The Cabinets of Barnaby Mayne

by Elsa Hart

  “Lady Kay,” she said, sinking back into her seat. Her voice was hoarse. “How did you discover who I am?”

  Cecily sat down. “Mr. Dinley had in his keeping a letter written by your brother. I believe it was intended for you.” She drew the letter from her pocket and held it out to Alice, who took it with a shaking hand. She unfolded it, glanced at the words without reading them, and folded it closed again as one might slam a door against the cold.

  “I cannot,” she whispered. But she set the letter in her lap and placed a hand over it protectively.

  If there had been any doubt in Cecily’s mind as to whether Alice knew her brother was dead, it was gone now. “I am very sorry,” she said softly.

  Alice did not answer. In the silence, Cecily took in the room around them. The tangle of ribbons that festooned the dressing table did nothing to brighten the grief that filled the space more convincingly than any black drapery in the Mayne house could. She turned back to Alice. “The house is not decorated for mourning,” she said. “Do your parents know—”

  Alice’s mouth twisted. “Know what? That my brother is—” The sentence that had begun in anger ended in choked silence. Alice took a shuddering breath before she spoke again. “I have no mother. My father received word of it yesterday. I’ve known since the day of the tour, but I didn’t tell him. I hoped when he did learn of it he would—we would grieve together. But he says Anthony’s name is still forbidden in the house.”

  Cecily hesitated. “What was the cause of the estrangement between them?”

  “Father didn’t want Anthony to go to sea. He wanted him to stay here and become a mason.” Alice turned her face to the window. “But Anthony had made up his mind the moment he learned there were shores beyond the horizon. When we were children, he would show me maps and journals full of wondrous accounts of adventures—” Alice’s voice trembled and she cut herself off. When she spoke again, her tone was dull and constrained. “They quarreled every time they spoke. At first Father thought he could stop Anthony by refusing to give him money.”

  “But your brother found a patron in Sir Barnaby,” said Cecily quietly.

  Alice nodded. “Sir Barnaby said he would fund every journey on which Anthony embarked if, in return, Anthony sent him rare and curious objects. I have never seen Anthony so happy as he was the day Sir Barnaby made him that promise.”

  “And your father forbade Anthony from accepting Sir Barnaby’s sponsorship.”

  “My father declared that if he didn’t agree to stay at home and take up an apprenticeship, he could count himself a man free of his family name and inheritance.” Alice paused. “Anthony left the next day. That was four years ago, and since then my other brother has been our father’s only son. Now—now he truly is.”

  Cecily wished Meacan were with them. Meacan’s expressive features would have moved at once in mirrored understanding of the young woman’s feelings. Cecily’s own face felt stiff and unnatural. She searched for words of condolence, rejecting the formal phrases that would chill the interaction and the informal ones that would presume an intimacy with the grieving girl that she could not claim.

  Cecily was not aware that her eyes communicated intelligence, and a promise that she would attend to what she heard. Nor was she aware that the silver strands mingled with her dark hair and the fine paths traced around her eyes had the power to suggest to a despondent young woman that life could be endured. Evidently, Alice found in Cecily’s quiet, composed presence an invitation to speak that none had yet offered her.

  “I saw a painting of a shipwreck,” she said. Her eyes were fixed on a distant horror. “I am told a Dutchman painted it. The sea was reaching up like a claw from below. The waves, like fingers, clutched the hull. Behind the pitching ship, clouds spread over the sky like angels of death. They permitted the passage of three yellow sunbeams from the heavens to the raging sea, as if to mock the fates of the crew. Around the ship were broken timbers and the rocks that were smashing it to pieces. And I—I think of him in that painting, Lady Kay. He must have been so frightened. And I was here”—she gestured bitterly at the hearth—“staying warm in the winter and daydreaming about pirates like a—like a spoiled—a spoiled, stupid child.” She started to sob.

  Cecily shook her head. “Your own safety is not something of which to be ashamed.”

  “I thought,” said Alice brokenly as she gazed out the window, “that Walter would have come by now. I thought he would have been concerned. He—he has been my only confidant and friend and I—I expected…”

  She doesn’t know what has happened, thought Cecily. But why should she? How would the news have reached her, here on the other side of the city, alone in her room with her tears and her visions of shipwrecks? “Alice,” she said. “Do you know that Sir Barnaby Mayne is dead?”

  But Alice, lost in her own dark ocean of grief, looked uncomprehendingly at Cecily. “Sir Barnaby?” She spoke gaspingly, through tears. “No—no, it is my brother who is dead. Sir Barnaby is alive. Sir Barnaby invites no dangers to his door. He sends others out to meet them for him. To—to face the roaring seas while he waits with his cabinets like a—a dragon on his treasure, collecting and collecting and collecting.” Alice was growing hysterical. “Anthony’s life for—for bones and—and trinkets.” She stopped suddenly. “Sir Barnaby is dead?”

  In clear, brisk sentences, neither dwelling on details nor omitting them, Cecily told Alice what had happened. She told her how, shortly after Alice’s own departure, Sir Barnaby had received a note from a courier that had made him cut short the tour. She explained how the guests had separated. She described how she, Inwood, and Carlyle had come upon the body. Finally she told Alice of Walter Dinley’s confession and escape.

  Alice listened calmly, almost gratefully, as if the account, however terrible, had ushered her back into a world away from the crashing waves on which she had tossed alone until Cecily’s arrival. But at this last revelation, she drew in a sharp breath. “Walter? He killed— No.” Alice’s expression cleared. “No,” she repeated. “He could not have committed such a deed. There has been a mistake. You say he confessed? But why would he—” Alice lifted her hand to her mouth. Her eyes widened. “He couldn’t have thought—he couldn’t have—that is I—I said— Oh, Lady Kay, I did say—”

  Cecily saw that Alice was becoming increasingly agitated. “Why don’t you tell me everything,” she said. “Beginning with how you came to be at the Mayne house that day under an assumed name.”

  The calm authority in Cecily’s voice appeared to soothe the young woman. She regarded Cecily through reddened eyes. “When my father said I could not write to Anthony, or receive letters from him, I was desperate,” she began. “I seized every opportunity I could to hear news of his adventures. That is how I came across the notice of a presentation to be given at the Society. Someone was to read the most recent report sent by Anthony Holt to his patron, Sir Barnaby Mayne.”

  A note of pride entered Alice’s voice. “I was determined to attend, and I did. My father never knew. I called myself Alice Fordyce and stayed very quiet near the back of the room. It was easy not to draw attention to myself. There was such a crowd there to listen. Everyone wanted to hear what Anthony had written, though the stories he gave to everyone else were not so wondrous as those he saved only for me.”

  Alice’s voice shook. She steadied and continued. “I discovered that the man who read the report was Sir Barnaby’s curator. That—that was how I met Walter—Mr. Dinley. I spoke to him after the presentation. He was kind, and he answered my questions so patiently. I decided to confide in him.”

  “You told him your real name.”

  Alice lifted her gaze, in which affection and grief mingled equally. “Not only did he promise to keep my secret, but he offered to be my servant. He told me that if I wished to write a letter to my brother, he would include it in Sir Barnaby’s next missive to Anthony. And he promised that when Anthony’s next box arrived, he would search it for a r
eply to my letter, and deliver that reply to me.”

  “And he was successful.”

  Alice nodded. “In the two years that followed, I have received three letters.” Her gaze dropped to her lap. “Four, now,” she whispered. She closed her eyes. When she opened them, Cecily saw that they burned with anger. “Every letter was precious to me,” she said. “And yet I began to worry for him. Sir Barnaby was asking him to take bolder risks, to explore treacherous coasts and venture into inhospitable countries, only so Sir Barnaby could satisfy his appetite for rarities. As much as I loved to read of Anthony’s voyages, I began to fear that he was exposing himself to danger only to please his patron.” She paused, and in her fixed expression Cecily had a fleeting glimpse of her face as it would be when she was older.

  Alice continued. “Three weeks ago, Sir Barnaby received a new box from Anthony. Walter, with whom I am now—” She hesitated.

  “Friends,” Cecily supplied.

  “Friends,” Alice repeated. “Walter proposed an idea. Sir Barnaby was soon to give a tour of the Mayne collection. I would attend the tour under the same assumed name I had used to attend the presentation at the Society. Thus, I could see for myself the objects that Anthony had wrapped and sent with his own hands, and if there was another letter for me, Walter could give it to me then. The plan was made, and I could hardly conceal my excitement as the day approached. I gave an excuse to my father. He even ordered a carriage for me. I stayed in it until it was almost at Bloomsbury Square. I walked the rest of the way so that the driver could not say where I had really gone.”

  “Which is how you came to lose your way and come to the garden door,” said Cecily.

  “Yes. In my excitement, I became disoriented. But Mrs. Barlow admitted me, and I thought all was well. I did notice that Walter was behaving strangely. He seemed several times to want to separate me from the group. But I was in such transports I paid him little attention.”

  “I expect he was desperate to get you away before the tour reached the second-floor landing,” said Cecily. “He knew that when we came to the place where Sir Barnaby kept the crates sent by your brother, you would be subjected to the revelation there, in front of everyone.”

  Fresh pain misted Alice’s eyes. “It would have been the same for me wherever I heard it. But you are right. When I fell and cut my hand, he insisted on taking me downstairs. I—I guessed something was wrong when he did not take me to the kitchen, as I assumed he would do, but led me instead to the garden—into a greenhouse. He tore a strip of cloth from his shirt and bandaged my hand with it—” Alice looked down at her palm. The wound had healed to a faint pink line. “And he—he told me. He hadn’t learned of it himself until a few hours before. He said if he could have stopped me from coming, he would have. He blamed himself. He told me—” Alice’s voice caught. “I—I cannot remember now. He was trying to be kind, but I heard nothing. I only remember saying, again and again, that I hated Sir Barnaby. That he should have been the one to die. He made Anthony sail too far. He forced him to do it so that he could fill his shelves. I told Walter that it should have been Sir Barnaby who died. I said if I had the strength I’d—” she lifted eyes full of guilt and confusion. “I said I’d—I’d kill him if I could.” She looked up. “And now he is dead, and it is as if I did kill him.”

  “Unless you stabbed him through the heart,” said Cecily, “I assure you, you did not.”

  Alice looked at her hand. “No,” she said quietly. “No, I did not.”

  “When Dinley returned alone,” said Cecily, “he told us he had put you in a carriage. That wasn’t true, was it?”

  “I was in no state to be put into a carriage,” said Alice. “But he knew someone would come in search of us if we did not rejoin the group. He told me to wait there, in the greenhouse. He said he would return as soon as he could and take me home himself.”

  “And did he return?”

  “I’m sure he must have, but I didn’t wait.” Alice shuddered at the memory. “As soon as he was gone I knew I could not stay there. It was like a prison. I wanted only to be home. So I left—I went out the same way I had come. I ran down the alleys and did not stop, even when I had no breath. I found my way home. Even now I am not certain how I did not come to harm. But I swear to you, that is how it happened. I didn’t kill Sir Barnaby. I—I might have meant what I said when I said it, but I didn’t kill him. And neither did Walter. But Lady Kay, I think Walter might have thought I—I think he might believe he is protecting me.” A little color had returned to her cheeks and she uncurled herself slightly from the chair. “What should I do?”

  “You should remain here, where you are safe. Do you have any idea where Dinley might have gone?”

  “No, but if he comes to find me, I will not betray him to the authorities.”

  “We do not know the whole truth. He still could be dangerous.”

  Alice shook her head. “He is not. I know Walter.”

  Cecily saw the determined set to Alice’s brow and knew she could not control the girl. “Mrs. Barlow and I are trying to find out who really killed Barnaby Mayne,” she said. “And as far as I know, we are the only ones who are. If you hear from Dinley, telling us would be the best way to help him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because while he may not know it himself, there is a good chance he possesses the information we need to identify the true murderer.”

  Alice considered this, then nodded. “I will tell you.”

  “Good. Now, did you notice anything that day that might assist us? Something you heard, perhaps, or something you saw that did not seem important at the time.”

  Alice retreated into silent thought. Suddenly her eyes opened wide and she straightened in her chair. “There was something. Do you remember, right at the beginning of the tour, when Sir Barnaby showed us the emerald with the markings on its surface?”

  Cecily pictured the wide, shallow drawers that comprised the lower half of the cabinets in the Stone Room. In preparation for the tour, several had been left open, jutting out like display tables, making progress through the room even more awkward. She remembered Sir Barnaby standing over one of them, pointing out his favorites among the rows of colorful stones. She recalled the dull gem that had glowed green when Sir Barnaby held it to the light. “I do,” she said.

  “Just as we were leaving,” said Alice, “I happened to turn around. There was only one person still in the room. Everyone else was already in the hall. It was—I cannot recall his name—the man who looked as if everything bored him.”

  “Mr. Carlyle?”

  “Yes, Carlyle. He had been bending over that drawer, and was just straightening up. When he saw me, he smiled and slipped his hand into his pocket. I wasn’t sure of what I’d seen, and I haven’t thought of it since. But now—” Alice paused. She concentrated for a moment on the memory, then nodded firmly. “Before he put his hand in his pocket, I saw a gleam of green between his fingers. I am certain it was the emerald.”

  * * *

  The distance between Bread Street and Bloomsbury Square was a mere two miles. Cecily never liked to subject herself to a bruising ride in a coach unless it was necessary. Today, she found the idea of being enclosed in a dark box and relinquishing control over her own speed and direction particularly onerous. It was almost noon. The morning light had long since banished night’s dangers, and there were many hours still before it would be time to prepare for their return. She decided to walk.

  The sturdy Holt house doorstep abutted a busy thoroughfare like a stalwart boulder at the edge of a fast-flowing stream. Before abandoning it and stepping into the crowd, Cecily wanted to be sure she could picture the way back. As she traced her imagined path, her unfocused gaze took in a man standing in the shadowed entrance of an alley on the other side of the teeming street. Her attention slid over him, but his face remained in her mind. Among all the people her view from the doorstep encompassed, he was the only one who had been looking at her. She glanced back a
t the place where he had been standing. He was no longer there.

  She told herself it was a small thing, easily dismissed, and started on her way. At first, simply traversing the street required her full attention. She kept to its edge, away from the thundering hooves and carriage wheels that churned dirt into ever-changing alchemies of offensive odor. Everyone else was doing the same. Her shoulders jostled against shoulders clad in silks, wools, cotton, rags, and leathers while her knees bumped against pigs and sheep being led to market. Overhead, carved and painted signs urged her to seek entertainment in The Star, The Mermaid, and The Three Cups. The sky was the same faded blue as the bed-curtains in the Mayne guest room.

  Half her mind was dedicated to navigation, the other half to cabinets, emeralds, and occultists. As she walked, the latter subjects began to encroach upon the former. The more preoccupied she became with thoughts of murder, the more she allowed her preference for quiet over noise and for solitude over crowds to influence her movements. She continued northwest, but without noticing, she did so on smaller and smaller streets and alleys.

  The first inkling of unease came when she stopped concentrating on Sir Barnaby’s death long enough to notice that when her own thoughts quieted, the space around her did, too. Walls and corridors of stone now separated her from the thoroughfare, and she could hear it only distantly. Inadvertently, she had wandered into the dense network of shadowed alleys that filled the spaces between the city’s palaces, boulevards, and squares. She chastised herself, and turned to retrace her steps.

  Behind her, outside the open door of a tavern, a button peddler was urging his wares on a silent listener who was not looking at the wood and metal disks arranged like planets on black wool, but at Cecily. She froze. It was the same man who had been watching her when she left the Holt house. She was certain she recognized the sharp, protruding jaw and small eyes set beneath heavy brows. His features had the carved appearance of a seaman’s, and he was dressed in the rough and shapeless clothes of a dockside laborer.