Death at the Crystal Palace

by Jennifer Ashley

  The man next to Mr. Fielding was Daniel. He saw me—I know he did—but he looked right through me as he turned to speak to a gentleman on his right. That man was the unnamed aristocrat from the newspaper, the one who might have something to do with the brutal murders in Dublin.

  9

  After a hasty apology to the gentleman I’d stepped on, I took my seat between Cynthia and Miss Townsend, my hands trembling.

  I forced myself not to look back. I knew I’d seen Daniel, and he’d very carefully not acknowledged me.

  What on earth was he doing here? He’d known I planned to attend Mr. Thanos’s lecture, and that Cynthia and the others would be here too. Perhaps this aristocrat he followed about had decided that listening to lectures from tutors in the new Polytechnic was just the thing. I chafed with my ignorance. I hoped James would visit me soon and let me know more about what Daniel was up to.

  The presentation began. Sir Arthur Maddox stepped up to the platform, where the lecturers now sat in a line of chairs behind a podium. The iron girders of the Crystal Palace soared above him and the medieval-style screen lent the scene dignity. The Palace’s dark glass reflected gaslights that winked like stars.

  Sir Arthur cleared his throat and spoke loudly.

  “My friends, I welcome you. We stand in a cathedral of learning, originally built to exhibit the many scientific wonders of the world. It was rebuilt to show us not only natural marvels but also cultures of exotic places and historic sites such as Pompeii and ancient Egypt. All the learning of the globe, placed into one magnificent building.”

  He indicated the arched glass and vast space around us with a sweeping gesture. We applauded. Even Jonathan pounded his gloved hands together and shouted, “Hear! Hear!”

  “London’s new Polytechnic, funded by generous donors, while not housed in such a magnificent building as this one, will also encompass the science of the world, the newest findings and theories put into practical use for the benefit of all ladies and gentlemen of Britain.”

  More applause. Jonathan added a loud “Huzzah!” before his mother admonished him to silence.

  Sir Arthur went on about the sorts of things that would be studied—mathematics, experiments on scientific ideas, photography, electricity and its oddness, and other blindingly new disciplines I knew little of.

  He finished to rousing applause, Jonathan springing to his feet. Harriet pulled him back down with a scowl.

  The speakers began, the tutors from the new school explaining what they’d be lecturing on and expounding upon some of their theories. Most was beyond me, and I suspected beyond much of the audience. But Sir Arthur and the other founders of the Polytechnic were hoping to raise funds tonight, and a gentleman or lady didn’t have to understand the science to be fascinated and open his or her purse.

  As the lectures continued, I fretted about Daniel. I longed to turn and gaze at him, but this would be foolish. I did not want to give away that I was acquainted with him, and I could only hope that Cynthia, Bobby, and Miss Townsend would not expose him either.

  Amid applause for a speaker on the luminiferous aether departing the podium, Sir Arthur announced Mr. Elgin Thanos, lecturer in mathematics.

  Cynthia stiffened beside me as Mr. Thanos stepped forward, setting a sheaf of papers on the stand. He cleared his throat and adjusted his spectacles, nervously trying not to notice the audience waiting for him to begin. A slate blackboard stood behind him, and Mr. Thanos fiddled with a piece of chalk in his hand.

  “I will be giving lectures in theoretical mathematics,” Mr. Thanos began as the crowd quieted. “Theory, yes, though the Polytechnic is keen to research practical matters, because from theory comes many scientific advancements.”

  He paused. The audience rustled programs, some interested, some already wishing they could move to the refreshments promised after the lectures. Cynthia wrapped her hand around my wrist and squeezed.

  Mr. Thanos cleared his throat. “For instance, because of a theory on how light could be etched onto a metal plate if the plate was coated in some substance, photography was born. Now we can all have a portrait done without hiring an expensive artist.”

  He paused, as though waiting for laughter. A few titters came, including one throaty chuckle from Miss Townsend, an artist who occasionally painted portraits.

  “Oh,” Mr. Thanos said, catching sight of her. “My apologies to the artists in the room.”

  This did bring a laugh, which surprised him. Mr. Thanos beamed at everyone and continued.

  “Another stride forward in science happened in electromagnetism, long thought only a theory of mathematics, batted about by scientists sitting in comfortable chairs, but these theories made possible the telegraph, which sends messages through lines across the world in an instant, and now can vibrate a diaphragm to send a human voice along the same sort of lines. A business in Manchester is now using such a device to convey messages every day.”

  This received more attention, and Mr. Thanos warmed to his subject. He continued talking about inventions involving electricity, then moved back to theory.

  “There is a conundrum that has been dogging mathematicians since the seventeenth century, known as Fermat’s Last Theorem. Monsieur Fermat wrote an equation in the margin of a manuscript, stating that he knew the equation to be true, but the proof of it was too long to write in that space. No one has ever found a way to prove this theorem, though mathematicians have tried for two centuries. What a wonder if a student or teacher at the Polytechnic could solve the conundrum. It is a very simple idea . . .”

  He started for the board, trying to juggle chalk and papers and continue speaking at the same time. Mr. Thanos predictably dropped his papers, which scattered every which way as the audience chortled.

  Mr. Thanos collected the sheets, but could not manage to hold them and write at the same time. Cynthia released my arm—thank heavens, as she was gripping it rather tightly—sprang to her feet, and pushed her way to the aisle. She held her skirts out of her way as she hurried to the platform and up on it.

  Mr. Thanos regarded her in some alarm. The audience began to clap again, especially the gentlemen, who were pleased to see such a lovely young lady before them.

  Cynthia firmly took the chalk from Mr. Thanos’s hand and whispered something to him. He looked startled but thrust one of the pages at her. He watched worriedly until Cynthia began to write on the board, then he returned to the podium, removed his spectacles, dabbed his face with a handkerchief, and looped the spectacles around his ears again.

  “My . . . er . . . friend, Cynth—er, Lady Cynthia Shires—will write out Fermat’s theorem. It is quite simple, and that is what is perplexing.”

  I heard whispers around me, and Jonathan leaned back to peer at me. “Friend?” he stated in a soft voice. “Of course. Dear Cynthia is an enigma, is she not?”

  “Hush,” Lady Covington said. “Cynthia is a fine young lady, and you will not gossip about her.”

  Her tone was admonishing but not sharp, as though she couldn’t bear to speak harshly to Jonathan. Jonathan winked at me but closed his mouth.

  I expected Cynthia to write a string of numbers on the board, but it was a sentence: For integers n > 2, the equation an + bn = cn cannot be solved with positive integers a, b, and c.

  That was all. What it meant, heaven knew.

  Cynthia finished writing, but she remained poised by the board, chalk in hand, waiting for Mr. Thanos to signal her. As Mr. Thanos explained what the statement meant—I was never clear exactly what—she noted what he indicated.

  They’d done this before, I realized, though I’d not observed it. Cynthia often met Mr. Thanos, along with a group of ladies and gentlemen, at a public house near the British Museum. These people of learning gathered in an upstairs room to read or lecture to one another or discuss art, music, or science of the day. I imagined Cynthia had begun writing
equations for Mr. Thanos so he could pontificate on them without having to stop and scratch things on a slate or blackboard.

  Mr. Thanos continued his lecture, most of which I did not understand. He tried to tie in the obscure equation, which only had one number in it, as far as I could see, to the scientific discoveries certain to be found at the new Polytechnic.

  The listeners hung on his words, though privately I did not believe they understood any more than I did. Mr. Thanos was a handsome young man, however, which must have pleased the ladies, while the gentlemen enjoyed watching Cynthia scribble, her body swaying as she did so.

  Mr. Thanos finished and received enthusiastic applause—I clapped until my hands tingled.

  Cynthia returned to her seat, flushed and breathless. “He never can write and speak at the same time. I have no idea how he’ll manage when he begins his classes.”

  “You can attend with him and help, as you did tonight.”

  Cynthia scrunched up her face. “If the Polytechnic admits women. Wouldn’t want the walls to fall in. Ha.”

  “You’d be his assistant, not a student,” I said. “However, they could not stop you acquiring knowledge while you were at it. Others might control where your body goes, but they cannot hinder your mind.”

  Cynthia laughed, her good humor restored. “Always the philosopher, Mrs. H. Well, now, the lectures are done—let us go have a large slice of cake.”

  Refreshments had been set up a little way down the walk, among a statue garden outside the Pompeian Court. The Pompeian Court consisted of a replica of an entire house from that unfortunate city, its door open to welcome visitors, though none went inside at this time. The refreshments tables were dominated by statues around the main fountain, one of James II of England, said its plaque, another of Dr. Johnson, who, according to the notice on the statue’s base, had written a great dictionary in the previous century.

  The food and drink were indifferent, and I nibbled a few dumplings that were meant to be Chinese—they were not—and part of a seedcake that Cynthia plunked on my plate. She herself took a large portion, as she was fond of seedcake. I sipped tea, which was watery.

  Lady Covington remained at her brother’s elbow, greeting ladies and gentlemen and thanking them for attending. Lady Covington and Sir Arthur were close in age, his hair the same shade of brown just going to gray, with a full mustache and no beard. I watched from a short distance away, close enough to hear Lady Covington assure the guests that investing in the Polytechnic was a good use of their income.

  The rest of the family wandered about in a bored manner, none of them together. Harriet drank tea and stared at flowers around the fountain. George tried to engage gentlemen in conversation, but most quickly withdrew from him to speak to his mother and step-uncle. Jonathan darted down a dark row, and Erica entered the Pompeian house.

  I came alert when Daniel and the gentleman he’d arrived with approached Sir Arthur.

  Daniel had dressed in a dark suit that fitted him exactly, a discreet tie tucked behind the high vee of his waistcoat. His coat flowed neatly to dark trousers that gave only a glimpse of polished black shoes. The suit was adorned only with a watch chain and small gold stickpin.

  He swept his gaze across the crowd as they neared Sir Arthur and Lady Covington. The gray-haired gentleman greeted them, shaking their hands.

  Daniel saw me, but as before, his eyes registered nothing, and he returned his focus to Lady Covington and Sir Arthur. He spoke—nothing more than saying good evening—his manner that of a lethargic gentleman of wealth, his voice a fading drawl. If I’d never met Daniel before, I’d have labeled him a spoiled, pampered young man condescending to accompany his older friend to a tedious engagement.

  I turned away, my heart pounding. My Daniel wasn’t visible within the weary young gentleman resting his walking stick over his arm. Could I ever grow used to Daniel assuming personas in order to spy for the police?

  “He is the Duke of Daventry,” a quiet male voice said behind me. I turned to behold Mr. Fielding sipping tea from a delicate porcelain cup, a twinkle in his eyes. “Old title, rich as Croesus. Has a mansion in Berkeley Square. Our Daniel is chumming up to him for some reason.”

  “Has it anything to do with the murders in Ireland?” I asked in a whisper.

  Mr. Fielding started. “I should not be surprised that you already know all. But yes, the duke’s enemies are putting it about that some of his money floats across the Irish Sea to those who want Ireland out from under Britain. Sounds barmy to me. Why would a duke of ancient lineage want to help rabble-rousers?”

  “Is the duke Irish himself?” Some noble families had been granted titles to land there generations ago.

  “Absolutely not. A more blue-blooded Englishman you’ll never meet. Makes you long to bloody his nose and see what color comes out. Daventry has businesses in Liverpool, which employ many laborers working themselves to the bone to line his pockets. Liverpool is a hop and skip across the water to Dublin. So his enemies say. I think it’s all . . . balderdash.”

  “Then why is Daniel staying so close to him?”

  “I am trying to find out, but Daniel is not letting me near.”

  I studied Daniel again. “He unnerves me, the way he can take on a role.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Fielding sipped tea again, the very picture of a distressed vicar.

  “You are a humbug, Mr. Fielding.”

  His smile flashed. “Yes, but I know it. I have, however, thoroughly embraced my role as vicar, delivering sermons, sheltering those demon children, visiting the sick, giving the last rites to the dying.” He sobered. “That has turned me from a pure villain into something like a man. The comfort some take in me mumbling words over them is unsettling. All my schooling in theology did not prepare me for that.”

  “It will be the making of you,” I assured him. “So will the demon children.”

  “Dear lady, you are always determined to find the good in a person, including that reprobate, Daniel. Mark my words, I was never the villain he was. He’s reformed, it seems, and the world should heave a collective sigh of relief.”

  I glanced at Daniel, now conversing with Sir Arthur. Mr. Fielding had told me in the past that Daniel had been far worse a rogue than he. At times I believed it, but then reminded myself that Mr. Fielding was a confidence trickster and an easy liar.

  Sir Arthur faltered suddenly, his leg bending as though it had given out on him. He put a heavy hand on his sister’s arm, and his face took on a peculiar tinge of gray.

  “Arthur!” Lady Covington’s cry rang through the vast space.

  I hurried to them, Cynthia and Mr. Fielding joining me.

  Daniel caught Sir Arthur, and he and Lady Covington escorted him to a chair. The duke, on the other hand, backed hastily away, as though fearing Sir Arthur had some contagion.

  Mr. Thanos pushed through the crowd. “Sir, are you all right?”

  “No.” Sir Arthur sank heavily to the seat Daniel steered him to. “I do not know what’s come over me. I was perfectly well a few minutes ago.”

  Lady Covington hovered near, her face ashen. “Is it your heart?”

  “No.” Sir Arthur folded his arm across his stomach. “Cramps. Horrible ones. And I can’t catch my breath.”

  “He needs water.” Daniel spoke in the languid tones of an upper-class gentleman, one who was somewhat agitated but didn’t want to bestir himself too much. “You,” he said to me. “Fetch this man some water.”

  I answered this demand with a derisive look. I knew that Daniel was not simply fortifying the idea that he had no idea who I was, but also attempting to send me out of danger.

  “I’ll go.” Cynthia turned abruptly and made for the refreshment table.

  Daniel must have warned Mr. Thanos and Cynthia and her friends that he was attending tonight, and in what guise, because they pretended to regar
d him as a stranger.

  “A doctor,” Daniel continued. “There must be one in all this crush.”

  “No need,” Sir Arthur wheezed. “I’ve eaten something that disagreed with me, is all. Take me home—I’ll be well.”

  “You came by train, did you not?” I asked Lady Covington as she wavered indecisively.

  “Yes, yes. We already have the tickets for a late train back.”

  “Perhaps the railway will let you on an earlier one, or you could hire a coach.”

  “The train will be much more comfortable. They will certainly let us on—my husband ran the railway board.” Lady Covington’s imperious manner returned.

  “Shall I find your stepson for you?” Neither he nor his siblings were anywhere in sight.

  “Ah yes, George.” Lady Covington seemed to have forgotten she had a stepson. “Please, Mrs. Holloway, find my children. We must convey Arthur home.”

  Her agitation showed she hung between concern and real fear. Sir Arthur’s symptoms could be those of poisoning—had he drunk or eaten something meant for Lady Covington? However, I’d seen neither of them eat or drink a thing. They’d been shaking hands and flattering potential donors to the school since the lectures ended. Sir Arthur’s illness could be perfectly natural.

  “A doctor, I say.” Daniel raised his voice. “Is one about?”

  I turned from him and pushed through the gathering crowd in search of Lady Covington’s brood.

  I saw none of them hurrying worriedly to their uncle to see what had happened. I cursed the lot of them under my breath as I rushed past the long fountain toward the lecture area, where I’d seen Jonathan nip down a side aisle. While I did not trust the lad, Lady Covington would be happiest with him to comfort her.

  I followed the path he’d taken and found myself in the natural history exhibits, which housed replicas of animals, plants, and dwellings from all over the world. I passed the Amazonian rain forests then across to Africa and through more space to Borneo and New Guinea, all the while searching frantically for signs of Jonathan.