A fraught sigh. “In a word, it’s money.”
CHAPTER 4
The word seemed to come alive, its grim echo growing louder and louder as it reverberated against the wall.
“Money,” mused Tyler. “I suppose that should come as no surprise. It’s the root of most evil in this world.”
“Aye,” repeated Hosack. He looked as exhausted as Charlotte. “I can explain, if you wish.”
“Please do,” urged the valet.
“Getting back to malaria, it’s a pernicious illness that strikes all over the globe—the New World, your Indian colonies, the African continent, and even here in Britain.” The doctor grimaced. “Indeed, we scientific scholars suspect that Shakespeare’s mention of the ague refers to malaria.”
“Hosack, as I said, let us please leave history for later,” growled Wrexford.
“Sorry, sorry.” The American paused for a sip of his now-cold tea. “The discovery of cinchona bark, and its curative properties, was brought back to Europe from the Spanish colonies in the New World by Jesuit missionaries. And while the Spanish tried to prevent others from getting hold of the plant, in order to have a monopoly on the medicine, it grew too widely to keep it to themselves.”
“I see what you mean,” interjected Tyler. “Imagine what a unique medicine would be worth. It would likely have generated more riches than their silver trade.”
“Precisely,” agreed the doctor.
“A pox on all those whose selfish greed makes them value money over human lives,” muttered Henning, who had been roused from sleep by the mention of money. “Discoveries like that should be shared, not kept secret in order to make an obscene profit.”
“Yes, it’s morally wrong,” whispered Charlotte.
Wrexford didn’t bother pointing out that lofty principles rarely triumphed over the baser urges of human nature. Instead, he pressed, “As you’ve just pointed out, cinchona is readily accessible, though it doesn’t come cheap. So I’m still waiting for your revelation.”
“I think,” replied Hosack, “that Becton discovered a way to make cinchona even more effective by combining it with a certain other botanical. And that he was going to speak here at the symposium about his research and reveal his new formula.”
He hesitated. “More than that, I believe he was going to gift specimens of the unknown plant to the Royal Botanic Gardens so that they could propagate them, and share seeds with other important botanical gardens around the world.”
“Making the miracle medicine available to all physicians and apothecaries,” said Wrexford.
“Correct, milord,” answered the doctor. “Which is why I suspect that Becton was murdered for his formula and the plant specimens. A person possessing them would then have the ability to sell the potion”—his expression tightened—“and at whatever price he wishes to name.”
It made perfect sense in theory. But Wrexford preferred to base his conclusions on fact, not conjecture. “Have you any evidence to support such a claim?”
Henning muttered an unflattering word.
“That’s unfair—His Lordship is right to ask,” chided Charlotte. “We ought not to let our imaginations run wild without some clue, however small, to support such suspicions.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” said Hosack. “I’ll tell you what I know, and leave it to you to decide whether I’m merely whistling into the wind.”
Wrexford began drumming his fingertips together.
The doctor took the tapping as permission to continue. “Becton was a member of our most learned scientific society in New York and was happy to talk about his discovery at our meetings, but only in general terms. Out of courtesy to the Royal Society, he had pledged not to reveal the actual formula or ingredients until this symposium. Most of the members respected his decision. But not all.”
Hosack appeared to be considering his words before going on. “In particular, there’s a very wealthy merchant by the name of Tobias Quincy, one of the pillars of New York Society, who handles all the sales and shipping for his cousin’s vast cotton plantations in South Carolina. He kept pressing Becton to renege on his commitment to the Royal Society, and instead to create a highly profitable venture within Quincy’s business consortium.”
The tapping stopped. “You mean the merchant asked Becton to make a fortune with his miracle medicine, rather than giving it away.”
“Precisely, milord.”
“But Becton was too ethical to even consider the proposal,” guessed Charlotte.
“Yes,” confirmed Hosack.
“To be fair to Mr. Quincy, he’s in business to make a profit,” said Wrexford, deciding to play devil’s advocate. “Hearing of an opportunity that could potentially produce untold riches, he can’t be blamed for trying to convince Becton to transform his brilliance into gold.”
