My dear Gracie,
It seems so long since we have been in touch. Indeed, I fear this letter may never reach you. Since Kitty has become the talk of the theatrical world, I imagine her services are in demand throughout the realm. Indeed, you may already have left the address to which I am directing this missive. Do you ever think of returning to Norwich? I am sure your many friends here would rejoice at such news. I am sure I would.
My own life continues much as before, somewhat dull and undemanding. Sometimes I fear I am sinking into a morass of normality. I can only hope and pray that a new mystery comes along which will demand an unusual effort on my part. That seems most unlikely. Norwich has become far more law-abiding than it was, thanks to the demise of Jack Beeston. There hasn’t been a killing or any other serious offence in weeks, if you omit the various gang members attacking one another. With nothing to excite me, I must soldier on as best I can.
Please let me have news of you and your sister when you have a moment. I miss you both and you may be assured of my continuing regard.
I am, as ever, your devoted friend,
Ashmole Foxe
On at least two counts, poor Foxe was soon to regret ever sending this letter.
The first reason for regret over this missive became apparent almost at once. On the day before, the one on which Dr Jonathon Danson, D.D. was sent to meet his maker, Mr Ashmole Foxe also had an unanticipated visitor. Alfred, Foxe’s manservant, brought in the man’s card. It was not informative. All that was printed on it was his name, “Mr Anthony Smith”, and his address, “Cambridge”.
‘Show him into my library, Alfred,’ Foxe said. ‘It’s possible he wants to buy or sell some books, which makes it a suitable place to receive him. You’d better ask Molly to bring some refreshments too.’
The man who came in seemed to be trying to make himself as forgettable as possible. He was of average stature with the kind of face you might see on the street a hundred times a day. His dress was sober, though Foxe noted that it was made of fine cloth. He wore an unremarkable wig, plain blue stockings and good shoes, though not of the very best quality. Even his voice was without any noticeable accent.
After the usual preliminaries, accompanied by accepting a dish of coffee, Mr Smith proved to be in no hurry to state his business. Instead, he looked around at Foxe’s modest library with the eye of an expert surveying colts at a Newmarket horse sale.
‘Before knocking at your door, I took the time to enter your bookshop and peruse some of the stock there. Well-chosen, I must say, and most carefully presented. Your library, sir, is not so extensive, yet it contains some fine bindings. From what I can see, without moving from my seat, it also holds more than a few rare and desirable books. To be expected in a bookseller, perhaps. Yet I have known several who, like certain wine merchants, have little taste for what they sell. Your reputation as a bookseller of taste and discernment is assuredly justified.’
‘I thank you, sir,’ Foxe replied, wishing Mr Smith would come to the point. ‘I can take little credit for what you saw in the shop. My partner, Mrs Crombie, deals with that side of the business. I am pleased to say she rarely requires my help in choosing suitable volumes.’
‘So I understand. You are most fortunate in that respect. It must allow you to concentrate on dealing in rare volumes. Even so, I gather that too takes up little of your time. For the rest, you take an interest in looking into unexplained deaths. An unusual hobby even for a wealthy man, if I may make such an observation without offending you.’
‘You have done a good deal of research into myself and my business,’ Foxe said. He was beginning to feel annoyed by this display of prior investigation. ‘You have the advantage of me in that respect. You knew you were coming. I was not informed of your visit in advance, thus denying me any opportunity of anticipating your areas of interest.
‘I perceive you are annoyed with me, Mr Foxe. It is perhaps deserved. Let me explain myself without further preliminaries. As you will have seen from my card, I have come from Cambridge. There I have the honour to be a member of a group of scholars and bibliophiles linked to the colleges of the university. My colleagues and I heard of you through our contacts amongst serious book collectors. I have therefore come here today to see if you would be able to help us. We have a need for a particular volume for our little group’s somewhat specialist collection.’
‘If it is erotic or pornographic literature you are seeking, sir,’ Foxe said stiffly, ’I must inform you that I do not deal in such matters.’
Mr Smith smiled. ‘We never thought you did, Mr Foxe. Our interest lies elsewhere, I assure you. We seek out works published by the earliest pioneers in the study of chemistry and other aspects of natural philosophy. Unfortunately, many of these writers also dabbled in less respectable subjects. They wrote on matters such as magic, alchemy and astrology, as did Sir Isaac Newton himself, as I’m sure you will know. As a result, their writings are often viewed with suspicion and they have garnered more than their fair share of detractors. It is true that much of what they wrote is tainted with notions of the occult. That is unfortunate, but it does not lessen their usefulness in understanding how we have come to our present state of knowledge.’
Foxe, always prey to unbounded curiosity, could not leave this statement unexplored.
‘You and your colleagues are serious about such research, Mr Smith? Surely matters such as alchemy have long been discredited. As for magic and mystical ideas from the Jewish Kabbalah and the like, are they not now seen as little more than gibberish? On a level with witchcraft and the conjuring up of spirits?’
‘What you say is correct, sir. Yet there was a time when such topics were the subject of serious and conscientious study by men of proven ability. If these scholars — we are not afraid to call them what they were, Mr Foxe — kept their activities secret, it was mostly for fear of ignorant persecution. The established Christian churches have for centuries treated all seeking such knowledge in the harshest manner. Many were tortured and burned at the stake for suggesting the church was not the sole source of truth about this world and the heavens above it. Were these poor wretches more deluded than the pious hypocrites who prided themselves on the atrocities they committed in the name of their god?’
Foxe certainly agreed but felt such a question was best left unanswered in dealing with a stranger. It was time to turn the conversation towards less dangerous waters.
‘Can you at least tell me the nature of the particular books in which you are interested?’ he asked. ‘To be frank with you, sir, I encounter few such titles. I know of no one who holds many such titles on their shelves, let alone seeks them out. The collecting of pornographic books may be reprehensible, but the reason for their popularity — even amongst those who might be expected to avoid them — is plain enough. Are not the kind of books you mention mere relics of a less enlightened age?’
‘I admit it is easy to think of them as such, and to dismiss my friends and I as cranks.’ Smith had lost nothing of his ease and good temper. ‘Let me explain. Our interest is three parts historical and one part scientific. What you are pleased to call this more enlightened age has come about through the determination the writers of alchemical and similar books possessed. They wished to understand the wonders of the universe. They wished to discover its laws and patterns. Of course, much of the knowledge they pursued so eagerly turned out to be hopelessly in error or of no practical use. They did not know that at the time. How could they, until they had tried it for themselves and found it wanting? Even today, we are able to uncover fresh ideas amongst their findings. New paths for exploration using better-grounded approaches to scientific endeavour.’
By now, Foxe had decided that Mr Smith and his friends should be taken seriously, both as scholars and as potential customers. It was time to get down to business.
‘Let us return to the purpose of your visit,’ he said. ‘Can I take it that there are certain titles in which you and your group have a special i
nterest?’
‘Certainly,’ Smith replied. ‘Indeed, there is one book we are most eager to find and purchase for our library, if we can.’
‘What can you tell me of this book?’
‘The book we are looking for is called “A Treatise on the Nature of Matter and its Transformation by Various Means”. It was written by a certain Ebenezer Tyrwhit and published via a select group of subscribers in the year 1697. It sounds innocuous enough, but its author was condemned for heresy by the Bishop of London and forced to flee this land. Have you ever seen or heard of a copy, Mr Foxe?’
‘No. Should I have?’ That sounded ungracious, but Foxe was temperamentally wary of anything which smacked of the supernatural.
‘We dared to hope so. We have heard a whisper that there may be a copy somewhere in Norwich, probably in the private library of some scholar of the occult. We are not rich men, but we would be willing to pay a most generous price, if a copy should be for sale.’
‘May I ask the source of your information?’
Once again, Mr Smith smiled. Foxe decided he must be well used to receiving rebuffs. Despite his prejudice against all those who took an interest in ‘hidden knowledge’ and similar superstitions, Foxe could not help respecting — even liking — the man.
‘You may ask,’ Smith said, ‘but I regret that I am unable to answer in any detail. I do not doubt your integrity, Mr Foxe. Nor your own good sense. Nevertheless, we have learned to be wary on behalf of our friends and contacts. There are still some in this world who seek to bolster their beliefs and sense of self-righteousness by persecuting any with whom they disagree. Many of those who supply us with information have been subject to public ridicule — and worse — in the past. It is our practice to keep their names and locations entirely secret. All I can say is that we received this information from one or more sources whom we have every reason to trust.’
Like all men of that time, Foxe was well aware of the ease with which ranters and bigots could whip up a tempest of ill-informed and malicious prejudice. Nearly all of it was directed against innocent people and cloaked with a veneer of religious or patriotic fervour. He had several good customers amongst the small Jewish and Catholic communities. Several had suffered in this way, as had various other groups who had fled to Norwich to escape violent persecution overseas. They went in constant fear of rioters stirred up by religious and political fanatics. If you were of their number, you took care to live as inconspicuously as possible.
‘I will not press you, Mr Smith,’ Foxe said. ‘Your pardon if I appeared to do so. I will accept your assurance that your information is as reliable as any such information can be. Unfortunately, I have never heard of the book you seek. Nor do I know of anyone who might meet your description of the person who is said to own a copy. I deal with many book collectors in this city, but no one matching this description. I imagine such a person would have his own sources through which to get the volumes he required. There is no reason why he should come to me, especially if the subject matter of his research was something he might wish to prevent becoming general knowledge.’
‘But you will contact me at once, should you hear of it?’
‘I can give you my word on that, Mr Smith,’ Foxe said.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Smith said. ‘Our information on the possible location of a copy of this volume may prove to be in error. All the same, we are convinced the forgotten corners of private libraries are the only places where books of this kind may now be found. At one time, it wasn’t unusual for members of the gentry and aristocracy to dabble in esoteric knowledge. Most did it for the thrill of engaging in what was forbidden. Few were genuine scholars. The interest soon ebbed and what books they possessed now lie disregarded in their libraries. Certain antiquaries as well were drawn to the notion of uncovering hidden knowledge in ancient mysteries. Since theologians and other churchmen condemned such activity as consorting with the forces of evil, they too kept their interest hidden. Do you not think it sad that most people fear what they do not understand? That was why innocent old women were called witches and attacked. It was from the belief that the secrets they possessed — folk secrets handed down from past generations — were used to hurt and destroy, not to heal. You will look, won’t you? We know you have privileged access to the libraries of several members of the nobility.’
‘I have already given you my word,’ Foxe said. ‘I will do my best, though I can promise nothing.’
‘That is enough, Mr Foxe,’ Smith replied. ‘I am glad to have made your acquaintance, sir. My visiting card I know is not very informative, but any communication addressed to me via the Porter’s Lodge at St George’s College will always reach me.’
Needless to say, Foxe’s curiosity was stimulated to white heat by this visit. He would certainly search for the book, though he had no notion of where to start. In the meantime, he was determined to discover all he could about his visitor and the strangely-titled volume he sought.
Other demands intervened and he was forced to set his search aside until it slipped from his mind entirely.
2
‘The fact is, something has come to my notice which I think might interest you,’ Alderman Halloran said.
Two days had passed since the visit from Mr Smith. Firstly, Foxe had been compelled to spend a whole day attending to important correspondence. Most were items which he had contrived to ignore because he knew how tedious it would be to deal with them. Now Alderman Halloran had sent a message asking Foxe to call on him at his earliest convenience.
Foxe, leaning on the word “convenience”, interpreted this to mean, “when you can manage to get around to it without disrupting your day”. It was therefore late in the afternoon when he presented himself at the door of the alderman’s fine house in Colegate. Now, they were seated, as usual, in the alderman’s library. Each time he visited, Foxe admired the fine oak bookshelves, broad desk for study and comfortable chairs either side of the fireplace. It was a room he loved to spend time in.
‘You said when we spoke last that you were bored. You’d like a good mystery to get your teeth into,’ Halloran said. ‘Very well. The mayor was contacted at about eleven this morning by a Mrs Katherine Danson. Her husband is — or rather, was — a reclusive writer of philosophical words. The man was found dead in his study shortly before ten. His Worship has passed the matter to me and I thought you might be interested in helping me catch the murderer.’
‘I suppose I might,’ Foxe said, displaying no enthusiasm whatsoever for the task. He didn’t want to get involved in some cock-eyed mystery that would turn out to be a boring domestic crime. What he wanted was something difficult to get his teeth into.
‘I wouldn’t normally bother you with this sort of thing,’ Halloran went on, ‘if you hadn’t been at something of a loose end. It’s not something that would have interested me much as a magistrate either. Probably a domestic crime. But you did say ...’
Would he never get to the point? Foxe remained silent and waited.
‘It’s like this,’ Halloran said. ‘The man who’s been murdered is — was — a bit of an eccentric. He called himself a scholar, but no one I’ve spoken to has ever heard of him. He didn’t give lectures or publish books or pamphlets either, to the best of my knowledge. All I know is that he’s something of a recluse, who’s recently married a young wife.’
Fox groaned inwardly. Old husband, new young wife. It was a terrible cliché. There was bound to be some lover in the background. The wife and the lover had conspired to get rid of her husband. How boring!
‘That’s not all,’ Halloran went on. ‘He had a distinct reputation for pursuing unusual topics. Seems he was interested in strange, philosophical things. Not a regular philosopher, and certainly not a typical retired churchman, for all that he was a Doctor of Divinity. To sum up, he is, or was, a retired dissenting minister with an interest in things strange and esoteric. Anyhow, I thought it would be right up your street. As I said, it’s not something that
particularly interests me. His wife sent a servant to report his death and the mayor asked me to look into it. Usually, that's the end of the matter. I put the required notices offering rewards for information into the paper, a few cranks reply and the business is filed away as unsolved. I have notified the coroner, of course. It’s really up to him now. Unless the wife manages to bring a prosecution, we’ll never know who killed him.’
‘Why was it you thought I would be particularly interested?’ Foxe asked.
‘Mostly because of the man’s strange interests, coupled with a complete lack of obvious clues as to who killed him and why. By all accounts, a man who was so dull that people fell asleep talking to him. Few did, of course, what with him being a recluse. He doesn’t seem to have had an enemy in the world, at least not that anyone knows of. The servant who was sent to the mayor informed him there was no sign of someone entering from the outside. Nothing taken either. It’s hard to imagine why anyone would want to kill such an eccentric old fool. Unless the wife did it, of course.’
‘He was poisoned, I suppose,’ Foxe said. ‘That would be the typical way for a woman.’
‘No,’ Halloran replied. ‘Not poisoned. Stabbed through the heart. There’s also the matter of the mysterious visitor he had just before his body was found.’
It was at this point, Foxe started to pay attention. The visitor hadn’t been mentioned before. Yet, if it was obvious that he had done the deed, why should Halloran still call him in?
‘What can you tell me about this mysterious visitor you mention?’ Foxe asked.
‘Almost nothing. You’d better go and talk to the wife, although she apparently never saw the man. The butler let him in.’
Butler? How could a retired minister from some dissenting group afford to keep a butler?
‘What does the butler say?’
‘No idea. The wife sent one of the other male servants to tell the mayor about the killing and the mayor simply passed the message on to me.’
A Sickness in the Soul Page 2
