The King's Beast

by Eliot Pattison

  “I stopped my lectures but they somehow intercepted letters Benjamin and I had written to friends in Philadelphia. Later Benjamin warned me about the Black Chamber of the Post Office, which intercepts certain mail to the colonies. One day my ten-year-old son went missing. We were terrified, had the whole neighborhood looking for him for hours. I was out all night searching the alleys and riverbanks. The next day Hastings arrived here in a coach and told me to get in. We drove up here. My son was with Nettles, who was cheerfully showing him how to fire a pistol.

  “Hastings didn’t say anything to me, just exclaimed about what a fine lad my son was, and what a great soldier he would make, said that young orderlies were needed by the king in the fever islands. Then he pulled out a heavy hammer, a sledge for pounding rocks, and took me to the ruins over there—” Mason pointed to another pile of stone slabs. “One of my best telescopes was there, on its tripod. He kicked it over and handed me the sledge. ‘Destroy it,’ he said, ‘and we will let you have your son back, for so long as you behave.’ ” Mason wrung his hands and for a moment Duncan thought he was going to weep.

  “I can still hear the ring of the crystal as I shattered the lens, the groaning of the brass tube as I flattened it. It was one of the finest instruments in England, in all of Britain, and the king’s ape made me destroy it.”

  “Surely there could have been avenues of redress,” Duncan suggested. “There are reasonable men, perhaps some who are fellows of the societies in Philadelphia and London, who could set things right.”

  As Mason studied Duncan, fear flickered in his eyes. “Did Dr. Franklin send you? I can have no contact with Franklin, don’t you see? They will take my son, McCallum, maybe next my wife.”

  “Franklin did not send me,” Duncan stated truthfully. “It’s just that—I mean, surely the king can’t resent your telescopes, or oppose scholarly pursuits.”

  A bitter laugh escaped Mason’s lips. “That’s the trap, isn’t it?”

  “The trap?”

  “Thinking that the cause of reason is a shield, that if you can but reach the king he will understand. I’m not sure if he will understand but it doesn’t matter, for men like Hastings make it impossible to reach him. They seem to think that the work of natural philosophers borders on treason, for it cannot be controlled by the king. It has an authority and logic all its own. That is what they resent. They form an invisible force around the king, made up of child snatchers and killers and thieves, for whom no act can be a crime, because all they do is in the name of the king. They won’t think twice about committing the most hideous of acts, for in them they take a perverse delight. They will even take your mind and twist it into a shriveled, raving, useless piece of gray tissue.”

  Duncan felt ice in his belly. “Why would those words come to mind, sir? How do they twist minds?”

  “If they but call you insane you are insane.”

  Duncan leaned closer. “Do you speak of Bethlem Hospital?”

  Mason winced. “Such a horror. I barely know how to speak of it. It is as if they have devised a special kind of torture for men of intellect. He was an acquaintance of mine, a professor from Cambridge. A nephew of his, a student, had been taken up by a press gang for the navy. The professor was outraged. He sent letters of protest to the War Council. When they did not respond he went to their offices. He waited for hours without being seen and then lost his temper, saying he would see the king, that the king would understand if he could have but five minutes with him. We know all this because there was a witness, an army contractor from Cambridgeshire who saw the confrontation and reported it to the professor’s wife. Some officers of the Horse Guards dragged the professor away, and one of them laughed and said we must call Dr. Granger for such an illness. His wife never saw him again. She made inquiries at Newgate Prison, at all the prisons, then thought of Bedlam. They discovered that this Dr. Granger was a senior physician for the royals, and eventually bribed an attendant there who reported that her husband had been there, in one of the lunatic wards on the top floor, with instructions for him to be dosed heavily with medicines from this Dr. Granger.”

  Duncan was numbed by the words. Mason was describing Conawago’s fate. He wanted him to stop but just stared, stricken, at the astronomer.

  “He had screamed and raved,” Mason continued, “then taken to reciting long scenes of Shakespeare. But he hadn’t lasted. In the end he took to hitting his head on the walls. He died after a week of smashing his skull and was buried in one of those mass graves for paupers.”

  Sarah—Every night since arriving in London I have dreamed of Conawago. At first it was nightmares, of the king having him drawn and quartered, of him smashing his skull on the walls of Bedlam, of his head on a pike outside some castle gate. But lately my dreams have been like lenses on times we have spent together. One night he and I walked among a herd of wood buffalo we found in Seneca country, speaking comforting words that kept them from spooking. Another night we were gliding in a canoe along the moonlit shores of Lake Ontario. Last night it was the first time I camped with him on one of the treeless mountains in the Adirondacks. We spoke about the mysteries of the stars and afterward he went to the highest point, arms outstretched, and spoke toward the night sky. When I asked him what he had been saying he said he could not tell because that was between him and the heavens. Then he put his hand on my shoulder and said what a man whispers to the stars is the truest reflection of his soul.

  The house on Chesterfield Street looked like a small version of one of the city’s palaces, far too opulent for the residence of a friend of Sarah’s. Realizing there had been a mistake in the address, Duncan crossed the street to wait for Ishmael in the shade of a plane tree, then whistled as the young Nipmuc stepped out of a hackney cab a few minutes later.

  “I bribed one of the keepers to get in before visiting hours,” Ishmael reported. “I went to the barred door of the Chamber of the Immortals and called my uncle’s name. He looked up at the ceiling as if the sound was coming from the heavens. I spoke to him in our tongue. He held his head in his hands and wept. I stayed for his performance. He was wrapped in a sheet again and spoke loudly in what I think was Latin, though he was faltering from time to time as if forgetting what he was saying.

  “When he finished I shouted ‘Quinsigamond!’ He cocked his head for a moment toward the door and I thought at last I had reached him. He threw his arms into the air.” Ishmael hesitated, and for a moment Duncan thought he might offer a glimmer of hope. But then his face twisted in pain again. “Then his sheet fell off and he stood naked except for a short loincloth. People thought it was part of the show and threw pennies at him.” Ishmael leaned against the tree as if needing support.

  “The keeper I had bribed, Taggart is his name, said they had hauled one of the inmates away from the chamber the day before because he was showing his companions exactly what part of their heads they needed to slam on the wall to cause death.”

  Ishmael seemed incapable of further speech. Duncan put his hand on his shoulder. “We’ll walk back. We can find the right house tomorrow.” They had taken half a dozen steps when the black enameled door of the palatial house opened and a woman in an elegant dress the color of claret appeared, holding a fan of peacock feathers. It was Madeline Faulkner, waving her fan to summon them inside.

  Madeline had been perplexed to receive a note from Duncan that morning since she had not known that they were in London. When she suggested that they must all come, including Pierre Dumont, for a dinner the next evening, Duncan said nothing, waiting for the maid to finish pouring their tea. He recalled that Madeline had departed Philadelphia before the catastrophic night of fire and death. Duncan closed the door of the parlor as the maid left. The words grew more difficult each time he spoke them. “Pierre Dumont,” he announced, “was murdered in Philadelphia.”

  A small moan escaped Madeline, and her fingers went to her throat, touching the cameo that was fastened tightly around her neck with a wide ribbon that m
atched the color of her dress. “I only met him once,” she said after a moment, “but he seemed a kind, gentle man, and most intelligent. He encouraged me about mankind.”

  Duncan studied the woman with more interest. He had not taken her too seriously when he had met her in Philadelphia, for she had seemed just another frivolous socialite. “He was coming to help Dr. Franklin,” he said.

  “To give him those big bones you collected,” Madeline replied.

  “To stop the army from occupying the colonies.”

  Madeline’s cup stopped in midair as she considered his words. “I am not sure I follow, Mr. McCallum.”

  “Another wise, gentle man came to London earlier. From the Nipmuc tribe.”

  For a moment Duncan thought Madeline was going to pretend to not understand, then her rigid expression broke into one of chagrin. “I never had the honor of meeting Conawago,” she said.

  Duncan leaned forward with new interest. “I didn’t mention his name.”

  “You might say I met the gentleman indirectly. I first heard his name in a letter from Johnson Hall.”

  “My uncle and William Johnson have spent long nights playing chess in Johnson’s manor house,” Ishmael ventured.

  Madeline gave a small sad smile and examined Ishmael with new interest. “Two Nipmucs in London. Did you leave any of your tribe in America?”

  “Are you saying William Johnson asked your family to help Conawago?” Duncan asked, not bothering to ask how a woman like Madeline would know anything about the diminishing Nipmuc tribe.

  “Not at all. Requesting the hospitality of one of London’s great families would seem impertinent, since Sir William does not know my father.”

  “Miss Faulkner,” Duncan said more stiffly, not able to get the measure of the woman, “I am not clear on your involvement with the tribes.”

  “Dear Sarah asked me to revive our old family charity. We send books and blankets and missionaries and other useful things to the suffering savages.” She made a fluttering, dismissive motion with her hand. “It gives me something to talk about at society affairs. The Disciples of the Forest they were named, decades ago. Such an earnest, Quaker name. Perhaps you have heard of it?”

  “I believe it has an office in Albany,” Ishmael said.

  “So I understand. What a lot of silly paperwork it takes to help poor heathens.”

  Madeline was sounding more like the featherbrained woman he had met in Philadelphia. Duncan was more confused than ever about her. “You don’t strike me as particularly evangelical.”

  She smiled. “My family in the past were all strict Quakers. Now we are burdened not so much with religion as with riches. I am not married. My father believes I need to be campaigning for a husband, as he puts it, which means being more socially engaged and living in London. He is right, of course. The dressmakers are tres courant here. And the charity becomes such a wonderful game, charming lords and ladies out of gold for the exotic tribes. Perhaps you two have some advice on how to play it?”

  “Right now we are interested in helping one particular Indian,” Duncan said, losing patience. “If you’re saying no one asked you to help Conawago, then we thank you for the refreshment and we shall be leaving.”

  “No, Duncan,” Ishmael interrupted, keeping an appraising eye on their hostess. “I think Miss Faulkner is saying it was not William Johnson who asked her to do so. My uncle had other friends at Johnson Hall.”

  Duncan blinked. “The deputy superintendent? Patrick Woolford? Or perhaps his wife?”

  Madeline gave a bored sigh. “Yes, yes. Henrietta or Hetty or some such name. It’s been ages and ages since we met, but she sent a letter to me in Philadelphia saying their friend Conawago was coming to London and might I help. No doubt she knew I had a connection to the old Disciples.”

  “Help how?”

  Madeline sighed again. “If only Patrick had been in London. All his fussing with land agents and solicitors over the family estate surely must be over soon. And why did your uncle have to come during the social season? Does he understand nothing about London?” She shrugged. “The house sits vacant for much of the year. It’s too modest for my father’s tastes, and his is too ostentatious for mine. And I have so little time during the season. One ball after another, and never may I wear the same dress twice. Do you have any notion of what a burden that is?”

  Duncan struggled to maintain his forbearance with this pampered woman. “Are you saying you assisted Conawago?”

  “Perhaps we should go upstairs, if I can be so bold as to invite two gentlemen into the sleeping quarters. The servants will carry on so,” she added with a mischievous smile, then rose, opened the door, and summoned the maid.

  “We require the groom,” she instructed the woman, “and a bucket of strong vinegar water.”

  “He is busy polishing the coach for your father to use,” the maid pointed out. “Should I send the footman?”

  Madeline seemed to puff up at the impertinence. “Did I not say the groom? You shall instruct the footman to put on an apron and take over the polishing. At once!”

  Duncan was surprised that Sarah would befriend a woman who could put on such airs, but then saw a hint of amusement on the maid’s face as she turned away. He thought again that he did not fully understand Madeline Faulkner. He silently followed her up the wide stairs, pausing with her as she explained the portraits of venerable ancestors.

  Ishmael was less patient. “Are we to understand that you secretly made arrangements concerning my uncle without involving us?” he asked accusingly.

  “Prithee, sir,” she coolly replied, “surely you understand I knew nothing of your presence in the capital until this past hour. When I left Philadelphia no one had mentioned you were coming to London. I had briefly met Mr. McCallum in Philadelphia, but that was just ships passing in the darkness, as they say. When I left your very Quaker city,” she reminded them, “Sarah was planning to come to London, to stay with me. And that charming Pierre Dumont was still alive.” She indicated a portrait of an elderly man wearing a broad lace collar and holding a terrier in his lap. “They say Sir Humphrey was a friend of the gallant Francis Drake,” she said with an expectant gleam.

  Duncan nodded and spoke in a flat voice. “I believe I had an ancestor who stole cattle from a landlord named Sir Humphrey.”

  A suppressed giggle rose from the maid, who had arrived with a pungent bucket.

  “Why, Mr. McCallum!” Madeline rejoined, amusement in her eyes. “Shameful! I suspect if we investigated we would find that some of my ancestors hanged some of yours.” She turned down the hallway, missing the flash of resentment on Duncan’s face. It was indeed possible that her noble family had hanged some of his kin, but in his own lifetime.

  As Duncan and Ishmael followed Madeline down the hallway, the maid busied herself in what was obviously a familiar routine, rolling up the long hallway carpet and spreading a generous layer of the vinegar water on the floor, then attacking it with a mop. She seemed oblivious to the biting scent of the vinegar, which was used often to scour what most called lingering miasmas, though Duncan was surprised to see it used so liberally in such a mansion, and with guests present. He saw the same questioning reaction on Ishmael’s face, then caught up with Madeline, who had opened what Duncan had taken for a closet door. A narrow winding stairway was revealed, and he realized he was looking at a hidden passage for servants.

  Madeline glanced briefly down the hallway behind them. “The rest of the staff do so hate the smell of the vinegar,” she said with a quick, wry smile, then gathered up her skirts and mounted the stairway.

  Duncan looked back at the maid before following Madeline. The maid was middle-aged and carried herself with some authority. Why was a woman who was obviously a senior member of the household staff doing the work of a chambermaid? Madeline had only called for vinegar water, but the maid had instantly understood where to take it. Was it possible she was using vinegar to assure their privacy? But why would the flig
hty Madeline even care about keeping the rest of the staff away? Did some of her servants share news of her household with her estranged father?

  “I sent instructions that a guest bedroom be made available,” she said as she climbed, speaking over her shoulder. “But apparently he was more comfortable with a less pretentious accommodation, which upset the household to no end since he was here as my guest.”

  They arrived in what Duncan took to be the top floor, emerging into the servants’ quarters. At the far end of the hall, past a doorway that divided the floor in half, a maid in a shift, her hair negligently flowing to her shoulders, darted to the door and shut it. At the near end, illuminated by a small window at the end of the corridor, a well-built man, taller than Duncan’s own six feet, stood outside the last door. He began a deep bow to the mistress of the house, which Madeline forestalled with a wave of her hand.

  “This is our groom,” she said without further explanation as she lifted the door latch and gestured them inside. It was a bright corner room with windows on two sides and walls made of fragrant unfinished planks.

  “Duncan!” Ishmael cried, and darted past him to a familiar cartouche bag lying on the narrow bed. He clutched the bag to his breast, then sat and gazed forlornly at its quillwork pattern of deer and birds.