by Elsa Hart
Cecily took a sip of the coffee and grimaced at the cold bitterness of the brew. “The location column indicates the room in which each object is housed,” she said. “F&S for Fish and Snakes, Q for Quadruped, A for Artifact, and so on. Some columns include more specific locations. EW must be East Wall. S3 is Shelf Three. D6 is Drawer 6.”
“Yes yes yes,” said Meacan, yawning. “Details to address in the morning.”
Cecily gave her old friend a stern look. “You must not approach this endeavor frivolously, Meacan. It is one thing to exact petty revenge by conjuring nonexistent bugs. It would be quite another to corrupt the order of the Mayne collection. Do you not understand that these specimens are to be resources for scholars and philosophers?”
“If you’re here simply to lecture me…” Meacan muttered.
Cecily sighed. “I suggest you approach the endeavor one room at a time. The registers are in chronological order. You will exhaust and confuse yourself if you proceed by searching for a single fossil in the Stone Room followed by a single egg in the Bird Room followed by a volume in the library and so on.”
“My path would resemble that of an excited housefly,” Meacan agreed. “But how is it to be avoided?”
Cecily frowned, enjoying herself. “You should begin by choosing a room.”
“The Aviary,” said Meacan.
“You mean the Bird Room.”
“Mm.”
Cecily ran a finger down the open page of the register and stopped at the entry for the Toucan. “You’ll have to go through all the registers in order and make a list of every object he put in the bird room.”
“Easy enough.”
“It will take time. Once you have that list, you’ll take it to the Bird Room and begin your work there, say at the top left corner of the easternmost wall, one object at a time. Find the object on your list and make a mark beside it.”
“As I said,” said Meacan. “Easy enough.”
“It won’t be at all,” Cecily corrected her. “Sir Barnaby may have done everything in his power to avoid inconsistencies and mistakes, but in forty years he cannot have avoided them entirely. You will find objects in the rooms that are not in the registers, and objects in the registers that are not in the rooms. You will have to make separate lists of each. And of course there will be missing labels and incorrect labels and illegible labels.”
Meacan slumped down against the wall. “Why,” she said, “did he have to acquire so much?”
“Because,” said Cecily, “if his goal was to keep a record of the whole world and its history, where was he to stop?”
CHAPTER 13
By the following morning, Helm was awake and capable of clear speech. Though the bruises on his face were livid and his ankle was so swollen that he could not rise from the bed without assistance, Cecily was relieved to see that his eyes were alert, attentive, and unblurred by fever. The destroyed wig had been removed, and a soft velvet nightcap had been found to cover his head. She related the events of the previous evening as sensitively as she could, watching for signs of distress in the wounded man. He did give voice to a shocked cry when he learned that the person he thought to be his host was dead, but after that he listened with calm attention to the rest of her account.
“I have no doubt of your truth,” he said when she was finished. “But the circumstances are for me difficult to believe. I thought the nature of Mr. Dinley to be most—” He searched for a word. “Most docile.” He paused and added more quietly, “And yet it is true a man who is not violent may suddenly become so.”
“You are not alone in your amazement,” said Cecily. “According to those well acquainted with Mr. Dinley, he never gave any indication of a temper. We did wonder whether you heard any part of their argument before your own departure.”
“I?” Helm’s blue eyes held Cecily’s. “No. Why would I be hearing something of it?”
“Because you were in the room closest to the study, and because your path out of the house must have taken you past its door at around the time the argument between them began. You did leave at a quarter to six?”
“Yes, if you say, but I did not remark the time.”
“The servants were surprised to see you go. They thought you were to stay to supper.”
Helm’s gaze shifted to his feet. “A small mistake. I had another supper engagement I remembered most suddenly.” A spasm of pain crossed his face.
“Can I be of assistance?” asked Cecily quickly, silently chastising herself for bullying the injured man.
Helm’s face relaxed. “I thank you. I am recovered.” With his good arm, he raised to his lips the cup Cecily had brought from the kitchen and closed his eyes in appreciation of the fragrant infusion. “We were speaking, I think, of Mr. Dinley,” he said. “Who, to me, was most affable and patient.”
“I did not realize you had any opportunity to converse with him at length,” said Cecily.
Helm started to nod, then winced at the movement. “In the morning when I arrived,” he said. “I was obliged to offer my apologies to my host. I wished most fervently to be among the group to tour the house, but alas, I had not the leisure. It was required of me to devote the day’s hours to the serpents my master in Sweden wished me to study.”
“Then you are employed by another scholar,” said Cecily.
“I am in the position of assistant in his research,” said Helm. “It is his present work to compile the serpents of the world into a book by which they may be placed correctly in their proper classes and orders. For that purpose, I am sent to visit collections in England and in France so that I may observe for him the serpents he has not in his possession. It is a most laborious effort, for he wishes such exacting measures as a count of scales on the bellies of every creature, a count, you understand, it is most difficult to make through the glass of the specimen jar. But do not think I complain. Serpents have, for me, a fascination.” He paused. “Forgive me. I have lost the direction of our conversation.”
“You were speaking of your arrival at the house.”
“Ah yes. I was most distressed that I could not avail myself of the tour. I requested if I might see briefly the rooms before I began my work. As Sir Barnaby could not himself guide me, Mr. Dinley offered most kindly to do so. I felt toward the man a great sympathy.”
Cecily hesitated. She was conscious of Helm’s pain and the drowsiness that would soon descend upon him thanks to the potion of valerian and hops, but for the moment he appeared comfortable and glad of the company. “Did Mr. Dinley appear troubled to you?” she asked.
“It was the contrary,” answered Helm at once. “He seemed to me—how do you say it? He seemed at the height of spirits.”
The answer gave Cecily pause. This was not the Dinley she had encountered, who in the aftermath of the vipermouth incident had appeared so shaken. “On what subjects did you converse?”
“On many diverse subjects,” said Helm. “I had questions in the rooms, which he answered with much patience.”
“I believe you also spoke at some length with Mrs. Barlow.” Cecily watched his face carefully, though she had little insight into the expression hidden within the swelling bruises.
“I was most enjoying of her company,” said Helm at once, his eyes kindling with warmth. “A kind, attentive, and beautiful lady. She was most interested in my work.”
“Then—she really did simply ask you about your work? You have no other connection to her?”
“To Mrs. Barlow? But of course not.”
Helm appeared so in earnest that Cecily could not think of a way to probe him further on the matter. She returned to the subject of Walter Dinley. “When Mr. Dinley took you through the rooms, did he speak of the upcoming tour?”
This time Helm hesitated before he answered. “Only that he—he was in happy anticipation of it. He told me so when he was assisting me in locating the serpents I required. He was most helpful to my work.” Helm stopped. His eyes filled suddenly with misery as his gaz
e dropped to the bed linens rumpled around him. “When I woke in that dark alley,” he said after a moment, “I told myself I was the most unfortunate man in London. My arm that was broken. My return home that would be surely delayed. My—” His voice caught. “My notebooks, my work, my observations all lost.” He heaved a shuddering sigh. “What ingratitude, when I possess still my life.”
Helm’s distress at the loss of his notebooks struck a chord of sympathy in Cecily’s chest. An idea occurred to her. “Where were you attacked?” she asked. “Perhaps someone could be sent to search for your books there. I am sure the thieves had no interest in drawings of snakes and counts of scales. If we are lucky, they were discarded and might yet be found.”
“It is not possible,” whispered Helm.
“We can at least try.”
“No.” The word burst from Helm with surprising force. “No,” he repeated more calmly. “You see, I do not know where it happened. I made the decision, a foolish notion, to return by foot to my inn when my supper was concluded. I lost my way, and cannot tell you where I was when I was set upon. They left me in a stupor. When I arrived again at my senses, it was night and I was without money. My requests for help were to no good. As was said by Mr. Inwood, it was by luck only that in my wandering I came alive to this place. My notebooks, I must accept, are lost to me.”
“And yet you are here in the house with the serpents again,” said Cecily encouragingly. “And at least some of what is gone may be recovered. I find often that when I am forced to repeat work I have done already, I do a better job of it.”
Her words appeared to cheer Helm slightly. “That is so,” he murmured. “And I am here.” He looked across the garret at the shelves filled with antiquities. “Because of most terrible circumstances, I may after all peruse the Mayne collection.”
“When Inwood says your ankle can bear weight,” said Cecily. His words had recalled to her something else he had said. “You mentioned Sir Barnaby could not guide you himself in your abbreviated tour that morning,” she said. “Was he otherwise occupied?”
“Oh yes,” said Helm. “He was making his wishes for the catalogue.”
Helm had a good command of English, but in this instance Cecily thought he must have misspoken. “His wishes for the catalogue?”
“Ah,” said Helm. “It is an explanation of some length. Perhaps you are not to be interested?”
“On the contrary, I am most intrigued.”
“Ah, yes,” said Helm. “Like me, you are of a curious mind. I will explain it to you. You are aware, perhaps, that Sir Barnaby had many—what is the word? Many correspondents, many agents in distant places dedicated to that which was of interest to him?”
Cecily nodded her understanding. Helm continued. “He has one such agent in Stockholm, in Sweden, my home. A Mr. Shaw. It is a small city, my lady. Many acquaintances are mutual. Mr. Shaw learned that I was to make a journey soon to London, and that I intended to visit the collections here. He asked if I would make to Sir Barnaby a delivery of a catalogue—a list of such books and objects as were to be sold at auction in Stockholm. It is always more reliable, when it is possible, to convey messages in such a friendly way.”
“I see,” said Cecily, remembering the catalogue on Sir Barnaby’s desk. “Was the collection by chance that of a Mr. Follywolle?”
Helm’s eyes brightened. “Yes, yes, exactly so, my lady. Mr. Follywolle, I should say the late Mr. Follywolle, who lived many years in Stockholm and made a collection of great popularity there. Many serpents. His poor widow, in circumstances sadly reduced, is to make an auction of it.”
“And you delivered a copy of the auction catalogue to Sir Barnaby.”
“Just as you say. When I arrived in the morning yesterday I gave to him the catalogue at once, and explained to him that if he wished to make upon it some markings for the information of his agent—what was of interest to him, what prices he would pay—I could convey it back again to Sweden. It is comprehensible to you? My accent is not so strong?”
Cecily assured him she understood perfectly. He went on. “Sir Barnaby took the catalogue to his study to make the marks upon it before his guests arrived and required his attendance. He told me to be sure to—” He stopped, his eyes widening.
“Yes?” Cecily prompted him.
Helm looked rueful. “I was to retrieve it from him before I left the house,” he said. “But I forgot to do so.”
“You were in a hurry,” said Cecily.
“I was only concerned I would be late to supper. I have a tendency to become absorbed in my work.”
“But you must have wanted to seek Sir Barnaby out before you left? To take your leave, at least?”
Helm avoided her eyes. “I did not wish to be of interruption,” he murmured. He shifted and grimaced. “I must apologize to you, my lady. Your company, it has been of much cheer to me, but I find—I find I am compelled to lie down.”
Helm looked pale, and Cecily could see his exhaustion was not feigned. The infusion was taking effect. His eyelids had begun to droop, and his jaw had slackened as the tension eased from it. Gently, Cecily took the empty cup from his hand and helped him into a reclining position. She asked if there was anything more she could do to make him comfortable.
Helm attempted a smile. “I am most eager for the continuing of my work, Lady Kay. If you could bring to me the specimen of the cobra di capello, which has the mark as of spectacles on its neck and is called also le serpent a lunettes. I must—I must make a count of its scuta abdominalia and squamas caudales. And—and if there are the recent editions of the Philosophical Transactions, I am wishing to read—Mr. Strachan’s observations—serpent of Ceylon, green in color—and recent dissections of the rattlesnake performed by—by…” Helm trailed off. His eyes were closed and he had begun to slur his words.
Cecily spoke softly. “I am well acquainted with the comfort that can be found in work, Mr. Helm, especially when the subject is of great interest. But I am certain Inwood would insist that you rest a little longer before you resume your scale counting.”
Helm’s eyes fluttered open briefly. “Must inquire if you saw in your travels the serpent—common in Aleppo—mountains and rocks—color of sand with black spots—venomous and most intriguing—” His eyes closed again and he began to breathe deeply.
Cecily rose from the chair she had pulled up to the side of the bed. She surveyed in silence the space in which Walter Dinley had slept and worked. The curator must have dedicated most of his time and attention to his employment, for she could see almost nothing in the way of belongings. Only a small pile of books tucked halfway under the bed looked like they were there for his personal entertainment. Taking care not to disturb Helm, she picked them up and examined them. There were three: a history of China, a treatise on fruit trees, and an illustrated book of fossils. She was about to return them when she noticed the edge of a folded piece of paper tucked between the pages of the history. After glancing at Helm, whose eyes remained closed, she drew it out. She set the three books down quietly and left the room.
She waited until she was back in her chamber to unfold the sheet of paper. The shark jaw, familiar now, yawned over her shoulder from the wall. The document was a letter. My dear sister, it began. She skipped to the final page and looked at the signature scrawled with practiced confidence. Anthony Holt. She stared at the name in puzzlement. What had Walter Dinley been doing in possession of a personal letter written by the celebrated traveler, recently deceased, to his sister? She turned to the first page.
I met a man in the market. How I wish you could have met him also, but perhaps one day you will, for he told me he wished to visit England to see the will-o’-the-wisps who lead travelers astray on the moors. He asked me to join him for tea, for which I was obliged to pay, and then did proceed to request from the shop their finest cakes and savory delicacies in portions that could have supplied a banquet. I would have felt taken advantage of, had he not gone on to entertain me with tales o
f such an absorbing nature, tales of peculiar events not unlike those fairy tales you so enjoy, that I happily sat with him until the sun set on the market and he walked away into the forest. That night at the inn, the villagers told me I had met a good friend of theirs. Not a man, they said, but a fox who comes from the forest once or twice a year and, pretending to be a man, tells them tales while they treat him to their finest teas and cakes. None of them wish to reveal that they see through his ruse, for they so enjoy his company that they do not mind the deceit. I would have thought they took me to be a credulous fool, except that I noticed the man’s cap had sat oddly on his head as if it covered two triangle ears.
The letter continued, each page spinning stories more exaggerated, more marvelous than those on the page before. Holt wrote of a pirate who once a month brought his ship to land and covered its whole hull in oil of cocoa nuts so that it slipped through the water faster than any other ship on the ocean. He wrote of double-headed snakes and conversations with anthropophagi. Invariably, he was the hero of every harrowing adventure. The letter concluded:
So you see you must not worry for me. I sail now for Chusan, where I am certain I will find much of interest to Sir Barnaby. A man with a deep purse and a voracious appetite for all I can think to send. Indeed he is the patron every traveler hopes to acquire. Be well dear one and wish hello to the elm tree and the old ghost in the attic.
The words blurred before Cecily’s eyes as she thought of their author arriving in Chusan, not knowing that it was the last land he would ever see. She blinked away her tears. The letter held tragedy, but it did not appear to hold answers. What she needed was to gain a better understanding of Sir Barnaby. She remembered Inwood’s words to her in the study. Sir Barnaby is here, now, still alive within these cabinets. An idea occurred to her. Of course. She would go to the concentrated core of the collection. She would go to the registers in which Sir Barnaby had recorded those choices. It was the nearest she could come to speaking with a dead man.
