The Cabinets of Barnaby Mayne

by Elsa Hart

  She had slept poorly. The bad dreams Meacan had predicted on Cecily’s first night in the house had arrived on her final one. She had seen a man she knew to be John Rose standing alone on a desolate beach, his features shrouded in sheets of rain, his arms raised as he shouted conjurations to a stormy sea. With a twirl of a bony finger he made whirlpools. With another he drew lightning in the shape of dead trees across the clouds. From the roiling waters, skeleton sharks breached, their white spines arching against the black sky.

  Morning had restored clear thought, but it had not brought new insights into Sir Barnaby’s murder. The contents of Sir Barnaby’s journal and of Rose’s letter pointed to occult magic, but Cecily, while acknowledging that the world was full of mysteries beyond her understanding, could not accept that a cursed knife was responsible for the death.

  She picked up the first of her presses in one hand, gathered her cumbersome skirts with the other, and made her way carefully downstairs. She was returning for the second press when she heard the floor creak nearby. She followed the sound to the Bird Room, where she found Martha. The housekeeper’s compact shoulders were outlined crisply against the shelves. She was dusting and polishing, her hands manipulating fragile objects with the deft familiarity of routine. She looked over her shoulder, saw Cecily, and turned back to her work. “I’ve cleaned the collection for thirty years,” she said. “I’ll do it until the day every shelf in this house is empty.”

  Cecily joined her at the shelves. “I understand you and John are to accompany Lady Mayne to the estate.”

  “For the funeral,” said Martha. “I’ll see the master to his final rest.”

  “And after?”

  Martha wrapped her cloth tight around the tip of her index finger and gently stroked the dust from the long, smooth beak of a toucan. “I’ll come back.”

  “Will Lady Mayne permit it?”

  Martha replaced the beak on the shelf and pulled open a shallow drawer. It was lined with the bodies of small birds, pressed together in an array of colors like the pieces of a puzzle, their eyes closed, their tiny beaks pointed like darts. Martha used her cloth to extract and crush a spider crawling among them. “Lady Mayne will not want me to remain at the estate, and she knows I won’t want to be there. It’s the collection I’ve served all these years, not the family. But if she has any softness in her she’ll let me stay here until the end.”

  “And then you and John will seek a new situation.”

  Martha said nothing. She closed the drawer and opened the one below it, which was filled with delicate white bird skulls. Cecily thought of the parrot in Sir Barnaby’s journal. “Did it trouble you that Sir Barnaby kept so many objects pertaining to the occult? Amulets, talismans, books of spells, items of that nature?”

  Martha straightened and turned a clear gaze on Cecily. “You cannot make a record of the world without looking at the bad as well as the good. That is what the master said. There was dark and light in Eden.”

  “Did he ever speak to you of a man called John Rose?”

  Recognition flickered in Martha’s eyes. “We weren’t so familiar that he discussed his friends with me.”

  “But you know the name.”

  Martha nodded. “Of course I know it. They had corresponded for many years. Sir Barnaby was always pleased when a letter came from Mr. Rose. And I remember as if it were yesterday when the Rose collection came from Jamaica. I saw it the day it arrived, so carefully packed, all those strange things from faraway places.” Martha raised her eyes to the birds with outspread wings hanging from the ceiling. “All these wonders. How could any housekeeper wish to spend her days beating carpets that look the same as every other carpet and polishing silver that looks like every other set of silver and cleaning stairs with only portraits for company?”

  When Cecily left, Martha was cradling an ostrich egg in the crook of one arm, gently passing her cloth over the smooth surface like a midwife tending a babe. After Cecily had carried the other two presses downstairs, she went to the garden. John was pulling plants, shaking the dirt from them, and lowering them carefully into a sack. “The geraniums will be grateful for the healthy soil and sunshine in the country,” he said when he saw her.

  “Martha says she does not anticipate staying long at the estate.”

  John wiped a forearm over his perspiring brow. “Poor Martha,” he said, glancing up at the house. “I hope you won’t hold what she says against her. It was a terrible thing, the master dying so suddenly, and at Walter Dinley’s hand, too. Now the collection is to be taken apart, and if you’ll pardon my impertinence for saying so, for Martha it’s as if the master is dying all over again.”

  “I understand,” said Cecily.

  John bent down to resume his work. “I’m sure it will be alright in the end. And I’ve had an idea for an infusion of chamomile and rose that should bring a bit of comfort to the house, if the cook at the estate will permit my interference.”

  Cecily thanked him for the nourishing meals, assured him that they had been greatly enjoyed, and went inside to find Meacan. She located her in the Serpent Room, where Otto Helm, a crutch leaning beside him, was once again at work.

  “There you are,” said Meacan. She fluttered a piece of paper in the air. “Here’s a reply from the proprietor at the Dolphin. There is a room for us, and we can have it to ourselves. You’ll like the Dolphin. The proprietor’s wife makes the best scotch cakes you’ll ever taste, unless they make them better in Scotland, and I cannot say whether they do or not.” Her eyes dropped meaningfully to the hunched figure at the desk. “I was just asking Mr. Helm where he will be staying, should we wish to call on him.”

  Cecily approached Helm. He was bent over a book open to an illustration of a splayed and dissected lizard. “Will you be moving to an inn, Mr. Helm?” she asked him.

  Helm spoke distractedly. “I am to be going home,” he said. “As soon as may be possible.”

  “But surely you are not boarding a coach or a ship today,” said Meacan. “You must be staying the night somewhere.”

  Helm looked up. “I am to be at the Elephant Weary,” he said.

  “The Weary Elephant,” said Meacan, with an approving nod. “No scotch cakes there, but the mince pies have few rivals in all of London. Well, then perhaps we will come to see you.”

  “I beg you do not trouble yourself. As I said, I am very soon to be going home.”

  Susanna appeared at the door. “The coach has come for Lady Kay and Mrs. Barlow,” she said. She turned her small, stern face to Helm. “And Lady Mayne says to remind you that the house is to be closed by this afternoon. You must conclude your work.”

  Helm nodded over the open book. “But a few pages more,” he said.

  Since Meacan had already said good-bye to Lady Mayne, she remained downstairs to instruct the coachman on what luggage was theirs while Cecily went up to bid farewell to their hostess. In the widow’s room, the white cat was prowling along a high shelf, from which several objects had fallen to the floor.

  “I am sorry you could not conclude your study,” said Lady Mayne, after they had said what etiquette required. “But I am sure you are as pleased as I am to put this matter behind you. I have not yet thanked you for respecting my wishes regarding my husband’s death. You see now that your interference would have been quite without purpose. The matter is all but concluded. The murderer is in prison.”

  “That is so,” said Cecily. “But he may be found innocent.”

  Lady Mayne’s white eyebrows lifted. “I think not,” she said. “It is my opinion that Providence has seen justice done. I advise you not to let the sin of pride lead you to interfere in God’s work, Lady Kay. And I do not speak only of justice. I speak also of nature. Your—you will pardon me—your unfeminine efforts to impose your order on His kingdom. My husband tried to keep the world on his shelves. Had he left to God what is God’s, he might not have met the violent end he did.”

  Cecily met the other woman’s eyes. “The ha
nd that took your husband’s life was human, not divine, Lady Mayne. And I assure you, Walter Dinley will not hang for a crime he did not commit if my interference can prevent it.”

  The sound of a small object shattering ended the conversation. The cat had swiped a shell from its place. It lay broken and scattered in sharp islands on the floor. “I believe your coach is waiting,” said Lady Mayne.

  As Cecily descended the stairs, she glimpsed once again the skeletal rat that had before been draped in black silk. As she passed it, she thought she saw a smile on the tiny skull. She did not report this impression to Meacan as they climbed into the coach destined for the Dolphin. They had decided the previous evening to keep to their plan. They would attend Inwood’s tour, which, if luck were with them, would lead to an edifying conversation with Martin Carlyle. Cecily looked out the window of the coach and watched as the house of Barnaby Mayne receded. From the outside, it looked just like every other house.

  CHAPTER 29

  It is often the case that the ruination of the rich is nearly imperceptible to the casual observer. This was true of Giles Inwood’s manor house, which was situated on a salubrious stretch of riverbank beyond the reach of London’s smoke and refuse. The rushing water glittered. Birdsong cut sweetly through the air. Insects flitted industriously from blossom to blossom. The trees that defined narrow walkways on either side of the house were haloed by spring’s translucent green.

  The carriage from which Cecily and Meacan alighted was not the only one on the wide gravel lane in front of the entrance. At the door, they were informed by the servant who admitted them that the tour had already begun. He led them over the black and white squares that patterned the floor of the entrance hall and up a grand staircase watched over by generations of painted patriarchs.

  Once they were upstairs, the halls and rooms began to look more familiar. The shelves that lined the walls were not unlike Sir Barnaby’s, though they were less crowded, and were arranged with more of an eye for aesthetic pleasure than scientific order. Bright-feathered birds were perched near windows where they looked more alive. Corals and shells were grouped by color. Compared with Sir Barnaby’s collection, Inwood’s featured a preponderance of art. Each chamber was furnished with couches and chairs thoughtfully positioned so that residents and guests could appreciate the displays in comfort.

  They joined the group in a chamber dedicated to Greek sculpture. The tour was a large one consisting of twelve gentlemen of varying heights and volumes in wigs of varying heights and volumes. As the men swiveled to assess the new arrivals, Cecily recognized several faces that had been among the mourners who had come to view Sir Barnaby’s body. She felt Meacan’s elbow dig subtly into her side as Martin Carlyle smiled and bowed to them. He had a notebook tucked under one arm.

  Inwood looked pale and thinner in the face than Cecily remembered, but when he saw her his eyes lit with friendship and he strode forward to greet them. “Lady Kay,” he said. “And Mrs. Barlow.” He addressed the group. “A moment, please, while I welcome these ladies.”

  While the gentlemen spread out across the room to examine the rounded marble bosoms and muscular male torsos of the pantheon, Inwood led them to an adjacent chamber. “It does me good to see you both,” he said, speaking more to Cecily than to Meacan. “Have you come from the house? How fares Lady Mayne? I have no words to express my chagrin at being the cause of this further hardship to her.”

  He had left the door to the other room open. It was obvious that every ear was eagerly attentive beneath false gray curls. “Does everyone know?” whispered Cecily.

  Inwood gave a rueful smile. “Oh, most certainly. The secret is out, and it will be a long while before I am extended credit from any quarter. But I expected much worse. I was sure no one would come today. Indeed, I would welcome a snub so richly deserved. But as you can see—”

  “—Intrigue draws a crowd,” murmured Meacan.

  “I hardly think my rather common woes rise to the level of intrigue,” said Inwood, a spark of self-deprecating humor in his weary eyes. “But tell me—is Lady Mayne well?”

  Meacan’s mouth quirked. “She’s more than well. I’ve yet to see her in better spirits.”

  “She is to auction the collection,” said Cecily.

  “So I have been informed,” said Inwood. “I do not blame her. Rather I blame myself entirely. Having failed to keep a sworn promise to my dearest friend, I must now watch as all that he entrusted to my care is broken to pieces.”

  Cecily thought back to the morning in the Plant Room. “Is there no chance someone else will purchase the collection in its entirety?” she asked.

  Inwood shook his head. “It would be too unwieldy an acquisition for anyone of my acquaintance. But our thoughts run together, Lady Kay. Allow me to assure you that I am doing everything in my power to persuade those collectors I count as friends to encompass with their bids entire cabinets, even entire rooms. All that can be preserved of his order will be preserved.” He paused. Grief rested heavily on his features. “It was foolish of me to try to keep my circumstances a secret. I deserve all the condemnation that can be heaped upon me. Sir Barnaby wished for his collection to be protected, preserved for the edification of scholars not yet born. It was his work, his legacy, and I, through my poor judgment, my pursuit of these wrecks that are but foolish dreams, have been its undoing.”

  “Do not trouble yourself overmuch,” said Meacan with a touch of impatience. “In a world as cruel as this one, denying Sir Barnaby the satisfaction of having his shells forever called the Mayne shells is not so dire a crime.”

  “At least,” said Inwood, “I have been given the opportunity to correct my behavior and, I hope, to restore my fortunes in a responsible manner.”

  “Mmm,” said Meacan. “And if I were to tell you I’d heard of a lost Spanish galleon sunk off the coast of—”

  Inwood cut her off by raising his hand in mock protest. The faint, self-deprecating smile returned. “I would tell you to leave it to the sea that claimed it,” he said. “But I fear I am neglecting my other guests. Shall we join them?”

  * * *

  An opportunity to speak to Carlyle alone did not arrive until the tour moved to the gardens, two expansive green lawns that extended one behind the other away from the house and ended in a small wilderness. It was warm and still. The sun glared white through the clouds. Inwood ordered refreshments to be served outside and suggested his guests wander until the food was ready. As the group scattered over the lawns, Meacan and Cecily caught up to Carlyle and guided him subtly toward the trees.

  Carlyle appeared in high spirits, aware that his clothes fit him well and that the other gentlemen were glancing enviously at the one among them framed by the billowing skirts of two women who appeared fascinated by his every word. He yawned when Cecily asked him his opinion on making botanical drawings from live plants as opposed to dried ones. He was much more eager to discuss Inwood’s misfortune. “Inwood won’t be paying off his debts any time soon,” he said spitefully. “The amounts are monstrous. As for all this”—Carlyle gestured with poorly concealed envy at the grand house and gardens—“he is only barely maintaining appearances.”

  Meacan looked behind them at the stately edifice. “It seems to be holding on to its dignity as well as can be expected.”

  Carlyle shrugged. “The signs aren’t obvious yet, but they will be soon. Didn’t you see the floors in need of repair? The peeling paint? The broken latch on the back door? The servants are only day laborers from the village—he can’t afford to keep his own. And if the lawn isn’t trimmed this week it will begin to look decidedly unkempt.”

  Meacan glanced at Cecily with an expression that said her patience with their smug companion was at an end. They had passed through a wrought-iron gate into the leafy foliage of the wilderness. Cecily looked to be sure they were out of sight of the others, then nodded. At her signal, Meacan deftly snatched the notebook from under Carlyle’s arm. With a cry of surprise he lunged
after her, but she was too quick. She took two steps backward so that she was framed by the iron gate and clearly visible to everyone on the lawn. “You cannot attack me,” she said, as pleasantly as if she had just remarked on the skill of the blacksmith who forged the iron trellis.

  “That was not my intention,” said Carlyle. He was trying to regain his composure but his self-assurance had deserted him. “Please return my book to me.”

  With Cecily beside her, Meacan opened the book and began to turn its pages. “Now, let us see what has caught your interest. Oh, yes, the amber amulet was very fine, as were the turquoise and the opal.” She continued to leaf through the book. “Your tastes are certainly consistent. Jewels.” She turned a page. “Jewels.” She turned another. “Ah, here is a gold brooch. That’s a change, but here—what a surprise. Jewels again.”

  “My interest is in objects whose values do not depend on a label,” snapped Carlyle. “But that is none of your concern.” He held out an elegantly cuffed hand for the book. “Please.”

  “This is a very fine likeness of Mr. Inwood’s Egyptian emerald. You made this just now? I must say you draw much faster than I do. It is a good thing we have never competed for employment. As I was saying, the emerald. No doubt you’ve been looking for one ever since you were unable to retrieve the one you left in Sir Barnaby’s carriage house. Tell me, do you keep your stolen jewels or sell them?”

  Carlyle extended his arm toward the notebook again. “Give it back to me.”

  His tone was furious, but Cecily saw the fear in his eyes. Meacan saw it, too. “Tell us the truth,” she said. “Or we’ll cross the lawn right now and tell every collector gathered here who has allowed you to tour his collection to go home and give his drawers a thorough examination.”

  The change in Carlyle was remarkable. With the deflation of his confidence, his face seemed to rearrange itself. He looked all at once like a rodent. Cecily wondered whether his nose had always been so small. There was an oily sheen on his brow. “I don’t know what you’re saying,” he managed.