The Cabinets of Barnaby Mayne

by Elsa Hart

  Cecily searched his face for duplicity, but saw none. “So you went to the shelves to look for this snake.”

  Helm nodded. “I climbed onto the step stool and began a search.”

  “At what time was this?”

  Helm considered. “I am not certain. It was after five o’clock. Perhaps a quarter of an hour past.”

  Cecily thought quickly. That would mean Helm was at the specimen jars just after Sir Barnaby left the tour, but before Meacan came downstairs and found him dead. “You were outside the door of Sir Barnaby’s study,” she said. “Did you hear any sound from within?”

  “No,” said Helm. “It was silent.” He paused. “But just before I went to the hall, I did hear footsteps and voices. I heard a door close, and again footsteps.”

  “Did you recognize the voices?”

  “No, Lady Kay. I was not attending to them.”

  “I see. Go on.”

  Helm did. “I was examining the labels of the jars when I saw a folded paper that had been inserted between them. I was curious, so I took it from its place. To my surprise, it was a message that according to its date had been sent that very day.”

  “And was it marked with a bloody handprint?”

  “Yes. I did see the blood, but I assumed it to be connected to the breaking of the jar that morning. I thought perhaps Mr. Dinley had cut his hand on the glass. And then what I read in the letter drove the stain from my mind.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It was very brief. The writer apologized for his failure to attend the tour. He was eager to reschedule his visit, but as he was soon to depart the city, he requested Sir Barnaby to reply at once to make arrangements. He supplied an address and—and a name. Belyaninov.” Helm’s face twisted as he pronounced the word.

  “Belyaninov.” Cecily repeated the unfamiliar syllables. “I do not know who he is.”

  Helm cleared his throat. “General Kiril Belyaninov serves Tsar Peter of Russia. He is known to all in Sweden for his terrible efficacy on the field of battle. His name is only ever spoken in fear and in anger, for he has led every campaign most devastating to my county.”

  “And he is in London now?”

  “On visit of diplomacy,” said Helm in a choked voice. “When Mr. Dinley told me a man from Russia was to join the tour, I never guessed that it could be that man. When I saw his name, I was overcome. I consider myself a person of discipline, Lady Kay. Of patience. But in that moment, I was not myself. It came into my head very suddenly that I would kill Belyaninov. That I must kill him. But I had with me no weapon.”

  An idea struck Cecily. “The gun. It was you who took the gun from the Artifact Room.”

  Helm nodded miserably. “I had seen it earlier in the day. I went upstairs, and I stole it from its case. That is where I was when you say Mrs. Barlow went in search of me.”

  Cecily tried to steady the thoughts whirling through her head. “And that is the reason you departed the house before supper,” she said. “You did not suddenly remember another engagement. You went to find Belyaninov.”

  “That is the truth, Lady Kay. Such was my emotion that it did not enter my mind to bid farewell to my host, or to retrieve from him the catalogue. So you see, as pertains to his death, what I previously have told you was true.”

  “What did you do after you left the house?”

  “I inquired where to find the address given by Belyaninov in his message. I journeyed to that place on foot. I went to the door of his apartment and I—I challenged him.” Helm lifted pained eyes and gestured ruefully at his bruised face. “I posed for him and his companions not even the smallest threat. They disarmed me with no effort. There was much laughter. I do not remember more, but when I came to my senses I was outside in the alley. I could not clear my thoughts. I wandered, and my path took me back to the Mayne house.”

  “As you told us,” said Cecily.

  “Yes,” answered Helm. “I was most grateful to have my life, and since that time I have been determined to counter my wrongs by applying myself with renewed vigor to my work.” He looked at Cecily sadly. “Now I have told you all. I must hope you forgive my foolish behavior.”

  “If what you have told me is true,” said Cecily, “you have already been punished out of proportion with your crime. You may have believed your intention was to kill, but you were not the cause of harm to any person that day.”

  Helm attempted a smile. “You are kind, Lady Kay. But I do not understand why you have asked me these questions. Was not Walter Dinley the killer of Barnaby Mayne?”

  “I believe Walter Dinley is innocent.”

  Helm appeared only slightly surprised by her words. After a moment, he nodded slowly. “I did not think him to be a man with violence in his heart,” he said. “But I fear my story has been of no help to you.”

  “On the contrary,” said Cecily. “You have drawn a clear path before me, and I have only one more request. Can you tell me where to find General Belyaninov?”

  CHAPTER 31

  General Kiril Belyaninov regarded Cecily through a haze of pipe smoke so dense that the contents of the room appeared stuck in it like insects in amber. That the general and his friends had not allowed the diplomatic purpose of their trip to curtail their enjoyment of it was evident in the tale of recreation written across the chamber. Playing cards peppered the floor. Toppled bottles and cups rose like ruined cities from tables. Paintings not only hung askew, but were pocked with puncture marks, an explanation for which was provided by the knife that had been left triumphantly embedded at the center of one bewigged brow. Discarded undergarments formed separate trails to every piece of furniture with a soft surface.

  “But you are a tall woman with dark hair,” said the general without rising from his chair. He was a man of advancing middle age, solidly built, with smooth, dark curls arranged loose almost to his shoulders. For all the limp dishevelment of his attire, his jaw was clean-shaven and firm.

  Cecily remained on the threshold of the apartment with the door open, a precaution that had been suggested to her by the innkeeper’s wife. The friendly-faced woman, raising beleaguered eyes heavenward, had declared she would have preferred to play housekeeper to a pack of wolves than to her current tenants.

  The only action Belyaninov took upon comprehending that Cecily was not the hired company he had been expecting was to unsling one leg from over the arm of his chair and place both booted feet on the floor. “Kay,” he said, pronouncing her name as if he were tasting it. “Kay. There is a Kay who is consul at Smyrna.”

  “That is my husband.”

  Belyaninov picked up a bottle from a table near him and shook it. He frowned, dropped it, and repeated the action with a second bottle and a third. He bellowed a name to a closed door behind him. It opened and a man entered dressed in trousers and an open jacket that exposed his furred, barrel chest from neck to navel. Belyaninov tossed the third empty bottle in his direction. It hit the floor and broke into pieces. The man grinned at Cecily. “Another bottle,” said Belyaninov. “I’m to endure pleasantries with a friend of the conniving Turks.”

  The man’s grin disappeared. He left the room and returned with a fresh bottle. As he set it on the table, he ground its base into the wood and fixed Cecily with a menacing stare. Belyaninov gave a bark of laughter and waved him away.

  Cecily was reminded of days at sea when some quality of air and water imperceptible to her made the sailors stop their banter and apply their minds and bodies to their duties with grim purpose. There were set tasks for fine days and set tasks for stormy ones, she had been told, but when you didn’t know what sort of weather was coming the best course was simply not to dawdle.

  She spoke as if she did not expect to be questioned. “I understand you were to attend a tour at the house of Sir Barnaby Mayne last week.”

  Belyaninov filled his cup. “Maaaayne.” The word turned into a yawn that Cecily was grateful she was not near enough to smell. It seemed to make the air shudder. �
�Who is Mayne?”

  “Sir Barnaby Mayne,” Cecily repeated. “You were to visit his collection.”

  “Ah!” The exclamation burst from the general with sudden energy. “The collector. I had forgotten.” He leaned forward in his chair. “Come into the light of the window.”

  “As I have no escort, I will remain where I am.”

  Belyaninov leaned back with a shrug. “Why does a lady I do not know come to speak to me of a man I do not know?”

  “Then you were not acquainted with Sir Barnaby?”

  Belyaninov picked up a second cup, filled it, and held it out to her. “Share a drink with me?”

  Cecily shook her head. “Thank you, but no.”

  “A failure on all three counts,” the Russian said with a sigh, and drained the cup himself. “The Tsar has a saying. Never trust a woman, a Turk, or a person who does not drink. I believe you are a woman, though you are tall and lack the shape of one. Through your husband you are affiliated with the Turks. And now—” He raised the empty cup. “You refuse the chance you had to rise in my estimation.”

  “We were speaking,” said Cecily as if she had not heard him, “of the tour of Sir Barnaby’s collection.”

  The general’s expression turned bored. “I do not know this man Mayne. He wrote to me when I arrived in London. Three pages of obsequies. No less. The honor of the Tsar’s visit to his house three years ago. The honor of discovering mutual interests. The honor of receiving a silver cup from the hand of the Tsar. The honor of beholding the Tsar’s fine mustache.”

  Cecily nodded. “And?”

  “And?” Belyaninov’s mood swung again. Within the curls of smoke his eyes glittered with anger. “And, she asks me? And? As if she is General Commander. And?”

  When Cecily maintained a steady silence, Belyaninov slumped back in his chair. “And,” he said mockingly, “and come to my house. That is what this Mayne wrote to me. Come and let me show you my turtle shells and my stuffed birds and my healing stones cut from the bellies of beasts. Come and let me give you a message for the Tsar.”

  A tingle of excitement moved up Cecily’s spine. “A message? What message?”

  “How can I know? It was not in the letter to me.”

  Cecily tried again. “You said Sir Barnaby and the Tsar had mutual interests. What did you mean?”

  “I meant the cabinets, of course. Tsar Peter, like this Mayne, is a collector of curious items. Already his shelves contain greater wonders than any of your English ones. Soon they will be the greatest in the world.”

  “And does he have particular interests?” asked Cecily, thinking of the occult.

  Belyaninov’s lips extended into an unpleasant smile. “The Tsar’s tastes run to the anatomical, my lady. Extracted teeth, double-headed beasts, unusual—”

  Cecily cut him off. “And Sir Barnaby invited you to join his tour. The tour to be held on the twentieth of May?”

  “And again,” muttered the general. “Yes, yes, he asked me to come on the tour.”

  “Why didn’t you attend?”

  “But she speaks with such accusation!” exclaimed Belyaninov. He appeared to direct his comment at the destroyed portrait on the wall. The anonymous gentleman responded with a look of hauteur in his brown eyes, evidently unaware of the knife sticking out from between them. The odors and smoke filling the room were beginning to make Cecily feel slightly ill. To her relief, the general continued unprompted.

  “I didn’t attend,” he said, “because the rogue canceled the event! A note from the man himself was delivered that very morning—and after I’d spent an hour tying a new neck scarf in the English fashion!”

  Cecily’s eyebrows drew together. “Do you have this note?”

  Belyaninov snorted. “Why should I have it?”

  “I only wish to understand,” said Cecily. “You see, the tour was not canceled. I myself was there. It appeared to me very clear that Sir Barnaby was expecting you, and that he was surprised and disappointed when you did not arrive. Not only that, but I was told that Sir Barnaby received a message from you apologizing for not coming, and asking him to reply as soon as possible to reschedule your visit.”

  “I? I?” Belyaninov rose from his chair to a considerable height. His cry had brought the shirtless man back to the door. Another man in a similar state of dishabille stood behind him, fists clenched at his sides as if he carried his hands naturally as weapons. “I wrote no such message!” Belyaninov took a step toward Cecily. “Have I been the stooge in some mockery? Some prank?” Then, as abruptly as he had stood up, he sat down. He chuckled. “And I thought the English had no humor. Tell me. What trick have I abetted? A secret assignation of lovers? A cuckolding?”

  “There has been a murder,” said Cecily quietly.

  Belyaninov seemed taken aback. “Whose murder?”

  “Sir Barnaby’s.”

  “The man is killed? Why did you not tell me so?” The Russian’s astonishment appeared so genuine that Cecily felt a wave of disappointed frustration wash over her. She pressed him, but on the matter of Sir Barnaby’s death, he had nothing to add. When she carefully broached the subject of the attack on Otto Helm, Belyaninov embraced the story with excitement. All accusations of womanhood and Turkish affiliation seemingly forgotten, he enlisted his two companions to help him relate to their new friend Lady Kay the story of the Swede holding out a gun he did not know how to use in challenge, and of the bloody ease with which they had dispatched him. Cecily’s inquiry about a notebook filled with drawings of serpents was met with a torrent of inebriated laughter.

  “If the Swede is alive,” said Belyaninov, wiping tears of merriment from his eyes, “tell him his notebook pages were extremely useful in conducting business with our chamber pots. And thank him on our behalf. He provided some of the best entertainment we’ve had in London.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Cecily reentered the tavern at the Weary Elephant to find it more crowded than when she had left it. Heat from the kitchen hearth rose up from the floor and combined with bodies and breath, turning the space into a stifling confusion of shifting shoulders, shuffling boots, and hands holding tankards aloft. Savory steam blurred the air over tables on which hot mince pies were being disassembled by butter-glossed fingertips.

  Meacan wasn’t there. Cecily circled the room twice, dodging elbows and casting covert glances at each table and shadowed corner. She noted the men who had threatened Helm hunkered over their cups. They seemed to have grown larger and louder, as if the approaching night was being pumped into their veins, bloating them with strength to stalk the city streets. She hoped Helm had the good sense to stay in his room. The proprietor, sweating and soot-smudged with a tray of pastries held before him, affirmed that he knew Mrs. Barlow, but hadn’t seen her.

  Cecily claimed a place with a view of the door and ordered a mince pie and a cup of ale. The warm food renewed her energy. It also increased her impatience. Half an hour passed. Outside she heard the parish bells chiming six o’clock, heralding the start of the day’s protracted descent into night. It occurred to her that Meacan might have come in without the proprietor noticing, failed to find Cecily, and returned to the Dolphin. Resolved to look for her there, Cecily pushed her way through the heavy doors.

  Outside, the air cooled her cheeks and she breathed more easily. The setting sun glared from a clear sky to the west at a storm gathering in the east. Wheeling gulls, illuminated from below by the sun’s low rays, shone white against the looming slate-gray clouds. The yellow flowers of the stonecrop stood out brightly from cracks in brick walls.

  It was only a short walk to the Dolphin. As she approached the inn, Cecily became more and more certain that Meacan would be there. But when she arrived, the innkeeper insisted he hadn’t seen her. A cold sensation began to creep up Cecily’s spine. She hurried upstairs. The room was as they had left it. The piece of cake Meacan had wrapped in a clean cloth and set on the mantelpiece that morning was still there, untouched. Cecily began to pac
e the creaking floors. Every time she heard a carriage she went to the window, but none stopped before the inn.

  Time seemed to slow. Cecily had a remarkable capacity for patience and stillness when she had a plant before her, but it deserted her entirely when she was forced to wait with nothing to do. She had hated being closed in rooms from Venice to Istanbul to Aleppo to Smyrna while her husband and his colleagues made arrangements and agreements. She couldn’t bear pacing from wall to wall, alone, suspended in useless ignorance.

  The clocks had just struck seven when she climbed into a hackney and gave the driver the address of the Mayne house. The journey was slow. She braced herself as the carriage stopped and started and swerved through the crowded suppertime streets. At last the familiar terraced facades began to slip by the window. When the carriage stopped, she was out almost before the horses had halted.

  The house looked abandoned. She perceived no ripple of movement behind the blank, expressionless windows. The cool curve of the door knocker at her fingertips brought her back to the day she had arrived, full of anticipation, readying her mind to accept new knowledge. She brought the metal ring down with a hard rap. No sound came from within. Of course, if Meacan was there, she had entered by stealthy means, and wouldn’t respond to a knock at the front door.

  A glance over her shoulder assured her that her presence on the threshold had drawn no attention from the street. She set her hand to the door and pushed. To her surprise, it opened. Her own momentum pulled her forward into the house. Quickly, she stepped fully inside and closed the door behind her.