The Cabinets of Barnaby Mayne

by Elsa Hart

  Meacan dipped the ladle again, filled a cup, and handed it to Cecily. Only one sip was required to dissolve the final tendrils of mist that had seemed to remain twined around her spine. The warmth of the drink was not solely attributable to its temperature. “I don’t remember your mother’s posset containing quite so much sack,” she gasped.

  “She taught me to suit the recipe to the situation,” said Meacan, filling her own cup and sinking into a chair opposite Cecily. “Don’t you care for it?”

  “Nothing has ever tasted better,” said Cecily honestly.

  Meacan took a sip herself, wriggled her shoulders, and settled back deeper into the chair with a smile. “Drink it down, then. It will counter the poison of that foul water he tried to drown you in.”

  Cecily obeyed. The rich, sweet drink spread warmth all the way to her toes. When Meacan reached for the jug of sack and added still more to the pot, Cecily raised her eyebrows but didn’t object. Instead, she asked Meacan how she had come to possess a pistol.

  “Ah,” said Meacan, refilling her cup and stretching her feet out toward the fire. “That is a good story. It was six or seven years ago in the home of Lady Southeby, whose husband had recently passed from this world. The lady inherited his collection, but having inherited little else, her funds were sorely depleted. She needed an auction catalogue that would make all those dusty shells and pebbles look their best, and she had the good sense to hire me to illustrate it.”

  “I presume you leant the objects some additional allure,” said Cecily.

  “A touch of color here and there,” Meacan acknowledged. “In any case, I found the pistol when I was in the library. It was hidden in an edition of The Blazing World—the pages were cut out in the center to make a box—and I was so taken with it that I bought the book from Lady Southeby myself. I saw no need to mention what was inside it, and she didn’t ask. I learned to load and fire it and have kept it close ever since. Today isn’t the first day it’s been useful— Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’ve never killed anyone.”

  “I’m relieved you weren’t obliged to today.”

  Meacan shrugged. “Had he been the first, I wouldn’t have devoted much time to regretting it.”

  Cecily didn’t answer at once. In the wake of the attack, they had not had the opportunity to speak at any length. With their return to the house had come a flurry of social challenges that had required Cecily’s complete concentration. First there had been the explanations. She had been walking in the garden and heard someone calling from the field. She had gone out—yes, she knew she had been foolish—and found no one. On her return to the house she had slipped and fallen.

  Once her account was given and accepted, Cecily had addressed herself to the complicated business of a bath. A supper of excruciating duration had followed, eaten in the company of several lingerers-on from the viewing who were determined not to leave until they had accumulated sufficient knowledge of Sir Barnaby’s death and of his collection to impress their absent acquaintances. In the time since John had sanctioned their use of the kitchen and shuffled off to bed, Meacan and Cecily had by tacit agreement limited their conversation mostly to quantities of spices and eggs.

  Now, in the silence following the story of the pistol, Meacan leaned forward and gave the posset an unnecessary stir.

  “Why were you watching me from the window?” Cecily asked.

  Meacan set the ladle on its tray and sat back. “I wasn’t watching you. I was merely appreciating the garden.”

  “But Martha had you monitoring the second-floor landing, and there is no window there.”

  “I required a moment’s respite from the task.”

  Cecily paused. “That is understandable, but that it should be just when I left the house—” She sat back quickly as Meacan withdrew the ladle from the cauldron and gestured with it, dripping sticky posset onto the floor.

  “Of all the obstinate, incautious, stubborn—” The words burst from Meacan as drops of posset flew into the hearth, sizzling as they struck hot stone. “Is it possible you have not appreciated the fact that you would never have been in danger today if you weren’t so set on inquiring into what people do not wish to tell you? Can you not for a moment be content with what is known to you, and let be what is not?”

  Cecily, who was beginning to relax into the warm embrace of the posset, surprised them both by giving a soft chuckle. “In truth, I am not certain I can,” she said. “If I could, I wouldn’t be here with you now.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t,” said Meacan. “None of this would have happened. That is exactly my—”

  “I meant,” Cecily interrupted, “that I’d still be in Smyrna.”

  Meacan’s indignation vanished. “What? Why did you leave Smyrna?”

  Cecily took a fortifying sip of posset. The fire was crackling eagerly, like a third person trying to be included in the conversation. “I didn’t decide to leave,” she said. “I was sent away.”

  “By whom?”

  “By my husband, who didn’t mind my questions as long as I directed them at plants. He did mind my inquiries into his mismanagement of company funds.”

  Meacan stared. Little creases appeared around her eyes before the smile appeared on her lips. “I should think he would,” she said, dipping the ladle into the pot and refilling both their cups.

  Cecily permitted herself to return to that day in her mind. She could almost smell the rain hitting the stone that had so recently been heated by the sun. She saw the ship and seahorse of the Levant Company arms carved above the library door. “I’d been obliged to put off an excursion to the valley of Nymphi,” she said, watching the steam rise from her cup. “I’d read every book in the library, so I turned to Andrew’s ledgers. I thought I might review his numbers, perhaps be of some assistance.”

  “And?”

  “And my intention was to correct one or two miscalculations. Instead, I uncovered six years of fraudulent tariffs the port master and his corrupt accomplices had imposed upon the company during my husband’s tenure, and of which my husband had remained entirely ignorant.”

  “Praise Hera for clever wives,” said Meacan. “Your husband is a fortunate man.”

  Cecily didn’t answer at once. She recalled Andrew’s face quivering with defensive indignation as he declared her unfeminine, incapable of respecting authority and, by the end of his tirade, insane. Frowning at the memory, she picked up a poker and used it to shift a log that had burst into new flame away from the cauldron to keep the posset from being scorched.

  “Ah,” said Meacan, reading Cecily’s expression. “He didn’t like having his wife expose him as a fool.”

  “He sent me home on the next ship that sailed.”

  Meacan exhaled slowly. “I can see it,” she said, her eyes on the sparks and caverns of fire in the earth, her imagination elsewhere. “You, pacing the length of the ship, lonely, humiliated and constrained to silence by your ignorant knave of a husband, staring out at the endless sea, with only those sad dried plants for company—”

  “There is no need to insult the plants,” said Cecily with asperity. “They—”

  “Are fascinating, important, unique, yes.” Meacan fluttered a hand impatiently. “My point is you arrived in England like a cat ready to pounce on the first string dangled before it. Your husband had refused your help, but there was no one here to stop you from seeking answers. That’s why you bit down on the problem of Sir Barnaby’s death and did not let go.”

  Cecily looked up sharply from the fire. Their eyes met, and Cecily recognized an openness in Meacan’s expression that had not been there before. Wary of chasing it away, she lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “It wasn’t Walter Dinley, was it?”

  For a moment Meacan was still. Then she gave an infinitesimal shake of her head.

  Cecily lowered her voice further. “How do you know?”

  Meacan’s expression became shuttered. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Meacan, did you k
ill Barnaby Mayne?”

  “No!” Once again the ladle flew upward, and once again posset sizzled in the fire.

  “Then why?” Cecily demanded. “Why won’t you tell me what you know?” When Meacan didn’t answer, she continued. “You came to my rescue like a guardian knight. If you value our friendship enough to protect me, why not enough to trust me?”

  Meacan opened her mouth to speak, then shut it. She turned her gaze down to her cup and stared into it for a long moment. “Because,” she said at last, “if you cannot countenance an insect being drawn inaccurately or a crumpet being set on a book, you will not like, indeed will utterly condemn the reasons I have for knowing what I do.”

  “It wasn’t that the bug was inaccurate,” Cecily was compelled to point out. “It was that it was a deliberate obfuscation in order to—”

  “And thus is my reasoning justified,” said Meacan dryly.

  Cecily was about to object, but changed her mind when she saw the twinkle in her old friend’s eye. Meacan was going to talk, but she was going to make sure Cecily was as impatient as possible first. Cecily set her teeth and waited.

  At last Meacan nodded. “Are you familiar,” she asked, “with the name Covo?”

  Cecily thought. She had not heard the name before, but she had seen it. “In the registers,” she said, remembering. “He’s someone from whom Sir Barnaby purchased objects for the collection.”

  “Sir Barnaby, yes, and many others,” said Meacan. “Covo’s coffeehouse is a favorite haunt of collectors. Not only does he procure and sell rarities, but he also provides services unique to the collecting community.”

  “What kind of services?”

  “The collectors,” Meacan replied, “have a tendency to be competitive, vengeful, petty, and prone to obsession. For a price, Covo assists them in winning their little battles with each other. Essential to his business are the agents he hires. Agents who can enter the houses of collectors with relative ease.”

  “Illustrators come to mind,” said Cecily.

  There was no trace of remorse in Meacan’s smile. “Covo is a far more generous employer than the collectors.”

  “And what did he employ you to do in the home of Sir Barnaby Mayne?”

  “Merely to gather some information. You need not look so critical.”

  Cecily raised an eyebrow. “How did you convince Sir Barnaby to hire you?”

  Meacan was indignant. “I didn’t have to convince him! I had already accepted Sir Barnaby’s commission when Covo contacted me. I am not a bad illustrator, you know.”

  This was true. Cecily perceived that an apology was needed before Meacan would continue, and gave it.

  Mollified, Meacan went on. “As I said, I was already working for Sir Barnaby, which is why Covo chose to contact me. That, and my untarnished history of success in our past collaborations. He wanted me to copy an auction catalogue, or rather to copy from an auction catalogue the objects on which Sir Barnaby intended to bid. He told me the catalogue was to be delivered to Sir Barnaby by a Swede, mostly likely on the day Sir Barnaby was to give his next scheduled tour of the collection.”

  “The Follywolle catalogue.”

  Meacan’s brows lifted in surprise. “How did you know?”

  “I saw it on Sir Barnaby’s desk, and I’ve spoken to Helm—” Cecily paused.

  Reading her thought, Meacan shook her head. “I had nothing to do with the attack on Helm. I had from Covo only the details necessary to achieve my object. I knew this Follywolle catalogue would arrive with Helm. I knew Sir Barnaby would mark the items he wanted. And I knew I was to make a list of those items before the catalogue left the house again with Mr. Helm at the end of the day.”

  “And did you make the list? What happened?”

  Meacan, clearly enjoying Cecily’s eagerness, took her time before continuing. “Once I had ascertained from Dinley that there was to be a Swede by the name of Helm on the tour, I did what I could to make a plan. My hope was to use the time when Sir Barnaby and his guests—of course I did not yet know you would be among them—the time when Sir Barnaby and his guests would be occupied with the tour to find the catalogue. Unfortunately, very little went as it was supposed to.”

  “Helm didn’t accompany the tour,” said Cecily. “Because he had to count his snake scales. And the tour ended early. And—”

  “And Sir Barnaby died,” said Meacan. “We have not come to that yet. It all began well. I was up early to keep watch near the front door, and was there when Helm arrived. I engaged him in conversation to make my presence appear natural. I saw Helm give the catalogue to Sir Barnaby, who said he would attend to it at once. I saw Dinley take Helm away to show him the collection and then ensconce him with the snakes. It was still very early in the day. It seemed likely that Sir Barnaby would finish with the catalogue and return it to Helm before the tour began, which meant I would have the duration of the tour to find it and make my notes.”

  “But if you expected the catalogue to be back in Helm’s possession, and you knew he intended to remain in the Serpent Room all day, presumably with his belongings, how did you mean to get access to it?”

  “A small detail,” said Meacan airily. “I knew I could find a way to distract him. I was more concerned with our interaction not being overheard by the household or the other guests. My secondary employment relies on my presence not being associated with these little—” She paused. “These little incidents between collectors. Out of caution, I decided that once the tour began, I would wait in my room until I heard footsteps on the ceiling above me. That would mean the tour had reached its farthest point from the study, and from Helm. I would go downstairs then.”

  Cecily pictured the location of Meacan’s chamber. “The room above yours is the herbarium, if I am correct.” Meacan nodded affirmation. “So if you heard footsteps,” continued Cecily, “they were mine alone. The tour had already been disbanded.”

  “Yes,” said Meacan. “But I was not aware of that. I heard the steps, and went down to the Serpent Room. To my delight, I found Helm’s desk empty, his work abandoned, his bag unattended.”

  “Helm wasn’t at his desk? What time was this?”

  “It was about twenty minutes past five. I searched Helm’s bag, but the catalogue wasn’t there. I reasoned then that if Sir Barnaby had not yet returned it to him, it must still be in Sir Barnaby’s study. I decided to look for it there.”

  “But it was his private study. Didn’t you expect it to be locked?”

  There was more than a hint of smugness in Meacan’s smile. “I have learned,” she said, “to circumvent such barriers. In this case, though, I didn’t have to. To my surprise, the door was unlocked and swung open without a sound.”

  “But Sir Barnaby had already gone downstairs,” said Cecily. “He must have been there when you entered.”

  “He was there,” said Meacan. “He was lying dead on the floor just as he was when you found him nearly an hour later.”

  Cecily caught her breath. “He was dead already?”

  “Unambiguously,” said Meacan.

  “And Dinley?”

  Meacan shook her head. “Not a sign of him.”

  With a furrowed brow, Cecily raised her cup to her lips. She had been so intent on Meacan’s words that her drink had grown cold. She replenished it from the cauldron. “But Dinley wouldn’t have killed Sir Barnaby, left the room, and returned later to stand above the body as if the murder had just occurred.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t have,” said Meacan. “Not unless he really is mad. Which neither you nor I believe him to be.”

  “And there was nothing in the room to suggest who might have been there earlier?”

  “Not that I could see, but then again I didn’t stay long.” Meacan hesitated. “All I noticed, other than Sir Barnaby of course, was a smell of vinegar.”

  Cecily thought this was odd. “I didn’t perceive it,” she said. “I thought the room smelled of camphor and roses. What did you do the
n?”

  Now for the first time, a look of guilt crossed Meacan’s face. “I left at once and returned directly to my room. I hadn’t seen anyone on my way down, and I didn’t see anyone on my way up. I could only hope no one had seen me. I thought of loading my pistol, but decided it would be better not to show I had one. So I took the axe and shield from above my dresser and waited to see what would happen.”

  Meacan was silent for a moment, her expression grave now, remembering. “I knew I would have to see it all again. I did what I could to prepare to feign surprise. But in the end I didn’t have to pretend. I thought I’d lost my own mind when I was told you’d all but walked in on Dinley in the middle of committing murder.” Meacan drew in a long breath and let it out in a rush. “I don’t know what made the poor fool perform such a charade. But how could I say anything, given my reasons for being in the room earlier?”

  “So you have known,” said Cecily slowly, “or suspected, from the very beginning, that there was a murderer in the house that day whose identity was not revealed.”

  Meacan nodded. “I thought, and still think, that the answer must lie with Dinley. That is why I went out the next morning. I hoped to discover where he had gone. My first idea was to speak to Covo, but he was either out or not taking visitors. He cannot be relied upon, you know. So I visited every acquaintance Dinley and I had in common. That I knew of, at least, from my conversations with him last week.”

  Cecily, feeling the effects of the posset, gave Meacan a look of slightly exaggerated affront. “You mean you tried to discourage me from asking questions when you were doing the same thing?”

  “I was doing it with finesse and experience,” said Meacan. “You were all but asking each person who was in the house whether they’d killed Sir Barnaby, then striding away and presenting your back for a knife thrust.”

  “I wasn’t so unsubtle as that,” Cecily objected. “But did you learn anything about Dinley?”