Last in, I had to sit opposite Hack, beside Enfield. Langstone, who seemed to have recovered from his recent illness, was trying to draw Enfield into conversation.
‘There are a huge number of cabbage varieties in cultivation, all over the world,’ Enfield said.
‘And all descended from the humble sea-kale, isn’t that right?’ Langstone looked interested.
Enfield was happy to talk on his favourite topic. Poor man, he really spent too much time alone with his plants.
‘A great example of what can be achieved by selective breeding. Varieties to suit every climate and growing condition. Do you know, a gardener with only a small allotment can feed his family cabbage every day of the year?’
‘Poor family.’ Rickett chortled at his own joke.
Enfield coloured and fell silent.
‘How are you getting on with your research?’ I said.
‘Well enough. The usual ups and downs.’ He picked at his liver and onions.
‘Like?’
He frowned at me. ‘Well, I’m having trouble getting the latest batch of seedlings to accept the symbiotes.’
‘The what?’
’Oh, sorry. Certain plants have symbiotic relationships with fungus, or with bacteria. It makes them stronger, more resilient. I'm hoping to find a symbiote for my brassicas which will increase the protein content and help them survive in difficult growing conditions. I've been trying various fresh and salt water organisms, to see if any are compatible.’
‘How interesting.’ I hesitated, balancing the risk of being bored by a long explanation against the pleasure of seeing Enfield’s enthusiasm.
‘And here’s something you may find amusing,’ he said. ‘I’ve noticed some of the plants move their leaves in response to touch.’
‘Golly. Isn’t that unusual?’
He shrugged. ‘Not something I’d intended, but it’s less uncommon than you might think. Mimosa pudica, for example, the common Sensitive Plant. Or the famous Venus Fly Trap.’
‘How do you introduce the symbiotes?’
Enfield began an explanation and I just had to nod occasionally. It was a welcome distraction from the liver on my plate, which oozed blood. I ate the more cooked bits. The only person eating with any enthusiasm was Langstone, unusually for him. Mrs Jones must have given him the best piece.
‘How are you getting on with the report, Miss Wright?’
I hurriedly swallowed what I was chewing. ‘Nearly finished.’
To my relief, Langstone didn’t pursue the question, but began discussing hydraulics with Rickett, who was complaining of an intractable steering problem with the Machine. Sam doodled in his gravy. Hack made a good show of interest in his food. Though he’d spoken little, his manner to me had been entirely normal.
After dinner I hoped to withdraw quietly, but Hack followed me out. He caught me in the hall.
‘Excuse me, Miss Wright. Do you have a moment to discuss something?’
‘I’m not sure, I…’
‘It won’t take long. Perhaps in the library?’
Enfield stood in the door of the dining room, watching us. I smiled for his benefit. ‘Of course. Lead on Macduff.’
Hack closed the library door behind us.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘Here’s a thing.’
He strolled round the table, glancing at my papers. With his ginger whiskers, he had more of the fox than the snake about him. He stopped with his hand resting on my latest attempt at the quarterly report for Bentley.
‘February isn’t spelt like that,’ he said.
‘Isn’t it?’ I pulled the papers away from him. ‘Look, just say your piece. We both know you aren’t here to help with my spelling.’
‘Ahah’ He coughed and stood facing me, rocking on his heels. ‘I can explain.’
‘So can I.’
There was a brief staring match. Hack blinked first. ‘The thing is, we’re both in a position to get the other into trouble. But I see no reason to have any unpleasantness.’
‘You want me to keep quiet?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘And in turn, of course, I won’t have any call to mention you.’
‘But if you’re defrauding the Institute, I can’t just ignore it. It’s criminal.’
He licked his lips. ‘Criminal? I don’t see… I really am a spiritualist. I have credentials from the London Spiritualist Association.’
‘Oh, stop it. We both know you’re as phony as a three-pound note. You’re no more a researcher than I’m a… juggler.’
He pulled out a chair and sat down. His smile had slipped for once. He stroked his moustache, a quick nervous gesture. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
‘Yes.’ I thought about it. ‘If there’s no harm in it.’
He grimaced. ‘I think I must trust you. You’re quite correct. I’m not a spiritualist. I’m a journalist.’
‘A journalist? But what on earth are you doing here?’
‘Looking for a story, what else?’ He shrugged. ‘The Institute hasn’t attracted much attention up to now. I didn’t think I’d stay this long. But if I’m right about Langstone, it’ll be the biggest news since… I don’t know. Really big.’
‘What about Langstone?’
‘Oh, I’m not going to tell you that. No proof, anyway. I need a photograph of him.’
I sat back in my chair. Langstone again. I had to find out what Hack knew, or suspected.
‘Your turn,’ he said. ‘I’ve spilt my beans. It’s only fair.’
I thought fast. ‘I work for Bentley.’
He wasn’t expecting it. ‘Bentley? The other trustee? He never comes here.’
‘He wants to know what’s going on. He asked me to keep an eye on Langstone.’ Which was true, more or less.
Hack nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I suppose that makes sense. Do you know what Langstone is doing?’
‘If I did, why would I tell you?’
We were at an impasse. He wouldn’t tell me what he knew. I couldn’t trust him with what I knew. Which wasn’t actually very much, but he didn’t know that. Perhaps he was bluffing too.
‘I want to get into his lab,’ I said.
‘That would be interesting.’
‘If you help me, I’ll tell you what’s in there.’
He was cautiously interested. ‘What sort of help?’
‘I need Langstone and Mrs Jones away from the first floor for a clear hour.’
‘That could be managed. Not straight away, but soon.’
‘All right. Thank you.’
He saluted me on the way out of the door. ‘A pleasure doing business.’
Left on my own, I wondered if I’d done the right thing. There was a bad taste in my mouth and it wasn’t just Mrs Jones’ cooking. Bentley had trusted me, and no matter how I tried to rationalise it, I was abusing that trust for my own benefit.
Later, while we were listening to the wireless, Enfield cornered me.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘When you were speaking to Hack, earlier…’ He glanced at Hack, who was snoozing under a copy of the Illustrated London News. ‘You looked worried. Is something the matter? Is he giving you any problems?’
‘It’s really not your business, but, no, there’s no problem.’ The words came out more sharply than I’d intended.
He turned away. The tense line of his shoulders sent a fresh stab of guilt to my heart. I sunk in my chair.
Was I doing the right thing? Colluding with Hack, lying to Enfield. Definitely wrong by any normal standard. But I had no choice. Did I?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘THIS AFTERNOON,’ HACK said.
I jumped in my seat. He had stuck his head through the library door while I was working and I hadn’t heard his approach. ‘What, this afternoon?’
‘It’s organised.’ After a glance over his shoulder, he slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. ‘Madame will give a demonstration of spirit-writing. Langstone and
Mrs Jones have agreed to take part.’
The conversation began to make sense. I hadn’t forgotten, but over the weekend I’d put the episode with Hack to the back of my mind. ‘How on Earth did you swing that?’
Hack buffed his fingernails. ‘Superlative skill, if I say so myself. And don’t worry, they’ll be out of the way for at least an hour. Madame is very good. Very good.’ He rolled his ‘r’s to emphasise the point. ‘She’ll have them eating out of her hand.’
Now the opportunity was available, I felt nervous. It wasn’t an intellectual exercise. It was real breaking and entering, with real consequences if I was caught.
‘A little gratitude would be in order.’
‘Oh. Sorry. Thank you.’
‘And you’ll tell me if you find anything?’
I nodded.
‘You scratch my back.’ He chuckled. ‘We may as well be friendly and help each other. I may have a little favour to ask of you, sometime.’ He went to the door. ‘This afternoon, after lunch.’
With difficulty, I focused on the accounts again. The whole morning stood between me and my goal, and I shouldn’t waste the time. It had occurred to me to go through the books looking for any anomalies, any evidence of what Langstone was doing. If he’d ordered unusual equipment or supplies, I might be able to deduce something.
But all I found was that Mrs Jones got through surprising quantities of sherry.
After lunch, I watched Hack usher Langstone and Mrs Jones into the drawing room, where Madame was prepared to receive them.
I trotted upstairs to my room and retrieved my lock-picking tools. The first floor landing was deserted. In a moment, I stood before the lab door. I examined the lock. It was a little different in style from those I had practised on, but I couldn’t see the internal workings. Pointless delay. I took a deep breath. Another quick glance round, strained listening for footsteps on the stairs, then I crouched before the door, probing the lock with the small screwdriver.
I couldn’t do it. The lock was different. I leaned my forehead against the door, took another deep breath. This was no good. I tried again, this time with my eyes closed. The blade of the screwdriver traced the pins of the lock. I visualised the shape, seeing where I had to push and turn.
Click.
My hands were trembling. I pocketed my tools and slipped inside. With the door closed behind me, the room was dark. I stood still, letting my eyes adjust as I calmed down. Curtains over the windows blocked all but chinks of daylight. I snapped on the electric light.
Outraged squeaks came from animal cages on the workbench to my left. Four guinea pigs, separately caged. At my approach, they panicked, scrambling round their cages. The noise they made seemed loud though probably it wouldn’t have been heard outside.
A workbench ran around three walls, cluttered with glassware, retort stands and other common pieces of equipment. Nothing unexpected. In the left corner was a large sink. Beside that, a carboy of sulphuric acid, probably used for cleaning the glassware. Everything clean and fairly orderly. The characteristic smell I associated with Langstone’s experiments hung in the air, faint but noticeable.
I pulled open drawers and cupboards, searching for any clue. The large cupboard against the right wall contained the only thing of note. Row after row of small glass bottles filled the shelves, each containing a murky brown liquid, each labelled with an indecipherable scrawl which might be a date, or numbers. I took one down and unstoppered it.
I can only describe the smell as like rotten eggs, but worse. As I covered my nose with my hand and tried to get the flask as far from me as possible, it fell to the floor and shattered. Brown liquid puddled on the floor amidst splinters of glass.
I rushed for the window, pushed aside the curtain, and raised the sash a few inches, enough to get my nose out into the fresh air. After several deep, grateful breaths, I recovered enough to deal with the mess. Holding my breath, I collected the larger fragments of glass and threw them out of the window. Then I mopped up the spill and the small bits of glass and washed the lot down the sink.
The smell dissipated by the time I finished, or I had grown used to it. I just had to hope it wasn’t too noticeable, for I couldn’t leave the window open.
I checked my watch. Even with the cleaning, my search hadn’t taken long. I looked round again, checking for anything I’d missed.
There didn’t seem to be anything else unusual. Standard laboratory equipment and supplies, for the most part neatly organised. Occasional dashes of disorder, like items thrown back into a drawer carelessly. All rather normal.
On a shelf beside the door were books. A few reference books and a long row of identical notebooks bound in red cloth. Each spine was numbered.
1919, 1918, 1917, all the way back to 1889. Journals. I pulled one down and leafed through it. The pages were packed with tiny, angular writing, interspersed with diagrams of equipment. The Professor’s hand-writing. That made sense. This was once his laboratory.
My heart leapt. Here was the answer to the mystery. All I needed to do was read his last journal and it would answer all my questions. I took down the last book.
1919. The Professor had died in 1920. I opened it anyway, flipped through the thin pages to the end. I desperately wanted to be wrong. But the last page was clearly dated in December, 1919, many months before his death. Disappointed, I put it back and made sure the books were lined up neatly, as I’d found them.
There was nothing more to do here. I ought to go, and quickly. But something held me, a nagging feeling that I was missing something important.
I had entered the lab hoping to solve one mystery, and hadn’t, but perhaps I could solve another. I ran my fingers along the spines of the journals until I found the one dated with a year memorable to me. The year of my mother’s death. The year of the Great Argument between the Professor and my father.
I had just pulled it off the shelf when I heard a screech from downstairs. A moment later, feet pounded on the stairs. I leapt for the door, pulling it closed behind me as I fell out onto the landing. Remembered I had left the light on. Opened the door enough to put my hand in and turn the light off, and closed it just as Langstone reached the top of the stairs.
I put the book behind my back and strode towards him.
‘Miss Wright,’ he said. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m looking for Sam. Have you seen him? He wanted me to read his poetry. Is something wrong?’
Langstone strode to the door of the lab. ‘Mrs Jones has fainted. I came up for my medical bag.’
‘Can I help?’
He grimaced. ‘Yes, perhaps she may appreciate your support, if you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Of course not.’
I sidled past him, keeping the book out of sight. What would he do when he found the door unlocked?
The lab door clicked open. I descended the stairs quickly. He didn’t call me back. He might assume he had forgotten to lock the door. As long as he didn’t notice the missing journal.
I had to do something with it. I crossed to the library and pushed the book onto a shelf randomly. No one would notice it there before I could retrieve it.
In the drawing room, Mrs Jones lay back in a chair, her head lolling. Hack was trying to give her water while Madame opened the curtains to let in the daylight. On the tea table lay the chalk and a broken slate from the aborted spirit-writing demonstration.
Hack was relieved to see me.
I took the glass of water from his hand. ‘What happened?’
He grinned, showing too many teeth. ‘I think we overdid it a tad,’ he whispered. ‘Madame revealed the slate, Mrs Jones screamed and fainted.’
Mrs Jones muttered incoherent words.
‘Should we loosen her corsets?’ Hack frowned, stroking his moustache.
I considered the situation, then threw the glass of water in her face. She spluttered into consciousness.
‘What? Help. Fire.’ Her arms flailed as she tried to stand.
Hack took her arm. ‘Gently, my dear Mrs Jones. You fainted. Please don’t exert yourself.’
Langstone entered, bag in hand. He took in the scene. The dripping Mrs Jones, the empty glass in my hand.
‘Ah. Well done, Miss Wright. Good thinking.’
He bent over her, speaking soothingly.
Feeling superfluous, I sat down at the tea table, where I was joined by Madame and Hack. The slate lay where it had been dropped, broken in two pieces. I fitted the parts together.
The message from the spirits was there, in black and white: ‘I know your secret.’
I looked over to where Mrs Jones was recovering with smelling salts and sympathy. Hack had played a cruel trick on her. Did he actually know her secret, or had he just guessed she had one? It certainly had a more dramatic effect than perhaps he had expected.
Hack smiled at me, rolling his eyes. I returned a stern stare. The cold acid of guilt and anxiety gnawed at my insides. Hack was my ally, acting on my behalf. I was as much to blame as him.
Before long, Mrs Jones recovered enough to be taken to her own quarters to rest. I excused myself and went to retrieve the journal.
In the privacy of my little bedroom, I turned the pages, puzzling over the Professor’s hand-writing. He wrote little of personal matters. Most of his entries related to business or science. Evidently, he read widely, keeping up to date with the latest developments, and he also conducted his own experiments.
The Professor, of course, wasn’t actually a professor. He’d adopted ‘Professor Dernstrum’ to label his patent medicine bottles, and the name stuck. Meeting him for the first time as an adult through the pages of his journal I realised what a remarkable man he must have been. Intelligent, energetic, with a mania for self-education. Interesting, but not what I really wanted to know.
Meanwhile, at the Dernstrum Institute Page 9