Garfield confirmed the statement with a nod. “We all respected her intelligence and determination.”
A smile touched his lips for an instant, and then his expression turned deathly serious again. “About Wayland . . .” He slowly shuffled his feet. “Even back then, he was quite a dandy and enjoyed hobnobbing with his aristocratic friends. But such revelries take money, especially here in Town, and he recently admitted to me over supper that his gaming debts have become overwhelming from trying to keep his pockets plump enough to carouse with his rich friends.”
Wrexford knew of more than a few reckless young men who had gambled themselves into ruin.
“And after we had a few more pints of ale,” continued Garfield, “Wayland muttered that the answer to his prayers would be coming up with a momentous engineering idea that could be patented.”
A pause. “The trouble is, he is quite smart, but he’s not brilliant enough to come up with such a discovery on his own.”
“So you’re saying that he might have killed Milton to steal his idea?” said Sheffield.
“Since you apparently overheard my conversation with Monsieur Montaigne and Mademoiselle Benoit—though Lord knows how—you are aware of the fact that I made a thorough search of Jasper’s lodging and found nothing. So I assume that he had his work papers on his person when he was murdered.”
“What about Carrick?” asked Wrexford. “Do you think he could be the murderer?”
Garfield gave an involuntary shudder. “I can’t imagine that is true. They were such close friends.” A grimace. “But neither do I wish to think that Wayland—or Wheeler, for that matter—would be capable of such a heinous crime.”
“Then why do you think Carrick hasn’t been seen since Milton’s murder?” pressed the earl.
“I—I haven’t a clue.” He hesitated and swallowed hard. “Perhaps you should ask Sarah Guppy.”
That Guppy was again linked with Carrick put Wrexford on full alert.
“What makes you suggest that?” he asked.
“She and Oliver formed a friendship during the past spring when he was working on a bridge repair project near Bristol,” replied Garfield. “She’s an unofficial leader within the world of mechanical engineering, and my sense is she took him under her wing.”
“Thank you.” The earl stepped aside. “I think we’ve heard enough, Kit.”
“A-Am I free to go?” asked Garfield in a small voice.
“Where are you staying?” inquired Wrexford.
Garfield replied with the address of a modest but respectable lodging house on Gerrard Street near Leicester Square.
“Yes, you may be on your way,” said the earl. “But don’t think of leaving London.” As the fellow started to hurry away, the earl added, “And I suggest that you abandon your plan to buy the Chaucer book. The advance payment you received from the French radicals is blood money, and unless you wish to repay it in the same currency, I would give it back without delay.”
The fleeing figure was soon swallowed in the shadows, leaving behind just as many unanswered questions as revelations.
“I take it we may now head back to Berkeley Square,” said Sheffield, “where you are going to offer me a very fine glass of Scottish malt to wash the bad taste from my mouth.” He grimaced. “Perhaps the ladies have learned something useful from the elusive Mademoiselle Benoit.”
“Not quite yet,” answered the earl. “Tyler’s sleuthing also included gathering information on Wayland and Wheeler, the other two members of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society, as well as Garfield. Apparently, Wayland favors a certain gambling hell in St. Giles, and since Garfield has just thrown him to the wolves, I suggest we go there now and see whether it’s worth sinking our teeth into him.”
“And here I was looking forward to a decent drink.” Sheffield blew out a mournful sigh as they started walking east.” Please tell me we’re not also planning to confront Wheeler with whatever guilty secret he’s been hiding.”
“Actually Tyler couldn’t find one.”
“Ye gods, is he a saint?”
“I have no idea,” answered Wrexford. “But according to Tyler, aside from working in the library of the Royal Institution on mathematical calculations and technical drawings for his current project, Wheeler’s only other forays are to the Survey Office, where he pores over pieces of land for sale near the River Thames in Berkshire.”
“He sounds like a bore rather than a saint,” quipped Sheffield.
“According to those who work with him—I wouldn’t call them friends, for he doesn’t appear to have any—Wheeler is a very serious, aloof fellow,” continued Wrexford. “He’s much in demand as a project manager and bridge designer and is well-paid for his services. That he wishes to acquire land where he can put down roots rather than fritter his money away on sybaritic pleasures shows a pragmatic approach to life. Most unmarried men his age are out sowing their wild oats, without a thought for the future.”
“Hmmm.” Sheffield thought for a moment. “Well, we know he told Charlotte that he’s from a humbler background than the others. So perhaps he’s experienced enough hard times to know that life can be cruelly fickle and so he is careful with the money he earns.”
“We also know that he told Charlotte about Carrick having a heated argument with Milton just before the murder,” pointed out Wrexford. “She seems to think he is telling the truth.”
