“Not usually. But he’s in a rather foul temper at the moment.”
Moretti swallowed hard. “I will tell you all I know, though I fear it won’t shed any light on . . . on w-what h-happened here tonight.”
“Nonetheless, go on,” encouraged Sheffield.
“I—I met Signore DeVere at the beginning of the Royal Society’s symposium. He was very friendly and complimented me on my research papers, which was, of course, very flattering, as I’m a mere nobody in the world of science. He invited me to dine on several occasions, and showed me some of the famous sites of the city—”
“Get to the point, Moretti,” growled the earl.
“Patience, Wrex. I believe he’s trying,” said Sheffield.
“Yes, I am!” The Italian’s face was sheened in sweat. “The point is, he said he was impressed with my scholarship and offered me a very generous stipend and a laboratory to stay on in England after the symposium and spend a year pursuing my research.”
“What is your specialty?” asked Wrexford.
“B-Botanical medicine,” replied Moretti. “I work on a sickness called malaria.”
The admission should have been yet another black mark against the man. And yet, now that his initial fury had died down, Wrexford found that logic had reasserted itself. He had already noted that Moretti had no blood on his hands or clothing—an impossibility if he had wielded the knife that had slit Quincy’s throat.
Even more telling, the Italian simply didn’t have the demeanor of a murderer. His shock and terror were, alas, all too genuine.
A mean-spirited thought, he conceded. Murderer or not, he didn’t much like Moretti. However, he wouldn’t let that cloud his judgment.
“And DeVere wished for you to continue research on that subject?” he pressed.
“Yes,” answered the Italian. “As I said, he told me he thought my work had . . . exciting potential.”
Wrexford shot a look at Hosack. “Are you familiar with Mr. Moretti’s research?”
The doctor shook his head. “I’m not, but my concentration has been on other medical challenges.”
The earl thought for a moment. “I suggest you recall my earlier comment about truth before answering my next question. We think DeVere and Quincy murdered Becton and stole papers and specimens—”
“M-Murder.” Sheffield had lit a lantern, and the light filtering through the palm fronds had turned Moretti’s face a ghastly shade of green. He looked truly bewildered. “This is the second time you’ve mentioned Becton’s murder. I—I thought he had succumbed to natural causes.”
“A botanical poison made it look that way,” said Wrexford. “You see, Becton was on the verge of revealing a new cure for malaria at the end of the symposium, and making the formula and ingredients public knowledge, without asking for any remuneration.”
“Dio mio.”The Italian looked like he might faint. “I swear, I knewnothingabout that. I—I thought Signore DeVere admired my work . . .” Closing his eyes, he let out a shaky sigh. “But I now see . . .”
“See what?” asked Wrexford, hoping for more than histrionics.
“I think I see why DeVere asked me to come here tonight.” He grimaced. “In truth, it was more of an order than a request, but despite the odd hour, I was, of course, happy to oblige.”
“How did you get in?” queried Sheffield, before Moretti could go on. “Did he have you come to the main house, or did he let you in through the conservatory?”
It was a good question, acknowledged the earl. His friend was acquiring a knack for investigating.
“I was told the north door of the conservatory would be open, and I was to come meet them in the study room,” answered the Italian. “I had been here once before, so I knew the way.”
A pause. “I arrived at the appointed hour and started down the walkway when I heard a muffled bang. I—I assumed a shovel or rake had fallen from its rack, or that a crate had tipped over. So I thought nothing of it.”
He swallowed hard before continuing. “When I arrived at the room, I saw Mr. Quincy lying on the floor. At first, I thought he may have been struck by apoplexy and that Mr. DeVere had run for help and to send for a physician. It was only when I got closer that I saw the blood.”
A spasm passed over Moretti’s face. “My first instinct was to check whether he was still alive, but as I started to crouch down, I saw Mr. DeVere’s body. A-And then I heard voices and I . . . I panicked, thinking it might be the murderer returning. So I ran and hid.”
“That’s very understandable,” said Sheffield. “It must have been quite a shock.”
The Italian stared down at his boots, which were speckled with clots of dried blood.“Sì,”he whispered.
