Moretti had explained his actions, thought Wrexford, which all seemed to fit into place. However, it seemed to him that the key piece of the puzzle was still missing.
“What I’m wondering is,whydid he summon you here, and at such a late hour,” he said. “There must have been a compelling reason, but as of yet, you’ve not told us what it is.”
“He wanted to see the drawing—and it’s now clear as to why,” answered Moretti in a rush.
* * *
For an instant, the air went completely still. Even the leaves seemed to be holding their collective breath.
“Don’t keep us in suspense, Moretti,” growled the earl. “Whatbloody drawing?”
In response came the rustle of wool and a whispery crackle as the Italian shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “The one Mr. B-Becton gave me.”
Wrexford took it from Moretti’s outstretched hand and carefully smoothed open the creases as the halting explanation continued.
“I met him in one of the study rooms at the Royal Botanic Gardens the day before the symposium officially opened. We were both looking at specimen drawings from the Royal Society’s vast collection. Mr. Becton was very friendly—he had been pointed out to me as a very distinguished scholar, and not many of them deign to converse with young nobodies.”
Moretti took a moment to steady his voice. “He asked me about my work, and when I told him of my interest in treating malaria, and the experiments I was working on back in Rome, he was very encouraging. We had a fascinating exchange on the concept of experimenting with medicinal botanicals from the same genus to see if those types of combinations would create more potent medicines.”
“Did he mention his own work?” interrupted Hosack.
Moretti shook his head. “No. He merely smiled politely when I inquired. He then passed me this drawing from his own portfolio of papers and said that I should consider it an invitation to attend his keynote lecture at the end of the symposium.” The Italian took a moment to compose himself. “And added that I might find the topic very interesting in light of our discussion.”
Wrexford wordlessly passed the drawing to Hosack, who studied it carefully before lifting his shoulders to indicate it meant nothing to him. “Sorry,” he murmured, and handed it back.
“I was saddened to hear of Mr. Becton’s collapse, but I confess, as I was unaware of his field of interest, I didn’t give it much thought,” continued Moretti. “It was only a passing reference to him during a conversation this afternoon with Mr. DeVere that prompted me to mention the drawing to him.”
Moretti’s brow furrowed. “He gave no indication of any interest at the time. But then, early this evening, I received an urgent summons, requesting that I come here for a meeting with an associate of his who wished to see the drawing without delay.”
That answered a number of questions, reflected Wrexford as he folded the drawing and tucked it into his pocket. But it raised even more ominous ones.
As in—who the devil murderedDeVereand Quincy?
As to the reason why, that seemed obvious. But he was beginning to think that nothing about this conundrum was as it seemed.
Moretti slumped back against the wall. The effort of telling his story, along with having to relive the grisly discovery of the bodies, seemed to have sapped the last of his strength.
“Kit, I’d like for you and Hosack to take Moretti into the main house and find him a measure of brandy, while Tyler and I have a quick look around the entrance that was left unlocked. It seems likely that the murderer also came in by that way.”
“You think there may be a clue?” asked Sheffield.
“It’s worth checking.”
As his friend and the doctor went to assist Moretti, Wrexford and Tyler moved stealthily into the gloom. “You search through the side galleries and see if you find any sign of disturbance,” he whispered, “while I check whether the doorway and outside path yield anything of use.”
The valet veered off down one of the narrow walkways, taking care not to rustle the greenery.
Another winding turn through a cluster of trees—some deciduous specimens that looked to be varieties of the hardwood genusBetula—brought him within sight of the brass-framed double doors. Wrexford slowed his steps as he approached, scanning the stone flagging for any sign of footprints. A bit of mud streaked the tiles, but closer inspection showed no other details.
The latch was, as Moretti had indicated, unlocked. He stepped outside, but the footpath was graveled and all he found was the indentation of a barrow wheel that had recently rolled over the stones.
The earl returned to the moist warmth of the conservatory, and after a moment’s pause, he began to make his way along the outer glass walls, heading toward the opposite end of the structure, and the door through which he and his friends had entered.
He wasn’t sure why. Charlotte would call it intuition.
But as Wrexford paused in the shadows of a soft-needled alpine larch tree and stared out into the night, he wasn’t feeling anything other than a frustrated confusion.
A state that prickled uncomfortably against his penchant for order and precision.
