The Golden Specific

by S. E. Grove

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Culcutty!” Theo replied, taking the heavy tray and placing it on the table. “How are you?”

  “I am well, thank you, but my cousin across town is suffering from a summer cold, so I will be leaving shortly to see her.” She poured Nettie and Theo each a cup of Charleston tea.

  “Oh, poor Agatha!” Nettie exclaimed. “You will take her your molasses remedy, won’t you?”

  “I certainly will. Mr. Culcutty is in the back mending the fence if you should need anything. I’ll be back for supper.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Culcutty.” Nettie gave a sweet smile. She waited for the door to close. “Now,” she said, leaning forward, “tell me the rest.”

  Theo shrugged. “There isn’t much more to tell. There was nothing there. After a few minutes, they came outside, so I hopped the fence into the neighbor’s yard.”

  Nettie closed her eyes and chewed on a lock of hair. “Describe everything you remember from inside the shed. Everything.”

  “A worktable with a lamp, a ball of twine, a watering can, and the pruning shears. Some tools in the corner.”

  “Which tools?”

  “A shovel. A couple rakes. Hand spade. Things like that.”

  Nettie opened her eyes, scowling. “Charles, I said everything.”

  “Well, I couldn’t very well take notes, could I?”

  She huffed with frustration. “What else?”

  “Lots of empty pots, some of them broken.”

  “What did the ball of twine look like?”

  “What do you mean, what did it look like? A ball of twine.”

  “Was it rolled tight, or was it loose, as if the twine had been used?”

  Theo considered. “Loose. It had been used.”

  “What was in the watering can?”

  “I couldn’t see.”

  Nettie sat back with a sigh. “If you are right, and those shears had blood on them, then someone was hurt in that shed.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Problem is who.”

  “It could be one of the missing Eerie—one of the Weatherers or Goldenrod.”

  “Or it could be the man who brought her to the farm,” Theo put in. “Don’t forget about him. If he was supposed to kill Goldenrod and he didn’t, Broadgirdle wouldn’t have been happy.”

  “I haven’t forgotten about him,” Nettie said pensively. “But I have another piece of evidence that you haven’t seen yet.” She pulled a crumpled sheet of note paper from between the music books beside her. “Read this,” she said, handing it to Theo.

  February 4, 1892

  Goldenrod—

  I have found the Weatherers. I have even seen them. Their situation is dire, and it requires either great force or great ingenuity. I am devising alternatives. Part of the obstacle lies in how visible the Mark is upon them: if I expose their captivity publicly, their appearance will invite suspicion in Boston. I fear the outcome would be disastrous, given the prejudice toward foreigners. The solution must be stealthy, and I would welcome Eerie assistance. Further, I regret to say, they will be in need of your curative powers once they are freed.

  They send you the enclosed rule. It seemed pressing.

  —B

  Theo had seen enough governmental paperwork in Shadrack’s study to recognize the late prime minister’s writing. “Where was this?” he asked.

  “In one of the boxes of Bligh’s papers,” Nettie said. She grimaced. “I was up all night reading.”

  “What about the rule at the end?”

  She shook her head. “This was mixed in with a lot of other documents. It’s clearly the letter that brought Goldenrod to Boston. My guess is that she had it with her at the farm, and Bligh saved it once she was in his care. Who knows what she did with the rule.”

  “I’m not even sure what kind of rule he means. A written rule?”

  Nettie’s eyes widened with sudden awareness and she gave a little gasp. “Of course!” she exclaimed. “Not rules but rule. How could I not have realized?”

  Theo looked at her, perplexed. “Yes, that’s what it says.”

  Nettie jumped up from her chair. “We have a little time before Mrs. Culcutty returns. Hurry!”

  Theo followed her out of the piano room and into the elegant hallway at the rear of the house. It was the first time he had seen it. Patterned wallpaper and a set of pastoral landscapes in oval frames covered the wall. Nettie stopped before a heavy oak door on the right-hand side and quickly pulled a key from her skirt pocket. “I had a copy made ages ago,” she whispered. “Easier than using a hairpin every time.”

  Inspector Grey’s office was what Theo had expected. Heavy wooden cabinets and the mahogany desk darkened the room. A navy carpet from the Indies and two worn armchairs formed a tidy sitting area where more than a dozen boxes stood in neat piles. “I should have realized the minute I read it,” Nettie muttered. She opened the top box and rifled through it, then moved on to the next. “No one says ‘rule’ unless they mean . . . this!” She held up a folded wooden ruler, worn from years of use. “I thought it was just an object from his desk, but it must be what Bligh mentioned in the letter.”

  Theo took it up skeptically. “Really? It looks like an ordinary ruler.”

  “Except for the date,” Nettie said triumphantly.

  “The date?” Theo examined the ruler more closely, and on the unruled side he saw, faintly scrawled in red: Feb 2 1892. “I see what you mean. The date would fit with the date on the letter.”

  “The Weatherers gave this to Bligh, and he sent it to Goldenrod.”

  “But what is it?” Theo asked, baffled. He handed it back to her.

  Nettie dropped into one of the worn armchairs. “I don’t know.” She seemed to think with her entire face. “No other markings in red. It must be some kind of cipher. Or perhaps it belongs to one of the Weatherers, and sending it is proof of something. Or the ruler might remind Goldenrod of a particular event that they all were part of.” She wound a curl around her index finger and tugged. “Too many alternatives. I just don’t know.” She got up again and began arranging the boxes into their original tidy stack. “Do you think Elli knows about the Weatherers as well? Could you go and ask him?”

  “They still aren’t allowed visitors.” In truth, the prison did allow visitors, and Theo’s investigation would have benefited from a long conversation with Shadrack and Miles. But it was rather difficult to visit them when he was not supposed to leave East Ending Street. Nettie Grey might be fooled by a false name, but he didn’t wish to test his luck at the New Jail. “Has your father seen the letter?” he asked in the hallway as Nettie locked the study door.

  “I’m not sure. But he wouldn’t necessarily think it’s important. He doesn’t know what we know.” Nettie wound her way back to the piano room and sat down among the poppies.

  “But you’re going to give it to him, right?” Theo asked. “It practically proves it.”

  “Proves what, exactly?” Nettie asked, more to herself than to him. She twirled her hair thoughtfully. “We can speculate that Gordon Broadgirdle kidnapped the Weatherers, and Bligh discovered it. He sent a note to Goldenrod asking her for help, and she came. She was attacked by one of the grappling-hook brutes, but survived. Bligh found her and tried to take care of her. Bligh confronted Broadgirdle on his own about the captive Weatherers, and it got him killed.”

  “That’s it,” Theo said in earnest agreement. “It makes perfect sense.”

  “It does,” Nettie agreed, “but it’s not enough. There’s no proof. And there are too many questions. Where has Goldenrod vanished to? What about the man who attacked her? And this is the most important: Why would Broadgirdle kidnap the Weatherers?” She tapped her chin. “We need more.”

  Theo ran a hand through his hair. “We need to find the Weatherers.”

  “You need to get cl
oser to Broadgirdle.”

  He stood and walked over to the window. He looked out into the side garden, where the neighbor’s roses hung heavy with faded petals. “Maybe there’s a different way to do it.”

  “Perhaps, but this is the fastest. What other way do you have in mind?”

  Theo pressed his forehead against the glass and tried to think. Sophia would come up with some other way, he thought. But I can’t see one. He turned back to face Nettie. “Let me think about it.”

  —13-Hour 15—

  HAVING RETURNED TO East Ending Street and fended off Mrs. Clay’s anxious questions about where he had been, Theo went to his room to ponder his dilemma. There was some part of him that wanted to forget about the problem altogether. I could still leave Boston, he thought. There’s no one forcing me to stay here. But he knew this was untrue, even as the escape route unfurled in his mind. He could leave Boston, but he could not leave Shadrack and Miles and Mrs. Clay; he could not leave Sophia. It felt strange every time he thought about it, but every time he reached the same conclusion: even facing Broadgirdle would not be as bad as losing the people who now knew him best.

  What is the solution Sophia would suggest that I can’t see? He smiled as he realized the solution Sophia would propose almost certainly resided in a book. But there was no book to tell him what Broadgirdle had done with the Weatherers. He slapped his forehead in frustration. The Weatherers. They’re in the dead center of this, and I have to figure out where they are. I have to figure out who they are.

  Bligh’s letter had referred to “the Mark.” Given what Miles had said about Goldenrod and the bed of flowers, it was almost certainly the Mark of the Vine. Suddenly, Theo remembered one of the books Veressa Metl had given Sophia the previous summer. He hurried into her room and scanned the bookshelf until he found it: Origins and Manifestations of the Mark of the Vine, by Veressa Metl. Theo began paging through it, skimming as quickly as he could for some mention of the Eerie or Weatherers. Neither was in the index.

  Much of the first half of the book was theoretical, for no one could point with certainty to where or when the Mark had emerged. The second half contained observations on how the Mark of the Vine appeared in different people, and these were organized into chapters titled “Physiological Characteristics,” “Aptitudes,” “Care and Healing,” and “Behavioral Tendencies.” Those with the Mark most often manifested it on their limbs, though in one case a man’s chest was encased in bark, and in others leaves sprouted from the back like wings. Many with the Mark were gifted at working with plants, and in some cases they could grow new plants from their own bodies, without the use of seeds or shoots. Veressa posited that the Mark was not something one did or did not have; rather, it was a spectrum. Some people had very little of the Vine, and some people had a great deal. Perhaps one person might have a single thorn growing from a knuckle, while another might have the Mark on every part of the body.

  Theo only put the book aside for dinner, and it was late in the evening when he reached the penultimate chapter, “Care and Healing.” There, following a disturbing section on tree diseases, was one called “Winter Sleep.” Theo skimmed it without really taking it in. Then a light flared in his mind, and he read it again:

  Just as bulbs sleep in the earth during winter, so do some with the fullest manifestation of the Mark. Well packed in nourishing soil, such a person might comfortably rest for weeks or even months, as long as this does not extend beyond a single season. In cases where disease or injury has taxed the body to extremes, such winter sleep can even be a necessary remedy.

  Theo pictured the contents of the shed: a worktable with a few objects; a wall of tools; and three empty planters stacked beside it. They were long and wide—like coffins. I was looking at the wrong thing, he realized. Not the pruning shears, but the planters. The Weatherers were there. He kept them in winter sleep, and then he took them out. The question is, where are they now?

  He slowly closed the book, replaced it on Sophia’s shelf, and returned to his own room. There, he curled up on his bed and considered the objects around him. What were they, really? A bed, a chair, a desk, a collection of souvenirs from the pirates, and a bundle of clothes. They were, in reality, worthless. He could have easily stolen their value ten times over. And yet, at the same time, they were priceless. This room, in this house, with the people who lived in it, were worth more than anything. If need be, they were worth his life.

  There was really no choice, Theo realized. He didn’t want to, but he had to. Nettie was right—he had to get closer to Broadgirdle.

  28

  Wearing the Mustache

  —June 8: 12-Hour 20—

  While the hospital reform initiated by the New States Party did improve conditions for patients, it did not alter the rules for admittance, which continued to prove problematic—particularly at hospitals and houses of charity ministering to patients suffering from madness. Many are assumed to suffer from madness when, in fact, their symptoms disguise other conditions—at times more dangerous, at times entirely innocuous.

  —From Shadrack Elli’s History of New Occident

  THEO LEARNED OF the job because he was lingering by the State House, trying to find a way of approaching it that would not be too obvious. He kept his distance from the crowd of younger and more ragged boys that loitered just across the street, waiting for a message or a package to carry. The guards always made sure that these boys didn’t make it onto the steps, but Theo looked older and tidier, and when he approached the steps with a doubtful expression a guard immediately pointed to his right. “You’re looking for job postings? Rear door by the servants’ entrance.”

  “Thank you,” Theo said amiably. He had been looking for nothing of the kind, but this would be an easier and less visible way of gaining entry. When he reached the servants’ entrance, he found a wooden board covered with paper advertisements, and while he waited to get a sense of how much foot traffic there was, and what was required to get in, he looked over the postings. One in the center sprang out:

  JUNE 6: Bertram Peel, in the office of MP Gordon Broadgirdle, seeks a responsible and diligent assistant of good character to work full-time, beginning immediately. Inquire within.

  Theo reread the advertisement and the date three times, unable to believe what it said. Then he turned on his heel and went home.

  He did not return for two days. Theo told himself that he needed the time to work on his knowledge of parliament, but in reality it took those two days to work up his nerve.

  It was true that his knowledge of parliament was negligible. He had heard a great deal about the Ministry of Relations with Foreign Ages from Shadrack, but he had no interest in the workings of the legislature. If he was going to do this, he would have to learn. Plunging into a pile of newspapers at Miles’s house, he read everything he could about recent happenings. He was aware that a temporary prime minister had been appointed in place of Bligh and that a proper election would be held at the end of the month. He also knew, as did all of Boston, that Broadgirdle would be the candidate for the Western Party. Theo suspected that the position he was applying for was due to an increased workload resulting from Broadgirdle’s campaign. But he had not known or suspected much beyond this, and over the course of two days he did his best to memorize as many names of MPs and as many details about the histories of each party as his brain could hold.

  He arrived at the State House on June 10, dressed in a way that was meant to both flatter and disguise. The thin mustache and severely parted hair were there for Broadgirdle’s vanity; he knew that Graves, as ever, thought himself a handsome man, and he would be pleased to think that he had imitators. The kidskin gloves and the pressed suit were there for concealment: in proper clothes, with his scarred hand hidden, Theo felt confident that he would be unrecognizable.

  Or, at least, he felt confident at the State House entrance. By the time he arrived at Broadgirdl
e’s offices on the top floor, he was having difficulty breathing. He stood in the corridor for a moment and took deep lungfuls of air. There was sweat on his brow, and he wiped it away quickly.

  Then he walked to the door of Broadgirdle’s offices and knocked. A thin, reedy voice called, “Come in.”

  Theo found himself facing a gaunt and unbecoming personage with a hairstyle and mustache identical to his. He felt a bubble of mirth rising through his nervousness. “Mr. Bertram Peel?”

  “Yes?”

  “I am here to inquire about the office assistant position.”

  The man looked him over in silence for several seconds. Then he glanced at his watch. “You are fortunate to have arrived at a good time,” he said. “If you will have a seat, I would like to ask you a few preliminary questions.”

  “Certainly,” Theo said, taking the seat by the desk.

  Peel made a great show of procuring a clean pad of paper and testing his pen. “Your name?”

  “Archibald Slade.”

  “How did you learn of the position? Were you referred by anyone?”

  “No, I saw it posted near the servants’ entrance. I had been hoping—waiting, really—to see a position in MP Broadgirdle’s office for such a long time.”

  Peel pressed his lips together with approval or skepticism—it was hard to tell. “You are a supporter of MP Broadgirdle?”

  “Oh, absolutely,” Theo replied. “I think his vision for New Occident is exactly what we need.”

  Peel let his pen pause over the paper. “How, exactly?”

  Theo took a deep breath. Broadgirdle had made numerous campaign speeches, and his agenda was simple, at least as he presented it to the public: Look west and conquer. The self-righteous bombast with which he spoke of conquering the west managed to conceal its messiness, impracticality, and, in some cases, downright impossibility. There were not enough people in New Occident to “conquer” much of anything. The standing army was minuscule. Only people on the border with the Indian Territories had any desire to edge westward, and they were already doing it. Broadgirdle’s campaign could have easily been brought to a halt with one question: “Who?” That is, “Who will look west and conquer?”