The Cabinets of Barnaby Mayne

by Elsa Hart

  “But you must have met him at least twice. Sir Barnaby mentioned you had visited the collection before.”

  A look of annoyance crossed Carlyle’s face. “One does not become well acquainted with a man by listening to him lecture on proper labeling techniques and the surest methods to keep exotic fish from rotting.”

  Cecily hesitated. “I intend no offense, Mr. Carlyle, but for a man who makes a habit of visiting collections, you appear to find little within them that pleases you. I understand the collectors have many detractors who consider their efforts frivolous. Are you one of them?”

  “I have no particular objection to the pursuit,” said Carlyle. “But I cannot help but be dubious when I am expected to marvel at a piece of dirty muslin because its label says it is Pontius Pilate’s wife’s sister’s chambermaid’s hat. Or at the corpse of a mouse found starved in a wall. Or a common shell I might have picked up myself from any English shore.”

  Cecily remembered the last she had seen of Carlyle before the murder. “The antiquities, at least, appeared to be of some interest to you,” she said.

  “I admire beauty as much as any man.” Carlyle’s expression changed. He assessed her appreciatively. “And on the subject of beauty, I did not expect this morbid occasion to lead to a garden tryst with a married woman. Is your husband a jealous sort, Lady Kay?”

  Carlyle’s leer was familiar to Cecily. The last time she had seen it, he had been directing it elsewhere. “Have you seen Alice Fordyce among today’s visitors?” she asked.

  Carlyle smiled. “Ah yes,” he said. “The Aphrodite who graced our group. Alas, I have not seen her again.”

  “Nor I. Do you know where she is staying?”

  “Would that I did,” said Carlyle. “What do you want with the maiden?”

  “To call on her,” said Cecily smoothly. “She will be shocked, I am sure, to learn that a violent crime occurred here so soon after her departure. Even I—” She affected a shudder. “We were all so near to it.” She paused. “Did you see Sir Barnaby or Mr. Dinley after the tour was abandoned? Before the murder happened, of course.”

  “Not a glimpse,” said Carlyle.

  “I assume you spent the time perusing the rooms.”

  Carlyle regarded her for a moment in silence, then shrugged. “I had no intention of wasting the afternoon. I continued on the path the tour was to take. As you said, I’d visited before. I knew the way. My only real concern was to avoid that fool Warbulton. I did not intend to be trapped in his company until supper.”

  “And did you succeed?”

  “I did. Fortunately for me, he had found a book in the library that commanded his whole attention.”

  “Had he?” Cecily recalled Warbulton’s frenetic outbursts of interest. “I wonder what subject can have absorbed him.”

  Carlyle produced a short, derisive laugh. “No volume of science or philosophy, I assure you. It was Sir Barnaby’s guest book. Warbulton is so desperate to establish himself in this circle that a list of names and personal details is to him what a new whale skull is to a real collector. I believe he was trying to copy every page. Otherwise he would have been bounding the rooms in search of company, I am sure.”

  “When I came downstairs, you were speaking to Giles Inwood in the dining room.”

  “And happy to be doing so,” said Carlyle. “There is a man with whom it is easy to enjoy a conversation. Poor devil.”

  “Do you mean because he has lost his close friend?”

  “That,” said Carlyle, “and because he is now saddled with a burden the size of two houses.”

  Following his look, Cecily furrowed her brow. “You mean the collection? Mr. Carlyle, whatever your opinion, in inheriting the Mayne collection Mr. Inwood has received a great honor, in addition to a gift of immense value.”

  She was startled by Carlyle bursting into full-throated laughter. “A gift? What makes you think it is a gift?”

  Cecily stared at him in confusion. “Lady Mayne told me that Inwood was to have the entire collection.”

  “Oh, he is to have it.” Carlyle’s laughter had subsided but he was still smiling. “But it isn’t a gift. Inwood is to pay fifty thousand pounds to the widow for it.”

  “Fifty thousand?” Cecily heard herself gasp the number. It was an immense sum, a fortune, certainly an expenditure beyond the means of most gentlemen. “That was the arrangement between them?”

  “Legally contracted, I understand,” said Carlyle, nodding. “Inwood is to pay a king’s ransom for these cabinets, added to which will be the expense of transporting it all and maintaining it, as he is contractually obligated to do.”

  “And that must mean,” said Cecily, understanding coming to her, “that he cannot sell it.”

  “Not a single pickled fish of it,” said Carlyle. “Oh, the collection may have some value. I do not deny it. But even if he did sell it, which would destroy his reputation among the others, he could never recoup fifty thousand. Not even the most passionate among them will pay for old bones what they would pay for items of actual, undisputed worth.”

  “I see,” said Cecily quietly.

  Carlyle looked up at the house again. “If you will excuse me, I must pay my respects and be off to my other engagements.”

  After he had gone, Cecily remained on the veranda, deep in thought. She reentered the house through the door that led into the hallway by the study. As she closed it behind her, a heavy form collided with her as it flung itself from the room.

  “L-L-Lady—” Humphrey Warbulton abandoned his attempt at her name and stared at her uncomprehendingly. His face was still the same ghastly shade of gray white that it had been immediately after the discovery of the murder, and she felt for a moment that she had been thrown back two days and was about to be confronted with the same bloody scene again.

  “Mr. Warbulton, had something happened? Are you unwell? Perhaps I could summon Mr. Inwood.”

  Sweat was standing on Warbulton’s brow. “A—a—a cup of wine, perhaps.”

  Remembering a bottle of madeira in the dining room, Cecily led him there, selected a stone goblet from one of the shelves and, careful not to spill on the red label, filled it. She handed it to Warbulton, who took it with a shaking hand. “Th-thank you.”

  “What were you doing in Sir Barnaby’s study?”

  “His study? I—I—nothing. I was—I was lost. In my—my distress, perhaps.”

  “I am very sorry, Mr. Warbulton. I know you held Sir Barnaby in high esteem.”

  Warbulton appeared temporarily to have exhausted himself. He leaned against the table. Sweat stained the gray silk of his coat. His cuffs looked dirty. The scarf around his neck was carelessly arranged. He held out his empty cup.

  Cecily refilled it. “Forgive me for prying, Mr. Warbulton, but this tragedy appears to have affected you very strongly. Were you perhaps well acquainted with Mr. Dinley?”

  “Dinley,” Warbulton echoed in a hollow voice. “No, no, I hardly knew the man.”

  “But you and Sir Barnaby enjoyed a close friendship.”

  Cecily had spoken sympathetically, but her words appeared to make Warbulton even more upset. He pushed himself away from the table, spattering wine on his coat and over the floor. “Not his friend,” he said breathlessly. “No confidences at all. Hardly spoke to him. No close association.” He looked fearfully around him and lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t be in this house,” he whispered. And with a final wide-eyed look at the walls, he fled the room.

  By the time Cecily returned to the Plant Room an hour later, she was ready once more to close her mind against the puzzles and confusions of the human world. News of her presence and identity had spread through the house, and she had been cornered by several gentlemen who said they were eager to question her about her travels, but who in fact wanted to tell her about theirs. She had caught no further glimpses of Inwood, Carlyle, or Warbulton, nor had she recognized Alice Fordyce among the few female visitors. In the mingling of black coats and c
loaks and hats, with so little light inside the house, she could not be sure of who was there.

  The Plant Room appeared as she had left it except for a small piece of folded paper resting on top of the specimen she had been prepared to identify next. Her name was written on it. She opened it, read its contents, and went to the connecting door. Otto Helm was propped up in his bed, a book open before him. He looked at her inquiringly.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” said Cecily. “But have you seen anyone come up here?”

  “I did hear someone,” he said. “A little while ago. I thought it to be you. But when I called no one answered.”

  Cecily returned to the herbarium and read the note again. Lady Kay. You have questions to which I have answers. I know the truth. To speak within the house is impossible. There is an old elm in the field beyond the garden gate. Meet me there at the hour of five. Trust no one. I will wait.

  CHAPTER 16

  The house was beginning to empty, the mourners flowing like spilled ink out the front door. No one appeared to notice Cecily step quietly through the hall, past the study, and into the garden. Only the building itself seemed intent on her progress, its windows darkly gleaming, watching her as if she were an object that had escaped its shelves.

  When she reached the sweetbay tree, she found it surrounded by a carpet of fallen petals, their white edges browning like burned paper. It was still spring, but the ground here had an autumnal look that conjured cold gusts and early nightfall. The sweetbay itself, despite its fading blossoms, maintained a posture of staunch confidence. It seemed in its solitude to declare itself the garden’s protector, standing guard at the door to the outside world.

  Cecily lingered, hesitant to leave the fragrant sanctuary. She drew the note from her pocket, not so much to read it as to study once more the curves and lines of ink, to search for a clue to the hand that had written them. A man? A woman? What purpose had guided it? What emotion had made it tremble?

  She returned the note to her pocket and placed her hand behind the blossom closest to her on the tree, drawing it gently to her. She counted six petals, concave, not unlike those of a water lily. Numerous stamina embraced the conical pointal. It occurred to her then that she could remain where she was, and not take another step. She could limit her inquiries to the silent majesty of this flower, of the leaves near to it, of the branch supporting it and the roots sustaining it. Wasn’t the puzzle of this tree, of its form and mechanisms and properties, enough to satisfy any inquiring mind? Shouldn’t it satisfy hers?

  Her attention shifted to the closed door embedded in the garden wall. From the house she heard, faintly, the chimes telling the hour before they were drowned out by the larger bells of churches. It was five o’clock. She stepped outside the protective circle of the tree and drew the bolt. The heavy iron was cold under her fingers. Remembering John’s urgent call the last time she had stood here, she opened the door only just wide enough to slip outside, and closed it softly.

  On either side of her, the rutted alley ran along the walls of other gardens. When the bells stopped tolling, she could hear cart wheels and voices, but she could neither see them nor determine their distance from her. The mist seemed thicker here, resting low and heavy on the field, as if there was not yet enough of it to spill over the walls into the gardens. It was darker than it should have been at that hour. Cecily wondered how soon it would be before the storm announced itself with thunder.

  There was no one within sight. Though she was wary, she was not deterred by fear. It had never been in her character to seek out danger, but what she had witnessed of life had convinced her that death was as likely to be waiting in a nursery or in a castle fortified against attack as in any empty alley. Before her stretched the field. With a determined step, she started forward toward the elm.

  The ground gave beneath her feet, the mud sucking greedily at her boots. What ruins rested beneath it, she wondered, what skulls and artifacts of ancient claims to that earth awaiting discovery and arrangement on a collector’s shelf? She tried to keep to the firm tussocks of yellowed, sickly grass. The mist enclosed her so tightly she almost felt it squeeze her shoulders and curl snakelike around her throat. Other than her own body and the small patch of ground supporting her, she could identify nothing permanent in the shifting grayness except the elm.

  It rose so high she could barely see the tops of its branches, but she could see that they grew densely, a sign of a distressed tree desperately seeking sustenance in the air that it could not find in the soil. The thin black lines were etched on the gray sky like scratched runes in a language she could not read. She was close to the tree now, close enough that she would have seen someone waiting for her beside it if anyone was there. There was nothing but insubstantial mist.

  She thought of Alice Fordyce. It was no wonder the young woman’s arrival at the back door had elicited shock from those who knew what lay beyond it. Cecily could not picture her clean, cream-colored cloak and translucent pink and white skin without thinking she must have been a ghost, an unhappy, lingering consequence of an unforgotten duel.

  She had come to the base of the elm. Its bark was old and solemn as an aged face. Too late she realized that the great old trunk was wide enough to conceal the figure that had been waiting behind it. Too late to prepare for the hands that caught her arms and flung her down, down the short slope she hadn’t seen, and down which she tumbled, her breath knocked from her chest.

  As she rolled to a halt she tried to draw in air, only to retch at its fetid smell. She tried to rise, but her hands and knees sank into brackish water. She felt her legs grow heavier as the moisture soaked into her skirts. Beside her she heard the crack of a snapping branch. A human form loomed above her, but the sounds that came from it were guttural like that of a beast. She was on her hands and knees, trying to rise.

  Then she felt the weight of a boot hard between her shoulder blades. She tried to brace her arms but her hands slipped and sank in the mire and her elbows buckled beneath her. The weight increased. She was able to claim a short breath before her face was submerged. Her nose filled with mud and water and she pushed herself up, half choking, only to be pushed down again and, this time, held. Light burst before her eyes, floating and spreading as pain flared in her lungs. Her body jolted helplessly against the implacable weight holding her down.

  She heard a crack as if of lightning that seemed to come from inside and outside her head, and then the weight was gone. She heaved herself up, coughing and wiping the filth from her face as she drew in gasping, choking breaths. Too disoriented to stand, she began to crawl away from the water. She managed to get to her knees. Someone was striding toward her through the mist. She wiped enough of the mud from her eyes to make out the shape of a woman. She blinked and saw the brown-and-green-striped skirts, the raised arm, and the pistol clutched firmly in Meacan’s hand.

  Meacan’s stride was not leading her to Cecily. Turning, Cecily saw someone else by the side of the pond, a man whose face she did not know. He was struggling to his feet. By the time he had stood, bending to clutch his thigh, Meacan had reloaded the pistol. His head swiveled to where Cecily kneeled.

  “Not another step toward her,” cried Meacan, raising the pistol with unwavering intent.

  The man stumbled backward, regained his balance, and staggered away into the mists without looking back.

  Meacan rushed to Cecily and helped her to her feet. Cecily was still out of breath, her vision still partially obscured by mud. “Close your eyes,” Meacan ordered.

  Cecily obeyed. She felt the gentle pressure of Meacan’s fingers on her eyelids, followed by a firmer swipe across her cheeks and mouth as Meacan wiped the mud away. “Can you breathe?” asked Meacan. “How badly are you hurt? Did I arrive too late?”

  “I’m not harmed,” Cecily managed hoarsely. She started to step away, but her knees buckled and she stayed where she was, with Meacan supporting her.

  “Not harmed?” Meacan exclaimed. “I should h
ave killed him.”

  Cecily looked past Meacan’s face, full of concern and flickering anger, to the space around them. There was no trace of the assailant. He had come from the heavy, swirling mist, and he had disappeared back into it.

  Concern vied with triumph in Meacan’s expression. “I was looking out the window and I saw you leave the garden. Whatever possessed you to come out to this place?”

  With clumsy fingers, Cecily drew the paper from her pocket. It was sodden, but the words were just legible. Meacan read it in an instant, handed it back, and cast a watchful look around them. “I told you,” she said, as she began to guide Cecily gently back toward the house. “I told you to stop asking questions.”

  CHAPTER 17

  The household had gone to bed, but in the kitchen fireplace, a dancing flame crackled and hissed beneath a hanging cauldron. At the edge of the heavy table scarred by knives and branded with rings seared into it over the years was an assortment of vessels and plates. Cinnamon, mace, and nutmeg dusted a mortar and pestle. A pottle, empty but still coated on the inside with thick cream, rested adjacent to a pile of eggshells and a plate dusted with sugar.

  Inside the cauldron a smooth brown potion simmered, its surface softly separating into milky islands. Meacan, who had been watching it closely from her position in front of the hearth, dipped a ladle into it and tasted. She cocked her head and smacked her lips quietly, assessing the flavor. She added a pinch of cinnamon and stirred.

  Cecily was sitting in a chair that had been drawn from the table to be closer to the fire. She had washed and put on clean clothes earlier, but the curling mist of the dueler’s field was only now beginning to release its grip. She was remembering being a girl of nine sitting in the kitchen in the gardener’s cottage trying not to cry as she watched little beads of blood well on her skinned knee. Meacan’s mother had cleaned and salved the scrape. Cecily recalled the yielding comfort of round arms, the neck warm with perspiration, the soft sway of skirts. The cottage had been a haven for any children who could find their way to it. Over the year it was occupied by Meacan’s family, its windowsills had been filled with candied flowers, dried apricots, and preserved oranges and lemons as clear as glass.