
“In here.” The door opened with a rusty groan, admitting the valet and his companion.
Henning inclined a gruff nod after Tyler introduced the doctor. “I’ve heard good things about you and your Elgin Botanic Garden in New York, Hosack. It’s always a pleasure to meet a man with enlightened ideas on medicine.”
For Henning, a radical thinker who had precious few good things to say about any practitioner in the field, that was high praise, indeed.
“Mr. Tyler tells me you have some very progressive ideas as well. I look forward to some interesting discussions. But first . . .” Hosack’s gaze darted to the shadowed slab and the dark silhouette beneath the canvas shroud. “We’ve more pressing matters to address.”
“I’ve made a cursory examination of your friend, and Wrexford gave me a champagne glass found at the scene . . .” Henning proceeded to give the American a summary of what he had discovered so far. He then gestured to a heavy oilcloth apron hanging from a peg in the wall. “If you care to join me, we can begin a closer scrutiny, and decide what measures are necessary to satisfy all our questions about Mr. Becton’s death.”
“Thank you. I was hoping you would permit me to take part in the proceedings.” Hosack began stripping off his evening coat. “Becton was a brilliant scholar and a loyal friend. It’s both my duty and my desire to ensure that whoever snuffed out his life is brought to justice for the crime.”
“Come, my dear.” Wrexford kept hold of Charlotte’s hand. “Let us leave them to their work. I’m sure we would both welcome a wee dram of Baz’s Scottish malt.”
“I’ll join you shortly,” murmured Tyler, whose scientific curiosity stretched far beyond the boundaries of chemistry. “They may require someone to hold the lantern for them.”
She didn’t argue. Fatigue had wrapped itself around her, twining with the weight of the other worries stirred by the events of the evening.
They crossed the short path to the back stair leading into Henning’s residence, a small stucco-and-timber building with a sagging roof. Its angles had slumped, causing it to lean drunkenly against its neighbor. Wrexford lit a lamp by the doorway and moved to the sideboard to fetch a bottle of whisky. The oily light revealed the usual cluttered chaos of their friend’s residence. Papers and books shared a seat on the threadbare sofa with a pile of laundered shirts. Charlotte cleared a place for them to sit before moving to the tiny kitchen, where she stirred the coals to life in the stove and set a kettle of water on the hob.
Wrexford handed her a drink when she returned. He had kindled a fire in the hearth, and yet the flames did little to warm the chill from her bones.“Slàinte,”he murmured, touching his glass to hers and then downing half of the amber spirits in one swift swallow.
Charlotte took a small sip, welcoming the whisky’s fire as it slowly burned away the sour taste of death lingering from Henning’s surgery.
“Bloody hell.” Wrexford grimaced and promptly downed the rest of his whisky. “My apologies. This was hardly an auspicious start to our round of engagement parties. I had hoped it would be an enjoyable evening for you, with interesting fellow guests and thoughtful conversation, rather than the usual bland banalities.”
He ran a hand through his already-disheveled locks. “Instead, we spent it mucking around within the dark underbelly of humanity.”
A corner of her mouth quirked upward. “Never say you don’t know how to show a lady a good time.”
Unsmiling, he turned to refill his glass.
A very un-Wrexford-like reaction.Which stirred a frisson of alarm.
“Is something preying on your mind?”
