Bronwen trembled. “How many are ill?”
“As of yesterday, apart from the usual sicknesses that visit themselves upon any town, anywhere in the world, Silkeborg has one hundred and fifty-seven people with mysterious symptoms that experts cannot diagnose. They are different, in different people.”
“In a population this small, that is a significant number,” Bronwen’s mother said, from the other side of the coach.
“You think I can do what experts could not?” Bronwen asked, stunned.
Borgmester Østergård’s smile was rueful. “What I have got to lose?”
Bronwen shook her head. “My only expertise is that I have read widely. That is not a skill which can cure what ails your people, Borgmester.”
“Still, I would ask that you try. You have an uncanny knack for coupling odd facts, or so I understand from your explanation of how you cured Magistrate Fisker.”
“I did not cure him,” Bronwen said tiredly. “I only relieved his symptoms. His disease cannot be cured.”
“You gave him respite, when others could not. That is not insignificant.”
Bronwen realized she was wringing her gloved hands together and made them stop. She put her hands beneath the fur once more and shuddered, this time with more than cold.
Elisa sat forward and touched her knee. “What would it hurt to try?” she asked reasonably. “The Borgmester is correct. You do have a gift for putting together stray facts. Perhaps you will stumble upon even part of the truth.”
“You were looking for something to do, were you not?” her mother asked.
Bronwen sighed and looked at Østergård. “I can try,” she said. “That is all I can promise.”
“Very good. Very, very good,” he said. He lifted his voice and called out to the driver, who cracked the whip. The horses picked up the pace.
“Where are we going?” Bronwen asked, as the coach turned out of the market square.
“To visit the ill and the dead,” Østergård said. “While I have your attention, I would use it wisely.”
“May we have the top put up while we do so?” Bronwen asked.
“On a beautiful, warm day like today?” Borgmester Østergård protested.
* * * * *
After the seventh stop at a small, painted cottage, where the hapless owner and his family suffered, Bronwen trudged toward the carriage where her mother and Natasha and Elisa waited—with the top up, now. Borgmester Østergård walked alongside her, keeping pace with his much longer legs.
“The child was barely six years old,” she whispered, distress making her eyes sting.
“Seven, although I’m told he will not see his eighth year,” Østergård replied.
Bronwen stopped in the middle of the neat path, which had been scrupulously cleared of all snow and looked up at him. “I am not sure I can stand to see another, Borgmester Østergård. I am not able to help them. Their illnesses are unknown to me. I have never read of such an odd collection of complaints.”
Borgmester Østergård nodded. “May I add one more to your tally, before you end the day? Then I will take you and the Princess and the two ladies to dine at my house.”
“I suppose, yes, if I must.” Bronwen tried to smile. “I’m afraid I have no appetite now.”
“I understand,” he replied. “I have not had much appetite for several years now.”
Bronwen sighed. “And the last patient?”
“Me,” he said.
Her heart sank. “Oh…”
“It is a growth, I am told. In here.” He touched his belly. “Soon, it will halt the functioning of an important organ and then I will die. In the meantime, though, I work to save those people I can. This is my town, Miss Davies. I have lived here all my life. I have dined with the Archeduke many times…the previous Archeduke, I mean. I am a man of means, yet I am a victim. This malady that smites us is unjust and unfair, choosing the rich, the poor, the young, the old. I would rid Silkeborg of its menace before I die.”
She stared at his middle, as if she might see the tumor he spoke of with her naked eye.
There was a word she had heard used in the more obscure medical texts that described Borgmester Østergård’s condition. “Cancer,” she murmured.
His brow lifted. “That is what one doctor called it.”
“Cancer is not a mysterious illness,” she pointed out. “It is very rare, although it is not mysterious. Doctors have known about it since Hippocrates’ time.”
“Then I am one of the rare people and it is just a coincidence that my illness struck me at the same moment this plague descended upon Silkeborg.”
“Perhaps not. Coincidences can happen. They are rare in nature, though.” She considered him, her thoughts swirling. “You said one hundred and fifty-seven people had mysterious symptoms, while others were sick with normal diseases. What are those diseases?”
“Consumption. Infections.” He shrugged. “I am assured the numbers are normal for a population of this size.”
“What if they are not?” she asked. “What if some of those normal illnesses are caused by the same source that causes the mysterious symptoms?” She stood with her head down, thinking.
Borgmester Østergård stayed silent.
There was something he had just said… She frowned, recalling what he had said, then lifted her head. “You said your illness came upon you at the same time everyone else grew ill. Did you mean that everyone who is ill, became so at the same moment?”
He shook his head and she sighed. “They have occurred across several years,” he added.
Bronwen turned and headed for the coach once more. Then she halted again and spun to look at him. “The same several years? There was nothing before that? What years? When did it start?”
He frowned. “I would need to consult the charts the doctors compiled. The Archeduke insisted upon records being kept.” He shook his head. “They are in the municipal offices, back in the square.”
“Can we consult the charts? Now?” she asked.
“You are still not hungry?” he asked.
“Not until I’ve seen the charts. Please, Borgmester.”
His smile was sad. “Very well. Others have studied them, without success. Although, we are clutching at straws…”
* * * * *
Borgmester Østergård translated her requests, while his clerks hurried, finding chairs for Annalies, Natasha and Elisa, who were more than happy to trail behind and observe. Another clerk, this one an older man with no hair, carried a big leather-bound notebook out from an inner office and placed it on the table in front of Bronwen and bowed. Talking quickly, he turned the heavy cover and flipped pages and pages of notes written in a variety of hands and inks, until he came to the last and tapped it.
Bronwen stepped forward. “Danish, of course,” she said, looking at the page. She glanced up at Østergård. “What is this page?”
“This year’s listings,” Østergård said.
“I would like to see the first year’s listings.”
Østergård conveyed the request and the clerk closed the book with a thump, then opened it and stepped back, bowing again.
Bronwen looked at the first page.
“Shall I translate?” Østergård asked.
She shook her head. “A date is a date in any language.” She ran her finger across an entry and spotted it. “Eighteen fifty-eight. Eight years ago.” She looked at Østergård. “What happened in Silkeborg eight years ago?”
“Others asked that same question.” He shook his head. “The answer is, nothing. Nothing of significance happened.”
Bronwen looked down at the cramped handwriting on the first page. “Nothing you know of,” she murmured. “Diseases like cancer have long periods of silent growth. Years. Consumption can take years to be noticed. The mystery symptoms may have similar diseases at their base that also take years to develop. What has happened in Silkeborg of any significance in the ten years before that?”
Østerg�
�rd frowned.
“You have lived here all your life,” Bronwen pointed out. “What events do you remember?”
He laughed. “The only event of significance in the last one hundred years, apart from the deaths of three Archedukes, has been the opening of the paper mill.”
Annalies gasped and got to her feet. “There is a paper mill here?” she asked, moving up to the table.
“A modern one,” Borgmester Østergård said, pride back in his voice. “It is located on the river, just around the bend from the town. I planned to take you there to visit, only my excursion was interrupted.” His smile was as small and gentle as his teasing.
Annalies looked at Bronwen. “If it is a new mill, then it most likely uses chlorine to whiten the pulp.” She glanced at Borgmester Østergård. “I read about it,” she explained.
Borgmester Østergård nodded. “I, too, read about the processes. We considered the mill, your Highness. Only, it is not workers at the mill who grow ill. It is anyone in the village, or just outside it. It cannot be the mill that is at fault, for it was here for years before the illnesses began.”
“How many years?” Bronwen asked. “When was it built?”
“Eighteen fifty-five.”
Bronwen stared through the tall man, thinking. Eighteen fifty-five was three years before any symptoms had appeared in the town.
Annalies bit her lip. “Why would villagers fall ill and not mill workers?”
“Not just mill-workers,” Bronwen replied.
“I fear you are following a false lead, your Highness, Miss Davies,” Østergård told them. “The mill is not the source.”
Bronwen put her face in her hands. Something niggled in her mind, something that had looked normal, yet was not. Something she should have noticed.
“Deductive. Inductive. What?” she whispered.
Someone came into the office, sending a cold blast of air across the room, drawing attention to the heat the potbellied stoves were belching out.
“The cold!” Bronwen said, lifting her face from her hands.
Annalies nodded. “What about it?”
“The river wasn’t frozen.” Bronwen gripped her mother’s sleeve. “It’s cold and the river wasn’t frozen.” She turned to Borgmester Østergård. “When was the last time the river froze in winter?”
Borgmester Østergård was no longer smiling. “That is not a record we keep.”
“Ask him,” Bronwen said, nodding at the older clerk, who was standing politely, unable to follow their English. “As your memory is failing.”
“Bronwen…” her mother breathed in warning.
“Please,” Bronwen added, giving Østergård her best smile.
Borgmester Østergård considered her for a long, silent moment. Then he turned to the clerk and rattled out a question in Danish.
The clerk frowned, thinking. Then he spoke, glancing at Bronwen and her mother.
“What did he say?” Bronwen pressed Østergård.
“He said it has been over ten years since they got to skate on the river at Christmas. Before that, the river froze every winter.” Østergård fished out his watch and consulted it. “I must return you to the Magistrate’s house. I have an appointment. This way, please.”
“But—” Bronwen began, as he attempted to shepherd them through the door.
“I am running very late, I am so sorry,” Østergård insisted.
“There is direct empirical evidence—” Bronwen began.
“Not now,” her mother whispered and guided her toward the door.
Bronwen let herself be led out to the waiting coach and bundled inside. Østergård shut the door on them and peered through the door. “I bid you goodnight, ladies. Axelson will see you home.” He touched his brim and turned away.
The coach moved forward with a jolt, rattling the four of them.
“I don’t understand,” Bronwen said, looking at the other three. “It is clearly the paper mill that is the source of the problem. Mother, mills use a lot of water, yes? That’s why they are always on rivers or lakes.”
“Yes,” Annalies admitted.
“And the river hasn’t frozen since the mill was built,” Bronwen concluded. “They’re putting something in the water. Maybe even the chlorine you mentioned. I don’t know the chemistry for that—”
“It is an acid. A powerful one,” Annalies replied.
“If something like that was in the town’s water, then that is why everyone is falling ill. Borgmester Østergård could see that was what I was about to say, so why did he cut me off?”
“I think you’re missing a vital point,” Natasha said. It was the first time she had spoken for a long while, although her interest in the investigation had been no less than Bronwen’s.
“What would the point be, Natasha?” Elisa asked, with a tone that said she expected to be surprised.
“Politics,” Natasha replied.
Annalies leaned back. “Or economics, depending upon how one considers it.”
“In a town this size, politics and economics are blood brothers,” Elisa added.
Bronwen gripped a fold of her dress. “Borgmester Østergård does not want to know the truth because he fears he will lose his post as Borgmester?” She shook her head. “He cares about the town too much and besides, he’s dying.” She sat up. “No, it is more basic than that. The mill likely employs dozens…hundreds of people.” She looked at the three older ladies. “He is afraid that if the mill is the source and it is shut down, everyone will suffer, not just those who are ill. He is protecting his town.”
The coach came to a halt. Now that Borgmester Østergård was not a passenger, the driver did not seem to care about throwing his passengers around with sharp stops and starts.
Bronwen sat back upon the seat and looked through the window. There were two tall figures standing on the narrow balcony at the front of the Magistrate’s house. “Why, that is Benjamin, isn’t it?”
Annalies ducked to look through the window, too. “And Wakefield!”
Sharla hurried out onto the balcony and waved at them. “I brought your turmeric!” she called.
“I asked that she send it,” Bronwen breathed, stunned. She looked at Elisa.
Elisa shrugged. “I may have stressed the urgency a tad.”
The driver did not climb from his bench to open the door for them, so Ben leapt down the stairs to the road and opened it, instead. He helped them out while Sharla hugged them one at a time and Dane bowed over each of their hands.
When Bronwen held her hand out to step down, Ben’s dropped away as he studied her. “Oh my lord!” he breathed.
“That’s not what you say to a lady, idiot,” Dane said, coming forward. He held out his hand. “Although Ben has just cause. You are a most delightful and beautiful version of your former self.” He bent over her hand, not quite kissing it. His gaze met hers. His eyes twinkled. “Do I detect a man at the root of this great change?”
Bronwen pulled her hand from his, trying not to rise in response to his accurate teasing. “Dane, Ben, Sharla, there was no need for you to rush to Belgium for the sake of a pound of turmeric,” she told them. “Though it is very good to see you.”
“A pound of turmeric and this,” Dane said, digging in his coat. He pulled out a letter with a flourish and presented it to Annalies. “The same coat of arms is on the front as was on mine. You, your Highness, have been invited to attend the coronation of King Leopold the Second, in Brussels, on the seventeenth of this month.”
“That’s three days from now,” Sharla added. “That’s why we brought it ourselves. Dane didn’t want to use even a private courier and risk you missing the letter and slighting the new King.”
Dane waved toward the coach. “We have a special waiting at the train station. How fast can you pack your trunks?”
“It only takes a few hours to reach Belgium from here,” Annalies pointed out.
Natasha shook her head. “A coronation is usually accompanied by a
ball. That’s why Sharla looks so pleased.”
Sharla’s smile widened. “Paris is a day away. That leaves a day to buy a ball gown and I want to visit the House of Worth to buy mine.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Smithfield Show, Agricultural Hall, Islington, London. December, 1865
“He can’t be here,” Jack said. “Even if he is then how, in God’s good graces, are we supposed to find him?”
Will stepped around a trio of Irish Wolfhounds being escorted by leash through the narrow aisle. He readjusted his coat and brushed it to rid it of coarse dog hair. “I tell you, he’s here. Travers was certain. Cian left the townhouse this morning after breakfast, the same as always and said he was coming to the show.”
Jack stepped over to the side of the busy aisle, moving out of the tide of men, dogs and even a pig or two and looked around helplessly. The huge hall had a domed roof that soared to ninety feet at the top of the peak. Because the hall was longer than it was wide, the ridge ran for more than a hundred yards. The hall should have been airy and fresh because of it, however, every spare inch was fenced off into tiny paddocks. Each enclosure was strewn with calf-deep hay and each enclosure held a staggering array of bulls, cows, sheep, pigs. All of them were bellowing, snorting, bleating and squealing. Exotic chickens, with spots and colorful tails, added to the din.
Hay dust floated in the air above the heads of the thousands of people squashed into the narrow aisles between the display pens. The stench was unbelievable. If the roof had been any lower, the aroma would have been intolerable.
“Why didn’t Cian send that new estate manager of his here? Why come himself?” Jack demanded, as Will waved his hand in front of his nose.
Will shrugged. “Because it’s what he’s always done?” He scratched at his beard. “It’s Cian. He’s always been a law unto himself. Let’s divide up the place. An aisle each. Up and back, then meet back here at the top. It’ll go faster. I have an appointment in the city at two.” He pulled out his watch and flipped the lid, then frowned.
Jack shook his head. “I have a better idea. Look.” He pointed into the air, high over their heads. A large board hung from chains. Painted on it in gold and white lettering was the announcement, “Dining Saloon,” with a hand pointing to the left.
Mask of Nobility (Scandalous Scions Book 4) Page 13
