by Elsa Hart
“My only intention is to complete the work I came to do,” said Cecily.
After a moment of silent consideration, Lady Mayne nodded. “Then you may stay,” she said. “I am, for the present, mistress of this house, and I would not turn away a guest to whom my husband promised accommodation. But I will advise you to complete your work with all possible efficiency. The collection is not to remain here long.”
Cecily maintained an expression of polite interest. “Oh? What do you intend for it?”
Lady Mayne’s lips compressed. “Your question would suggest that I have some power in the matter. I assure you, I do not. My husband made arrangements for it all long ago, arrangements of a legally binding nature. The collection is to go to another collector, a man in whom my husband placed absolute trust. The only function of the widow in these circumstances is to facilitate the transfer.”
“I see,” said Cecily. “And is this friend to take possession soon?”
“As soon as it can be effected. I have already sent for him. Indeed I suspect the footsteps now ascending the stair are his.”
They were. The door of the room opened, allowing in a little more light, and Cecily was confronted with the affable features, now lined with concern and sympathy, of Giles Inwood.
CHAPTER 10
Gentlemen visitors to the office of the consul in Smyrna often expressed delight when they discovered that the consul’s wife collected plants. How charming, how unconventional a pursuit for a woman, they would exclaim. Lady Kay must allow them to assist with any identifications that were puzzling her. Almost invariably, they made this offer in the expectation that they would glance at what Cecily had found, make a pronouncement, and enjoy the affirmation of an attractive female as the Aegean air, perfumed by cinnamon and cloves arriving in Persian caravans, blew gently through the windows. Instead, these interactions usually ended with the gentleman making an abrupt excuse and leaving, either out of boredom, or out of frustration with the stubborn woman who treated every tiny discrepancy as if it meant the difference between bittersweet and deadly nightshade.
Cecily was stubborn. And she was too committed to her questions for Lady Mayne’s injunction to deter her from pursuing their answers. She did understand that she would have to proceed discreetly. When she reentered Sir Barnaby’s study after leaving the widow’s chamber, she was prepared to explain to anyone who challenged her that she was perusing the bookshelves for herbals and floras.
It was the first time she had been in the room alone and in daylight. Except for the rug rolled into the corner and the knife resting conspicuously on the shelf, it looked as it must have when its owner was alive. The book spines pressed together on the shelves formed an uneven surface, a testament to the frequency and excitement with which they had been consulted. The cane seat of the stool in front of the book wheel was indented, the volumes on the wheel open to the last pages Sir Barnaby had read.
She went first to the desk, and examined one by one the papers piled at one corner. There were seven distinct documents. The first three were invitations to lectures at the Royal Society pertaining, respectively, to microscopic observations of rainwater, unusual circular arches seen in the air by Edmund Halley, and various species of insects found in the bark of decaying elms and ashes. The next two were requests to visit the collection. There was nothing remarkable about either. The sixth exerted a stronger claim to her attention. It was a letter written by the captain of the ship called the Salamander reporting the death of the traveler Anthony Holt. Cecily had to hold the paper close to her eyes to decipher the water-blurred text. To Sir Barnaby Mayne, she read.
It is my understanding that you are the benefactor whose generous patronage has these past eight months placed Anthony Holt under my care. It is with deepest regret that I write to inform you that Mr. Holt was taken from this world on the eleventh of January this year. Three brave sailors were lost with him in the storm that struck our vessel not long after we departed Chusan. That any survived must be counted a miracle. The waves rose so high that it seemed to me the very mountains of the earth could not have withstood their might.
Mr. Holt held you ever in great esteem. I believe you occupied in his affections the place of a father, his own having disowned and renounced all connection to him some years ago. It is for this reason that I direct my letter to you. May it bring you comfort to know that Mr. Holt conducted himself with intelligence, wit, and admirable valor. His loss will be keenly felt by all who had the honor of his acquaintance.
Cecily set the letter down and picked up the final document. It was a printed booklet identified by its title page as a catalogue of items to be sold by the widow of the late Mr. Follywolle at an auction to take place in Stockholm the following month. Cecily paged through the hundreds of listed books and objects, a handful of which had been circled and annotated with bidding instructions. Among the circled items were books on diverse subjects, a skeleton of an armadillo, a snuffbox made of jasper, a Roman urn, and a preserved chameleon.
She put the papers back as she had found them and turned her attention to the open shelves. Of the miscellaneous objects Sir Barnaby had elected to keep in his private study, a considerable number appeared to be artifacts of alchemy and magic. She caught her own reflection in a mirror of black obsidian that, according to its label, had belonged to the sorcerer John Dee. A closer examination of the crystal orbs on the mantelpiece revealed that there were sigils and pentacles engraved on them. Sir Barnaby’s interest in occult studies was also evident on the bookshelves, which contained no botanical volumes, but did contain an assortment of grimoires and books of spells.
As Cecily returned a well-thumbed edition of The Discoverie of Witchcraft to its place, she wondered what it was that Sir Barnaby had found so compelling about the subject. Though she disagreed with Puritanical condemnation of the study of magic, it had simply never ranked high on the list of subjects that attracted her attention. She considered it somewhat old-fashioned, its proponents vulnerable to charlatanism.
She moved to the book wheel, where the theme was the same. The open volume positioned in front of the stool contained instructions for the design and production of magic rings. As she turned the wheel, pages printed with pentacles, incantations, and lists of spirit names creaked past. She had just turned past a book open to a hand-sketched illustration of a parrot skull haloed in cryptic symbols when her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hall.
Giles Inwood entered the room. His eyes were shadowed, his cheeks deflated. He looked startled to see her.
“Mr. Inwood,” said Cecily. “I apologize. Perhaps I am not permitted to—”
He made a small gesture, brushing away her apology. “You may go where you wish, Lady Kay. I understand you are to remain a guest in this house. Allow me to tell you how much I admire your dedication to your work. Sir Barnaby would have—” Inwood cleared his throat and looked around the room. “Forgive me,” he said softly. “It is difficult to be in this place again. I find myself filled with the hope that he will return at any moment.”
Cecily nodded her understanding. Inwood collected himself and gave her a look of professional assessment. “You appear tired, Lady Kay. You cannot have slept peacefully. May I suggest an infusion of Saint John’s wort—” He stopped again as a spasm of emotion crossed his face.
“Mr. Inwood?”
Inwood drew in a long, steadying breath before he answered. “I was recalling that I spoke those same words yesterday to that—that villain Dinley. Saint John’s wort to soothe the nerves, I told him. What a fool I was. I should have observed the signs of mania.”
“You could not have predicted what would happen,” said Cecily.
“You are kind, Lady Kay, but I was well acquainted with Dinley. I could see that he was not himself. The man I knew was not nervous by nature. As a physician I am compelled to wonder whether he might have been bitten by a mad dog or ingested some pernicious herb. Hemlock root has been known to cause m
adness. I had a case last month of a woman consuming hemlock that had been mixed in with parsnips.”
Cecily thought it unlikely, having encountered John’s passion for roots and vegetables, that the cook would ever make such an error. “Did you inquire in the kitchen?”
Inwood nodded and winced slightly. “I did. The reply I received was, shall we say, adamant.”
Cecily smiled. She wanted to speak frankly to Inwood. He seemed a calm, intelligent man genuinely grieved by the death of his friend. But there was a good chance that if she told him what she had told Lady Mayne, he would report their conversation to the widow. And that wasn’t all. If Cecily was correct, if there was more to Sir Barnaby’s death than it appeared, she could not trust him.
“I must thank you,” she said after a moment. “For allowing me to stay and make use of the Plant Room.”
Inwood’s eyebrows lifted. “You owe me no thanks. I had no part in the decision.”
“Lady Mayne is mistress of the house, of course,” said Cecily. “But I understand Sir Barnaby left the collection to you.”
To her surprise, Cecily thought she saw grim amusement move over Inwood’s face like wind through the leaves of a tree. An instant later, his expression settled back into one of grief. “Yes,” he said quietly. “My friend has done me the honor of entrusting me with his legacy.”
He picked up an opalescent shell from the shelf nearest to him and sighed as he touched a finger gently to its red label. “As for your gratitude, Lady Kay, you must direct it at Sir Barnaby alone. It will be my pleasure to host you at my own estate once the collection is housed there, but it will always be the Mayne collection. It didn’t only belong to him, you see. His very self is bound up in it. Sir Barnaby is here, now, still alive within these cabinets. Every object, every choice of where to place it, every label written—he is here. I feel as if I could speak to him, and he would answer.”
The words, though spoken with almost reverent affection, chilled Cecily. She felt ever more strongly as if they were in the presence of a ghost. “You and Sir Barnaby must have known each other for many years,” she said.
Inwood set the shell down and returned his attention to her. “I was still a student when he became a kind of mentor to me. Our interests diverged as we grew older, but it is my opinion that this very divergence helped us remain friends.”
“How so?”
“Collectors,” said Inwood with a rueful smile, “can have trouble staying on good terms when they are seeking to acquire the same objects.”
“I see,” said Cecily. “Then I take it you did not share Sir Barnaby’s interest in the occult.”
Inwood showed no sign of surprise or discomfiture. His eyes flitted to the crystals on the mantelpiece with the same detached skepticism Cecily herself felt toward them. “I did not,” he said lightly. “But it had fascinated him for some time.”
“Was he—” Cecily hesitated.
“Practicing?” finished Inwood. “I cannot say for certain. He knew the subject was not fashionable, and did not speak of it often. When he did, he claimed that his interest was merely theoretical. He offered the usual justifications. To make a record of vulgar belief, and to strip the objects of their mystery. But I knew him well—I believe he cared rather more than he admitted.”
“And Dinley? Did he also study it?”
Inwood frowned at the mention of Dinley’s name. “I do not believe so.”
“Has there been any progress in the search for him?”
Inwood’s frown deepened. “None, but the constable and his men have not relaxed their efforts. He will be found.”
“You mentioned,” said Cecily, “that Mr. Dinley was not usually a nervous man. He appeared to me a very gentle person. Had Sir Barnaby expressed concerns about him to you? Or reported any previous altercations?”
“Not to my knowledge,” said Inwood. “Sir Barnaby and I dined together only the day before yesterday. Dinley’s name never entered the conversation.”
“Only the day before yesterday? Then you and Sir Barnaby must have discussed the upcoming tour.”
Inwood nodded. “We did, yes. He was particularly eager for the guests to see the Holt box. He had just found out about the poor fellow. But he spoke mostly of an auction catalogue he was looking forward to receiving. He was hoping to acquire several books and specimens he felt the collection was missing.” The faint smile returned to Inwood’s face. “He was an elderly man, Lady Kay, but he had no intention of dying.”
“He had just showed us the Holt box when he left us,” said Cecily. “I have wondered what it can have been that drew him away. Did you happen to see him when he came downstairs?”
“I did not. I didn’t even know the tour had ended until Carlyle told me.”
“Then you didn’t see Mr. Dinley come down either?”
“I did see Dinley, but that was earlier. I was in the hall when he came down with that lovely young woman—I recommended bistort to slow the bleeding.”
“But you didn’t go down to the kitchen with them?”
“No, and I don’t believe they were going downstairs. I think they were going out to the garden.”
A knock on the front door of the house prevented Cecily from asking another question. They listened in silence. The stairs creaked as one of the servants ascended from the kitchen. A moment later, a shriek rent the air. Cecily, who was closer to the door, rushed into the hall just ahead of Inwood.
Thomasin was standing at the entrance, one hand covering her mouth. On the threshold stood the swaying form of a man. One side of his face was a mask of dried and fresh blood. He wore no coat. His shirt was ripped and filthy. His wig was a ghastly ruin of matted tangles. As Cecily reached him, he staggered and fell forward into her arms. It took all her strength to control him as they sank together to the floor. She looked down at the battered features and recognized them. It was Otto Helm.
CHAPTER 11
As is often the case for those who exert themselves beyond their capacities in order to survive, Helm’s condition deteriorated rapidly once he understood that he was safe. He remained on the floor, propped up in Cecily’s arms, and seemed only vaguely cognizant of where he was. Cecily heard running footsteps in the house behind her, but Helm’s weight prevented her from turning.
“What happened?” The voice was Meacan’s. She entered Cecily’s vision a moment later, followed by Lady Mayne’s maid, Susanna, who stood aghast at the scene before her. Meacan appeared to have spent the day outside. The hems of her skirts and petticoats were dirty, and her dress was flecked with the unavoidable muck flung up by churning carriage wheels. When she saw Helm, her eyes widened, then flickered for an instant to meet Cecily’s before she returned her attention to him.
Helm, who had thus far produced only a string of words in Swedish separated by whimpers of pain, made a halting attempt at English. “Thieves,” he said hoarsely. “In the alley.” His eyes filled with panicked tears. “My bag,” he managed. “My notebooks.”
Inwood’s voice was at once consoling and authoritative. “That is not important now, Mr. Helm. We must see to your injuries.”
Helm struggled to speak. “I wish not to be … trouble,” he said in a barely audible voice. “Help me … return … my inn.”
“Out of the question,” said Inwood, as he and Cecily eased Helm into a seated position with his back against a craggy boulder tagged with a red label. “From what I can see, it was by luck alone you made it this far.”
Lady Mayne did not come downstairs, but upon being apprised of the situation expressed shock and concern. She agreed at once that accommodation should be given to the wounded man. As there were no unoccupied guest rooms in the house, she ordered that Helm be made as comfortable as possible in the bed that had been Walter Dinley’s. She instructed the servants to take their commands from Inwood and to keep her informed of the condition of her unexpected guest.
Before they addressed the problem of conveying Helm to the uppermost level of
the house, Inwood asked John for a list of salves, ointments, and medicines available in the kitchen. He nodded approvingly when John confirmed that he always kept aloe to hand. “And hyssop?” he asked the cook.
John’s face fell. “I did have some, but it occurred to me to test the bitterness of it in balance with sweet figs and I’m afraid I used it all. The apothecary isn’t far, though. Just beyond the end of the terrace.” John started to gesture east, then dropped his arm with an expression of dismay. “But it will be closed. This is the time Ashton and his wife were to join a party of herbalists on a journey to Kent.”
Meacan interjected. “Their son is minding the shop.” The group, with the exception of Helm, turned inquiring eyes to her. “I am acquainted with the family,” she explained.
“Then I will require hyssop,” said Inwood. “Also water germander and valerian. And if this younger Ashton knows his trade well, anything else he recommends for cuts and bruises.”
“I’ll go,” declared John. “Won’t take above a quarter of an hour.”
Inwood stopped him. “I will need your help to carry the patient upstairs.”
It was decided that Thomasin would go to the apothecary. Cecily watched her set out with a basket over her arm. The lines of tension that ran across the maid’s forehead and from her nose to the outer corners of her mouth had deepened over the last two days. Once outside, she looked back at the house with obvious loathing.
While John and Inwood struggled up the stairs with Helm between them, Meacan and Cecily waited at the base of the stairwell, ready to follow once the others had made sufficient progress, or assist if called. Meacan stood with her head tilted back, staring up into the gloom. From above, they could hear John and Inwood’s grunts of effort interspersed with the thump of Helm’s boots against the stairs and his yelps of pain. Meacan’s arms were crossed tight across her waist. There was a small indentation on her right cheek.
“You used to bite your cheek like that when you were angry,” Cecily remarked.