by Amanda Quick
It is only a gentlemen’s game, she thought. An entertainment Hamilton and his friends have invented to amuse themselves. But she could not stop the shiver of dread that feathered her nerves.
“Let us see how strong this power of yours really is,” Norris said with an air of bravado that sounded false.
The shrouded figure raised his hand. An object dangled from his fingers, a glittering pendant. The club members stared at it with undisguised fascination.
Frozen fingers traced Charlotte’s spine. The incense had become almost overpowering. She tried to get a closer look at the pendant but it was impossible to make it out from this distance.
She flinched when Baxter’s hand clamped around her shoulder. Without a word she stepped back.
Baxter took a turn at the peephole. Charlotte put her ear to the wall.
“I’ve got it,” one of the club members said. “Put him into a trance that can be tested at some later time.”
“Make Norrie cluck like a chicken tomorrow night in the midst of the Clapham soiree.”
“Have him bare his arse in Pall Mall at the height of the shopping hour.”
“Persuade him to dance with Lady Buelton’s horse-faced chit.”
“There is no power,” Norris declared in ringing accents, “neither in this world nor on the metaphysical plane, that could make me dance with Buelton’s daughter.”
Weak laughter greeted this announcement. And then a hush fell in the chamber.
Charlotte pressed closer to the wall but she heard nothing. She prodded Baxter again. He hesitated and then stepped aside.
She peeked through the hole and was startled to see that the chamber had been further darkened. Someone had put out the lamp. The coals on the small brazier still glowed but the red-gold glare did not illuminate the faces of the men.
The magician lit a single candle and placed it directly in front of Norris.
As Charlotte watched, the cloaked figure moved in the shadows. The edges of his robes swirled around him, flapping gently in the manner of great, black wings. The pendant in his hand swayed slowly, catching and reflecting the light of the candle.
The club members began to chant again, this time in a heavy, throbbing rhythm that echoed the beat of the blood in Charlotte’s veins.
“Lead and silver, electrum and gold,
Degrees of power, ancient and old.”
Charlotte strained to watch the proceedings, heedless of the strong scent of the incense. She thought she heard the magician speak but his voice was pitched below the rising level of the chant. Another chill lanced through her but she could not pull back.
She had to get closer, she realized. She wanted to see the pendant. She needed to see the pendant. Nothing had ever been quite so important.
Baxter gripped her wrist and tugged her away from the peephole. Charlotte tried to wriggle free of his grasp. He put a hand over her mouth and forcibly pulled her from her observation point. She started to struggle. He held her more securely. His palm tightened over her mouth. He locked her against his chest so that she could not move.
Angrily she tried to pry at his fingers. Baxter tightened his hold. Charlotte realized her head was spinning. She took several breaths that were not laced with incense. Suddenly the small, moonlit chamber in which she stood came back into focus. She relaxed abruptly against Baxter.
What on earth had happened? she wondered, chagrined by her own odd behavior. His hand still covering her mouth, Baxter tugged her toward the connecting door. She understood. It was time to leave. He was absolutely correct, she thought. Best to remove themselves from the premises now while the club members and their pet magician were involved in their curious ritual.
She touched Baxter’s hand to let him know that she was ready to accompany him. He hesitated briefly and then slowly removed his palm from her mouth. Charlotte said nothing.
Baxter took her hand and guided her back through the connecting door. They emerged into the chamber where they had first taken refuge.
Baxter went to the hall door, opened it, and peered out into the corridor. Then he pulled Charlotte into the passageway.
They went carefully down the corridor to the door that guarded the back stairs. Baxter opened it, glanced down, and then nodded.
“There is no one on the staircase. I’ll go first. We must hurry.”
Charlotte did not argue. She followed him quickly down the cramped, twisted stairs. Baxter paused again, briefly, in the small servants’ hall at the bottom. There was no one about. The noise of the gaming room at the front of the house was a dull roar in the distance.
A moment later they were safely outside. Charlotte saw that the fog had grown far more dense during the time that she and Baxter had been inside the club. It shrouded the garden, glowing weirdly with the reflected lights from the windows.
As they passed the mist-shrouded privy, a man’s guttural voice, lifted in bawdy, off-key song, boomed from the interior.
’So I showed her me prick,
and said, ‘Take yer pick.’
The fair lady blushed and stammered and sighed.
“’Tis impossible to choose,
so I’ll take both,” she cried.…”
Charlotte allowed Baxter to haul her out into the alley, where it was almost impossible to see anything at all. The toe of her half boot struck a hard, solid object. She winced and stifled a groan.
“Are you all right?” Baxter asked without slowing the pace.
“Yes. Just a discarded crate, I believe.”
He did not reply. Together they rounded a corner and emerged into the street. Carriages came and went in the fog, their lights gleaming with an unnatural, faerie quality in the mist. Shouts and drunken laughter echoed from the steps of The Green Table.
Charlotte tugged the hood of her cloak more securely around her face. Beside her, Baxter removed his eyeglasses, tilted the brim of his hat, and pulled up the high collar of his greatcoat. The simple adjustments made a remarkable change in his appearance. He led Charlotte across the street.
A moment or two later they were safely seated inside the carriage. Charlotte exhaled deeply and fell against the cushions as the vehicle clattered into motion. She watched Baxter light the carriage lamp.
“What was that all about?” she demanded.
“I believe Hamilton and his friends were about to observe a demonstration of mesmerism.” Baxter finished his task and lounged into the corner.
Charlotte studied him intently. The fiery glow of the lamp created a fierce mask out of his hard features. It glittered on the gold frames of his spectacles and flashed on the lenses. She could almost see him sinking into the vast depths of his own thoughts. Cold intelligence replaced any hint of emotion in his eyes.
“Animal magnetism, do you mean?” she asked.
“Yes. The effects of which were supplemented with some sort of drug in this instance.”
“Of course. The incense.” Charlotte frowned. “I may have inhaled a bit too much of it myself there at the end. It was the oddest thing, but I was overcome with a sudden desire to get a closer look at the pendant the magician used. It was as though I simply had to see it.”
“I know,” Baxter said dryly. “You were most insistent.”
She flushed. “Rest assured, it was only a temporary effect. I feel quite restored to my usual self now.”
“Charlotte, my dear, the word usual can never be applied to you.”
She did not know how to take that remark, so she allowed it to pass. “About this mesmerism nonsense. I have read accounts of Dr. Mesmer’s work and I’ve studied descriptions of those who claim to use similar techniques to achieve remarkable medical effects. But I have always assumed the whole business to be nothing but the worst sort of quackery.”
“So have I, but the poets are quite taken with it. And so is my butler, Lambert, for that matter. He is receiving treatments for his aching joints from a Dr. Flatt.”
“But what we witnessed tonight had nothing to
do with medical treatments.”
“No.” Baxter contemplated the mist-shrouded street through a gap in the curtain. “But there are those, including some followers of a man named de Mainauduc, who are said to experiment with mesmerism as a means of investigating occult matters.”
“Occult?”
“Alchemy, for example.”
“The chanting,” Charlotte whispered. “I thought I caught some alchemical references in that strange poem the club members used to summon their magician. ‘Mercury, sulphur, salt.’”
“You are correct.” Baxter did not look at her. He seemed to be absorbed by the darkness outside the carriage. “Mercury, sulphur, and salt were once held by the ancient alchemists to be the basis of all things, including gold. There was a theory that if one could separate the supernatural essence of those substances from the material form in which they are found, one would possess, among other things, the secret of transmuting any metal into gold.”
Something in his voice riveted Charlotte’s attention. “Among other things? What more could any alchemist want beyond the ability to turn lead into gold?”
Baxter looked at her then. The dangerous fires burned behind the lenses of his glasses. “For a true alchemist, the secret of transmuting base metal into gold was no more than a sign that one was on the right track.”
“I don’t understand. What was the real objective of such experiments?”
“The alchemists sought the Philosopher’s Stone, the secret, fundamental knowledge of the world that would unlock unlimited power.”
Another of the strange chills went through Charlotte. It was not unlike that which she had experienced earlier when she had watched the magician. She studied Baxter’s face, transfixed as she so often was by the cold fire that burned in his eyes.
This was different. Baxter was different. He had nothing in common with the black-robed magician she had just seen.
But a powerful intellect coupled with an unshakable will was always a dangerous combination. And Baxter possessed both.
The sounds of the streets receded into the distance. The fog and the night seemed to absorb everything until the interior of the carriage was the only solid place left in the world. All else was composed of insubstantial mist.
She was trapped in this moving sphere of lamplight with her lover, a man whose own unacknowledged hungers rivaled those of the ancient alchemists. A shattering realization struck her in that frozen moment. If Baxter did not discover that love was the true name of the Philosopher’s Stone he sought, they might both be consumed by the flames of their passion.
“What is it, Charlotte? You have an odd expression.”
The sharp question broke the small spell. She blinked and then looked away from Baxter’s intense gaze.
“It is nothing,” she said. “I was merely contemplating the other alchemical references in the chant. What does the phrase ‘laborers in the fire’ mean?”
“That was an old term for alchemists. It came about because all of their work was done in a crucible heated with fire.”
“And the reference to Hermes?”
“Hermes Trismegistos. Many believed that he was the source for the laws of alchemy that were supposedly inscribed on an emerald tablet.”
“The Green Table,” she whispered.
Baxter’s smile was devoid of any humor. “Yes. The name of the hell itself. It would seem that Hamilton and his friends have made mesmerism and alchemy the cornerstones of their secret club. They have added some rituals and herbs and found themselves a suitably dramatic magician to amuse them.”
“Perhaps he found them,” Charlotte suggested.
“Quite possibly. An amazing number of charlatans have become extremely wealthy after attracting patrons from the higher social circles. Most of those who move in the ton claim to be stricken with perpetual ennui. Their never-ending boredom leads them to seek out the strange and the exotic for entertainment.”
“I suppose there is no great harm in Hamilton’s choice of amusements,” Charlotte said slowly. “His secret club appears to be less recklessly inclined than some. At least he is not out risking his life in neck-or-nothing phaeton races conducted at midnight. Nor does he descend into the worst sections of the stews in search of novelty. The Green Table is not a noble establishment, but there are worse.”
“True.” Baxter gave his attention back to the foggy scene outside. The silence swirled around him.
“What disturbs you, Baxter?”
“Connections.”
“What do you mean?”
When he turned his head to meet her eyes, Charlotte once more felt the icy touch on her spine.
“Drusilla Heskett’s little sketch.”
“What of it?”
“I know now why it appeared vaguely familiar. I’m almost certain that I saw it a long time ago in one of the ancient alchemical texts in my library.”
Charlotte stared at him. “You believe it is related to alchemy?”
“I cannot yet say for certain. I have not been able to locate it yet. It may take some time. It has been years since I noticed such a design and I do not recall which book contained it.”
“Dear God.” Charlotte let the news skitter around in her brain while she struggled with the implications. “That would mean that there’s a connection between The Green Table club and the murder of Mrs. Heskett.”
“It’s only a possibility,” Baxter emphasized quietly. “An unlikely one at that. But I will grant that it should be researched.”
“Why do you say unlikely?” Charlotte felt almost feverish with the excitement of the discovery. “It is a direct link. Do not forget that Mrs. Heskett was involved in a liaison with Lord Lennox, whose son, Norris, is a member of the club. He was the one undergoing the mesmerism experiment tonight.”
“Yes, but it was Lord Lennox, not his son, who was Drusilla’s lover.” Baxter smiled briefly. “I think I can state unequivocally that Lennox has nothing to do with The Green Table. Not his kind of thing at all. In any event, only young men of Hamilton’s age appear to be members.”
“Perhaps, but it’s possible that poor Drusilla came across some information about one of the members of the club while she was involved with Norris’s father.” Charlotte frowned. “I cannot think what sort of information would get her killed, however.”
“That, of course, is the great mystery here. What could she have learned that would be worth her life? The club members appear to be dabbling in mesmerism but so are a good many other people.”
“I do not like the feel of this, Baxter.”
“Nor do I.”
“If there is a murderer in The Green Table club, your brother could be at risk.”
He met her eyes again. “We will take this step by step, just as one does any well-constructed experiment. First, I shall confirm my suspicions about the drawing. Then we shall see if we can discover the name of the owner of The Green Table. Whoever he is, he must know something about this business.”
Charlotte regarded him with an admiration that she did not trouble to conceal. “I believe, sir, that you are going to prove to be an extremely useful man-of-affairs.”
Thirteen
The small book was old, one of the most ancient in Baxter’s library. He had not had occasion to examine it in a long while. It was one of a number of alchemical texts that he had acquired over the years. He was not certain why.
Alchemy was a subject that properly belonged to the past, not the modern age. It was chemistry’s dark side, a devil’s brew of occult studies, metaphysical speculation, and supernatural secrets. It was rubbish.
But there was a sense of deep mystery about alchemy that had always intrigued him, especially in his younger days. The endless, obsessive quest for the Philosopher’s Stone, the search for the basic laws that governed nature, drew him in some deep, elemental fashion that he could not explain.
And so he had collected books such as this one.
The leather binding was cracked, but t
he thick pages were in remarkably good condition. If he had not been so exhausted from the long, sleepless night, he would have been briefly amused by the title page. In the long tradition of alchemists who chose to write treatises on their subject, the author had assigned himself a flamboyant pseudonym. Aristotle Augustus.
Almost as riveting as Basil Valentine, Baxter thought, the name he had used for Conversations on Chemistry. But, then, he’d been only twenty when he had authored the book, just down from Oxford. He’d felt the need of a pseudonym that carried some weight.
Basil Valentine had been a legendary alchemist, a man of mystery. He had delved deeply into the arcane arts of the fire. He was said to have discovered great secrets and learned the nature of raw power.
In short, the name had sounded a good deal more exciting and romantic than Baxter St. Ives.
Baxter liked to think that he had matured a lot since Oxford.
He braced himself with both hands spread wide on the polished ebony desk and studied the slim volume that lay open in front of him. The Latin title translated into English as A True History of the Secrets of the Fire.
The drawing, a crude picture of a triangle inside a circle, was located near the center of the slender volume. Unlike Drusilla Heskett’s sketch, this was more easily comprehended. The squiggles were not worms, but various mythical beasts. The dots were tiny symbols that Baxter recognized as having alchemical references.
The drawing was the usual mixture of metaphors and cryptic designs so beloved by the alchemists. The ancients had reveled in the obscure and had gone to great lengths to conceal their secrets from the uninitiated. Baxter knew that he was looking at a diagram that was meant to be an alchemical key, a pictorial description of a secret experiment that, if conducted perfectly, would lead to the discovery of the Philosopher’s Stone.
There was no doubt but that it represented a direct link with The Green Table. But the questions still remained. Why had Drusilla Heskett copied the diagram into her watercolor sketchbook? Why had someone felt the need to steal the book from Charlotte and why was Drusilla dead?
