Wrexford wished that he could snap back with his usual sarcasm. But his self-confidence had been shaken by the murder, in ways that he couldn’t explain, not even to himself.
“I’m not sure of anything right now,” he answered. “Save for one simple fact . . .”
His gaze moved to the cold ashes in the hearth.
“I’ve made a promise to myself—and to the memory of my late brother—that I will not rest easy until I solve this murder and see that the killer is brought to justice. Greeley deserves no less.”
CHAPTER 8
“Bloody hell, Wrex!” An oath suddenly echoed off the wainscoting of the corridor, followed by the familiar gravelly growl of their good friend, Basil Henning. “Why is it that every time you stumble over a dead body, you have it sent to me?”
“I send the bodies to you, Baz,” answered Wrexford as the surgeon entered the parlor, “because you have an ungodly knack for coaxing secrets from the dead.”
“Be that as it may . . .” Henning ran a hand over his bristly jaw. “I’m not overly fond of having such an intimate conversation with a man who was a good friend and comrade.”
The admission took Charlotte by surprise. Basil Henning—a crusty Scottish surgeon whose sarcasm was as sharp-edged as Highland granite—was not one for betraying any flicker of sentimentality. But as he had served in the military with Wrexford during the Peninsular War, she realized that he must have known Greeley.
“I’m so sorry, Baz. It must have been . . .”Shocking? Upsetting?She hesitated, searching for a word that wouldn’t reduce a flesh-and-blood individual to a trite condolence.
Unable to summon any lofty sentiments, she simply said, “It must have been heartbreaking.”
Henning moved to the side table by Wrexford, leaving a trail of mud on the carpet, and splashed a generous measure of whisky into a glass. “As you know, lassie, I don’t have a heart,” he muttered after taking a noisy slurp.
His gruff demeanor didn’t quite hide the sadness shading his scowl.
“But you definitely have a stomach,” she replied, forcing a show of humor. Henning wouldn’t thank her for dwelling on emotions. She glanced at McClellan, who had already risen from her chair.
“I’ll fetch another tray of food from the kitchen,” said the maid.
“Sustenance would be very welcome, Mac,” said the surgeon as he slouched down into the chair facing the earl.
“So,” said Wrexford, after allowing Henning to take several long swallows of his whisky. “Did Greeley’s mortal remains have anything to say about the person who killed him?”
“Just that whoever wielded the weapon knew how to use it,” answered the surgeon. “The thrust was perfectly aimed—it didn’t even nick a rib—and death was instantaneous.”
“My impression was the same,” said Wrexford.
“The killer may have just been lucky,” pointed out Sheffield.
“Perhaps,” conceded the earl. His brows knitted together. “But what I cannot fathom is why anyone would murder Greeley. He was a quiet recluse, a threat to nobody.”
Charlotte fisted her hands in her lap. “And yet,” she said softly, “someone wanted him dead.”
McClellan returned with a fresh platter of meat and bread and set it down on the table beside Henning’s chair.
“Bless you.” The surgeon sliced off a morsel of roast beef and wolfed it down before heaving a sigh. “We may never know the reason. The Grim Reaper feels no compunction to explain himself to us mere mortals.”
An uneasy silence settled over them. The talk of death—a topic that touched her husband and Henning in a very visceral way—seemed to squeeze all the air from the room.
It was Sheffield who ventured to break the tension. “The only clues seem to be the missing manuscript and the fact that Greeley mentioned Wrex shortly before he was killed. So the question is . . .” He frowned. “How the devil do they tie together?”
Try as she might, Charlotte couldn’t muster even a ghost of an answer.
Sheffield waited, but when nobody ventured to speak, his gaze moved to Wrexford. “I understand your desire for justice. But how the devil do you intend to solve the murder if you also intend to help Charlotte gather information about the mysterious fire at Maudslay’s laboratory?”
“Griffin,” said Charlotte. “You must hire Griffin to help you.”
She and Wrexford had first met the Bow Street Runner when the earl was the prime suspect in a grisly murder. Their initial antagonism had turned to respect—and then to friendship. Griffin’s taciturn demeanor and plodding movements fooled many people into thinking he was slow-witted, though in truth he possessed a clever, methodical mind. He had proved to be a valuable ally in their subsequent investigations.
