“Then do so, you sniveling little muckworm,” growled Sheffield. “Before I shove your teeth down your gullet.”
Wrexford waggled a brow in warning, not wanting Garfield to become too terrified to speak. “We’re listening.”
“The French scientific society paid a visit to the University of Cambridge three weeks ago, before coming to London, and as Jasper and Oliver Carrick had recently been hosted by them in Paris, our Revolutions-Per-Minute Society reciprocated,” explained Garfield. “In the course of entertaining them, one of their members—Monsieur Montaigne, who is the president of the group—took me aside and offered me a good deal of money for obtaining the technical papers outlining Milton’s new innovation for building bridges.”
He drew a steadying breath. “I refused.”
Sheffield expressed his skepticism with an obscenity.
“I did!” insisted Garfield. “It was only after I learned the terrible news from Lady Cordelia about Jasper’s murder that—” He gave a convulsive swallow. “That I decided to reconsider.”
The breeze freshened, rustling the leaves of the lime tree planted in the center of the small square.
“It’s—it’s devilishly complicated to explain.” Garfield blotted his brow with his sleeve. “Jasper cared more about abstractions and idealism than he did about money. He saw things differently than most people. That was the source of his genius. But it also caused him to form some rather radical ideas.”
“Explain yourself,” demanded Wrexford.
“Jasper had a knife-sharp mind, and he loved the intellectual challenge of coming up with a solution for a scientific problem—like bridge design—that baffled the rest of us. But he also cared about using the new innovation to make life better for everyone, not just the higher circles of society.”
Garfield paused, as if choosing his next words with care. “He seemed to feel comfortable talking to me about certain ethical concerns. You see, the rest of the members of the Revolutions-Per-Minute are . . . I suppose the best word is competitive. They wish to be recognized for their own innovations—”
“And you don’t?” interjected Sheffield.
“Not really,” mumbled Garfield. “I am skilled at what I do, and I feel I’m contributing to the welfare of our country by helping to make travel easier and faster. But I am content with simply being a good engineer, not a great one. My personal passion—my love of old and rare books—rather than my professional accomplishments is what makes me happy.”
Wrexford considered himself a hard-bitten cynic, but strangely enough, he was inclined to believe what he had just heard. “Getting back to Milton’s ethical concerns, what do you mean by that?”
“Jasper was in much demand to oversee important road and bridge projects. On one of them—don’t ask me which one, because he didn’t say—he was very upset by the way contractors were chosen for goods and materials. He described it as rich men making extra profits through a system of bribes and favors paid for by the public. Within a grand plan to connect faraway cities and towns with each other, there are many individual projects—”
“Like Thomas Telford’s master plan to open up the Scottish Highlands and connect them to the main ports,” mused Sheffield.
“Yes, precisely,” said Garfield. “And each of those projects within the master plan has a board of commissioners to oversee the construction, some of whom receive personal remuneration for bestowing lucrative contracts on certain suppliers.”
Wrexford looked to Sheffield for his reaction. He and Cordelia ran a successful international shipping company, and so they were intimately aware of all the complex inner business workings of moving goods from place to place.
“Unfortunately, greasing the wheels of commerce is simply an accepted cost of doing business,” said Sheffield. “Mind you, not everyone does it,” he added meaningfully, “but those who don’t often pay a price in their profits for being scrupulously honest.”
A pause. “Though if that is happening on the Bristol Road Project, I’m sure Lord Fenway would want to know about it. He has a reputation for being someone who never bends the rules.”
Frowning in thought, the earl pondered what he had just heard and then once again pressed Garfield. “Where are you going with all this?”
“Please allow me to finish, milord.” Garfield cleared his throat. “When Jasper returned from attending the transportation symposium in Paris, he seemed . . . different. He talked to me about how France had made great inroads in improving life for all its citizens under Napoleon, despite the former emperor’s penchant for war. And at several meetings of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society, he waxed poetic about how making a fortune on a patent seemed unethical when allowing innovations to be used by all would make life better for the common man as well for the rich and powerful.”
A pause. “So, on hearing of Jasper’s death from Lady Cordelia, I thought of a plan that I felt would both honor Jasper’s wishes and satisfy my own desires without hurting anyone. I immediately contacted the French and offered to sell them Jasper’s innovation. Given their political beliefs, it seemed likely that they were more likely than anyone to use it for the common good.”
“You want us to believe you were acting out of altruism?” Sheffield’s skepticism was back.
Garfield looked away to the book emporium’s window, where soft flickers of light caressed the gilt-stamped calfskin bindings of the antiquarian volumes on display.
“Idocare about improving the lives of others. As I said, I am not as brilliant or innovative as Milton or Carrick, but I am good at what I do and create improvements that benefit all travelers,” he said softly. “But you are right. At heart, my motives were selfish.”
He took a moment to compose his thoughts. “When I heard that a very fine first edition of Chaucer’sCanterbury Taleswas coming up for auction, I succumbed to my lust to own it. My actions may have been less than honorable in regard to my own desires, but I swear to you that I did not harm Jasper.”
Much as Wrexford found Garfield’s reasoning a trifle self-serving, the long-winded explanation did strike him as truthful. And just as important, he simply didn’t think that the fellow possessed the nerve or the will to be a killer.
“However . . .” Garfield blew out his breath. “I couldn’t bring myself to face the possibility until just now, but I fear that I may know who did.”
CHAPTER 17
