The King's Beast

by Eliot Pattison

  “Wait your turn, young sir,” called the man in brown who descended from the first landing of the stairway. His clothing matched that of the other staff except he had an epaulet on one shoulder, which seemed to indicate rank. A silver watch chain ran from a button into a waistcoat pocket. “Visiting hours are posted at the door,” he declared, “and they don’t start until two o’clock of the afternoon.” He blocked Ishmael’s path and held up a restraining hand as he saw the resentment in the Nipmuc’s eyes.

  Duncan moved closer, worried that Ishmael might use force against the man. “But I have family here,” Ishmael said instead.

  “Nary a difference. Kin or kith, student or pilgrim, all the same to us.”

  Duncan gently pulled Ishmael away. “Pilgrim?” he asked.

  “Well, yes, some are sent by their pastors and such to witness the fate of the fallen. Course, most just come for the entertainment. Sunday’s our busiest day, when we allow picnicking on the lawns. Line goes out to the street on holidays.” The man worked his tongue around his cheek, assessing the two strangers. “Tickets are required,” he said as if in invitation.

  “A ticket to visit the sick?” Duncan asked.

  “We keepers have steep expenses. Counter opens at noon. One pence apiece,” he declared, then glanced around and whispered, “Or half a shilling gets you two tickets now and I’ll mark them so no need for you fine gentlemen to wait in line.”

  Duncan pushed down his bile and handed the man a coin. They received two pasteboard tokens, which the keeper pierced with a little pin hanging from his watch chain, and backed away. Duncan felt a shudder as he left the building and Ishmael rushed past him as if being chased.

  “What is this place?” the young Nipmuc asked when Duncan caught up with him. Anguish twisted his features. “Is it a hospital? Or a prison? Or one of those zoological gardens you read about in the journals?”

  “Apparently all three,” Duncan replied bitterly. He glanced back at the entry, unable to shake the sense that something sinister dwelled deep in the building. He gestured Ishmael toward the gravel path that ran along the east wing. “Focus on what we learned,” he urged, trying to calm himself as much as Ishmael. “There are offices past the main hall. They must keep records there, records that will tell us where Conawago is in that great labyrinth.”

  “If they used his real name.”

  Duncan ignored him. “Records that will tell us who sent him here. It is a huge, complicated building with scores of staff, which might be to our advantage.”

  “And the staff is corrupt,” Ishmael added.

  “The staff is corrupt,” Duncan agreed, “and apparently used to accommodating a steady stream of strangers coming and going.” They studied the structure in silence before Duncan spoke again. “During the war my friend Patrick Woolford and I walked right into an enemy camp, undetected because there were so many strangers there who did not know each other.”

  “And later you returned with long rifles and war axes,” Ishmael suggested in a hopeful tone.

  Duncan had no response. The terrain before them was much more treacherous than that of a French War camp. As they walked along the long wing, he saw figures not wearing the brown of the staff lingering at the windows. Under several windowsills were long stains where the contents of pots had been poured out. At one open window a man urgently pointed into the sky, though there was nothing there but a solitary cloud. At another a middle-aged woman lifted her tunic to expose her breasts to them. At two more, inmates waited until they were close, then with cackling laughs tried, unsuccessfully, to empty chamber pots on their heads.

  As they continued along the path, the elegance of the hospital facade increasingly gnawed at Duncan. It had been designed, he suspected, to mimic a French palace, but to house the mentally imbalanced behind it seemed to somehow mock them and those who cared about them. He had heard that one of the grandest structures in King Louis’s Versailles compound was the zoological confine where exotic creatures were displayed for the entertainment of the king and his public.

  “The stonework has a lot of mortar cracks, all the way up to the roof,” Ishmael observed as they reached the end of the building. “And the ivy at the end grows nearly to the top.”

  “It was built in the last century, after the great fire. It’s showing its—” He paused as Ishmael’s words sank in. “You are not going to climb the walls of Bedlam.” Ishmael was as agile as a spider on vertical surfaces. More than once Duncan had watched him scale heights that he would have been terrified to attempt. “Not yet,” he added when he saw a defiant gleam in Ishmael’s eyes. “Not until we better understand the challenges we face.”

  Ishmael raised his token between two fingers. “We must return at two this afternoon. If I don’t find him I will hide and pass the night inside.”

  Duncan’s skin crawled at the thought of spending the night in the lunatics’ hospital. “We shall watch the building until then.” He eyed the side of the building. “There are small courtyards in the rear,” he pointed out, “bounded by the old city wall. Perhaps if we can find—”

  “No, not we,” Ishmael interrupted. His voice was thick with emotion. “You have business on Craven Street. Go consult with the lightning wizard about the Shawnee bones. I will meet you here for the afternoon entertainment,” he said and quickly turned away. Ishmael, the sturdy Nipmuc warrior, looked like he might weep.

  Chapter 11

  BY THE TIME DUNCAN RETURNED to the Neptune, his best clothes had been aired and pressed. When she learned he had not eaten, Mrs. Laws insisted on serving Duncan a plate of collops, then tried unsuccessfully to convince him to have Sinner John accompany him when he said he was going to explore the grand buildings along the Mall. To his dismay, however, the innkeeper was standing at the front door, arms akimbo, when he finally descended from his room.

  “What’s the bulky package?” she asked suspiciously, nodding to the bundle under his arm.

  “Just an old pair of shoes in need of repair,” he answered. “I saw a cobbler on the square.” He felt guilty about speaking falsely, but she gave him no choice. His mission was not one he would share. Before she could reply, he offered a quick bow and darted into the street.

  The Strand was packed with vendors, sweepers, and hackney cabs. The air rattled with the cries of hawkers. He weaved around men shouting “Socks, fine socks, two pair to the shilling!” and “Chairs to mend, who will have chairs to mend?” Young girls called in oddly mournful voices, “Mackerel, fresh mackerel, who shall eat fresh mackerel today?” He was relieved to turn onto the relative quiet of Craven Street, but then a wave of boyish anxiety swept over him again. Benjamin Franklin was like a star whose orbit he had been drawn into. Duncan had known Franklin’s wife Deborah for years, had often been in his house in Philadelphia, had frequented an electrical laboratory Franklin had helped establish, and had even heard a distant Shawnee chief speak of the master of lightning. Did Duncan really presume now to impose on the famous man? Without conscious thought he walked past the town house, desperately trying to remember the introduction he had rehearsed. He touched the letter in his pocket and hefted the bundle in his hand, deciding they would be introduction enough.

  Mindful of Sinner John’s admonition about arriving unannounced at the front door of such an esteemed personage, he retreated through the arched tunnel into the service alley and again found the steps leading into Number 7. The door was slightly ajar, and he heard activity inside, what sounded like whispers and soft laughter. He decided that he might indeed be better off starting with the kitchen staff, especially if they were in such good moods.

  He knocked twice with no response, then twice again, harder. He heard another laugh. “Bring it in, boy,” called an amused, distracted voice.

  Duncan took a hesitant step past the door that had been slammed in his face the night before. Two figures stood at a high table in the center of the spacious kitchen, making bread. The maid Judith, flour on her apron and face, was assisti
ng the jovial cook, a rotund older man who also wore an apron, as well as a cook’s linen cap tilted jauntily on his head. A small circle of flour adorned the tip of his nose.

  The cook pointed to a small table by the door without turning. “Just there, son, and tell your master we’d like a fine turkey for the Sunday feast.”

  Judith, paying closer attention to their visitor, turned and straightened her apron, then made a rumbling in her throat as if to caution the cook. When he finally turned the plump man frowned. “That’s no goose,” the cook observed, nodding at Duncan’s parcel. “I’m fairly confident we can’t prepare goose pie without a goose.”

  “And I am no delivery boy for the poultryman. I was hoping for a word with Dr. Franklin. I’ve just arrived from Philadelphia.”

  “Of course you have,” the cook said in a disappointed tone, then cracked open the oven, releasing a scent of baking bread before turning to the maid with a chagrined shrug.

  Judith stepped between them, as if to shield the cook. “The front door must be used for social calls,” she announced, seeming unreasonably irritated over Duncan’s arrival.

  “I didn’t want to impose,” Duncan said.

  “Front door,” Judith repeated, then advanced with arms extended, to herd him out the door. For a second time it was slammed on him.

  The reception in the kitchen had done nothing to calm Duncan’s nerves, and by the time he reached the Craven Street entrance, he felt like a boy awaiting a dressing down from his schoolmaster. He rapped the big brass knocker three times and stepped back. Footsteps could be heard approaching the door, followed by a long pause before the door was opened. Judith appeared again, her face cleaned of flour and the apron covering her simple gray dress gone. She was brushing away a few particles of flour from her shoulder when he removed his hat and offered a bow, which raised an impish giggle.

  “I am but the kitchen maid, sir,” she said, then offered a curtsy and giggled again. “The mistress is out, and the doctor’s secretary generally doesn’t arrive until ten of the clock, but the master will receive visitors in his sitting room.” She motioned to the wooden staircase behind her. As Duncan took a step toward it, she darted in front of him. “I should announce you, ’tis the proper way.”

  Duncan offered a smile and a nod. “Duncan McCallum of Edentown in the New York colony.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “But you said Philadelphia in the kitchen.”

  “Edentown by way of Philadelphia,” he corrected. “There are many more ships available in Philadelphia.”

  Judith gave a tentative nod, then gathered her skirts and motioned for him to follow. She cleared her throat loudly when they arrived at the ample sitting room at the top of the stairs. “Mr. Duncan McCallum of—” She considered her words for moment, then with a satisfied nod added “of the colonies.” She spun about and disappeared down the stairs.

  The heavy drapes on the windows were opened only a handsbreadth, and in the reduced light Duncan thought the room empty, concluding the great man must be in the room beyond. He took a step toward its cracked door, spying a four-poster bed inside, then the drapes on the nearest window were opened a few more inches and he froze.

  “You have something from Pennsylvania,” came a thin, disinterested voice, and the cook from the kitchen stepped out of the shadows. His apron was gone but the linen cap was still perched on his head. A buff-colored waistcoat hugged his belly, the girth of which seemed amplified by the watch chain stretched tightly across it. He pointed to a large wooden chest under the second window. “We already have ten jars of Pennsylvania honey,” he observed, “bolts of Pennsylvania homespun, untold pieces of needlepoint, most of them featuring lightning bolts, as well as deer antlers, a chess set carved from walnut shells, and a walking stick carved with the leaves of every native tree.”

  The cook stepped forward with a sigh and nodded to the bundle Duncan held. “Prithee forgive me. I sound ungrateful. My gout kept me awake much of the night.”

  Duncan gripped the bundle under his arm more securely. “It is for Dr. Franklin, sir,” he stated, glancing again at the bedroom.

  A rumble came from the stairway and a sturdy woman appeared, still wrapped in a shawl from the street, which she tossed into the arms of the breathless Judith, running up behind her. Duncan recognized her as Mrs. Stevenson, who had ejected him the night before, and retreated a step.

  “Lord save us!” the woman exhaled. “I can’t even go to market but the house is turned upside down!” She hesitated, eyeing Duncan, then gave him a quick curtsy before darting to the cook, who stood stiffly as she wiped the flour from his nose and grabbed the cap from his head, revealing a high balding forehead and releasing long graying hair that fell loose around his shoulders.

  “Benjamin, I declare!” she scolded. “Where are your manners? And you have been romping in the kitchen again!”

  Duncan stared in disbelief at the man he had taken for the cook. Color rose on Benjamin Franklin’s face and he seemed to have difficulty finding his voice. He cleared his throat several times. “Important principles of chemistry can be observed in the preparation of bread, Meg,” he declared in his defense. “Why, the yeast alone is—”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “Sir,” she interrupted, “you have a guest who came across the great ocean to see you. This is my house too and we do not condone inhospitable behavior.”

  Franklin hung his head in defeat. “I’m sure the gentleman is just paying his respects while out on other business,” he suggested.

  The woman stared at him, arms folded across her breast with the air of an impatient schoolmarm. Franklin sighed, then retrieved a cold cup of tea from the sideboard, drained it, and turned to Duncan with renewed vigor. “Apologies, sir. I am just a meager printer who has stumbled unprepared into London society.” He put an arm across his belly and made an effort at a bow. “Benjamin Franklin. Your servant, sir,” he offered. “And this formidable matron,” he added with a mischievous grin, “is Margaret Stevenson, my landlady and particular friend. Set your gift on the table and let’s see if I can assist in your travels in some small way. Perhaps you want a souvenir signature? I have some cards somewhere,” he said, looking back at the desk in the corner. “My secretary Henry will find them. He’s most efficient. And meanwhile we shall have some tea,” he added to Mrs. Stevenson, with a hopeful uplift in his voice. “The good china?”

  Duncan suddenly felt a weariness that went soul deep. All his trials of recent months, the blood, the murders, the Atlantic gale, his own near death had come to this, a bizarre encounter with a distracted man in a London sitting room worried about his porcelain and gout. “No,” he said in a tight voice.

  Franklin stiffened and stood straighter. Mrs. Stevenson inched toward the hearth, glancing at the tools there, then her brows lifted. “You were at the back door last night!” she exclaimed, and snatched up the poker.

  “I mean no, you misunderstand,” Duncan continued. “I am here for neither a favor nor a memento.”

  Franklin moved toward his landlady, who raised the poker. “Explain yourself, sir,” he stated.

  Duncan silently unfolded the sack he had been carrying, reached into it, and extended the contents toward Franklin. “My name is Duncan McCallum,” he answered in a tired voice. “I went down the Ohio for you.”

  The wizard of lightning gasped and thrust a hand to his chest. His eyes bulged with excitement. “The incognitum at last!” he cried. “Can it be true? Margaret, the incognitum! Dear God, I had begun to give up hope!” Franklin advanced toward Duncan, groping in his waistcoat pockets. He produced a pair of spectacles, threading the wire temples around his ears as he bent over the ancient tooth. Small syllables of delight escaped him as he hovered over the relic, but he did not touch it.

  “Tea,” Franklin said to Mrs. Stevenson, “our very best for this hero. And some of the fresh bread and marmalade.” He motioned Duncan toward a gaming table set between two overstuffed chairs, then disappeared into his bedroom.
He returned moments later with a red velvet pillow that he set on the table. “What a treasure!” he cackled as Duncan lowered the tooth onto the pillow. “The Gift of the Magi! Golconda! El Dorado!” Franklin ran a finger along the dark chestnut enamel of the sides, laughing now, then touched the rippled ridges along the top with a satisfied cooing sound.

  “Incognitum, incognitum,” he chanted with boyish excitement, then collected himself and studied Duncan with new interest. “You are a student of Pierre’s? Is he still resting from the voyage? And that fine man Ezra, did he perchance make the voyage?”

  “Perhaps you should sit, sir,” Duncan suggested.

  “Nonsense, I am too excited. Perhaps the four of us can have luncheon together. So much to tell. I must hear every detail of your expedition.”

  Duncan stared at the inventor for several silent breaths. “Ezra and Professor Dumont were murdered,” he finally stated.

  Franklin looked up over his spectacles, his smile lingering but the joy evaporating from his eyes. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly.”

  “Our mutual friends were killed by men seeking to prevent the delivery of the incognitum to you.”

  Franklin staggered to the nearest chair and collapsed into it. He had trouble breathing, as if the wind had been driven from him. He did not at first seem to see the letter Duncan extended before him. When he finally focused on it he did not touch it, but raised his brows in query.

  “From Charles Thomson,” Duncan explained.

  Franklin took the letter with an anguished expression and rose to go to a wooden chair by the window to read in the sunlight. Duncan watched him briefly, then his gaze drifted around the chamber. A half dozen jars with metal coatings and metal rods rising out of them were lined up on the mantel. He had seen such containers in Philadelphia and recognized them as Leyden jars, used for storing electricity. Large sheets of paper were pinned to the wall beside the hearth, each with an intricate drawing. One was of a great balloon with two men waving from its gondola basket, another of a trestle bridge, and the third of a machine Duncan did not recognize. Bookshelves surrounded the door to the bedroom, packed with scores of leather-bound volumes. In a glass box hung on the wall was a large medal with a plate that read ROYAL SOCIETY COPLEY MEDAL 1753. Beside it were two framed honorary degrees, one from Oxford and one from the University of St. Andrew in Scotland.