“There’s some writing in the margin,” observed von Münch, who adjusted his spectacles as she shifted to let him lean in for a closer look. “It says ‘If this instrument made with a screw be well made—that is to say, made of linen of which the pores are stopped up with starch and be turned swiftly, the said screw will make its spiral in the air, and it will rise high.’ ”
“Hmmph.” The librarian looked puzzled as he pondered over what he had just read. “I confess, I have no idea as to why it would rise.”
Charlotte made a face. “Nor do I.” She resumed leafing through the manuscript. “Interestingly enough, there are a number of sketches of swirling water and currents on these pages. But what he sees in them is beyond me. Perhaps Wrexford will comprehend what secrets lie within the sketches.” She pressed her palms to her eyes. “However, I find that it’s all becoming an incomprehensible blur.”
“Ja. I, too, make no claim to understand the scientific mind.” Heaving a sigh, von Münch rose. “We have at least accomplished something today in finding the manuscript. Though I can’t see how it helps us discern who might have wished to kill Mr. Greeley.”
Charlotte closed the covers. “Nor can I.”
“As you said, perhaps your husband will have some ideas.” He took an appreciative sip from his glass and smiled. “By the by, Lord Wrexford possesses a very fine selection of German wines. Few Englishmen appreciate our Württemberg varietals. . .”
He stopped in mid-sentence, a furrow forming between his brows. “Forgive me—a sudden thought has just occurred to me, and I need to leave now if I am to pursue it.”
CHAPTER 16
After seeing von Münch out, Charlotte resolved to set aside the mysteries of the manuscript until Wrexford returned. However, the house was quiet—too quiet to offer the usual familial distractions. The Weasels and Peregrine had retreated to their eyrie looking a little green around the gills after having eaten too many sweets during their supper with Alison. McClellan had gone out—she had not said to where—and Tyler was ensconced in the earl’s laboratory preparing chemicals for a new experiment.
And so she found herself drawn back to the manuscript’s cryptic pages.
“Damnation,” she muttered after carrying it up to her workroom. “Thishasto hold a clue as to why Greeley was killed.” One by one, she turned through the pages yet again, trying to keep an open mind on which of the bizarre images might be a key piece to the puzzle.
And once again, she felt utterly flummoxed.
Disappointed in herself, Charlotte looked up to give her eyes a rest. The lamplight flickered across her worktable, illuminating all the familiar elements of her daily life—her paints and brushes, the stack of watercolor paper, the sketchbooks. She could make them do her bidding with ease, creating words and images to provoke the public to think about complex ideas....
Her gaze suddenly came to rest on the portfolio case that Wrexford had brought back from the Merton College Library.
The pile of papers and scribbled notes from Greeley’s desk.
What with all the other distractions, she had yet to have a look at them.
Charlotte hesitated, half afraid of taking on another challenge that would defeat her. The trepidation wasn’t out of mere hubris. Wrexford was a man of tightly controlled emotions, and yet she had never seen him appear so rattled.
So vulnerable.
Greeley’s death had opened up an old wound, one that had never fully healed.
“And perhaps it never will,” Charlotte whispered. No amount of logic seemed able to banish the unreasonable sense of guilt her husband felt at not being able to keep his brother safe. She also sensed that there were deeper, darker conflicts troubling him.
But for now, solving the murder must take precedence.
“Perhaps finding justice for Greeley will expiate some of the pain.”
Grabbing a handful of the papers, she spread them out on her blotter. After opening a notebook and taking up her magnifying glass, she set to work trying to coax some meaning out of the scribbles.
The next time Charlotte looked up, she saw that the shadows of early evening had turned to a more impenetrable darkness. After flexing her shoulders, she put down her pencil and made a face. She had precious little to show for her hours of effort. Greeley’s cryptic jottings and notations had defied her efforts to decipher what he had been thinking. One symbol—a strange squiggle with two finlike appendages—appeared with maddening frequency. But she couldn’t begin to fathom what it meant.
“Perhaps in the morning, things will look clearer,” Charlotte murmured, trying to boost her flagging spirits. Her muscles were cramping, her eyes were burning, but it was the ache in her heart that hurt the most. She wanted so badly to help Wrexford—
“What are you working on, m’lady?” Clad in a nightshirt, his sleep-tousled hair sticking up in spiky tufts, Hawk padded into the room.
“A puzzle,” she answered. “It’s very late. You should be in bed.”
“I was,” he replied. “I woke up and was thirsty, so I went to the kitchen for a mug of milk . . . and one or two ginger biscuits.” He took a tentative step closer. “May I have a look?”
“Yes, by all means, sweeting.” She sighed. “A fresh set of eyes may see whatever it is that I am missing.”
Hawk came and stood close to her chair—close enough that the sugary heat from his skinny body warmed some of the uncertainty from her bones. She put her arms around him and brushed a kiss to his tangled curls.
