Who nodded. “I’ll direct my people that way.”
“What people?” Jeremy frowned at the trio. “You talk as if you have troops at your disposal.”
St. Austell raised his brows, amused. Tristan straightened his lips and replied, “In a way, we do. In our previous calling, we had need of…connections at all levels of society. And there are a lot of ex-soldiers we can call on for assistance. We each know people who are used to going out and looking for things for us.”
Leonora frowned Jeremy down when he would have asked more. “So you’ve combined your troops and sent them out to search for Martinbury. What does that leave us to do? What’s your plan?”
Tristan met her eyes, then glanced at Humphrey and Jeremy. “We still don’t know what Mountford’s after— we could simply sit back and wait for him to break in, then see what he goes for. That, however, is the more dangerous course. Letting him into this house, letting him at any stage get his hands on what he’s after, should be our last resort.”
“The alternative?” Jeremy asked.
“Is to go forward following the lines of inquiry we already have. One, seek Martinbury—he may have more specific information from Carruthers. Two, continue to piece together what we can from the three sources we have—the journals, letters, and notes. It’s likely those are at least part of what Mountford is after. If he has access to the pieces we’re missing, that would make sense.
“Three.” Tristan glanced at Leonora. “We’ve assumed that the something—let’s call it a formula—was hidden in Cedric’s workshop. That may still be the case. We’ve only removed all the obvious written materials—if there’s something specificially concealed in the workshop, it may still be there. Lastly, the formula may be completed, written down and hidden elsewhere in this house.” He paused, then continued, “The risk of letting something like that fall into Mountford’s hands is too great to take. We need to search this house.”
Recalling how he’d searched Miss Timmins’s rooms, Leonora nodded. “I agree.” She glanced around the table. “So Humphrey and Jeremy should continue with the journals, letters, and notes in the library. Your people are scouring London for Martinbury. That leaves you three, I take it?”
Tristan smiled at her, one of his charming smiles. “And you. If you could warn your staff and clear the way for us, we three will search. We may need to search from attics to basement, and this is a large house.” His smile took on an edge. “But we’re very good at searching.”
They were.
Leonora watched from the doorway of the workshop as, silent as mice, the three noblemen pried, poked, and prodded into every last nook and cranny, climbed about the heavy shelving, squinting down the backs of cupboards, whisked hidden crevices with canes, and lay on the floor to inspect the undersides of desks and drawers. They missed nothing.
And found nothing but dust.
From there, they worked steadily outward and upward, going through kitchen and pantries, even the now silent laundry, through every room on the lower floor, then they climbed the stairs and, quietly determined, set about applying their unexpected skills to the rooms on the ground floor.
Within two hours, they’d reached the bedchambers; an hour later, they broached the attics.
The luncheon gong was clanging when Leonora, seated on the stairs leading up to the attics—into which she’d flatly refused to venture—felt the reverberations of their descent.
She stood and swung around. Their footfalls, heavy, slow, told her they’d found nothing at all. They came into view, brushing cobwebs from their hair and coats—Shultz would not have approved.
Tristan met her eyes, somewhat grimly concluded, “If any precious formula is secreted in this house, it’s in the library.”
In Cedric’s journals, Carruthers’s letters and notes.
“At least we’re now sure of that much.” Turning, she led them back to the main stairs and down to the dining room.
Jeremy and Humphrey joined them there.
Jeremy shook his head as he sat. “Nothing more, I’m afraid.”
“Except”—Humphrey frowned as he shook out his napkin—“that I’m increasingly certain Cedric did not keep any record of his own as to the rationale and conclusions he drew from his experiments.” He grimaced. “Some scientists are like that—keep it all in their head.”
“Secretive?” Deverall asked, starting on his soup.
Humphrey shook his head. “Not usually. More a case of they don’t want to waste time writing down what they already know.”
They all started eating, then Humphrey, still frowning, continued, “If Cedric didn’t leave any record—and most of the books in the library are ours—there were only a handful of ancient texts in there when we moved in.”
Jeremy nodded. “And I went through all of those. There were no records stuck in them, or written in them.”
Humphrey continued, “If that’s so, then we’re going to have to pray Carruthers left some more detailed account. The letters and notes give one hope—and I’m not saying we won’t ever get the answer if that’s all there is for us to work with—but a properly kept journal with a
“There are any number of versions, you see.” Jeremy took up the explanation. “But there’s no way to tell from Cedric’s journal which came after which, let alone why. Cedric must have known, and from comments in the letters, Carruthers knew, too, but…so far, we’ve only been able to match a handful of Carruthers’s experimental notes with his letters, which are the only things that are dated.”
Humphrey chewed, nodded morosely. “Enough to make you tear out your hair.”
In the distance, the front doorbell pealed. Castor left them, reappearing a minute later with a folded note on a salver.
He walked to Deverell’s side. “A footman from next door brought this for you, my lord.”
Deverell glanced at Tristan and Charles as he set down his fork and reached for the note. It was a scrap of plain paper, the writing an ill-formed scrawl in pencil. Deverell scanned it, then looked at Tristan and Charles across the table.
They both sat up.
“What?”
Everyone looked at Deverell. A slow smile curved his lips.
“The good sisters of the Little Sisters of Mercy off the Whitechapel Road have been caring for a young man who answers to the name of Jonathon Martinbury.” Deverell glanced at the note; his face hardened. “He was brought to them two weeks ago, the victim of a vicious beating left to die in a gutter.”
Arranging to fetch Martinbury—they all agreed he had to be fetched—was an exercise in logistics. In the end, it was agreed that Leonora and Tristan would go; neither St. Austell nor Deverell wanted to risk being seen leaving or returning to Number 14. Even Leonora and Tristan had to be cautious. They left the house via the front door, with Henrietta on her lead.
Once on the street, the line of trees along the boundary of Number 12 screened them from anyone watching from Number 16. They turned in at the gate of the club and, much to Henrietta’s disgruntlement, left her in the kitchens there.
Tristan hurried Leonora down the back path of the club, then out into the alleyway behind. From there it was easy to reach the next street, where they hired a hackney and headed with all speed for the Whitechapel Road.
In the infirmary at the convent, they found Jonathon Martinbury. He looked to be a stalwart young man, squarish of both build and countenance, with brown hair visible through the breaks in the bandages wrapping his head. Much of him seemed bandaged; one arm rested in a sling. His face was badly bruised and cut, with a massive contusion above one eye.
He was lucid, if weak. When Leonora explained their presence by saying they’d been searching for him in relation to Cedric Carling’s work with A. J. Carruthers, his eyes lit.
“Thank God!” Briefly, he closed his eyes, then opened them. His voice was rough, still hoarse. “I got your letter. I came down to town early, intending to call on you—” He broke off, his face clouding. “Everything since has been a nightmare.”
