The Curiosity Keeper

by Sarah E. Ladd

  The superintendent nodded in agreement. “I shall ask Mr. Vingate to sit up with him.”

  “Thank you. And do not hesitate to contact me should he worsen. From the sound of it, I shall be at Kettering Hall this night instead of the cottage, so if you require my services I would start there.”

  Jonathan followed the superintendent down the narrow staircase separating the sick room from the rest of the building and through the kitchen to the front foyer. There stood a young footman, soaked from head to toe. “What is it, Thaddeus?”

  The footman cleared his throat and blinked the water from his eyes. “Mr. Gilchrist says you are needed at Kettering Hall. There’s been a robbery.”

  “A robbery?” Jonathan repeated, not certain if he had heard the young man correctly.

  He had grown quite accustomed to being woken from sleep in the midnight hours. Sickness was hardly confined to daylight. At least once a week a patient would pound on his door seeking assistance with the onset of illness or a fever spike. And his father had few qualms about sending for him at any hour.

  But never had he been summoned with news of a robbery. “Are you certain?”

  Jonathan rubbed his hand across his face.

  “Your father is certain.” The young man wiped the rain from his face with his sleeve. “He says someone has broken into his study.”

  Jonathan refused to become alarmed at yet another of his father’s assumptions. “If it is indeed a robbery, perhaps you should ride for the constable. His services would be of more use to Father than mine at this moment.”

  “It was suggested, and Mr. Gilchrist says there is nothing a constable can do.” The footman swiped his soaking hair from his forehead. “He said you need to be there.”

  Jonathan drew a sharp breath. There was little room for doubt in his mind that his father had indeed requested—no, ordered—his presence. The man was no stranger to overreacting and had been sending for him more and more since the death of Jonathan’s older brother, Thomas, two years prior. As of late Jonathan was being summoned for tasks that could easily be handled by one of the servants. The last thing he wanted to do was to venture out in the rain, only to learn that his father had misplaced a trinket. Again.

  A clap of thunder shook the school. Jonathan reached for his caped greatcoat, hanging on a hook next to the door, and leaned to the left to peer out the flanking window. Streams of raindrops streaked the wavy glass and veiled his view of the black night.

  “I-I brought a mount for you,” the footman stammered. “Thought it would be faster than walking.”

  Jonathan looked past the youth out the door. Sure enough, two horses stood pitifully hunched against the rain.

  He pushed his arm through the coat’s sleeve. “Tell me more about what has happened.”

  Thaddeus stepped next to Jonathan, water still dripping from his coat and plopping to the stone floor below. “Just before midnight there was a crash from the north of the house. Sounded like breaking glass. I heard the noise myself. When I got there Mr. Gilchrist was in his study, and he would not allow anyone in except for his valet. He was angry, shouting and such. He just kept saying, ‘It’s gone.’ ”

  Jonathan frowned. “What is gone?”

  “Don’t know.”

  Jonathan groaned and reached for his hat—the wide-brimmed one he often used in weather—and stepped out into the night.

  The rain hit Jonathan’s face like icy pellets as he rode, and the late-spring wind pierced the wet fabric of his clothes. Fortunately, the ride to Kettering Hall was a short one—down the main lane through the village of Fellsworth and over the Leaflet Bridge. The road ran alongside Kettering’s south orchard and then past a walled rose garden. At present all was masked in darkness, but he had made the journey so frequently that he did not doubt he could make it blindfolded.

  Normally this time of night Kettering Hall would be as still and quiet as the grasslands and meadows that surrounded it. But not tonight. As always the ancient redbrick structure stood steadfast in the weather, a black silhouette against the midnight sky. But yellow candles now blinked from the windows. A dog barked, low and sharp, from somewhere in the east. Male voices battled to be heard against the wind and rain slamming to the ground below.

  As his horse pranced to a stop in front of Kettering Hall’s entrance, Jonathan slid to the ground. He handed the reins to another footman, who stood waiting, and climbed the steps toward the open front door.

  The main hall was alive with servants dressed in nightclothes and robes. Candlelight cast odd shadows on their sleepy faces. How strange it was to see them in this stage of undress instead of the clean, stark uniforms they usually wore.

  Such confused disorganization was uncommon at Kettering Hall. The atmosphere reminded him of another somber night, four years prior, when he had been summoned to his mother’s deathbed. The servants had been awake and in nightclothes then as well, but instead of usual silence, the air had been full of soft crying and hushed voices.

  He removed his hat and handed it to Abbott, the butler.

  “I’m glad to see you, sir.”

  Abbott’s familiar hoarse whisper was a welcome sound. He had known the man ever since he was a boy, and of all the staff at Kettering Hall, he placed the most trust in the aging butler.

  Jonathan pulled his arm from the sleeve of his coat. “What has happened?”

  Abbott took the coat. “According to your father, there has been a robbery in the study. But you know how he is. He will not allow anyone else—”

  “Jonathan!” Ian Gilchrist’s unmistakable voice rose above the hall’s activity. “Is he here?”

  Abbott cut his eyes toward Jonathan before responding. “Yes, sir, he has just arrived.”

  “Enter.”

  The study door, which remained locked most of the time, truly was a gateway to the mysterious unknown. Within those walls his father kept the bulk of his “collection”—an assemblage of all things strange and unusual, ancient and fanciful, gathered from every corner of the globe.

  Jonathan’s hand hovered over the handle. His father bellowed his name again, demanding that he enter. Yet Jonathan hesitated, for he was rarely invited into this room. But apparently tonight was different. Something had happened—an event significant enough to warrant an invitation into the inner sanctum. He found himself half dreading the impending conversation and half curious about what could have riled his father to such a state.

  The door squeaked on antiquated hinges as Jonathan pushed it open. Stagnant air immediately filled his mouth and lungs, feeling almost too thick with dust to actually be of use. But then a brisk breeze, carrying with it bits of rain, gusted into the room through an open window, fluttering out the curtains and snapping him to the present.

  Eerie darkness surrounded him, broken by the flickering light from several sputtering lights positioned around the room.

  And what the candles illuminated was a shock.

  Jonathan’s gaze did not go directly to his father. Instead, trinkets and trunks of every shape and size captured his attention, momentarily halting his ability to speak. He struggled to make out the objects in the dark. Paintings and murals covered the walls, all but obscuring the dark-green paint. Mounted animals clustered in awkward groupings, their beady eyes glinting in the candlelight and faces frozen in various expressions. Trunks and tables, chairs and vases, all crowded together in dusty heaps.

  Jonathan feared stepping further into the room, lest one misstep trigger an avalanche of statues and books. He inched to the right, and the movement incited a squawk from a creature in the corner.

  “What in blazes?” Jonathan jumped and backed into a table, sending the contents tumbling to the wood floor. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he beheld a giant, brilliantly colored bird in a corner cage, staring at him with pale yellow eyes.

  But his father paid him no heed. “They took it. Dash it all, they took it.”

  Jonathan gingerly made his way toward his father.
He lifted the candle from the desk and looked around him, wondering how it would be possible to notice if anything was not in its right place. “Took what?”

  “Garrett, leave us.”

  The aging valet, who had been standing next to his father, fixed his rheumy eyes on Jonathan before finally leaving the master’s side.

  Garrett pulled the door behind him as he exited. Jonathan stepped over to close the window, then realized it was not merely open, as he had thought. Instead, the glass was shattered. A few reflective shards lay on the wooden floor beneath their feet.

  His father scooted the chair away from the desk with his foot and dropped into it. The light from the candle next to him reflected on the hard lines of his face, making him appear much older than his fifty-two years. The man slumped forward, motionless save for the tapping of his fingers on the chair’s carved arm, and stared unblinking into the fire. His flinty expression was one Jonathan had not seen since his brother’s death.

  Jonathan waited. Ian Gilchrist was not one to be pushed. He would divulge his thoughts in his own time—and not a moment sooner.

  In the passing silence, Jonathan picked up a small box from a table and lifted the lid.

  “Touch nothing,” hissed his father.

  Growing annoyed with his father’s moody vagueness, Jonathan let the lid fall shut and returned the box to the cluttered table. “You called me here, Father. I assume you have some reason other than desire for my company.”

  “I have been robbed, Jonathan. Make no mistake.” His father pointed to the window with a shaky finger. “That must be how the coward entered the room, for the door was locked. He must have left the same way.”

  Jonathan stepped over a pile of papers and toward the window. He braced himself with his hand on the window’s frame and leaned out just enough to see the drive below. It would have been difficult to enter the house through this window. The rain had muddied any chance of finding footprints or evidence of a ladder. Jonathan turned back to the room, his back to the night’s elements, and looked around, wondering how his father could have determined so quickly what was missing. “What has been taken?”

  His father’s response came as a whisper. “The Bevoy.”

  “What is the Bevoy?”

  Jonathan regretted the bluntness of the question as soon as it passed his lips. His father was a secretive man, private in his affairs. He trusted very few, and Jonathan was not privy to that minuscule circle.

  “The Bevoy,” his father repeated, annoyance tingeing his words, “is a ruby of great worth.” He pushed back from the desk as he said it, his graying hair wild from having been woken from slumber.

  “A ruby?” blurted Jonathan. “All this fuss is over a ruby? A ruby can be replaced, Father. Is anything else missing?”

  His father fixed his eyes on Jonathan, pinning him with the intensity of his stare. “It is not just a ruby, as you say. It is large as a quail’s egg, still untouched and unpolished. And it is rumored to either bless or curse whoever possesses it.”

  Jonathan huffed. “Gems cannot be cursed, Father.”

  “Bah!” Ian Gilchrist threw back his head in a burst of sarcastic laughter. “Simpletons may think such things. But I have been collecting a long time, and I have seen things, I tell you—inexplicable events tied to various artifacts. There are mysteries in this world that cannot be easily explained. One may not be able to explain them, but that does not mean they are not real.”

  Jonathan tried to follow his father’s logic. “Very well, assuming you are correct and the ruby is cursed, why would someone want to steal it?”

  “Because it can carry a curse or a blessing. Some believe it will bring wealth to whoever possesses it. Not to mention the gem itself is worth a fortune.”

  Jonathan told himself he should stop asking questions—mostly because he was not certain he wanted to hear the answers. Long-held suspicions of his father’s activities and the man’s record of ill-gotten gains had caused Jonathan to hold his tongue and keep his distance for the past several years. No doubt it would be best to adopt a similar strategy now.

  He moved away from the window and closer to the warmth of the fire. “If you are seeking my advice, I think you had best summon the constable and leave this with him.”

  His father stood and stepped over to the sideboard, where he poured himself a dram of brandy and shot it down his throat. He grunted a sigh before slamming the glass back on the table. “The constable won’t be of any help. Not with the sorts of ne’er-do-wells that took this.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’ve seen my fair share of the world, boy.” Ian Gilchrist poured himself another glass, pausing long enough to shake his finger toward Jonathan. “And I’ve seen my share of justice—or the lack of it. No, we do not need a constable.”

  Jonathan could not help himself. “If it is cursed, why is it so important that we recover it?”

  “Because it is mine, and not a single soul on this earth has the right to take what belongs to Ian Gilchrist.” The old man slapped the table, his jowls shaking, his agitation growing in volume and intensity. “Besides, I have made arrangements to sell it for a goodly sum.”

  “You? Sell part of your collection?” Jonathan gave a nervous laugh. “I’ve never known you to part with any piece, regardless of the amount.”

  But his father did not laugh. Instead, his lips curled downward. “I made a bad investment. I planned to sell that ruby to set things right.”

  Jonathan sobered. “Set what right?”

  “If you must know, I made a wager on which I could not deliver. If I fail to meet the terms of the agreement, we could lose Kettering Hall.”

  Jonathan stared. Surely he had misunderstood. “What do you mean, lose Kettering Hall? There must be something else that can be sold to cover debts. Just look around here.”

  “I have already parted with many of the more valuable pieces. Without the ruby, what I have now is not of sufficient value to cover the debt.” He picked up his glass and drained it. “Your sister’s dowry is tied to that sum of money.”

  At this, Jonathan snapped his head up. His sister would marry within the year. “I thought her dowry could not be touched.”

  “There was a loophole, and I took advantage of it. It made good sense at the time.” He looked up with a scowl. “I will not be judged, not by my own son.”

  Jonathan rubbed his forehead, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. “But if the ruby was so valuable, why keep it here where you live? Why not under lock and key in London?”

  “If I own something, it is mine. I will keep it with me. Your brother understood this. I do not see why it is so hard for you to do the same.” He picked up a small statue and turned it over in his unsteady hands. “Time is short. Either death or my creditors will call soon. You are the heir of Kettering Hall. It is time you acted like it.”

  Jonathan felt the anger begin to boil in him. “What exactly is it that you expect me to do?”

  “You must go to London. Henry Darbin is there. He works in a private capacity to solve such crimes. ’Tis his profession. No doubt he will assist us as well. Go find him.”

  “I will do no such thing,” Jonathan protested. “This is a matter for the constable. I have no wish to get involved in your schemes.”

  “Is my own son such a coward?” his father challenged. “You are the heir of Kettering Hall. Would you abandon your birthright?”

  Jonathan forced his voice to remain steady. “It was never meant to be my birthright, as you frequently remind me.”

  “And Penelope? Are you ready to seal her fate as well? We need her union with Alfred Dowden to recoup other losses. He is a fine man, but he is not a fool. He will not marry her without the dowry.”

  Jonathan could not help but wince at the mention of his sister. She was the one who would likely suffer the most as a result of their father’s loss. But embarking on this fool’s errand could hardly save her.

  “You are trapping
me, Father. I will not be trapped.”

  “You are a Gilchrist. You will not allow our family to face ruin.”

  “Then tell me how this happened. What dealings went bad?”

  “That is not your business.”

  “You ask for my help, yet refuse to tell me how the situation came to pass?”

  “Do not take that tone again in my presence. You are not master of Kettering Hall. Not yet. You are my son, and it behooves you to do what I say. You are to go to London. Find Darbin.”

  The old man barked the order, then turned back to the window. Clearly, Jonathan was dismissed, but he didn’t move right away. He just stood there rooted to the floor, feeling the monstrous stacks of his father’s collection close in around him.

  He had never been meant to inherit Kettering Hall. That privilege—that burden—had belonged to his elder brother. But after Thomas’s death Jonathan had been thrust from his lowly life as a village apothecary to the unwelcome position of heir. But a lifetime of failed expectations and broken promises had taught him prudence, so he had continued along his original path, planning his finances and his future as if he would have to survive on an apothecary’s living.

  Indeed, he far preferred his life as an apothecary. He relished being useful, an agent of healing, and dreaded spending his time and energy to manage family assets he cared little about.

  But the harder he tried to separate himself from Kettering Hall, the tighter the cord connecting him to his birthplace coiled.

  Chapter Three

  Jonathan stepped out of his father’s study and felt a rush of cool, breathable air. He filled his lungs with it and then quickly exhaled as if to cleanse himself from what he had just heard.

  He was aware of the eyes on him. Garrett, the valet, stood across the hall, never too far from his master. Two footmen lurked in the shadows, no doubt whispering about their odd master and his ever odder obsessions. Jonathan cast a stony stare their way, and the men scattered.

  But as he turned, he noticed another set of eyes.