The Cabinets of Barnaby Mayne

by Elsa Hart

  Cecily remained at her post for the duration of the meeting. As Meacan had predicted, the occultists made no attempt to conjure spirits, raise the dead, summon familiars, or tell the future. They did pass various new acquisitions around the circle. Among the recent purchases were three silver rings engraved with the names of archangels, a number of jeweled sigils, and a round beryl crystal in a wooden stand. A new edition of A True and Faithful Relation of What Passed for Many Years Between Dr. John Dee and Some Spirits occupied them for some time. There was a brief argument over the relative power of hexagrams and pentagrams according to alchemists of the previous century. Bedgberry shared a circuitous anecdote of an argument he had witnessed between a farmer who claimed that his daughter had been cured of epilepsy by a magic ring and the local minister who insisted the ring was demonic and must be cast away. After three hours, the bottles and plates were empty and the group departed with pink cheeks and satisfied yawns.

  The night passed quietly. In the morning, Meacan announced to Cecily that it had been the dullest meeting of warlocks she had ever seen. “Witches are vastly more entertaining,” she said, as she splashed her face with water from a basin of translucent blue porcelain patterned with golden fish. “If I hadn’t enjoyed Galland’s tales so much, I would wish we had gone to see Macbeth instead.” She patted her face dry and consulted a mirror framed by onyx dragons. “We learned nothing we didn’t already know.”

  “But we did,” Cecily replied.

  Meacan swung around. “You think one of them had a connection to the crime?”

  “Not someone who was there,” said Cecily. “Someone who wasn’t.”

  “Oh.” Meacan frowned. “You mean the empty chair?”

  Cecily nodded. “The phrase they used, non vi, sed mente. Not by force—”

  “—But by the mind,” finished Meacan. “A fair motto for a society seeking to command without touch.”

  “On the day of the murder,” said Cecily, “I heard the first part of the phrase spoken in greeting to Sir Barnaby.”

  “By whom?” Meacan demanded.

  Cecily slipped the last pin into her hair. “If your Signore Covo can provide us with an address, I suggest we delay our return to the Mayne residence long enough to pay a call on Mr. Humphrey Warbulton.”

  CHAPTER 25

  It was a chill morning. An unbroken gray cloud hung low and heavy over the city, its center dipped like the belly of a great whale swimming slowly overhead. Whitlowgrass and wall-pepper brightened walls with flecks of white and yellow that defied their drab surroundings.

  The Warbulton house was so new that soot had not yet insinuated itself into its seams. The nests built by venturesome sparrows on the ledge of its uppermost story were the first ever to be constructed there. The front door, freshly painted and boasting a polished, ornate knocker, seemed to be calling out for attention, as if it could not wait to see a visitor’s reaction to the grand staircase behind it. Purchased by the senior Mr. Warbulton, who had risen from an apprentice in a tailor’s shop to a wealthy textile merchant, the house had become the London residence of his son, who had proven himself an astute businessman in his own right.

  Humphrey Warbulton was not receiving visitors. This information came from a well-dressed servant whose meaningful glances and fidgeting fingers made it clear that he was bursting to say more, and was only barely restraining himself with the bindings of professional decorum.

  “Tell Mr. Warbulton the matter is urgent,” said Cecily. “Tell him Lady Kay and Mrs. Barlow must speak to him.”

  The servant hesitated. “But the master won’t even—” He stopped, silently testing the various ways he could complete the sentence. Appearing to find none that constituted loyal behavior, he bowed and asked them to wait.

  An odor of paint and polish lingered in the entrance hall. Unlike the Mayne residence, with its single, serviceable stairwell extending from kitchen to garret, the Warbulton house featured the new style of a grand staircase connecting the ground floor to the first in an elegant sweep of curving bannisters and airy space.

  The entrance hall itself was more familiar. It was lined with shelves and cabinets of polished oak almost identical to the ones in the Mayne house, and the objects arranged on them were labeled with little red tags in clear imitation of the Mayne model. But where Sir Barnaby’s shelves were full, Warbulton’s were not. And where there was a confident, settled quality to Sir Barnaby’s displays, which had enjoyed years of dedicated attention, the objects on these shelves were grouped awkwardly, like guests at a poorly planned party who cannot find a common topic of conversation. A marble bust looked uncomfortable next to a skull, which in turn seemed uneasy in the shadow of the towering porcelain vase beside it.

  From upstairs, they could hear the voice of the servant. “A Mrs. Barlow, yes, Barlow, and a Lady Kay.” Cecily thought she heard a reply, but it was muffled and unintelligible.

  The servant returned. “My sincere apologies. He will not see you.”

  Meacan, who had been perusing the shelves, approached the servant and addressed him in a friendly voice, a conspiratorial tilt to her shoulders. “I’ve worked for collectors, too,” she said. “I know all about their caprices. One obsession on Monday, another by Friday. Impossible to know what they’ll want and when.” She sighed. “Tell me, what is it that’s preoccupying yours?”

  The servant looked from one woman to the other. Neither of them had displayed the usual surprise expressed by visiting ladies when confronted with rows of stuffed birds and opalescent shells and sculpted deities. His eyes moved from Cecily, standing with squared shoulders and an air of authoritative intelligence, to Meacan, at once softer and sturdier than her companion, inviting confidences with the glint of humor and compassion in her autumn eyes.

  Overcome by a desire to find out what they would do if they stayed, he lowered his voice to match Meacan’s. “Mr. Warbulton has been closeted in his room for two days. We”—his eyes flickered downward and they understood him to mean a kitchen full of uncertain employees—“we’ve sent for his father to come for a visit. We couldn’t think what else to do.”

  “Has he given an explanation?” asked Cecily.

  The servant shook his head. “He only rails at anyone who comes near the door to leave him be. We’ve left trays of food, but he’s eaten hardly any of it.” The man lowered his voice further. “The chambermaid thinks he’s afflicted with madness.”

  Meacan patted Cecily on the shoulder. “Lady Kay spoke to him, you know. Two days ago. Or tried to, but it was like trying to understand speech underwater, wasn’t it?” She gave Cecily a look that impressed upon her the need to maintain solidarity with the servant, who was their only key to the upper floors.

  “He did not seem mad at the time,” Cecily murmured, half to herself as she remembered her interaction with the quaking Warbulton. “It seemed more that he was frightened.”

  Meacan addressed the servant again. “Let us speak to him through the door. Perhaps he will reveal something to us that he has not to you. And think, if he can be out of distress when his father arrives, thanks to your intervention, you may take credit for it.”

  The servant, persuaded, agreed to take them upstairs. They climbed the grand staircase to another, less ostentatious one, at the top of which he stopped at a closed door. A steady stream of words was audible from within.

  “Is there someone in there with him?” asked Meacan.

  The servant shook his head. “As far as we know, he’s alone.”

  Meacan pressed her ear to the door. “It’s Latin,” she announced.

  Cecily moved to join her. “Mr. Warbulton?”

  The reply was instant. “Go away!” It was Warbulton’s voice, but it was thinner now, like a stream choked by ice.

  “We met at the home of Sir Barnaby Mayne,” said Cecily. “Mrs. Barlow and I must speak with you. May we come in?”

  “I will admit no one,” came the reply. “I cannot be certain you are—” He paused. “Yours
elves.”

  Cecily looked at the servant, who shook his head. “Said the same to me yesterday,” he whispered.

  “We are certainly ourselves,” said Cecily. “If you are in distress, perhaps we may be of some help.”

  “No—no one can help.”

  Meacan and Cecily exchanged glances. Meacan mouthed two words to Cecily, who nodded and stepped aside so that Meacan could take her place at the door. “We have come,” said Meacan, using the commanding affectation of royalty Cecily remembered well from childhood games, “on behalf of the Philosophers of Night. In a token of our mutual trust, I offer you these words.” Meacan paused before she announced with slow grandeur, “Non vi—”

  There was silence. Meacan drew in a breath to speak again. Then from within, high and nervous, came the reply. “S-s-sed m-mente.”

  “Good,” said Meacan. “Now please open this door and let us speak to you.”

  “Wait there,” came Warbulton’s voice. “Do not move.” They heard footsteps approach. The latch of the door rattled. The steps retreated quickly. “C-come in.”

  The door swung smoothly open and Cecily found herself facing a room that looked as if it had been the center of a maelstrom. Books and papers covered the floor in complete abandon. Clouded crystal balls were scattered over them like beads from the broken necklace of a giant. Gleaming amulets were strewn about like autumn leaves. Cecily’s breath caught as her eye fell on a basin a quarter full of congealing blood. The floor around it was littered with white feathers. Drops of blood led from the basin to the window, through which Cecily assumed the sacrifice had been tossed. A heavy fragrance of smoldering bay hung in the air. The fireplace was heaped with blackened branches twisted like charred bones.

  Warbulton was standing in the center of a chalk pentacle drawn on the floor. Around it were scrawled words and symbols. His face was thin and pale. He wore a dressing gown and a silk turban in place of a wig. As Meacan and Cecily approached, he shrank away. “If—if you are demons,” he said. “I—I abjure you. You cannot cross this line.” He pointed a shaking finger at the chalk.

  Meacan made a quick assessment. “He doesn’t have a weapon,” she said. Then she strode forward, touched her toe over the line, and stepped back. “You see?” she said. “Not a demon. Now—” She swept an arm to indicate the chaos around them. “What have you been doing?”

  Warbulton remained where he was. “I—I— How did you know? About the Philosophers of Night?”

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Meacan.

  Cecily, hoping to ease the man into a more communicative state of mind, spoke gently. “You were missed at the meeting.”

  “Missed?” squeaked Warbulton. “Missed?” His face relaxed a fraction. “You—you mean they asked after me? Even Mr. Merden?”

  Cecily nodded. “They wanted to know why Angelicus had not joined them.”

  Warbulton’s eyes grew wide. “Did—did they say anything about—about the curse? About how it might be undone? Have they discovered a way?”

  Before Meacan or Cecily could speak, they were interrupted by a yelp from the doorway. They turned to see the servant. His eyes bulged as he beheld the room. He shook his head in refusal. “Curses,” he murmured, and took a step back into the shadow of the hall. “Curses and sacrificed geese. I’ll not stay in a house to wait for Satan, not for all the comforts and fine clothing.” With another shake of his head, he disappeared.

  Concern vied with amusement on Meacan’s face. She cleared her throat. “Your friends did not address with any, ah, specificity, the subject of a curse. Perhaps you would enlighten us as to what you mean?”

  Warbulton looked aghast. “But—but how could they not speak of it?”

  “I’m afraid we do not know to what curse you are referring,” said Cecily. “Has it to do with the death of Sir Barnaby?”

  “Of course it does!” cried Warbulton. “It has everything to do with it!” He looked at their faces. Seeing no understanding, he began to rub his arms as if he was cold. “You don’t know,” he whispered. “You don’t know how to stop it. All rests with me. I must find—” He dropped to his knees and began to search through the papers scattered around him. “You have interrupted me. I must find the counter charm.” He began to mutter feverishly as he turned over pages. “Zorami, zaitux, elastot … figure of the talisman should be embroidered in silver upon poppy-red satin … steeped in blood of the mole … dipped in the juice of the pimpernel … when the moon is in her full light—”

  “Mr. Warbulton,” said Cecily firmly. “I understand an apology may usually be expected in advance of disillusionment, but in this instance I am convinced we are doing you a service. The Philosophers of Night are not magicians. They do not practice magic. They do not cast curses and, I am fairly certain, are in no danger of incurring them. They acquire talismans and grimoires because they have an interest in them, an historical and theoretical interest. If you believe Sir Barnaby’s death was connected to a curse, you have been misled. It was a human hand that held the knife.”

  “The knife!” The word burst from Warbulton like a cry of pain that became a whimper. “If only—if only I’d never heard of that—that terrible blade.”

  Cecily made an effort to understand. “Are you speaking of the knife with which Sir Barnaby was killed?”

  Warbulton wagged his head. “Yes—no.”

  “You are not making sense, Mr. Warbulton,” said Meacan.

  Warbulton’s tongue flicked out to lick his dry lips. “It isn’t the knife with which he was killed. It’s the knife that killed him. Don’t you understand? It was the knife itself.”

  A glimmer of light shone into Cecily’s thoughts. She pictured the knife, the ancient appearance of it, the symbols engraved on its blade and the black gemstones embedded in its hilt. She spoke slowly. “Are you saying you believe the knife that killed Sir Barnaby carried a curse?”

  “Yes.” Warbulton sagged with the relief of having company in his realm of fear.

  Slowly, with many stops and starts and digressions, his tale emerged. He had been overjoyed when, six months earlier, Sir Barnaby had invited him to join the Philosophers of Night. Warbulton had read every book Sir Barnaby recommended on the subject of the occult and, guided by Sir Barnaby, had become increasingly convinced that the power to summon spirits was within reach. The attitude of the other collectors had not dissuaded him. It was Sir Barnaby he wished to emulate, and Sir Barnaby believed.

  “The meetings were always held at night,” said Warbulton. “That—that is why I was so eager on the day of the tour. I’d never seen the Mayne house in daylight.”

  “I overheard one of these meetings,” said Meacan. “The one that took place less than a week before Sir Barnaby died. Were you there?”

  Warbulton, now sitting cross-legged in his pentacle, gave a tremulous nod. “I—I had no presentiment of danger. It was just like every other meeting. We each presented to the group the books and objects we had acquired on the subject of—of spells and spirits.”

  “Was that when you saw the knife?” asked Cecily.

  “No. That is, yes. But only—only an illustration of it. Sir Barnaby had made the purchase through an agent in Madrid, but the object had not yet been delivered. He had hoped it would arrive before that evening, but he had to content himself with—with giving us a description of it.”

  “And you are certain it was the same knife that was used to kill him?”

  “An ancient blade,” whispered Warbulton. “Perfected on the day of Venus, the moon being in the sign of Capricorn. A handle of white wood cut from a single stroke of a new sword. Engraved with glyphs of awful power. With it, a man can kill an enemy though they stand an ocean apart. The blade can cut the very fabric of the world and open doors to other realms. It might even unlock the gate to Hell.”

  Cecily glanced at Meacan. For all her previous amusement, Warbulton’s words were having an effect. She looked chilled. Cecily felt it, too. The blood in the basin seemed redder
than it had before. The papers rustled and whispered as if snakes nested beneath them.

  Warbulton went on, lost now in his own horror and excitement. “When Sir Barnaby spoke of the knife, his eyes glowed in that peculiar way only his did. He was certain the knife would advance him in his studies, if only he could learn how to use it. But he knew it would be dangerous—” Warbulton swallowed. “According to the texts, the knife carried with it a dreadful curse, one that would smite any who came near to it and, knowing it for what it was, failed to become its master.”

  With an effort, Cecily shook the cobwebs of superstition from her thoughts and concentrated on what she wanted to know. “What happened on the day Sir Barnaby died?” she asked. “What did you see?”

  The answer was disappointing. “I—I saw nothing,” said Warbulton.

  “Then you and Sir Barnaby didn’t speak of the knife that day?”

  “In truth, I had not thought of it since he’d described it at the meeting. I didn’t know he had yet received it. It—it was not until Mr. Carlyle set it down so close to me and I saw it that I knew. I recognized it at once from the picture. I knew—I knew the curse had fallen upon Sir Barnaby.”

  “Why did you return?” asked Cecily. “On the first day the house opened to mourners, why did you come? And what were you doing in his study?”

  Warbulton scrabbled through the papers. Seizing one, he slid it across the floor out of the pentacle toward them.

  Cecily read the title aloud. “A Spell to Lift Curses From Objects.” She was silent for a moment. “You were trying to break the curse.”

  Warbulton nodded miserably. “I recited the spell, but I fear it has done no good. I did not know how to pronounce the words. And the components I have here—I am not certain they are correct. I was supposed to scratch into the circle here these words with the quill of a white male goose, but I am not sure the one I purchased was male. And I have not found a black cat. And I cannot help but think that if Sir Barnaby could not do it, he who knew so much, what hope have I of escape? And if Mr. Dinley was—was possessed by the curse, then my own death might come with a face I trust—a face I—” His eyes turned wary. “You—you must go now,” he said.