by Elsa Hart
“Cecily and I knew each other as children,” said Meacan. “I’ve told her all about my business with you, so you can trust her as far as you trust me.”
“With pleasure,” said Covo.
Meacan pulled a piece of paper from her pocket and handed it to Covo. “As promised,” she said. “Here are the items Sir Barnaby wished to acquire from the Follywolle auction.” As Covo took the paper and moved with it from the mantelpiece to a brocaded chair across from them, Meacan’s expression darkened. “But why you felt compelled to send your men to attack that poor Swede, I do not know. Did you not trust me to accomplish the task? You see I’ve done a better job of it than you did. He didn’t even have the catalogue with him. He’d forgotten it. When I saw him at the door, terrified, exhausted, covered in blood—and he’d done nothing, nothing to deserve such measures.”
Cecily recalled Meacan’s barely contained fury when Helm had appeared at the house. Now it made sense. She shifted her attention from Meacan to Covo, curious how he would react.
“Why,” he asked mildly, “would I resort to crude violence when I have an agent of your subtlety in my employ?”
“Then you weren’t responsible for the attack on Otto Helm.” Cecily heard relief in Meacan’s voice.
“I had no part in it, I assure you,” said Covo. “And no story has reached my ears other than the one he himself told. A chance meeting with thieves in the night. It is not uncommon.”
“Well then,” said Meacan, accepting his answer. “I am inclined to ask you to add another coin to my payment. For unanticipated difficulties.”
“And I would counter,” said Covo, “that as my client hoped to use this list to frustrate Sir Barnaby’s desires, desires that have now been, shall we say, conclusively frustrated by someone else, the list is useless and our contract is void.”
“There is no need to make an argument of it,” said Meacan. “Our original agreement will do.”
“Good.” Covo smiled at Meacan. His eyes glowed with amused respect, but there was more in his expression, an undefined hunger like that of a wolf drawn to a fire, uncertain whether what it feels is a yearning for the companionship of the people around it or a desire to consume them. He unfolded the paper and scanned it. “Book, book, another book,” he said. “Mummified hand, bezoar of a snake, the coral called barba neptuni, statue of Mars modeled in onyx, four eggs from the China pheasant, the robe of a—” Covo set the list on a table beside him. “Like reading the menu of his last meal. Poor Sir Barnaby.”
Meacan looked skeptical. “You grieve his passing?”
“Of course I do.” Covo settled his broad shoulders more deeply into the speckled black and gray pelt draped over the back of his chair. “Sir Barnaby was one of my most lucrative clients. Not only did he pay me to find and purchase a number of expensive items on his behalf, but he also brought me business entirely unbeknownst to himself. There have been times when I’ve owed a quarter of my income to him. I’ve been paid to secure the patronage of Barnaby Mayne, to arrange introductions to Barnaby Mayne, to settle feuds with Barnaby Mayne, to prolong feuds with Barnaby Mayne, to convince Barnaby Mayne to sell objects, and to convince Barnaby Mayne to buy them. To”—Covo glanced at the paper beside him—“To assist in petty revenges against him.” He sighed. “Yes, I will miss the old obsessive. Let us hope this will be a lesson to collectors to treat their curators better.”
“Do you know Mr. Dinley?” asked Cecily.
Covo nodded. “Oh yes, Lady Kay. I know them all.”
Cecily tried to sound casual. “I had only known him a few hours, but he didn’t seem—”
“—the type to murder anyone,” Covo finished. “That is the general opinion.”
“And you agree?” Cecily didn’t turn, but as she spoke she felt Meacan shift on the couch. Don’t be overeager in your questions, Meacan had told her. If he becomes too interested, he will involve himself, and you don’t want Covo involved if what you are after is truth and clear thinking. Cecily reminded herself to be careful.
At the moment, Covo seemed simply to be enjoying the conversation. “Oh, certainly I agree,” he said. “An earnest minnow of a man whose fiercest bite could do no worse than tickle the foot.”
Meacan nodded in agreement. “My impression exactly. Gentle and quiet. Not one to get into a temper and kill his employer. But I suppose if he had some other reason, a hidden motive, you’d know about it?”
“You flatter me,” said Covo. “But I know of no such secret. Strange as it may seem given Sir Barnaby’s temperament, I believe Dinley liked the man, and was honored to be in his employ. Sons of parish clerks are not often welcomed into the anointed coterie of the gentlemen collectors. Whenever I happened to see the young man in my establishment, he was invariably engaged in some polite debate over the spelling of a plant name or the proper categorization of lapis lazuli. I hesitate to say it, for fear of tarnishing my reputation as a keen observer, but it seemed to me that Walter Dinley was happy.” Covo turned thoughtful. “If he is caught, it will be edifying to learn what he says before he is taken to the noose.”
As Covo spoke, Cecily had been perusing the walls in search of an object that would camouflage her next question. She found it in a cluster of concave disks, black and shining, reflecting the firelight like eyes. “Are those scrying glasses?” she asked.
Covo, following the direction of her look, nodded. “I would not have taken you for a credulous woman, Lady Kay. Do not tell me you accept the power of a charmed disk to show visions of the future?”
“I have never encountered any persuasive evidence that they can do so,” said Cecily evenly. “But I did notice that Sir Barnaby purchased a number of them from you, indeed that you procured for him quite a few items pertaining to his studies of the occult.”
Covo stood, removed a disk from the wall, and handed it to Cecily. “Whatever a collector wants can be procured.”
Cecily took the disk. It was cool and heavy, its edges sharp enough to cut, its center a black well like a window into night. “I spoke with Mr. Inwood about Sir Barnaby’s interest in the occult. He said Sir Barnaby collected these items to record man’s gullibility, and to demonstrate the powerlessness of the objects.”
“That is what Sir Barnaby said, yes,” said Covo, watching her.
Cecily kept her eyes on the glass. “Was it true?”
“At present,” said Covo, after a moment, “the study of the occult is merely out of fashion. But the line between harmless eccentricity and punishable blasphemy can shift under one’s feet. A healer lauded for her novel approach one day can be burned as a witch on the next.”
“You mean,” said Cecily, “that if Sir Barnaby did take the subject more seriously than he admitted, he would have done his best to be circumspect about it.”
“The meeting!” burst out Meacan.
Covo and Cecily both turned to look at her. “Apologies,” said Covo. “Are you expected elsewhere?”
“No, no, no.” Meacan spoke in a rush. “I was thinking of the meeting Sir Barnaby held in the dead of night. With the hats pulled low and the strange chanting.”
Cecily turned to Meacan in surprise. “You never mentioned this meeting to me.” She felt, in addition to her own curiosity, that if Meacan had wanted to avoid intriguing Covo, this was probably not the direction she should have taken.
Meacan seemed to have realized her error. She glanced at Covo, but his expression remained impassive. “The subject hadn’t yet come up,” she said. “It was on the second night I spent in the house. Sir Barnaby hosted a gathering. I’m sure I was meant to be asleep and not notice, for they arrived after dark and kept their voices to a murmur. They were in the Artifact Room, though, which is below mine, and I’m sure they were chanting.”
Covo looked amused. “Allow me to enlighten you. Sir Barnaby belonged to many societies, of course, one for each of his interests. And yes, among these societies is one whose purpose is to study the occult with a little more dedication t
han its members are willing to admit in general company. I understand Sir Barnaby often hosted their gatherings.”
Cecily looked down at the glass again, frowning. “Sir Barnaby was a man of science surrounded by men of science,” she said. “Surely he cannot have been attempting to—to summon spirits with conjurations and magic circles?”
“I assure you, he was,” said Covo mildly. “And is it so strange? Newton tells us that gravitation is an unseen force acting upon objects. Why then should there not be other unseen forces? Waiting to be discovered, perhaps, in knowledge that has been left behind in the mists of the past? Superstitions that have been too hastily overlooked?”
“You sound as if the idea appeals to you,” said Meacan.
Covo shrugged. “I avoid having obsessions, myself. They make people easy to manipulate, a fact on which my business depends. But I cannot sell something if I cannot pretend to believe in it.”
“And the occult was Sir Barnaby’s obsession,” said Cecily.
“Undoubtedly,” said Covo. “Indeed, when I heard of his demise my first assumption was a botched blood rite or ill-conceived ritual potion.”
“I assume,” said Cecily, “that Inwood did not share his friend’s interest. He seemed to know very little about it when I asked him. Or do you think he merely feigned ignorance?”
“Oh, Inwood’s interests are of a very different nature,” said Covo. He stood and went to one of the shelves embedded among the objects mounted directly to the wall. Cecily heard the clink of glass and metal as he sifted through items. “Ah,” he said at last. “Here it is.”
He returned to his chair and set on the table between them a wooden box with a tentacled sea creature carved into its lid. He opened it to reveal a broken glass vessel crusted in white coral, resting in a bed of tarnished silver coins. As he picked up the bottle, the coins fell away from it like scales. As they shifted, Cecily perceived sparkles of green and red and blue among them. “Tokens, merely,” said Covo, “of the Spanish galleon that met its fate among the rocks that ring a distant isle. It waited there a century, its drowned crew and shattered hull a feast for shipworms until, seven years ago, an enterprising diver spotted a glitter of gold. They brought up pieces of eight by the thousands that day, and emeralds, sapphires, and rubies enough to armor Leviathan. The Duke of Albermarle, they say, had for his share sixty thousand pounds.”
He handed Meacan the bottle. She turned it over in her hands. “It is a curious union of man’s artifice and nature’s art,” she said. “I can see why it attracted you. I suppose you plan to label it Poseidon’s goblet?”
Covo’s eyes glittered. “I do now,” he said. “And I am most grateful to you for the suggestion.” He scooped up a handful of coins and allowed them to fall one by one back into the box as he spoke. “There are certain gentlemen whose ears demonstrate a particular sensitivity to stories of sunken treasure, and a particular willingness to believe that devices will soon be built capable of lifting vast hoards from the watery depths. Giles Inwood is among them. It is this, not spells and spirits, that commands his attention.”
Cecily nodded her understanding. She knew about the shipwreck speculators, and an idea was forming in her mind. “I know that not much escapes your attention,” she said. “I wonder, is it possible that Giles Inwood has recently suffered a series of failed investments in these projects?”
A look of surprise crossed Covo’s face. “Now how would you know that?”
Cecily kept her tone light. She saw that his attention was sharpening, and knew that each question she asked was another scrape of the blade against the whetstone. “I was just recalling Inwood’s arrival at the Mayne house,” she said. “When Mr. Carlyle asked him about the wreck of the Nuestra Señora, his reply was evasive.”
Covo turned to Meacan, who gave a small shrug that said very clearly, I told you she wasn’t a fool. “And what do you know of the Nuestra Señora?” he asked Cecily.
“On my journey back to England, I heard sailors speak of it. Two among our crew had recently returned from the expedition that was expected to raise that lost galleon. They were upset because they had been promised a share of the spoils, and despite the many promises made, no ship had been found.”
Covo nodded. “Not a single doubloon.”
“If Inwood was among the investors,” said Cecily, “he could have lost a great deal.”
Covo opened his hand in a gesture of beneficence, the auburn velvet of his cuff changing color as it moved through the firelight. “I would usually require payment in exchange for such information,” he said. “But as you seem already to know the answer to your question, I will merely affirm it. Giles Inwood has had some acknowledged successes, but none of late. He is, as you say, in difficulties. To put it bluntly, Lady Kay, the man is ruined.”
“Which means,” said Cecily slowly, “that he will struggle to pay the fifty thousand he is obligated to pay Lady Mayne?”
Covo chuckled dryly. “Thus far, he has managed to conceal his circumstances from the collecting community, but I cannot imagine that will last much longer. He’s calling in every favor owed him to raise the funds he needs. Reputation is of crucial importance, you see. He must protect the Mayne collection, as he promised to do. And he must pay the widow.” Covo’s expression turned speculative. “It is a shame for Inwood, a great shame, that Sir Barnaby died when he did. I am certain he wishes, for more reasons than simple affection, that his old friend had either released him from the contract, or stayed alive a little longer, until the next trove of Spanish gold revealed itself. But this has been a most unexpected and intriguing conversation. Tell me—”
Meacan stood up hastily. “We must be getting back, I’m afraid. Lady Mayne expects me to inventory the whole collection, you know.”
After a moment, Covo stood also. “I do know,” he said. “I trust you will inform me, should you find anything of particular interest.”
“I will consider it,” said Meacan.
As they left, they passed a rectangular box resting on a pedestal by the desk. Inside was a twisted, dry creature no more than three feet long. Its shriveled head and torso appeared to be those of a man. The mummified tail to which they were attached was that of a fish. “The merman, I presume?” asked Meacan. She leaned closer. “It is better than your last one. I cannot see the stitching.”
CHAPTER 20
The coffeehouse was located in Cornhill, one of the ancient hearts of London. Covo liked to say that the hill from which the ward took its name was molded and pushed into existence at the dawn of time by industrious moles of extraordinary size. Once blanketed in soft sedges and willows, the marshy soil now supported the stone and brick of one of the city’s most enterprising neighborhoods. Cecily and Meacan waited to speak until they had climbed into the dark interior of a hired coach and begun their jolting journey back toward the relative tranquility of the West End’s green squares and stately houses.
“I cannot help but feel slightly disappointed,” said Meacan. “I thought that of any of them, Inwood was the most likely murderer.”
Cecily tried not to bite her tongue as the coach wheels plunged from one depression to another. “I was less suspicious of him once I learned the sum he was to pay for the collection. That weakened his motive. And now that we know he is facing ruin and cannot pay, I do not see that he has any motive at all.”
“At least not to our knowledge,” said Meacan. “I’m impressed, by the way, that you deduced all of that from the name of a ship.”
“It wasn’t only the Nuestra Señora,” said Cecily. “It was also the inventory.”
Meacan put out an arm to brace herself as the coach swung around a corner. “What does the inventory have to do with it?”
Cecily explained. “Lady Mayne has made it abundantly clear that she dislikes the collection, and wants to be rid of it as soon as possible. The first time I spoke with her, she told me she didn’t anticipate it remaining in the house above a week. Why, then, would she commiss
ion you to complete an inventory? Even if she didn’t expect it to take two months, she must have known it would take time.”
Meacan considered the question. “She told me it’s what her husband would have wanted.”
“Yes, but I wonder if it was someone else who convinced her of that.”
“Inwood,” said Meacan. “Of course. He doesn’t want to damage his reputation by admitting that he can’t afford the contracted price, so he’s trying to give himself time to raise the money.”
“Precisely.” The carriage turned onto a crowded market street and slowed almost to a crawl, making it easier for Cecily to speak. “My guess is that Inwood suggested the inventory and, to ensure that it would take as long as possible, recommended that Lady Mayne hire you to do it.”
A laugh burst from Meacan. “Thank you very much for implying I owe my employment to an assumption of my incompetence.”
“An erroneous assumption,” Cecily assured her.
“As far as deductions go,” Meacan went on, “I may not have guessed the true inspiration for the inventory or recognized the name of a phantom shipwreck, but I did know there was something wrong about Inwood. From the beginning, he has been too agreeable.”
Cecily cocked her head. “I’ve never considered a personable demeanor to be an indication that something is wrong.”
“Ah,” said Meacan knowingly. “You spend too much time with plants, and not enough with gamblers, many of whom exist under a kind of curse. No matter how desperate their circumstances, they cannot help but appear confident and trustworthy. It’s as if they are trapped behind a mask. And the smiling, false face encourages those who have lent them money to do so again and again, though it is to the detriment of both parties. I’ve seen it before, and I’ve learned to look for the hooks that fasten the mask to the face. I knew I recognized something in Inwood’s manner. I just didn’t know until now what it was.”
The carriage had picked up its pace again. Cecily looked out the window at the scrolling row of closed doors and pedestrians glimpsed too quickly for memory to hold them. “I suppose you are right,” she said. Her mind was momentarily claimed by a gentle sadness, as subtle as the brush of a flower petal against her cheek.