* * *
“I have been thinking,” announced Wrexford once the two of them returned to his workroom. “I don’t believe Wayland had the ruthlessness to kill Milton and Garfield. My guess is he somehow learned that Garfield was trying to find Milton’s papers in order to sell them to the French and decided to create a false set of sketches in order to preempt his fellow society member. He must have thought that he knew enough about Milton’s work to fool Montaigne and his radical friend.”
“That’s plausible,” agreed Cordelia.
“Perhaps von Münch will be able to shed some light on what is going on.” Wrexford’s brows drew together in a scowl. “Assuming he wasn’t lying about meeting us here.”
A noise from nearby—a light-footed shuffle—stirred a sudden foreboding.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” called a voice from the adjoining library, and in another instant von Münch appeared in the doorway.
Wrexford decided not to inquire as to how the fellow had gained access to the townhouse.
“I may have misled you on several occasions,” continued von Münch, as he entered the workroom. “But I was always your ally, not your enemy. Granted, circumstances demanded some sleight of tongue, but there was never any intent of malice or deceit.”
“No intent of deceit?” Henning let out a snort. “Read any good books lately, Herr Librarian?” he asked with undisguised sarcasm. “Perhaps you could recommend a Germanic horror novel, complete with dark secrets, duplicitous scholars, and skulking villains.”
“Oh, but you English are far more imaginative than we are when it comes to composing such dramatic and entertaining stories,” replied von Münch.
“Ha!” muttered the earl.
“Enough needling, everyone.” Charlotte sat down rather heavily in one of the armchairs by the hearth.
A look of contrition clouded von Münch’s gaze. “My apologies, milady. Humor often helps to defuse a confrontation, but I do not mean to make light of the fraught situation.” He glanced at Cordelia. “I am aware that Mr. Milton’s murder has touched you and your friends personally.”
“Since you claim to be our ally, why don’t you start being truthful with us?” said Wrexford. “Beginning with your real identity and why you are back in London.”
“Actually, my name really is Ernst Josef von Münch.” A smile. “My father also happens to bear the same name. It ishe, not I, who is a renowned scholar and holds the position of personal librarian to King Frederick of Württemberg.”
“Why the masquerade?” asked Charlotte.
“There are times when a research trip would prove too grueling for my father,” replied von Münch. “So I occasionally serve as his representative.”
A rather amorphous answer, reflected Wrexford. But then, he imagined that the words had been chosen with deliberate care.
“Exactly what sort of research do you do for him?” asked Charlotte.
“That depends.”
“Might you be more specific?” she pressed.
Clasping his hands together behind his back, von Münch turned to regard the crackling coals. Sparks flared as a chunk crumbled to ash, setting off a hiss of smoke.
“Let us just say that my father and I head up an informal council to advise Crown Prince William on the international issues that may affect our tiny country.”
“One would expect King Frederick to handle such affairs of state, not his son,” observed Wrexford.
“Prince William considers it his responsibility to understand the complexities of such things. His father has . . . other interests.”
“Like eating, drinking, and indulging in any debauchery that tickles his fancy?” suggested the earl.
“The king wholeheartedly embraces the pursuit of pleasure. And according to his physician, that is cause for concern.”
Wrexford considered what he had just heard. “Is the prince attending the Peace Conference in Vienna?”
“He is, milord,” answered von Münch. “Our delegation has little actual clout, but a number of the senior diplomats respect Prince William’s opinions—as well as the fact that he often knows more than they do about the intrigues going on between the major powers.”
“I take it that very few people in Vienna, including your own delegation, would be happy to hear that Napoleon might be contemplating a return to the fray?” Wrexford continued.
