The Cabinets of Barnaby Mayne

by Elsa Hart

  Meacan read her expression and narrowed her eyes. “You like him,” she said. “We will have to be wary of your taste in men.”

  Cecily raised her eyebrows. “And what of yours? I would hardly call Signore Covo trustworthy.”

  “I can think of no one less trustworthy,” agreed Meacan. “But he’s honorable in his own way.” She grew serious. “I do wish we’d learned more from him. Covo has a tendency to say a great deal while offering very little direction. We knew already that Sir Barnaby had a predilection for grimoires and pentacles. What we need is to speak to Dinley. The question is where he is hiding.”

  Cecily pictured the curator’s anxious young face, and the humble accommodation he had built for himself out of books and blankets beneath the sloping ceiling of the Mayne house, in the company of silent antiquities. “I agree,” she said, “that he is the person most likely to hold the answer to the whole problem, but if he is innocent, as we suspect him to be, then we must hope for his sake that he stays well hidden.”

  Her words drew a worried sigh from Meacan. “He’s not so far in age from my own son. I thought of that when I spoke to young Hugh Ashton. There’s another youth whose thirst for knowledge and adventure will get him into trouble one day if he doesn’t temper it with wisdom. He is convinced of Dinley’s innocence, you know. He told me so roundly, and looked sick with concern for his friend’s fate.”

  “Hugh Ashton,” said Cecily, trying to catch up to Meacan’s thoughts. “He is the apothecary’s son?”

  “That’s right,” Meacan answered. “I’ve known the Ashtons for years, ever since they came to my husband to have their herbal printed. And it did very well, too. They ordered a second printing.”

  “They?”

  “Peter Ashton and his wife wrote it together. You and Anne would get on well. You won’t find a better authority on the medicinal plants that grow in this part of the country than she.” Meacan recalled herself to the subject at hand. “Last week, Dinley happened to mention to me that he and Ashton were good friends. They would be. Two young men of similar temperaments and interests, though I’d say Hugh was the less responsible of the two.”

  “I see,” said Cecily, understanding. “Hugh Ashton was one of the people you went to see the day after the murder.”

  “The first,” Meacan affirmed. “Then I went to Lord Gitton. I’d drawn butterflies for him once, and Dinley had provided him some assistance when he moved his collection to a new house. Then I spoke to Dauncey at the Royal Society, who had arranged for Dinley to give several lectures there. And then Haydon, another mutual acquaintance. Dinley’s family, by the way, is in Berkshire, and according to the constable, who sent a man there, they claim to know nothing of his whereabouts.”

  Cecily was still dwelling on the apothecary. “When you went to the younger Ashton, had he already heard about what had happened?”

  “Of course,” Meacan said quickly. “Everyone in the parish had by then.”

  “And you believe the friendship between him and Dinley was a close one?”

  “That was my impression, yes. He did seem very upset about the murder.”

  “Do the Ashtons keep servants? Or an apprentice? Or did they leave their son alone with the shop?”

  “He’s alone.” Meacan was looking hard at Cecily. “What is your idea?”

  Cecily took a moment to compose her thoughts. “Do you remember,” she said at last, “the way Thomasin looked when she went out to purchase the medicines Inwood required?”

  Meacan considered the question, then shook her head.

  “She appeared miserable,” said Cecily.

  “Well, we all must have,” Meacan pointed out. “And she always looked that way. You must know she didn’t like being employed at the Mayne house.”

  “I did notice, yes,” said Cecily. “But there was a time when she presented a very different countenance. Upon her return from the apothecary, she looked almost cheerful. Consider, then, that the very next thing she did was to buy a dress and secure herself a new position.”

  “I saw the dress,” said Meacan. “How she could have afforded a damask gown, and ribbons to embellish the petticoats, I cannot—” Meacan stopped. She clapped her hand to her head. “But what a fool I’ve been. To think that you thought of it and I did not, when I myself saw Hugh go pale as a sheet when I asked him where Dinley might have gone. Dinley was there. I didn’t see him, but you think Thomasin did.”

  The idea took shape and color between them. “It would explain how she could suddenly afford a new gown,” said Cecily.

  “If we’re right, the girl certainly has some presence of mind,” said Meacan. “To blackmail them on the spot and know just what she wanted to do afterward. We must not forget her. She could be a rather useful person to befriend.”

  Cecily gave her friend a stern look. “If we’re right,” she said, “and Dinley is still there, they’ll be doing a better job of keeping him hidden now that he’s been caught once. Your friend isn’t likely to give him up.”

  “Oh, young Ashton isn’t my friend,” said Meacan. “His parents are.” She rolled her shoulders and inclined her chin into a posture of authority. “There’s a difference, you know, and there’s some power that comes with being the age we are. You leave it to me. I’ve dealt with unruly sons before. He has no hope of withstanding Mrs. Meacan Barlow.”

  * * *

  Meacan was right. Hugh Ashton, a freckled youth in an ill-fitting wig whose expression seemed to fall naturally into that of someone in the middle of trying to remember what he was about to say, broke down almost at once. “Yes, Mrs. Barlow,” he almost sobbed. “He was here. He isn’t anymore. Please, please don’t tell my parents.”

  The shop was dense with aromas of spices, herbs, and resins. Blue-and-white ceramic jars filled the shelves on the wall. Some labels were printed clearly on fresh slips of paper. Others were faded, blurred, and stained. They were arranged alphabetically, from aloes and ambergris and aniseed through senna and sulphur to wormwood. Drying herbs hung in bunches from the ceiling. In the center of the room was a long table scattered with leaves, flowers, powders, roots, bowls, baskets, and open books.

  Meacan, her first object accomplished, altered her approach. Her expression softened as she relinquished the authority that came from being a friend of his parents, and replaced it with that of being a counselor and supplier of wisdom other than his parents. “You’ve gotten yourself into something of a scrape, haven’t you, dear? Why don’t we begin with you telling us where Walter Dinley is now.”

  “He—he’s gone—” Ashton hesitated. He looked from Meacan to Cecily, came to a decision, and sighed. “He’s gone to the docks,” he said. “To try to board a ship to the Americas. But Mrs. Barlow, he is innocent.”

  Cecily spoke for the first time. “I think,” she said, “that it would be best to start from the beginning.”

  The story unfolded in front of the hearth, where the three of them sat, Meacan and Cecily attending to the various boiling infusions whenever Ashton became too caught up in his account. The more he confided, the more at ease he became. On the day of the murder, he had been mixing compounds, trying to keep up with the work of the shop while his parents were gone. They had even taken the apprentice with them, he explained, for training, so he had been left quite alone. He had been about to close the shop for the evening when Dinley burst into the room in a state of clear distress, and begged Ashton to conceal him.

  Ashton, trusting without question, had done so. And just in time, for the constable and his men had come in minutes later asking if Ashton had seen Dinley. They told him that his friend had murdered Sir Barnaby. Ashton admitted to Cecily and Meacan that he had hesitated, in the moment, to impede the course of justice, but he had been and remained so convinced that Dinley could not have committed such a deed that he had lied and sent them away. As soon as they were gone, he had asked Dinley for an explanation.

  “And?” Meacan burst in, unable to keep silent. “Did h
e tell you what made him confess?”

  “He told me he didn’t kill Sir Barnaby,” said Ashton. “But I swear to you, Mrs. Barlow, he refused to tell me anything more.”

  “He told you nothing? But it’s been three days.”

  “I did try,” said Ashton. “The customers who came to the store were all discussing it. It was Mr. Cobb, here for a poultice for his wife’s toothache, who told me Dinley had confessed to the murder. I was there at the table, the mortar full of sage and rue, and he told me all that he knew of the matter. When he left I demanded to know what had made Dinley own to the foul deed and what, if he was innocent, was preventing him from speaking—to me, his friend, at least.”

  “And?” asked Meacan.

  Ashton took a pot from the flame, carried it across the room, and set it on a stand to cool. Meacan and Cecily followed him to the table. “And he still wouldn’t speak,” said Ashton. “It was clear in his voice he intended to take whatever secret he had to his grave.”

  Cecily looked at the open books on the table. One was certainly an herbal—the Theatrum Botanicum, she guessed, her eye moving admiringly over the thorough description of wolfsbane to which it was open. The other books, though, did not appear to be herbals, or at least not the standard ones. One, the pages of which were aged and stained, was open to a map held aloft by cherubs. “If Dinley wouldn’t talk about the murder,” she said, “tell me, of what did you speak?”

  Ashton, following her look, turned the pages of the book to show its title, China Illustrata. “We spoke of what we always spoke of,” he said quietly. “Of the distant places in the world, and of the plants that grow in them.”

  “China?” Meacan squinted down at the book, then shook her head. “Don’t get him started on emperors and tea leaves,” she said to Cecily. “He won’t stop.” She turned back to Ashton. “And you’d best get those ideas out of your head. For one, your father won’t allow it. For another, everyone knows only the Jesuits are allowed into China.”

  “Yes,” said Ashton meekly, his cheeks pinkening.

  “You and Walter Dinley have been friends for some time,” said Cecily. “What about before the murder? Did Dinley mention Sir Barnaby often? Did he speak of his employer’s business?”

  Ashton had moved away from the books and was pouring the still-hot liquid into a jar. Bay-scented steam rose in curls from it. “Yes,” he said, spilling a little of the potion down the side. “Yes, he did speak of Sir Barnaby. Of his acquisitions, and the crates arriving, and the theories being published in the Transactions.”

  “Perhaps Dinley was concerned,” prompted Cecily. “Perhaps Sir Barnaby had received some threat, or spoken of some enemy.”

  Ashton started to shake his head, then stopped. “There was nothing like that,” he said. “But I suppose, that is, Dinley did—not complain precisely—but you mention concern.”

  “Yes?” Meacan prompted.

  “He was concerned,” said Ashton. “Dinley, that is, was concerned about the Rose collection.”

  The word struck Cecily’s thoughts like a well-aimed stone. “Rose,” she repeated. “You mean John Rose?”

  Ashton nodded. “Sir Barnaby acquired his collection two or three years ago. And ever since he did, he’s spent nearly all his time studying it. Dinley said he abandoned most of his other interests and insisted on staying in his study, alone, poring over the objects. Dinley didn’t understand it at all. He asked Sir Barnaby on many occasions what it was that had such a hold on his attention, for Dinley perceived nothing of particular interest in the items, but Sir Barnaby offered no explanation.”

  “What about Sir Barnaby’s interest in occult studies?” asked Cecily. “Did Dinley profess an opinion on that?”

  Ashton’s expression remained open. “Oh, he thought it a waste of time, though he would never have said as much to Sir Barnaby.”

  “And did Dinley speak of Giles Inwood? Or Humphrey Warbulton? Martin Carlyle? Otto Helm?”

  Hugh considered the names. “Inwood, yes, of course. He came to visit not infrequently, and Dinley had a great respect for him. But Warbulton and Carlyle—no, I do not know those names. And Helm—I know he is the Swedish traveler who was attacked. Is he recovering? Do you require any more medicines?”

  The question temporarily turned the tide of the conversation, and resulted in the quick preparation of a new salve. Ashton measured and combined ingredients. Meacan and Cecily helped, fetching jars from the shelves and returning them to their places.

  Meacan opened a jar and sniffed. “Well, that’s an agreeable perfume,” she said. “You’ll have to make more. The jar’s almost empty.”

  Ashton turned to see what she was holding and blushed again. “That’s—yes, it’s very popular,” he said. “It’s for inspiring—that is—for bringing to mind thoughts of—that is—for—” Ashton’s expression changed. “Now that you mention—”

  “No need to explain,” said Meacan, with a broad smile. “I believe I take your meaning. It is a pleasant fragrance.”

  “N-no,” said Ashton. “That is, yes, but that isn’t—I was thinking of something else. Dinley—I—I know it isn’t important—but in case it—that is—Dinley was in love.”

  Meacan’s eyebrows went up. “With whom?”

  “I don’t know who it was. He met her at one of the lectures of the Society. He mentioned on several occasions after that, though—” The furrow reappeared between Ashton’s brows. “Though now that I think of it, he never once said her name over the past three days.”

  “What name?”

  “I—I know he never told me her surname, only her given name. It’s difficult to remember, that is, with all the names of plants and the customers, I— He said she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her name was—was—yes, I am sure of it. Her name was Alice.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Despite Martha’s best efforts, dust had begun to settle on the collection, dulling the polished cabinets and blurring the edges of objects. In the Bird Room, enterprising spiders, encouraged by the retreat of polishing cloths and brooms, had strung glinting strands of web between the birds hanging from the rafters. Pallid, insubstantial dust balls had formed in nests, tucked among unhatched eggs as if hidden there by spectral cuckoos. Meacan’s inventory had progressed across half of one wall, and though she had replaced each object after examining its label, her minute adjustments to the display had given it a disturbed, uneven appearance, as if all the birds had just nervously ruffled their wings.

  Meacan stood on tiptoe on a chair, holding the edge of a shelf for balance, squinting at the red label difficult to distinguish from the scarlet plumage of the bird before her. “Cocco—” she said. “Coccothraustes Indica cristata, or the Virginia nightingale.”

  Cecily, standing beside the chair, consulted the list that had become increasingly crowded with scribbled annotations. “Here,” she said, as she made a neat mark beside the name. She tapped the pencil thoughtfully against the page. “If Alice met Dinley at a lecture in the autumn or winter, I expect she lives here in London, and is not only visiting for the season.”

  They had spent the last hour working together in the room, matching the items on Meacan’s list to the corresponding objects on the shelves. At the same time, they had been discussing how to go about locating Alice Fordyce.

  Meacan crawled her fingers along the shelf as she leaned to the side. “Not many women attend lectures at the Philosophical Society. We could make inquiries there. Someone must know something about her.” She squinted at a label. “Psittacus albus cristatus, the—”

  “—white crested parrot,” Cecily finished, marking it on the list. She looked up at the bird, positioned on its stand with its black beak open as if it had been frozen in the middle of speech. The yellow feathers of its crest were still faintly lustrous. “We could also make a search of Sir Barnaby’s correspondence,” she said. “If Alice or her aunt wrote to Sir Barnaby to request an invitation to tour the collection, the letter might in
clude an address, or the name of the aunt.”

  “If she even has an aunt,” said Meacan as she stepped down from the chair. She was holding a solitary feather as long as her arm. “‘A quill sent by Captain John Strong,’” she read from the label, “‘who claimed to have met the bird on the coast of Chile, and was much amazed by the bigness of it.’” Meacan whistled under her breath. “He supposed it to be sixteen foot from wing to wing with a beak that could strip the hide from an ox.”

  While Cecily found the feather on the list and marked it, Meacan continued to run her finger thoughtfully along its edge. “When I first heard her voice calling so sweetly from the other side of the garden wall I thought she must be a wandering ghost. Opening the door and seeing her there in her white cloak with her great blue eyes did nothing to change my impression. Perhaps she was a spirit.” Unexpectedly, Meacan chuckled.

  “Something amusing?” asked Cecily.

  “I was thinking of all of Sir Barnaby’s books of spells. Maybe one of them was successful. Maybe she was an apparition, and he summoned her.”

  Cecily frowned. “I don’t—”

  Meacan, who had always struggled to see a joke through to its conclusion before starting to laugh, spoke through gasps of merriment. “After all,” she said, “what ageing collector would not want to conjure a beautiful woman in the bloom of youth who yearns only to tour his collection and listen to him talk about it?”

  Cecily’s lips twitched. “And does your theory offer any insight into his demise?”

  Meacan nodded eagerly. “Of course it does. Spirits are always turning on their summoners. He was remiss and left a word out of the binding spell. She slipped her mystical fetters and took her revenge.”

  Cecily met the unamused glare of an eagle and sighed. “It would make an entertaining story,” she said, “but I don’t think we will find our answers in it.”