Up ahead, through a low archway, Wrexford saw that extra lanterns had been positioned near one of the display pedestals.
“This way, milord,” murmured the American, cutting around a potted arrangement of brightly bloomingBougainvillea glabra.The cheery fuchsia hue, noted Wrexford, seemed oddly out of place with the somber tableau behind the plants.
A body—Mr. Becton, he presumed—lay sprawled on the stone tiles, the black of the scholar’s evening clothes melding with the crisscrossing shadows cast by the surrounding displays.
Hosack stopped and touched the earl’s sleeve. “Before you go any closer, sir, please take a moment to look carefully at the scene.”
Wrexford replied with a brusque nod and then focused his attention on the small swath of space.
One of the pedestals looked askew, and a few small terra-cotta specimen pots had fallen, scattering crumbs of earth and burnt-orange shards across the slate . . . all confirming the scenario of a man seized with a sudden spasm and toppling over to the floor.
What am I missing?
Puzzled, Wrexford edged around for a different perspective. Hosack struck him as a steady, sensible fellow, unlikely to see specters where there were none. Still, nothing unusual caught his eye. Narrowing his gaze, he probed the nooks and crannies near the corpse before lifting his shoulders in a silent signal that he was ready to move on.
The doctor didn’t ask any questions, but merely gestured for the earl to join him in crouching down beside the body. Becton was lying on his belly, with his face twisted to one side, one sightless eye staring up at the flickering lantern flame overhead. It was, noted Wrexford, a shade of blue that reminded him of a smoke-tinged sky.
Charlotte would know the exact name for it.
Flattening his palms on the tiles, Hosack angled his head and dropped his cheek to within inches of the dead man’s visage. A moment slid by, then another. Wool rustled as he shifted back and made room for the earl.
“And now, I have one last request, milord,” said the doctor, rising and adjusting the beam of the lantern. “Please take a close look at Mr. Becton’s mouth.”
Wrexford leaned low—low enough to feel the coolness of the flagging rise up to prickle against his chin. At first, he saw nothing other than the usual signs of death—a slightly protruding tongue, the lips surrendering their color to a waxy pallor . . .
Then he spotted the white crystalline grains dotting the corners of the corpse’s half-open mouth.
“Any idea what that substance might be?” he asked.
“I was hoping you might tell me,” came the dry reply.
“It could be any number of things, depending on what medicines your friend was taking—”
“That’s just it. He wasn’t taking any medicine. His symptoms had greatly improved, and we had both agreed several months ago that he could stop taking the distillation I had created for him.” A pause. “And there was nothing in it that would have formed such crystals.”
“It’s odd, I grant you,” said the earl. “In the course of his storytelling, I’m assuming Tyler mentioned to you that I’ve a friend who’s very skilled at coaxing secrets from the dead.”
“He did, milord.”
“And so I take it, you wish to have the mortuary wagon take Mr. Becton to my friend’s surgery, rather than the local morgue.”
“I would be exceedingly grateful,” answered Hosack.
“Very well.” Wrexford rose and dusted his palms on the front of his coat. “Though I counsel you not to let your imagination run away with you. There are any number of innocent explanations for the grains. Perhaps he ate a pastry beforehand, and they are merely bits of sugar.”
“I realize that,” answered the doctor. “But I suspect that he drank rather than ate something. There was a puddle of liquid on the stones when I found him. It looked to be champagne.”
“That’s hardly surprising,” replied the earl. “In fact—”
“Yes, but if he was drinking champagne when he died, what happened to the glass?”
The question gave the earl pause for thought. “Actually, I can come up with several very logical answers to that.” He took another look around the alcove and saw nothing further to explain the American’s suspicion of foul play. “I confess, I’m puzzled by why you’re so ready to assume that your friend’s death wasn’t from natural causes.”
Hosack drew in a troubled breath. The wagging leaves overhead deepened the lines of worry etched around his mouth.
“That’s because I haven’t yet told you about the revelation Becton was planning to make at this symposium.”
CHAPTER 2
