“Logic dictates that the murderer was one of the invited guests,” continued the doctor. “After all, he and Becton were in the conservatory, drinking champagne together.”
“It’s an assumption, which we can’t yet prove,” Wrexford pointed out.
“But I believe we eventually will,” insisted Hosack. “Because I think I know the motive for the crime.”
For several long moments, silence seemed to have hold of all their tongues. Henning pursed his lips and rubbed his fingers down his bristly jaw, while Tyler frowned in thought. As for Charlotte, she sat still as a statue and watched the doctor intently.
What does she see?wondered Wrexford, finding it impossible to read her eyes through the flitting shadows.
“Yes, you hinted that Becton possessed some momentous secret earlier this evening,” he finally said. “Now that we have more time and privacy, can you explain more fully what you meant by that, and why someone would wish to stop him?”
“What I fear is . . .” Hosack pressed a palm to his brows, taking a moment to compose his thoughts. “But first, I think I had better explain what set all of this in motion.”
A curt nod indicated for him to continue.
“A little over a year ago, Becton had sent several members of the Royal Society’s governing council a brief overview on his research and several preliminary results,” recounted the doctor. “They were very excited about its significance. They asked him to be one of the main speakers at this symposium so that the revelation would be made here at the Royal Botanic Gardens—the world’s most respected venue of botanical knowledge and innovation,” explained Hosack. “Becton was delighted to comply—”
“Forgive me, Doctor, having had little sleep in the last two days, I’ve no patience for flowery habble-gabble,” grumbled Henning. “Might you cut wind and simply tell us what the devil the discovery is?”
“In a nutshell, it’s a miracle potion that will save countless lives,” replied Hosack.
“What ingredients, and what illness?” shot back Henning.
The queries drew a wry grimace from the doctor. “Alas, there’s no simple answer to your questions. It requires a very long-winded tale of international diplomacy, exotic travel, dangerous hardships—and fortuitous luck.”
“Fair enough.” Henning reached for the whisky bottle and filled his empty teacup. “I shall endeavor to listen. But just ignore me if I fall asleep.”
“I’m not trying to play coy,” said the doctor. “Becton was a very reclusive fellow, and tended to be closemouthed about his work. However, he had become even more secretive during his last weeks in America. He confided to me that he feared someone was trying to steal his research papers and specimens. So he thought it best not to tell me—or anyone—the details of his discovery, lest they be put in danger.”
Wrexford held back a sarcastic comment. He was of the belief that neither histrionics nor an overwrought imagination had any place in science.
“Yes, yes. I know it sounds like something out of an Ann Radcliffe novel,” said Hosack, correctly interpreting the earl’s expression. “Skulking villains, clanking chains, and dark dungeons full of torture instruments—”
A gusty snore from Henning suddenly rattled the saucers.
“Do go on,” urged Wrexford. The small paned window overlooking the backyard showed that mist was silvering the blackness of night, a harbinger that dawn was not far off. “As succinctly as possible, if you please.”
“I will try. But first, allow me to indulge in a bit of history, which I promise has some relevance.”
Charlotte signaled her agreement with a quick nod. “The motivation for murder can rarely be summed up in a simple sentence. If we are to understand the crime, we need to hear what the doctor has to say.”
Wrexford wasn’t convinced that was a good idea, but for the moment, he kept his reservations to himself.
Hearing no objections, Hosack picked up the thread of his story. “Are you all familiar with cinchona bark, from the Spanish colonies in South America?”
“It’s a genus of flowering trees and shrubs, and the bark of several species is highly effective in treating the disease we call malaria—which comes from the Italianmal aria,or bad air,” said Tyler.
Hosack’s grave expression gave way to a momentary glimmer of humor. “Perhaps I’ll tempt you to abandon chemistry and concentrate on botany. You clearly have an expertise in the subject.”
“A jack-of-all-trades and master of none,” replied the valet. “I fear my curiosity prevents me from committing to serious study in any one subject.”
Wrexford chuffed a laugh. “I could phrase that a little less elegantly.”
“If you wish your boots to maintain their impressive shine, you will leave it at that,” murmured Tyler.
Ignoring the retort, the earl let out an impatient growl. A glance at Charlotte showed that the night had taken its toll on her. Her face appeared ashen, accentuating the bruise-dark shadows pooled beneath her eyes.
“On second thought, Hosack, fascinating as your long-winded tale may be, might you save it for later and cut to the heart of why we’re all here? Surely, there has to be a simple answer as to why Becton was murdered.”
