“The day looks to be clearing,” said Charlotte as she turned away from the window overlooking the back gardens.
“The rain squall that blew through early this morning will likely have washed away any footprints that the shooter may have left at the edge of the park,” said Wrexford, not looking up from writing down some notes on the previous evening. “Though I doubt they would have provided any real clues. However, Tyler is going to examine the bullet that I recovered with our microscope to see if it yields any information on what type of firearm was used.”
“Do you think Kurlansky could have been the assailant?” Charlotte had told him about the encounter with the Russian. “I saw him heading down to the lake . . .” She made a face. “But why would he have done such a thing?”
“Kurlansky is both very capable and very clever. If he wanted the Frenchman dead, he wouldn’t have made a hash of it,” Wrexford answered dryly. He jotted a few more thoughts down on paper. “But more importantly, as you pointed out, he has no motive. Whatever byzantine intrigue has brought him back to London, I don’t see that it can have any connection to a British traitor from a bygone war.”
“I suppose not,” conceded Charlotte, though she didn’t sound entirely convinced. Her brow furrowed in thought. “But what if thereisa connection between Greeley’s death and the race to create an oceangoing propulsion system? As Kit pointed out, there is reason to believe that the tsar of Russia would dearly love to get his hands on the plans for that technology.”
He put his pen down. “The only connection is a purely personal one involving our family.Iam investigating Greeley’s death, andyouare investigating the skullduggery surrounding the propulsion system.”
“Perhaps Kurlansky is targeting you because he knows that I am poking around in the matter and is trying to distract me.” Her expression betrayed a very un-Charlotte-like flicker of fear. “Or scare me into giving up.”
Wrexford wasn’t sure why she was being so stubborn, though he sensed that the Russian had somehow gotten under her skin. “I fear you are allowing emotion to overrule logic and color your judgment.” As he said the words, he realized the irony of the accusation.
Charlotte did as well. “You, me, Kit, Cordelia—it seems we all are finding it hard to separate feelings from facts as we try to deal with all the conundrums.”
“True. But we must try,” he replied. “As for Kurlansky, let us not create specters out of thin air. We have enough flesh-and-blood villains to track down and bring to justice.”
Charlotte moved to the hearth, where she took a long moment to run a hand along the carved marble of the mantel. “I confess that I dislike Kurlansky. He is both arrogant and unfeeling. For him, international intrigue is a game that the high and mighty play. Innocent lives are merely pawns on a chessboard, to be sacrificed without batting an eye if it serves his purpose.”
Her mouth quivered in outrage. “Ye gods, he threatened our friends and our family during the last investigation, and then had the gall to come to us and suggest that we all chuckle and let bygones be bygones.” She watched a shadow play over her fingers before adding, “I’m quite sure that the real reason he came was to boast about his cleverness.”
“I daresay he’s no worse than our own intelligence operatives,” observed Wrexford. “The job of keeping the balance of power from tipping too far in any one direction requires getting one’s hands dirty.”
Silence. And then a sigh. “Much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. I concede that I am overreacting,” Charlotte muttered. “I shall heed your advice to put Kurlansky out of my thoughts.” A pause. “But that leaves unanswered the key question of who fired the shot at you.”
She fixed him with a searching stare. “Do you think it could possibly be the same man who murdered Greeley?”
“That’s a more logical surmise.” Not that logic was proving any real help in the investigation. “And yet . . .” Griffin had been meticulous in examining Greeley’s personal and professional life and had yet to find any thread that might tie him to his killer.
“The damnable truth is,” he continued, “I still can’t begin to guess as to who might be responsible for either act of violence.”
If Greeley’s murder had something to do with treachery from six years ago, he asked himself, why had the killer waited so long to act?
Why now?
The most obvious answer was that Greeley had remembered something and summoned the killer for a confrontation. But that didn’t explain . . .
Pushing aside the unanswered mysteries, Wrexford rose from his chair. “Forgive me, but I must be off. A fellow member of military intelligence with whom I worked during my time in Portugal has agreed to meet with me. I want to ask him if he ever heard rumors about a British traitor—just in case Dalambert’s friend doesn’t choose to reveal what he knows.”
“Good luck,” said Charlotte.
“Luck seems to be playing a pernicious game of hide-and-seek with us. But perhaps it will turn in our favor.” He put one of the samples of the traitor’s handwriting into a portfolio case. “Speaking of luck, let us hope that you and von Münch will be permitted access to the King’s Library at Buckingham House to search for a copy ofNihil Est Quod Hominum Efficere Non Possit.”
“I like von Münch.” Charlotte tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. During their nighttime meeting with the librarian, it had been decided that she would accompany him to the King’s Library, as her sharp eyes and skill in Latin would be helpful in scouring the shelves for the missing manuscript. “He’s not only extremely intelligent and observant, but he seems to possess a deeply felt sense of humanity, which makes him care about Right and Wrong.”
“I don’t disagree.” The earl checked the priming of the pocket pistol on his desk and then tucked it inside his coat.
“However, let us bear in mind that whatever forces of evil we are facing possess a cunning cleverness—and ruthlessness. So it’s best not to trust anyone fully, save for our inner circle of family and friends.”
* * *
“Hmmph.” The head of the King’s Library at Buckingham House handed back von Münch’s credentials—which were, Charlotte noted, an impressive confection of flowery script, heraldic crests, and ornate wax seals dangling from scarlet ribbons.
“All looks in order,” he said in Latin. “We are, of course, happy to welcome a representative of our king’s son-in-law.”
After a disapproving look at Charlotte, he nodded politely to von Münch. “Please follow me into the connecting wing, which houses the book and manuscript rooms. I’m sure the lady won’t mind waiting here . . .” He gestured to a small sitting room off the main entrance hall. “While we search through the shelves for the manuscript you seek.”
