by Elsa Hart
“To ask you a question about illustrating serpents,” Cecily lied. “She said she was disappointed not to find you.”
“But Mrs. Barlow has not come to ask—”
“Well, of course she did not want to bother you during your recovery. But I was surprised when she said she had failed to find you, as I’m certain I remember your mentioning you hadn’t left the Serpent Room at all that day.”
“I went to the library,” said Helm. “I went to consult—” He cast his eyes over the books in front of him. “To consult the work of Mr. Gesner,” he finished, pointing to one of the volumes.
Cecily set down the book she was holding and took up the one he had indicated. “History of Four-Footed Beasts and Serpents,” she read. “Describing at large their true and lively figures, their several names, conditions, and kinds. Was there anyone in the library when you were there?”
“Hm?” Helm looked at her blankly.
“When you went to get this book from the library, did you see anyone?”
“Alas, Lady Kay, I am not remembering. My injuries, perhaps, are responsible. But allow me please to tell you the virtues of Mr. Gesner’s book, which though it was published almost fifty years ago, is still of relevance. The anatomical drawings, you see, are most advanced. Still I would suggest if you wish to make a further study of serpents, that you allow me please to make other recommendations.”
Cecily made several more attempts to ask Helm about the day of the murder, but he would not be diverted from the object of his fascination. At last, she brought the interaction to a polite conclusion and left him to his serpents. She carried from the room the feeling that, for a man dedicated to the advancement of knowledge, he had been singularly, one might almost think deliberately, unhelpful.
CHAPTER 24
Cecily and Meacan planned to stay the night at Covo’s. Cecily, initially dubious, had allowed Meacan to convince her that navigating the city in the small hours of the morning after the lamps had burned out would expose them to far more peril than any they would face at the coffeehouse. Covo, Meacan explained, counted among the inconsistencies in his character an unbreakable regard for the rules of hospitality. No matter how many rainbow-painted butterflies, stitched chimeras, and sculpted fossils he sold to collectors eager for novelties, his views on the sacred trust between guest and host remained uncompromised. At least Meacan thought they did.
The excuse given to Lady Mayne was that they had been invited to join one of Cecily’s cousins at the theater for a musical production of Macbeth. As it was an evening performance, and they had no wish to disturb the household with a late return, they had accepted the cousin’s offer of accommodation. They would be back early in the morning so that Meacan could continue work on the inventory. Lady Mayne, busy with final arrangements for the funeral, made no protest other than to comment on the questionable morality of the stage.
It was true that Macbeth was showing that night, but as theatergoers shuffled down candlelit aisles in search of seats and singing witches practiced their infernal ditties, Cecily and Meacan were making their way by coach to Newgate Prison. They were as attentive to their surroundings as the fading light permitted. Several times, Cecily thought she glimpsed the man who had followed her, only to see the face change to one she did not recognize.
Night had fallen when they arrived. Clouds hurried across the sky as if they feared being caught on the points of the thin crescent moon. Light seeped from dirty lamps, pooling on mud and stone outside the prison walls. The grim structure seemed to Cecily to loom larger than it was, augmented by the shades of past walls that had been broken and burned over the terrible course of its existence. There were few who did not believe that ghosts wandered the shackle-lined halls, trapped in the dungeons from which not even death could liberate them.
Cecily’s request that she and her friend be allowed to speak with a prisoner was met with disbelieving laughter from the guards at the gate. Meacan’s offer of coins, though tactfully delivered, was also refused. She and Cecily continued to press their case until the amusement of the guards became tinged with suspicion. What were two ladies doing alone on a moonlit night trying to enter the gates of Hell?
Meacan signaled to Cecily that they would get no further, and requested that the guards agree at least to deliver a note to the prisoner. She offered to pay the same amount for this small service as she had been willing to pay to see him. This time, the bribe was accepted, and the small, neatly folded square of white paper was carried away like a beacon through the gate into the prison’s black maw. Cecily and Meacan had composed the message earlier in the evening. The one you are protecting is innocent, it said. We suggest you begin admitting that you are, too. Maintain hope, and we will soon have you back among your books and your friends, this ordeal a fading memory.
Around them, the figures passing the prison were indistinct, like shadows that had slid out from under its walls. It was time to continue to Covo’s. They lingered only long enough to ascertain that the session at the Old Bailey was to commence on the following day. Meacan explained that this was good news. The schedule of trials would have been already set before Dinley’s capture. “He won’t be tried until the next session,” she said as they searched for another coach. “I don’t like to think of him languishing in there, but it gives us time.”
A creaking coach stopped for them. Cecily’s eyes lifted warily to its roof while Meacan peered into its dark interior. She nodded that it was safe. “I know a clerk,” she said as they climbed in. “I’ll send him a message and ask him to contact me at once if there is word on Dinley’s case.”
The coach shuddered into movement as if the horses were frightened. As it drew away, Cecily looked out the window. The implacable face of the prison, with its dim lantern eyes, looked back. Meacan’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“In a thousand years,” said Meacan, in the tone she used for her dark musings, “when that monstrous dungeon has at last crumbled, I’ll wager a collector will have a piece of rubble on a shelf with a label saying it came from the ruins of Newgate. And visitors will pick it up and wonder how many prisoners touched that very same stone with their emaciated hands before they met their cruel ends. I wonder if a stone remembers what it has seen.” Meacan was silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her tone was at once lighter and more resolute. “A question,” she said, “the answer to which awaits us at the bottom of a pot of strong posset after we’ve pulled Dinley from the jaws of that place and thrown the murderer into them.”
* * *
That Covo had taken pains to ensure the comfort of his two visiting eavesdroppers was evident at once. The room to which he showed them was furnished with two comfortable couches made up as beds, each with a night table beside it supporting a candle and a neat pile of books. While the décor of the room was consistent with the rest of the establishment, two areas of one wall had been cleared of their ornaments. In front of each cleared section was a brocade chair.
Meacan gifted Covo with a chuckle of amused admiration as she set her eye to the peephole located at a convenient height above one of the chairs. “Remind me,” she said, stepping away from the wall, “never to conduct private business in this house.”
“Tonight’s entertainment has not even begun,” Covo replied, “and already you are drawing astute conclusions. On the subject of entertainment, I hope you will approve of the books with which I have populated your nests for the evening. A number of rare botanical tomes for Lady Kay, and a collection of stories for you. The tales are not to be published until next year, but I have persuaded their compiler, one Monsieur Galland, to provide me with an early manuscript. I hope they will serve, should you desire a reprieve from your spying.”
Meacan recovered her cup of brandy from the mantelpiece. “I’ve never seen conjuration before. I assure you I have no intention of looking away if there’s a chance they’ll succeed in bringing a spirit into the room or opening a window to a fairy realm.”
&
nbsp; Covo’s eyes glittered. His lips curved in a smile. “If the fairies decide to grace us with their presence tonight, I will not credit it to the pontifications of the occultists, but to the allure of the company now present in my humble home.” He lifted his cup, a silver goblet with a jeweled stem, and bowed to them both before drinking from it. “Tell me,” he said, straightening. “What news from the Mayne house?”
Meacan, who knew that the price of admittance to the secret chambers of Covo’s coffeehouse was information, was ready for the question. Lit by firelight that enhanced her quick-changing expressions and lively gesticulations, she offered Covo one choice detail after another about the visitors who had flowed through the Mayne residence over the preceding days. Cecily was impressed by the number of them Meacan had recognized, and by the quantity of information she had overheard. Meacan reported on quarrels, alliances, acquisitions, dalliances, favors, assignations and, like sugar flowers artfully applied to an elegant confection, the occasional theoretical debate, including a simmering argument between a Mr. Gibbs and a Mr. Marten over whether Noah had kept a fishbowl on the ark.
Covo listened with the attention of a hawk scrutinizing a field, searching for the telltale twitch of a mouse’s tail. His expression was guarded. Cecily could not identify which pieces of information interested him and which did not. When he did let slip a smile or a quirk of an eyebrow, it seemed that it was Meacan herself, and not the facts she was relating, that had inspired the change. Meacan concluded her recitation with the news of Walter Dinley’s capture and imprisonment.
“Of that I am aware,” said Covo. “Though I understand he has not yet stated his motive for killing his employer. If he takes it with him to the grave, we must hope an inspired storyteller will embellish the tale. At present it is rather—” Covo paused. “Rather unsatisfying.”
“We believe it to be connected to the three locked cabinets in Sir Barnaby’s study,” said Cecily. Meacan and Covo both turned to her in faint surprise. Until then she had remained mostly silent, deferring to Meacan’s better understanding of their sly host. But she sensed that Covo was toying with them, and felt compelled to resist the spell of distraction cast by the room.
“How intriguing,” said Covo. “Have you unlocked them?”
“We cannot find the keys,” said Meacan.
Covo raised an eyebrow. “I would not expect that to deter you.”
Meacan, clearly taking this as a compliment, inclined her head in acknowledgment of it. Cecily spoke again. “According to the registers, the cabinets contain the collection of a man called John Rose. Have you heard of him?”
“Ah,” said Covo. “John Rose.”
Meacan turned to Cecily. “I told you he’d know.”
Covo smiled. “You flatter me, dear Sea Radish.”
They waited for him to continue. But he crossed his arms over his chest and gave a single shake of his head. “I am not a book to be opened and read,” he said.
“Not a—” Meacan’s expression turned stormy. “Do you know why Sir Barnaby kept those cabinets locked?”
The burgundy velvet of Covo’s shoulders shimmered as he lifted both hands in mock helplessness. “I cannot say.”
“We have been informed that Rose was a traveler,” said Cecily. “And that he died in Jamaica. Can you not tell us more?”
Covo shifted from his position at the mantelpiece and moved to the door, his progress duplicated by candlelight shadows. “Allow me merely to suggest that Rose is a man, living or dead, whom I advise you to avoid. Now if you will pardon me, I believe the first members of the little gathering are arriving. They will require a welcome.”
There were indeed sounds of footsteps on nearby stairs. Covo drew a mask from his pocket and fixed it over his face. “I do not know if they hide their faces,” he said. “But I intend to do what I can to contribute to the atmosphere.”
Meacan was frowning at Covo. It was obvious that she was simultaneously annoyed by his refusal to share his knowledge and intrigued by the way his mask complimented the angles of his cheeks and jaw.
They heard hushed masculine voices outside the room.
“The servant pointed this way.”
“Are you sure? It’s very dark.”
“Something is moving at the end of the hall. Do you see it?”
“A mirror. Only a mirror.”
Covo, with a smile, put his finger to his lips and left the room. “Good evening, gentlemen,” they heard him say. “Please, a room is prepared for you. It is just here.”
Meacan and Cecily sat down in the brocade chairs. Each set an eye to one of the openings. The room on the other side of the wall was lit by candles set in front of mirrors. Light caught on jewels set into the eyes of skulls arranged as decoration on a long table in the center of the room, alongside several mummified hands. The table was surrounded by chairs.
“Go in, go in,” came Covo’s voice as the door creaked open.
Three gentlemen, not in masks, entered the room and took seats at the table. One by one, more arrived. “Non vi, sed mente,” announced each new arrival with somber grandiosity, to the echoing reply of the others.
“That’s Mr. Merden,” whispered Meacan, as a tall man with hollowed cheeks and bushy white eyebrows entered the room and intoned the words in a rumbling baritone. “No surprise. I’ve always thought he had the look of a sorcerer.”
Some drew out notebooks. Others set glinting objects on the table before them. These were difficult to see amid the shifting shoulders and voluminous wigs, but Cecily identified a box made of bones, a painted chalice, and an iron scepter. When they had all taken their seats, one was left unoccupied.
“Now that you are all assembled, I will leave you to your business,” announced Covo. “Refreshments will be provided when you ask for them. Should you summon Mephistopheles, send word and I will have my servants prepare additional food.” With these words, he left the room. He did not rejoin Cecily and Meacan. They heard him pass their door and continue down toward the chatter of the coffeehouse.
A man with round cheeks and several chins stood up and adjusted his spectacles. “It would be usual,” he said, in a self-conscious voice, “for our leader to welcome us to this evening’s meeting of the Philosophers of Night. But as he is no longer with us…”
A chair scraped across the floor as another man stood up, his prominent nose lifted as if to augment the effect of looking down it at his fellows. “I would put myself forward as temporary president of our group.”
There followed a lengthy discussion of the formalities of nominations and elections, during which Cecily heard Meacan stifle more than one yawn. The men concluded at last that the one among them called Mercurius would be best suited to the position.
Mercurius, whom Meacan whispered was actually named Francis Bedgberry, suggested that it was time to call for refreshments. The next half hour was spent in the ordering and serving of wine, liquor, chocolate, and small dishes from Covo’s kitchens. When at last this was complete, the new leader gestured with a hand holding a savory pastry to the empty chair. “I see we are missing young—what was his chosen name—”
“Angelicus,” someone supplied.
“Ah, yes,” said Bedgberry. “Angelicus.”
“It’s my opinion we’ll do as well without him,” said another. “Never quite one of us.”
“No, no,” agreed Bedgberry. “And on the subject of those who are not with us, let us take a moment to acknowledge with due formality the recent grievous loss to our company.”
The short silence that followed was broken by a man in a white wig that in the candlelight looked like a drift of snow lit by the lantern of a passing carriage. “Run through by his curator,” he said.
“The loss to our group is serious indeed,” said the man with the cherubic cheeks. “Only last month he loaned me a copy of the Occultis Naturae, which I considered very generous of him.”
“There is no doubt,” intoned the deep voice of Merden, “that his c
ollection has served, and will continue to serve, as a precious vault of knowledge. But allow me to say without disrespect that I did think Sir Barn—”
“Ah—ah—ah—” interrupted Bedgberry. “His chosen name, please.”
Merden looked annoyed. “The one we called Leonatus did bring to our group a degree of engagement with the subject of the occult that I—I will admit it now—I always found out of place, even inappropriate in our modern era.”
The men around the table murmured agreement, their heads nodding and bobbing like starlings pecking for seeds.
“Always a source of discomfort, though I hesitated to mention it.”
“There was a—a credulity to his approach.”
“In truth I was embarrassed on his behalf.”
A sense of shared relief emanated from the table. The men continued to eat and drink. “I don’t suppose,” said one, “that Inwood will agree to sell an item or two from the collection? I would be most gratified to add a Consecrationum to my own shelves, and I understand Sir Bar—Leonatus had a fine edition.”
“I was hoping for a chance to acquire his beetles and butterflies,” said another. “A box or two, at least.”
Merden shook his head. “No chance of it,” he said. “We all know Inwood. Man of his word. No, the Mayne collection will stay the Mayne collection even unto the end of time, and scholars not yet born will speak of him with admiration as the years roll on. Would that we all had such friends.”
There was a collective sigh. Cecily felt an elbow prod her side. She sat back from the wall and turned to Meacan, who gestured her off her chair. “But they aren’t magicians at all,” whispered Meacan when they were away from the wall. “They’re collectors. Nothing more. Here to discuss what they have and what they want. If they aren’t chanting spells within the hour, I’m going to sleep.”
Meacan was almost true to her word. An hour later she was in bed, but not asleep. Tucked beneath a luxurious silk blanket, her head on a brocade pillow, she held the book of tales Covo had left for her open to the candlelight and read with complete absorption until the light burned out.
