“Mandrake smells like tobacco,” Duncan said, “and nightshade tastes like tomatoes. There is bergamot and ground cloves in this mixture, but I suspect only because the foul taste would be overpowering.”
Hewson frowned but did not disagree. “Henbane, then,” he said with a shake of his head. “Very dangerous. In strength a powerful hallucinogenic which numbs the senses. We tend to stay away from it.”
“We?” Duncan asked.
“The physicians of London.”
“Not all. This is being administered to certain patients at Bethlem, including my friend Conawago. Most patients may come in as lunatics, but for anyone else, this would assure they become lunatics after they arrive.”
Hewson ran his fingers through the coarse powder as he weighed Duncan’s words. “A hideous suggestion,” he said.
“But what if it were true?”
“Surely no doctor would do such a thing. We take oaths. There are ethics.”
“No honorable doctor. Perhaps only an apothecary or herbalist, though I tend to doubt it. The men who confined my friend were very highly placed. They would prefer a physician.”
“Henbane!” Hewson spat the word like a curse. “There’s stories of men overcome with henbane who climb steeples and jump, convinced they can fly.”
Hearing the words spoken, the articulation of the fear that had been eating away at Duncan for hours, somehow made it real and nearly unbearable. Conawago had been living in a world of hallucinations, probably for many weeks. He recalled their first visit, when his friend had stared at him as if not trusting his eyes.
“Do you know the Earl of Milbridge?” Duncan asked.
“I know of him. He dwells on in the clouds with London’s other gods.”
“Do you perchance know his physician?”
Hewson frowned. “I have named him to you before. He is one of Bedlam’s managing physicians, who sits in meetings of the board of governors. He will never be denied any request, for he is also the royal physician. Dr. Granger.”
Chapter 16
DUNCAN AND ISHMAEL WATCHED FROM the shadows half a block away as Olivia Dumont descended the front steps of the Craven Street house. She handed a coin to Xander the link boy, who had so relentlessly dogged them the past few days that they had agreed to Sinner John’s suggestion that they put the boy on a shilling-a-week retainer as “an extra pair of eyes and for such grimy tasks as ye may choose,” in the porter’s words. During their time at the inn they had begun to grasp that Sinner John had great affection for the flock of link boys he watched over, giving them scraps of food and shelter in the stable on foul nights.
Sinner John seemed especially fond of Xander, and had said a blessing over their clasped hands when Xander had spat on his palm and extended it for Duncan to reciprocate. The link boy had already proven his worth by running several errands for Duncan, including buying more ink and paper for his letters to Sarah, and had glowed with conspiratorial excitement at Duncan’s instructions for Mademoiselle Dumont’s foray.
The shadowed figure positioned across the street from the Stevenson house waited until the pair was fifty paces down the street before following. The Frenchwoman and her young escort moved slowly, engaging in lively conversation, with Xander, his clothes cleaned and his shaggy hair brushed and tied, apparently explaining each of the shops that bordered Charing Cross. As they passed a hat merchant, Olivia lifted a nosegay which Xander had purchased earlier that day and waved it overhead as if to perfume the air around her. It was the agreed signal, and Duncan and Ishmael entered the side door of the coffee shop by the gate of the Royal Mews. The proprietor was a great friend of Dr. Franklin, who sometimes lingered into the night speaking of the wonders of electricity, and was amenable when Duncan asked to rent his back meeting room for an hour. “This be a respectable establishment, mind,” he cautioned when Duncan mentioned that Mademoiselle Dumont would be arriving with a link boy, then pocketed Duncan’s coin.
With the door slightly ajar, Duncan was able to watch as Olivia played her role with an efficient grace, pausing in the main chamber to exclaim over the provocative Hogarth prints of Gin Lane and Beer Street. She made no hurry of following Xander into the back room, but when she did she quickly dropped the nosegay on the table and dashed out the rear door, which opened into the kitchen.
They had only one lamp lit in the windowless room, with the baffle set low so that it sent out only a small flickering beam onto the discarded nosegay. The slight figure in black pushed the door with a tentative hand, then saw the flowers and rushed forward, realizing his prey was trying to evade him. Ishmael, standing along the wall, closed the door behind the man. He froze as Duncan stepped into the light, then turned deathly pale. A terrified, choking cry escaped his throat just before he fainted.
Ishmael hauled the limp soldier into a chair, bracing his head on the table, then took the pitcher from the sideboard and dribbled water on his face. Ensign Lewis revived, coughing, then saw Duncan again and with another abject cry shot up out of the chair, tipping it over. When he saw that Ishmael blocked the door, he pressed into the corner and with fearful moans collapsed onto his knees.
“Dear sweet God, no! It is true! The murdered come back to haunt!” He raised his clasped hands to beseech the heavens. “Oh blessed Jesus, protect me!” he gasped in desperation. “A Highland ghost! Forgive me, shade of Duncan McCallum! I am too young to be taken to the other side!”
Lewis was so shaken that Duncan was beginning to regret taking Ishmael’s suggestion that he dab flour on his cheeks. “You admit, Ensign Lewis, that you were among those who killed me,” Duncan said in a slow, lugubrious voice.
The ensign took a drink from a jar of ale Ishmael pushed toward him. “The major said we was just going to give you a bad scare by dangling you over the rail!” Lewis paused to collect himself. “He said you were to be shaken enough to not complain about the loss of your precious cargo! I actually joined in to be sure you didn’t fall, then Lieutenant Nettles elbowed me away and over you went. Please! I beg you! I have tried to live a virtuous life! My mother! Oh, my blessed mother!”
“Stand up,” Duncan instructed.
Ishmael had to help the ensign to his feet. He gave a mournful groan as Duncan grabbed his hand, then quieted as Duncan pressed it against his chest. Lewis grew very still, then extended a finger, jabbing Duncan’s shoulder, then his arm. “You came back in the flesh?” he asked in an agonized whisper. “It’s a miracle!”
“I did not die that night, Ensign. I am a good swimmer.”
Lewis still seemed unconvinced. “You swam to England?” he asked, more astonishment than fear in his voice now.
“I swam enough to save myself,” Duncan replied, then righted the upset chair. “Sit.”
Duncan lifted the baffle from the lamp to brighten the room, then took the chair opposite Lewis at the table and wiped at the flour on his face. “I read that there are two hundred capital crimes in England,” he began. “Attempted murder is as good for a noose as murder itself. The ship was an English ship. English laws apply. I have half a dozen witnesses including the captain who will testify you were part of the gang who tried to kill me.”
Lewis hung his head. “All because of that storm off Nova Scotia. My ship was badly damaged. I lost my coney foot, I told you, and all my luck with it. That’s why I was thrown in with the major. I didn’t ask for the Horse Guards, he forced me.” Lewis twisted and looked at the rear door with a forlorn expression. “And now I’ve lost the Frenchwoman. Lieutenant Nettles will beat me.”
“If you prefer prison to your work, we can have you arrested now.”
Lewis grimaced but appeared to hear the invitation in Duncan’s words. He seemed years older than the naive ensign Duncan had first met in the mid-Atlantic. “Why did Hastings force you to join him?”
“Because he thought I would be one of his thralls. He has his own special squad and calls himself the shadow general. They get extra pay, in silver from his own hand, and somet
imes he arranges special pleasures for them. But they don’t behave the way proper soldiers should, sir. They are more like highwaymen for the king.”
“Why you?” Duncan pressed.
Lewis hung his head again. “I wanted to be a farmer, that’s all, just wanted to keep a croft with my ma. I told her if I did well maybe someday I might even be a schoolteacher.” He turned his gaze to the nosegay on the table as he spoke. “I drank too much ale those nights on the Galileo. Hastings insisted one of the artillery lieutenants pay him a gambling debt. The artilleryman said his purse was in his trunk and damned if he would unlock it for Hastings. I said I could open it, and in my drunkenness boasted that I had been a picklock when I could not afford another loaf for my mother, and when I was arrested my uncle bought me the cheapest commission he could find to keep me out of jail.”
“Picking locks would be a preferred skill for one of Hastings’s dark warriors,” Duncan observed.
“I had repented of that life! I just wanted to be true to my uniform and the vow I made to the king when I signed my army papers. I wanted my mother to be proud of me again.”
“But here you are, wearing no uniform and performing favors for a murderer.”
“I have no choice! I told you, they beat me, even threaten to confine me in their dark dungeon. I know it is wrong. I can’t sleep at night. I stay up and pray.”
“There are always choices, Lewis. Help us and maybe you don’t have to be included when Hastings falls. Help us and maybe you can sleep better at night.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to talk. About Hastings. Who he meets with, where he goes. But first, why follow this woman?”
“Mademoiselle Dumont?”
Duncan glanced at Ishmael. “How did you know her name?”
“Major Hastings knew it. Far be it from me to ask how he came by it.”
“Why follow her?” Ishmael echoed.
Lewis shrugged. “She is French. The major seemed to think that was enough. He did say that the French reopened the old war by invading Corsica and that France’s most important spies were beautiful women. He says the prime minister is going to fall because of Corsica, and pushing the damned Whig out with evidence of French perfidy in London would be that much better for the king.” Lewis paused, seeming to consider what he had just said. “His words, sir, not mine.”
Duncan considered Lewis’s news. The Duke of Grafton, the Whig prime minister, was indeed being excoriated in Parliament for having allowed the French to invade Britain’s ally Corsica. It gave Hastings a plausible excuse to watch Dumont, and would make a good tale for the War Council though he knew it was not the major’s real reason for doing so.
“But then there was her journal,” Lewis added. “After that he assigned more men to watch her, though who knows why old bones upset him so.”
Ishmael and Duncan exchanged an alarmed glance. Ishmael pushed a chair close to Lewis and sat. “Old bones?”
Lewis nodded. “She has a drawing book, you know, with blank pages, that she carries and consults sometimes when she sits in coffee houses. Lieutenant Nettles has one of those link boys who’s really a cutpurse, one of those can steal from your person without you knowing it. The lieutenant went out with this boy, Bertie, and had him steal the book out of Mademoiselle Dumont’s bag while she drank coffee and read a newspaper. Then he looked through it and had Bertie put it back in her bag. He had taken me along, for training, he said, and told me we were seeking evidence for the king. They were just some drawings of old bones, though I don’t know why a woman with Miss Dumont’s charms bothers over such. The lieutenant was confused at first and said something about Frenchwomen and their surprises, but then he laughed and said, ‘Lewis, you and I know they don’t signify anymore,’ which I guess means it’s true what the men on the ship said, that your boxes were full of old bones.
“But then three days ago we did it again, ’cause the lieutenant wanted to see if she had anything new in the book. It was all the same drawings, except now many of them had measurements, like she had been studying the bones here in London, which was impossible, of course. The lieutenant went real quiet. He touched the pin on his waistcoat, then began cursing something awful. He told me training was over for the day and he ran out to catch a cab back to the Horse Guards Palace.”
Duncan stared into the shadows, digesting Lewis’s report. On his first look at the journal, Nettles had discovered that Olivia was unexpectedly part of the incognitum scheme. But on his second he had realized that the new markings meant the bones were not on the bottom of the Atlantic after all.
“Pin?” Ishmael asked. “You said he touched a pin?”
Lewis nodded. “Not long after we got back there was one of those secret meetings in the war room. When the major and the lieutenant came out they were laughing and fastening these little gold pins on their lapels.”
“What sort of pin?” Duncan asked, recalling the collection of small pins in Woolford’s office.
The ensign shrugged. “Far be it from me to be studying their ornaments up close. But my sense is that it was a medal for a victory of sorts. From some earl—I heard them talk of the earl’s token and his sense of humor. The lieutenant touches it and still laughs sometimes.”
“Tell me, Lewis, where do you go at the end of your duty?” Duncan asked. “Whom do you report to?”
“The major, or sometimes just Lieutenant Nettles. Sometimes we go up to a chamber by the War Council rooms, where gentlemen sit in the shadows and listen. Rich gentlemen, I take it, for they wear silver buckles and velvet waistcoats and great quantities of powder in their wigs. They smell of too much lavender and rosewater. There’s earls, and even a duke sometimes.”
“Members of the War Council,” Duncan suggested.
“Don’t know, for they hardly would introduce the likes of me.”
“What do you report?”
“Where Franklin goes. Where the mademoiselle goes.”
“And where does Franklin go?”
“To a doctor named Hewson. ’Course everyone knows Franklin suffers the gout, so that’s no surprise. To dinner at a club by St. James’s last night. The lieutenant was angry when I said I didn’t know whom he ate with. But the major said it was all right, that the steward there was a friend of his from a place called Madame Roland’s and he would know.”
Duncan rose and paced along the table as Ishmael cracked the door and surveyed the coffee shop. “Tell me, Ensign, who else do Major Hastings’s men watch?”
Lewis grimaced. “I’m not sure I should be—”
“I’m not sure the army should be spying on loyal subjects,” Duncan interrupted. “I am sure the prime minister would like to know about it.”
Lewis stared down into his folded hands. “I’m a soldier,” he said. “I just want to stand in battle line and do my mother proud.”
“And your mother would be proud of you now?” Ishmael asked.
The words unlocked Lewis’s tongue. “The men talk a lot in the barracks. I hear they spent much time in Greenwich these past months.”
“You mean Charles Mason,” Duncan stated.
“Sometimes, but they said mostly Mr. Maskelyne, the Astronomer Royal.”
Duncan tried to recall what he had learned about Nevil Maskelyne. “The Reverend Doctor Maskelyne.”
Lewis seemed crestfallen at the news. “No one said he was a man of the cloth.”
“Why Maskelyne?”
“They never said. But that all stopped, no more after the dinner he had.”
“What dinner?”
“The men of the shadow squad, for that’s what they call themselves, talk about it and laugh sometimes over their ale. The Astronomer Royal met Dr. Franklin at Billingsgate, at a low kind of place more suited for sailors and smugglers, and the shadow men remembered ’cause they were betting on which of the fancy tarts there would leave with the gentlemen. But all they did was talk about the king’s schedule, the Venus observations, and the king
’s new observatory near his new lodge in the deer park. Then everything changed again a few days ago, when Hastings returned and made a miraculous recovery from his injuries. His head seemed fine after a day or two, and he even stopped wearing his arm in that sling. He ordered the men to stop watching the Astronomer Royal and start watching Craven Street. Then two days ago an urgent meeting with some of the War Council was called.”
“After Lieutenant Nettles saw Mademoiselle Dumont’s journal the second time,” Duncan suggested.
Lewis nodded. “We could hear the shouting all the way down on the parade grounds. When Major Hastings came out he was furious, cursing about colonial tricksters and the sons’ sleight of hand.”
Duncan leaned closer. “Whose sons?”
“Don’t know. Some sons across the ocean, I took it, for he said, ‘How dare the damned colonial sons practice so on us!’ The major was like a mad dog in his frenzy. ‘They’ll soon have more dead bones than they ever dreamed,’ he shouted.”
Mrs. Laws, steadfast in her nautical tradition, started breakfast at six bells, announced by three pairs of strikes on the ship’s bell mounted by the dining room door. Duncan let Ishmael sleep and joined Captain Rhys over platters of sausage and boiled eggs in a discussion of the Galileo’s overhauling at the Blackwell Yard that ended with Rhys railing over the owners’ reluctance to pay for new copper plate on the hull.
Franklin had boasted of being an early riser, so Duncan felt comfortable arriving in the Craven Street kitchen door while the sun was just rising over London’s steeples.
No one answered at his knock, and though its hearth was lit no one was in the kitchen. Recalling that Mrs. Stevenson had talked of buying food for breakfast each day at the nearby Hungerford Market, he ventured into the hallway. Then, still finding no one, he cautiously proceeded up the stairs, pausing at each step to listen. His hand went to the knife concealed behind his waistcoat. Hastings’s bravado knew no limits. Duncan knew he was perfectly capable of ordering his teams to surreptitiously enter the house if given the opportunity.
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