The Peculiars

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “It’s perfect. And the typewriter is”—she had trouble thinking of an appropriate adjective—“remarkable.”

  “It is quite a nice little invention—much better than the earlier model.” He plinked a key. “I’ve been to Cloister and brought back something rather special for our library.” His face was pink with excitement. His penciled eyebrows danced. “Go ahead, but open it carefully. Put these on first.” He opened the drawer of the library table and pulled out a pair of thin white gloves, which he handed to Jimson. Lena noted that they would be too small for her gloved hands. “This box is rosewood; and the design, mother-of-pearl.”

  Both Jimson and Lena bent over the gleaming wood box. It was not much bigger than a jewel casket. The lid was in two sections and was held together by a brass clasp set as a branch on a vine of glowing white. Mother-of-pearl, like the inside of the shells that washed up on the shore at Knoster, Lena thought. Jimson undid the clasp and opened the lid. He reached in and removed a red leather book. Lena caught her breath. The cover was overlaid with a delicate tapestry of mother-of-pearl as fine as spiderwebs and was held in place by a thin brass frame. Even Jimson’s fine hands looked large and clumsy as he carefully opened the cover and the first pages rustled. The pages were a fine onionskin, covered with writing Lena couldn’t read. Shoulder to shoulder, she and Jimson hovered over the small book. Each page was bordered with flowers and animals in the glowing colors of jewels.

  “It’s illuminated,” Lena said breathlessly.

  “One of the finest illuminated texts I’ve ever seen,” Mr. Beasley added. “The text is Latin.”

  “But why did they give it to you?” Lena could never imagine parting with such a beautiful book, even if she couldn’t read a word of it.

  “The sisters believe that it would be safer with me for the time being. Jimson, please put it in the case by the Khan’s soul for now and be sure it is locked. I’ve asked Mrs. Pollet to serve us dinner on the terrace. I’ll expect you both in fifteen minutes.” He scooped up Mrs. Mumbles and strode from the room with the cat riding his shoulder. She looked at Lena with a smug smile; Lena was sure of it.

  “Does he often travel to Cloister?” Lena asked, thinking of the escaped prisoner from the train and the man disguised as a nun who had helped him. This would be something to add to her notes.

  “He has been lately.” Jimson, still wearing the white gloves, placed the volume tenderly into the glass case. “It’s called A History.”

  “Do you read Latin?” She tried but failed to keep the surprise from her voice.

  Jimson shrugged. “Just a little. I used to be an altar boy.”

  “But I thought you didn’t believe in religion.” Lena finished sorting the papers on her desk into piles.

  “My family does. Gone to church my whole life. Marx calls religion the opiate of the masses, and I think he’s right.” He locked the case and put the key on the ring in his desk. “Let’s go eat. I’m starving.”

  Lena patted her braids. She would have liked to have had time to clean up before dinner, but it wouldn’t do to keep her employer waiting. The sketchbook of medical drawings lay on the library table where Mr. Beasley would find it. Before he did, she would need to go through it carefully.

  Lena thought again of the strangely clinical drawings, and of Mr. Beasley’s frequent visits to Cloister. Perhaps the marshal was right: despite his friendly personality, Mr. Beasley might be someone worth watching. After dinner she’d write up notes of what she had observed so far and decide how much to share with the marshal. And once everyone was in bed for the night she’d pay a visit to the library and finish looking at the sketchbook. But the thought made her feel vaguely guilty. Mr. Beasley had been nothing but good to her so far.

  The terrace extended from the back of the house in an arc that followed the rim of the cliff overlooking the sea. It was a wide patio of brick and grass, perched high above the water. An ornate iron railing was the only thing to keep one from tumbling down the jagged rocks to the sea below. Lena made sure to keep her distance from the edge.

  She was tired. The light was that particular gold of October, and the air was sharp enough for a wrap, but the crash of waves against basalt cliffs was soothing—enough to make her eyelids heavy. The three of them sat around a teak table, and Mrs. Pollet brought them steaming bowls of soup brimming with sea creatures. The shrimp reminded her of giant insects, and she wondered what else lurked beneath the thick broth.

  Jimson looked at her with a twinkle. “It’s bouillabaisse. Haven’t you had it before? It’s a staple of coast towns.”

  Mr. Beasley poured himself a glass of wine. “I would like to propose a toast, to my two librarians, the Dewey decimal system, and the end of autumn’s glories.” He held his sparkling glass high in the air. Lena and Jimson raised their glasses as well.

  They kept no wine in Lena’s house, and she took her first sip gravely, once again feeling tremendously grown-up. But the taste wasn’t what she expected from the rich ruby liquid. Instead, it was slightly sour, and when she tried to disguise her expression behind a napkin, Jimson caught her eye and winked.

  “Tell me about your day,” Mr. Beasley said, and then he listened attentively as they told him about what they had catalogued and how they had shelved the books. Lena waited for Jimson to say something about the sketchbook, and when he didn’t, she felt her shoulders relax.

  Then Mr. Beasley entertained them with stories about life at Cloister and about the large vegetable gardens and horse stables. “The sisters are quite progressive when it comes to medicine. They have a great deal of knowledge about herbal medicines, and they’ve been using chloroform to do some simple surgeries on animals.”

  “On animals that have been injured?” Lena asked.

  “Well, yes, on injured animals. But they also do a bit of research to better understand how treating animals might be transferred to human beings. For example, say an animal has an internal injury. If we learn how to treat that on an animal, then perhaps we can transfer that knowledge someday to humans.”

  “That’s exactly what we should be doing.” Jimson finished his last bite of custard. “It’s a perfect example of evolution at work. We use our intelligence to combat disease, and gradually the human race becomes stronger.”

  “But what if the research doesn’t work the same way on animals as it does on people?” Lena thought about her own hands and feet. “They are different species.”

  “Not so different as you might think. What makes us uniquely human?” Mr. Beasley asked.

  “The fact that we can use tools,” Jimson was quick to say.

  Lena spoke quietly, remembering the missionaries to Scree and Nana Crane’s view of the world. “Well, I’ve heard it said that it’s because we have a soul.”

  “No one has ever observed a soul. There is no proof that a soul exists. What would be its purpose?” Jimson seemed eager to bait her.

  Lena glared at him. “No one has ever proved that it doesn’t exist either.”

  Mr. Beasley seemed to be enjoying the discussion. Lena watched his large hairless hands become animated as he talked. “Disproving is often more difficult than proving. Aristotle defined the soul as the core or ‘essence’ of a living being. And Aquinas believed that the soul is immortal. Put those two thinkers together and you have that which makes each of us unique, outliving our bodies. It’s an interesting thought. It makes sense, doesn’t it, that there is more to any of us than meets the eye? What would you say, Jimson?”

  “I’d say that we can’t know anything without it being observable, otherwise it’s all guesswork.”

  “Spoken like a true scientist! And what about you, Lena?”

  Lena slipped a little lower in her chair and pleated her large cloth napkin with her fingers. “I don’t know. But I’ve always wondered what a soul feels like. What I mean is, can you tell you have one by the way it feels?”

  “You don’t feel something missing when your tonsils are gone, and you do
n’t feel your liver inside of you. If there was such a thing as a soul, I don’t think it would have any feeling at all,” Jimson said.

  “Speaking of the tonsils—”

  The discussion changed tack then like a sail following a change in the wind. Mr. Beasley described the process of the new tonsillectomy surgery being performed now and how it prevented infections of the throat. When Mrs. Pollet arrived, bearing hot water for tea, the sun was setting in a golden wash over the sea. Lena had never imagined that she would be sitting in such a wonderful place having a conversation with two such interesting people. Contentment was not a familiar companion. Even here on Mr. Beasley’s terrace, her fears found her and coiled at her feet ready to strike. She felt a sudden and sharp longing for her small parlor at home, for her mother reading out loud, and even Nana Crane rattling the familiar knitting needles. She looked from Jimson’s lively face to Mr. Beasley and wondered if she would always be apart.

  LENA WAITED UNTIL IT WAS JUST PAST MIDNIGHT AND THE HOUSE was quiet. She had written a long letter to her mother and Nana Crane, describing the wonders of the library and the house perched on the cliff by the sea. She had also carefully taken notes on all that she had observed since arriving. She had been sure to include Mr. Beasley’s visit to Cloister and the beautiful red book he brought back for the library. She might or might not share these notes with the marshal. Perhaps it would be best when she met him the next day to offer just a few tidbits of information. She was still finding it difficult to believe that Mr. Beasley could be anything other than kind.

  Sitting on the edge of her new bed, Lena willed her heart to slow down. All right . . . it was time. She visualized her path down the long hallways and stairs to the library, where the sketchbook waited. If anyone discovered her, she could claim that she had lost her way in the big house and that she was just looking for something more to eat—although that would be difficult to believe after the supper they had consumed on the terrace. Perhaps she should say that she couldn’t sleep and was looking for something to read. She wrapped a shawl around the shoulders of her muslin nightdress and slipped out of the bedroom.

  It was silent in the hallway, save for the distant sounds of the sea. Moonlight shone in through an uncurtained window, making it easy for Lena to see her way to one of the many staircases. She was barefoot, hoping to pass silently as a shadow. There was no light shining under Jimson’s door, and she breathed a sigh of gratitude. Even the smooth wooden treads of the stairs were uncomfortably hard on her tender soles. Lena always had to pay extra attention descending stairs. The length of her feet was greater than the width of any tread, which made it easy to stumble.

  She froze as a clock chimed 12:30. Only two hallways more to the library. All around her were the sounds of an old, comfortable house at night—the sighing of joists settling, pipes creaking like old bones. Lena moved more quickly now, following the hallway runner. A few gaslights turned low still flickered, but she tried not to gaze into the shadows, knowing how her imagination often betrayed her. As she rounded the last corner, she heard a voice. She drew close to the wall. Perhaps Mrs. Pollet was still up and talking with Mr. Pollet. The voice came closer down the hallway, moving toward her. Lena’s mouth was dry. Should she return the way she had come? Her heart sped. The voice stopped. Perhaps she had been discovered? Then something warm brushed against her ankle and ruffled the hem of her nightgown. Mrs. Mumbles. Lena exhaled. “Oh, you scared me,” she chided the cat in a whisper. The cat yeowed. “Be quiet!” Lena set the code on the lock. She turned the wheel of the library door. All the bolts and gears clicked into place. The door swung open.

  Moonlight bathed the library in a cold blue glow. It was not the same place Lena had worked in happily by day. She hurried to the table, the cat at her heels. The door slid shut behind them. The sketchbook lay where she had left it. Lena hesitated. Perhaps the best thing would be to take it with her. Mr. Beasley wouldn’t miss it for one night, especially in the library’s current state of disarray. Then she could look at it in her room, away from the cold blue light of the library, and, if she decided, she could show the marshal actual evidence of Mr. Beasley’s interest in Peculiars. But that was the problem. Mr. Beasley was a gracious employer. It was difficult for Lena to imagine that he had any ulterior motives. She snatched up the book before she could change her mind and tucked it under the edge of her shawl. She’d return it in the morning.

  Before she left, she crept over to the case that held the beautiful red book. Jimson had set it open to a page where a vine and morning glories wound around the text. A small brown rabbit was hidden under the vines at the bottom of the page. If only she could read the words! Mrs. Mumbles leapt on top of the glass, and Lena tickled her under the chin. The cat lifted her soft white throat appreciatively. Then together they crossed to the enormous doors.

  “Not a word, Mrs. Mumbles, to anyone, or I won’t scratch your chin again.”

  Lena entered the code, again unlocking the door, and turned the wheel. With a satisfying click the mechanisms released. As she reset the lock, something nearby hissed. She froze. A shrill whistle like a teakettle pierced the dark. She was bathed in a cold sweat. Mrs. Mumbles sat just inside the library, her tail switching back and forth.

  “Come. Now,” Lena demanded.

  The cat looked at her.

  Lena bent to her knees. “Come here, kitty.”

  Mrs. Mumbles retreated farther into the library.

  Lena heard footsteps. Perhaps the whistle alerted Mr. Beasley that someone had broken into the library. She let the door close, trapping Mrs. Mumbles inside, and ran blindly down the hallway. Any minute now Mr. Beasley or the Pollets would appear—Leticia tall and spectral in her nightdress, Arthur small and bustling at her side—and demand that she explain herself. Her breath came in ragged gasps. There were footfalls on the stairs. Lena turned doorknobs and ducked behind the first door that opened. If they found her, she would be searched, and when they found the sketchbook, she would be sent packing in disgrace.

  She backed into something tall and hard. It clattered to the floor. Tears streamed down her face. The noise would surely give her away. Lena curled into a ball on the floor and waited for the inevitable. But no one came in. There were murmurings in the hallway and the sound of doors opening and closing, but no alarm was raised.

  She waited hunched on the floor a very long time. The voices and footsteps were gone. The dark was silent once again. She carefully straightened. Her legs were numb, and her face was streaked with tears. As quietly as possible she righted the metal shield. She had stumbled into Mr. Beasley’s weaponry room. Ghostly outlines of suits of armor surrounded her. Lena grasped the sketchbook tightly in one hand and pulled open the door.

  The hall was empty. She could see the flight of stairs leading to her hallway just a few feet beyond. What would happen in the morning when Mrs. Mumbles was discovered in the locked library?

  Lena fled up the stairs and to the safety of her room. She dove under the covers and burrowed down deep, pushing the sketchbook under her pillow. It took a very long time for her to fall asleep, and when she did, she dreamed she was pursued by a suit of armor, the face mask opening and closing as puffs of steam billowed through the mouthpiece.

  Jimson had already finished breakfast and was about to leave for the library when Lena arrived in the dining room. She was ready for accusations, but Mr. Beasley was not at breakfast.

  “Good morning, sleepyhead! Stay up late writing to your family?”

  All awkwardness from the previous day had vanished. His hair was more tousled than usual, but his face looked cheery enough. He was, Lena thought, one of those dreadfully cheery morning people, while she couldn’t think until she’d had a cup of strong tea.

  “Bad dreams. Has Mr. Beasley been at breakfast?”

  “No, but then he’s often up and out early.”

  Jimson, Lena realized, was staring at her in a strange way.

  She wore her hair down this morning, held
back only with a wide blue ribbon. Yesterday’s tightly wound braids had given her a headache.

  “What are you staring at?”

  Jimson colored and looked away. “You look good even first thing in the morning,” he muttered.

  Flustered but pleased, Lena asked, “Did you hear something in the middle of the night like a whistle?” It was best to know where things stood. Had the whole household been alerted?

  “No, slept straight through and didn’t hear a sound. What kind of a whistle?”

  Lena poured tea into a china cup and added a glug of cream. “Like a teapot’s whistle, sharp and shrill. I thought it would have woken the whole house!”

  “Like this?” Jimson disappeared around a corner. Lena heard a door opening and closing. The shrill of a whistle made her jump.

  A moment later he was back.

  “Yes, just like that!”

  “It’s one of Mr. Beasley’s new toys. He rigged up a steam-powered ringer just to see if it could be done. It’s only on the side door by the garden. He told us all to ignore it if we heard its whistle because it was just his little experiment. Sometimes he gets deliveries late at night when there’s something important expected. That must be what you heard.”

  Lena carefully spread marmalade to the edges of her toast and avoided Jimson’s eyes. “Does he have other devices like that around the house? I’d have an alarm on the library if it was mine.”

  “Not that I know of. The library is alarmed, but only if someone enters without the code. Don’t worry, you’re perfectly safe here.”

  Lena smiled. Let him think she was worried about her safety. “That’s good to know.”

  Mrs. Pollet bustled into the dining room with the morning’s mail on a small silver tray. “A letter for you, Mr. Jimson.”

  She handed him a thick cream envelope addressed in a loopy hand. Jimson quickly stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

  Probably Pansy, Lena thought, surprised that the idea made her feel cross.