The next morning, Marshall awoke to a house in an uproar. When the mare’s body had been removed and the stall cleaned, a jar had been discovered under a layer of straw, containing the remains of an unknown sticky substance.
Someone had fed Priscilla poison. Someone had deliberately killed His Grace’s favorite mare. If there was one thing in the world the Duke of Monthwaite was passionate about, it was his horses. The gruesome way in which his most prized bit of horseflesh had met her demise was beyond all reckoning. The criminal would be punished. Severely.
Another groom said he recalled seeing Thomas Gerald feeding the horse by hand, but never imagined he’d do something so heinous. Sticky stains found on Gerald’s shirt cuffs gave weight to the accusation. For his atrocious crime, the fifteen-year-old groom was transported to Van Diemen’s Land for ten years on the labor gangs.
The carriage pulled to a stop. Marshall opened his eyes and drew a shuddering breath. Somewhere in the world, possibly even in England, roamed a man who could rightfully blame Marshall for ruining his life. Such a man was dangerous, and had to be found before he attempted something foolish. Marshall scrawled a note on the report to remind Perkins to call in yet another investigator, since this one had lost the trail.
• • •
In Leicestershire, Marshall stopped at the estate of David Hornsby, the younger son of an earl. He had the good fortune of a sire who’d acquired a spare estate to give his youngest offspring.
As a result, the estate’s master epitomized the idle rich. Mr. Hornsby was of an age with Marshall, and lived well off the income of his land. With a competent steward taking care of the estate’s day-to-day operations, Hornsby had no purpose in life other than pursuing pleasure and fulfilling his own whims.
One of his few redeeming qualities was a kindred leaning toward botany. They had attended lectures together at the Royal Society and struck up something of a friendship, founded only on their shared intellectual pursuits. The botany community was a small one, and Marshall would not turn his nose up at a man who was as eager as himself to see progress in the field.
Marshall was shown in to Hornsby’s library, the walls of which were adorned with framed prints of local wildflowers.
“Monthwaite!” Hornsby sprang from the leather chair in which he’d been ensconced with a book and a bottle of brandy. Marshall noted this last item with distaste, considering it was just past noon. Hornsby extended his hand for Marshall’s greeting, and pumped the duke’s arm vigorously. “Good to see you, Monty, good to see you. How fare the great swaths of the kingdom in your possession?” The man’s face, flushed with drink, clashed against his yellow-checked jacket.
Hornsby had no sooner returned to his seat than he sprang up again. Most men as far into their cups as he appeared to be — judging by the alarmingly low level in the brandy decanter — would have been half asleep by now. Marshall’s host appeared as energetic as if he’d just awoken from a refreshing night’s sleep.
Hornsby strode on thick legs to an oak table standing near a large picture window overlooking the expansive gardens on the back of the house. He unrolled a map and gestured for Marshall to join him at the table. He jabbed a chubby finger into the map. “I believe I’ve located a suitable site for the herbarium.”
“Coventry?”
Hornsby nodded. “London would be the obvious choice, of course, but land there is dear and hard to come by. I thought,” he said, turning his glassy brown eyes on Marshall, “a centralized location would be a nice gesture.”
“To whom?” Marshall asked.
Hornsby shrugged and smiled like the spoiled little boy he was. “Everyone.”
Everyone Marshall took to mean the entire population of Britain, and indeed the world, to whom their proposed herbarium would be open.
For a long moment, he held Hornsby’s gaze. His eager face seemed desperate for Marshall’s approval. Though they had been born the same year and Marshall only a few months before Hornsby, Marshall still felt as though Hornsby looked to him for guidance, like an older brother. He regarded the map again. His lips turned up in a slow, lazy smile.
“You might be on to something,” he drawled. He nodded, affirming his statement. “Yes, let’s go have a look at the land you have in mind.”
A wide grin broke across Hornsby’s face. “Really?” he breathed rapturously.
Marshall took a step back and away from the fumes rolling off his friend.
“I’ll have my bags ready in a trice,” Hornsby said. As he hurried from the room he called over his shoulder, “I know a good inn where we can stay tonight.”