Merciless Reason

by Oisin McGann

  “All right, so he’s had his quiet word with you,” Tatty chirped. “What are we going to do?”

  Daisy was silent for a moment, picturing in her mind the steel-framed window on that windy rooftop. Then she thought of the letter lying under the blotter on her desk.

  “We’re going to keep asking questions. But we’ll tone it down for a while. Let him think he has us under his heel. We must avoid drawing his attention over the next few weeks. I fear that, as a result of his obsessive quest—whatever that is—Gerald has developed a very short fuse. We must be careful not to light it.”

  VI

  AN AWKWARD SILENCE

  DINNER IN WILDENSTERN HALL had become a tense, fraught affair. Ever since Gerald had taken over as acting Patriarch, there had been unrest among the more ambitious relatives. Three assassination attempts later, that simmering rebellion had settled into a murmur of dissent. Simply put, Gerald had terrified them into submission. The family had been on edge after Gerald had foiled the first two murder attempts. But Ainsley’s death had put an end to any further thoughts of disposing of him in the traditional manner.

  On the evening of Daisy’s rooftop discussion with Gerald, the expansive meal started with the slurping of oysters, followed by soup and breads and then baked fish. The main course was roast beef with a fine variety of vegetables and more bread. Some of the diners indulged in wine, stewing their spirits in silence. These days, those of a junior rank in the family found it was very easy to say the wrong thing, so it was best to say nothing at all. Others, more confident of their position, took advantage of this gathering to make their case to the Patriarch.

  Every adult male member of the Wildenstern clan had a position within the North America Trading Company. As Gerald was Chairman, every important business decision had to be run through him. But as Gerald wasn’t all that interested, these decisions were often delegated to Daisy—a situation many considered bad form, and a few declared downright intolerable.

  And yet, it was tolerated, because Gerald said it must be so.

  There were over thirty people at the huge table, with Gerald at one end and his mother, Elvira, at the other. She was in a wheelchair, ancient and disabled but still able to out-think younger, more agile minds. Her sense of hearing was failing her, however, and had to be compensated for with a listening horn and a tendency to bellow her way into conversations.

  To Gerald’s right sat Leopold. Young children were not normally permitted at the main table, but Leopold’s mother, Elizabeth, had insisted the four-year-old sit at Gerald’s right hand. She fully intended that when the child was old enough, the positions would be reversed and Gerald would sit at the right hand of the true Patriarch. She sat beside her son and helped him with his food.

  Daisy sat opposite Leopold, on Gerald’s left, and Tatiana was beside her, opposite Elizabeth. Gerald used these four as a kind of buffer between him and the rest of the Wildensterns at dinner. He acknowledged the family’s need for firm control, but resented the amount of time he was forced to devote to it.

  One of the chief pests was his Uncle Gideon, who was in charge of the Company’s enormous fleet of ships. A large, loud oaf of a man, he wore too much gold on his person and hair on his face. He had five sons who hated him as much as he hated them, but who still regularly joined him in his greedy, nefarious schemes.

  “Gerald,” Gideon began, with his mouth still full, crumbs of turnip shooting out from his black beard, “we are having a frightful time with the British Navy. They have got into the habit of stopping our ships on the way out past Gibraltar. They accuse our captains of transporting slaves. Something must be done.”

  “Perhaps somebody has told them that you have been transporting slaves, Gideon,” Gerald replied. He was only picking at his food; he rarely showed any appetite these days. “I suggest you stop, before someone finds one of the Company’s ships with slaves aboard. We would all hate to see you hanged. It is your operation—I can assure you that you will be the only one to go down with that particular ship.”

  Gideon was still considering his response when Elvira shouted up from the other end of the table. “And what about the contracts with the East India Company?” she called. “They want to buy our gold mines in California. It is important we sell the dratted things before those nabobs discover they’re empty. This ‘Gold Rush’ has become more akin to a ‘Gold Trickle.’ The contracts must be signed as a matter of urgency!”

  “Let Daisy handle it.” Gerald waved his hand towards her.

  “She can’t handle it,” one of the other men said. “She’s a woman. She can’t sign contracts. She can’t represent the family, and if we send her to negotiations no one will take us seriously. You need to seize the reins, Gerald.”

  Daisy listened, but did not speak. She was forced to put up with the bigotry in the family because it merely reflected that of the wider world. Having long ago resigned herself to the idea that women of her generation would never achieve equal status to men in business, she had set about finding other ways of achieving her jails.

  “What about the bloody Civil War in America?” Oliver demanded. He was Gideon’s second eldest son. He was responsible for the estates in Ireland, but fancied himself as a leader and business strategist. “Silas over there, he says the place is awash with vacant land—what with so many of the menfolk dead and all that. According to him, we should be buying up farms now, while all the widows are still single and desperate. There’s a killing to be made, what? Loosen the purse-strings a bit, Gerald, eh? That’s what I say!”

  “I’ll have Daisy look over it,” Gerald muttered, cutting through a piece of beef.

  “Daisy can’t sign checks!” Oliver protested.

  “And what about the talk of these Irish-American Fenians?” Gideon called out. “Hardened veterans from that blasted war of theirs, coming back in their thousands to fight the British here? Some are already here, training up the native rabble! They’ll cause havoc!”

  “This idea of a returning army is a myth for the most part,” Gerald replied, jabbing his meat with his fork. “I think most men in Ireland are concerned with going in the opposite direction. Certainly, thousands spend their life savings to leave on our ships every year, with little prospect of returning. The Irish-Americans make a lot of noise, but they have their own problems to occupy them.”

  “How can we be sure?” someone asked.

  “More to the point, should we be charging more for the passage to America?” another voice piped up. “If it’s such a popular route, I mean.”

  “We have not resolved the matter of selling our empty gold mines,” Elvira shouted. “There is still money to be made there, before it all falls flat. This must be completed, before we discuss buying more land from destitute widows or taking the life savings from emigrants.”

  “What are we going to do about this blasted Highwayboy?” someone else called up. “I’ve been robbed twice by the little rotter, and now we hear the cur’s got all the ruddy peasants on his side by throwing them money he steals from our pockets!”

  “What about all the money we lost on that fool Livingstone’s expedition up the Zambezi?” a new voice asked. “How—”

  “Who gives a damn about Africa?” another snapped. “It’s more trouble than it’s worth. As far as I’m concerned you can stick that bloody Livingstone up your Zambezi and be done with it!”

  “We must discuss California!”

  The voices rose in volume and number, shouting each other down until no one voice could be heard. As the crescendo of arguments became angrier, Gerald pinched his nose and sighed. Then he started to whistle.

  It was a sound mat every ear in the room recognized. Even Elvira’s. There was a sudden silence as Gerald continued to whistle Brahms’s Lullaby. It was a sweet, innocent tune and Daisy was amazed at how quickly it had its effect. Voices faltered and fell quiet. Those who had stood up to ma
ke their points abruptly sat down. Everyone exchanged anxious looks and then picked up their cutlery and started eating.

  Daisy could not be sure if it was the whistling itself that had physically forced them all to shut up, or if it was merely the fear of it that had the effect. Either way, nobody spoke again after Gerald stopped whistling. Apart from the clink of cutlery and the nervous gulps of wine, there was hardly a sound.

  Until Leopold started banging his spoon on the table and demanded another tune. His mother gently took the spoon off him and waved to a servant, who nodded briskly and walked out. Seconds later, the man was back, holding a violin. His gentle music accompanied Leopold’s eating for the remainder of the meal.

  Gerald was first to leave the table. Elizabeth and Leopold went with him. Daisy waited a full minute before following them. She allowed them to reach the elevator and step inside before coming round the last corner. Ringing the bell to summon the other lift, she walked in as the doors opened. The boy controlling the lever looked up at her.

  “The laboratory, please,” she said.

  Occupying much of the basement space at the foot of the tower, Gerald’s laboratory was the only part of Wildenstern Hall that truly reflected his state of mind. Once, this place had been orderly, laid out with careful deliberation. Daisy had often found it an exciting place—with its Bunsen burners, glass vessels, gutta-percha tubes and array of chemicals, the smells of chemistry hung in the air. A place dedicated to intellectual exploration.

  Even when he had started experimenting on engimals, Daisy could see the reasoning behind Gerald’s cold-blooded dissections. Back then, she had believed that he was not being cruel in any calculating way. He simply would not let sentimentality stand in his way of solving the mystery of their existence. In some ways, it appealed to her own curiosity, even though the sight of those dissected creatures turned her stomach. Once, they had been full of life, only to be reduced to ruined corpses of metal, ceramic and other, unknown materials.

  But now, there was very little rational thought to be seen here. The laboratory equipment was unused for the most part, gathering dust, and the glow from the thickly glassed grates up at ground level was dulled by dirt—Gerald would not allow the staff to do any cleaning down here. And yet he spent more and more time out of the house. Whatever he was doing, he wasn’t doing it here. Still, the place bore fresh signs that he had been here. There were pieces of paper everywhere, some in piles, some left discarded on the floor. When he couldn’t find paper, Gerald had written on tables and walls with a pencil, or even scratched into their surfaces with a nail or a knife. The place was covered with haphazard notes. None of them made any sense.

  When she entered the laboratory, Daisy found Leopold running up and down on one of the sturdy worktops, jumping over the equipment there like a horse at a showground. There were times he reminded Daisy so much of his father.

  Elizabeth was standing at another table, looking through a pile of the notes. Most of them were covered in mathaumaturgical symbols, like the ones Gerald had scribbled on the plans for the church. This was an arcane mathematical language that some scientists around the world thought was a means of communicating with engimals, and possibly with the very elements of the world itself. Others dismissed it as nonsense, and the false magic of pagans.

  There was a frustrated frown on Elizabeth’s face and Daisy allowed herself a smile, before quickly hiding it again and clearing her throat. The older woman looked round. At first she seemed annoyed, but then her expression became more neutral and she returned her attention to the page in her hand. The two women lived in a constant state of antagonism, but were too civilized to show it.

  “Still trying to figure it out?” Daisy asked.

  “It is fascinating … staggering work,” Elizabeth said to her, without raising her gaze from the paper.

  “You haven’t a clue, have you?” Daisy sniffed. “All this time you’ve spent with him, working on him with all your charms, and you still can’t fathom what he’s up to. You must be tearing your hair out. Has there ever been a man before whom you couldn’t wind round your finger?”

  “It’s only a matter of time, my dear.”

  “It’s been three years,” Daisy snorted. “But then, I suppose you’ve never come across anyone like him before, have you? He must seem as if he’s from another world. What passed for science in your time, I wonder? Had the Normans conceived of higher mathematics? They probably weren’t paying too much attention to what the Hindus or the Muslims were doing. Too busy trying to conquer them, I expect.”

  “This is just another knot to unravel,” Elizabeth said. “Men bind us into this world they have constructed, so that we cannot make a move without their assistance. But I will not stay bound.” She caught her breath, as if she had said too much, and turned to face Daisy. “My love and admiration for Gerald are real, no matter what you think. He is worthy of me, and I of him. He is strengthening the empire that my darling Leopold will inherit.”

  “Is he?” Daisy asked. “How can you possibly tell?”

  “I can see into his heart,” Elizabeth assured her. “Sometimes we must obey instinct over intellect. I must support him in any way I can. You do not understand his plans, but he shares them with me. You will see, one day. Someday, the whole world will understand.”

  “Perhaps, but by that time I rather suspect it will be too late to do anything about it.”

  “Are you two fighting again?” Gerald’s voice interrupted them. He was standing in a doorway that led to the room where a bank of large refrigerators had been installed. Like so many other things, Gerald would tell no one their purpose. “Honestly, you’re like ferrets in a sack, the pair of you. And don’t think I’m fooled by the civil tone—I felt the temperature drop when Daisy walked into the room.”

  He strolled over to the table where Elizabeth was reading the notes. He had a cigarette in his hand and he blew a few smoke rings in a playful way that Daisy had not seen in some time. Considering his foul mood at dinner, he seemed positively cheerful now.

  “I have been concerned with your shortcomings for a while now,” he said to her. “I think I have been unfair to you. It’s high time I did something about it.”

  “Shortcomings?” Daisy said in a clipped tone.

  “Your gender,” he explained. “It is a handicap in the world of business—though I know you have worked incredibly hard to overcome it. I commend you for that, but the family is right; there are some things you simply cannot do.”

  Daisy drew in a breath, but said nothing. She hated this; no matter what she did, or how many times she proved herself, the world would not allow her to succeed. Despite Gerald’s increasingly cold nature, she had thought that he was beginning to respect her abilities.

  “You will still handle the day-to-day affairs for now,” he told her, “but I’m bringing someone in who is better suited to man the helm, so to speak. An individual who can help you manage the business, while keeping the family under control. I think you will find his commanding presence of great benefit.”

  “What are you talking about?” Daisy snapped at him, resenting the fact that he had succeeded in sparking her temper. “It can’t be any of the buffoons you silenced at dinner. You’re bringing someone in from the outside? Who? What outsider could hope to get to grips with this family?”

  “Oh, he’s not an outsider,” Gerald said, stubbing his cigarette, out on one of the worktops. “Quite the opposite, in fact. He has a deep knowledge of this family, born of a long acquaintance. An exceedingly long acquaintance.”

  With that, he turned and walked out of the room, ignoring Daisy’s protests to know more. Elizabeth lifted Leopold off the table, set him on the ground and began to lead him out of the room after Gerald. She stopped and turned round to face Daisy, taking the younger woman’s hands in hers with a slight, but smug smile on her face.

  “You haven’t a cl
ue, have you?” she sighed. “But I’ll tell you this about your new superior, my dear. You’ll never have come across anyone like him. He’ll seem as if he’s from another world.”

  Then, turning to look down into Leopold’s big, curious blue eyes, Elizabeth held out her hand, linking fingers with him. She led her son out the door, leaving Daisy standing among the dusty remnants of the laboratory, wondering what was coming next.

  VII

  BRAHMS’S LULLABY

  NATE WOKE FROM A FITFUL DREAM of a dead and blackened landscape. He opened his eyes and looked at the plastered brick wall stretching up over his head to the wooden beams above. A sheet of canvas hung over the single window beside the front door. The dawn light was filtering in around its edges. If Nate had been asked to choose a safe place to hide from those hunting him, a formidable British fort on the coast of County Cork would not have been his first choice. And yet here he was, waking up in one of the small terraced houses that backed onto the inner wall of the huge, seaward ramparts of Charles Fort, a massive star-shaped stronghold that overlooked Kinsale Harbor.

  This house belonged to a friend of Clancy’s and it would be very difficult to trace back to him. The soldier who had provided this safe-house lived here with his wife and two children. It doubled as a storeroom for the barracks, and there was hardly room for the residents, let alone Nate and Clancy as well. But the family had made their secret guests feel as welcome as they could.

  Nate sat up and rolled his head around on his neck. No matter how many times the nightmares came, it always felt as stark and as horrifying as the first time. The stiffness in his neck and shoulders told him that his body had been knotted with tension in his sleep. There were times when it came as a surprise to wake up and find the world had survived his night’s slumbers.

  He had long ago grown accustomed to rising early, and yet there was Clancy, sitting by the stove on a short, three-legged stool, making porridge in a black iron pot. Duke, the basset hound, was curled up beside his master, snoring through his floppy ears.