The Fabric of Murder (Mysteries of Georgian Norfolk Book 2) (7 page)

What she had chosen was most cleverly done. They bought a simple linen cloth for the lining of the gown and some stiff silk moiré taffeta in a deep tawny colour for the gown itself. For decoration, Kitty chose several yards of rich lace and some matching ribbon. All appeared quite suitable for a wealthy merchant’s wife. Even somewhat plain for her apparent hair colour and complexion. Yet Foxe knew that, set off by deep cuffs of the ivory silk and the tumbling mass of auburn curls that were Kitty’s trademark, it would look stunning.

Mrs. Foxworth scorned a matching petticoat. Instead, she gave her husband a tiny kiss on the cheek and begged for his forgiveness in selecting a fine silk brocade. This would match the lace and was embroidered with bouquets of yellow roses and swathes of ribbon, picked out with gold wire. To that she added a good, flowered calamanco worsted for the lining.

‘Now for my sister’s gift,’ Mrs. Foxworth said. Her supposed husband winced inwardly, but managed to keep his composure. ‘I believe she will look well indeed in this deep maroon silk brocade for the dress. The one with the pattern of bows and ribbons in silver thread. Linen again for the lining, of course.’

Foxe thought of Gracie’s mass of dark hair. Her sister had chosen well.

‘Perhaps the petticoat might look best in silk brocade also. I think this deep pink would suit. It has a lovely pattern of embroidered flower-sprays. Yes, that will be best. We might take her some striped camblet for lining, I think. Will that not cost too much, Mr. Foxworth?’

Foxe knew he was being let off lightly, so hastened to agree at once that it was within his means. He was deeply suspicious of this meek, restrained version of Kitty, so prudent in spending his money.

An assistant measured out the cloth and Mrs. Foxworth wandered about the shop, still exclaiming over ribbons and buttons of all kinds. Meanwhile Foxe took a last opportunity to pry a little further into Mrs. Swan’s affairs.

‘It is sad your brother will not follow his father into the same trade, Mrs. Swan …’

’Step-brother,’ Mrs Swan interrupted.

‘Ah, yes. Step-brother.’

‘Since his mother was so often in poor health, my father set me to raise him. It was not what I would have chosen, but I did my best.’ Mrs. Swan was clearly rehearsing an old grievance. ‘My father gave him a good apprenticeship too. Now his mind is full of nonsense about going on the stage. Is acting a respectable mode of life, Mr. Foxworth?’ Foxe agreed that it definitely was not.

‘He has turned his back on weaving altogether, so it seems. Not that it would have mattered, in the event.’ Mrs. Swan seemed glad of a chance to unburden herself of her feelings. Foxe had noticed before that people spoke of things to a stranger that they would never dream of mentioning amongst their own. They assumed they would never see their hearer again, and he or she would know no one of note to whom they could spread gossip.

‘My father was a fine weaver, sir, but a poor man of business. Rash and headstrong in all things, as well I know. Prone to quarrel as well, I am afraid to say. I did what I could, but he would never listen to a woman, be she wife or daughter. Before he died, I understand he had sunk so deep into debt that his business would have been forfeit to his creditors before long. Wife, son, relatives will find little in what remains.’

This was such a sudden and complete revelation that Foxe thought he should change the topic at once. He doubted she would give him the names of those to whom her father owed so much. And to ask would be quite foreign to the character he was playing.

‘I believe my wife is ready …’

Mrs. Swan, however, was not so eager to find another topic. ‘Of course, due to his quarrel he had to raise more capital. To go into debt is to set yourself at hazard, I say. Still, one was ready to lend him what he needed, as a certain person told me. Now the business is foundered and others must meet the costs.’

‘Mrs. Swan. I do beg your pardon, but my wife has been waiting for me some little time, I believe …’

At that, Mrs. Swan seemed to pull herself back to the present, though with some effort. She reckoned up the cost, smiling to herself while she did it. Foxe handed over a pile of gold sovereigns that might have kept a family of poor weavers in a fair way of life for many years. Then, giving strict instructions their purchases were to be delivered to their coachman, who would call the next morning, the couple left.

N
either commented
on their thoughts until they were back in Kitty’s neat house and awaiting her maid, who was bringing tea.

‘Well,’ Kitty said. ‘Did you like my performance?’

‘Perfect as always, my dear. Yet …’ But Kitty had broken into peals of laughter.

‘Could you but see your face, Ash! I do declare that I have discomforted you as your attentive young wife. Yet she was so careful of your fortune and so modest in her choosing.’

‘That’s what bothers me, Kitty. I can’t help feeling that I am soon to be presented with one more account to settle this day. One that may make the large amount I have already paid seem small in comparison.’

‘Large amount? What large amount?’

‘Perhaps not large by your normal standards, Kitty dear, but still enough to lighten my pocket a good deal.’

‘Did you not like what I bought?’

‘In truth, you chose in excellent taste. I am sure you will look ravishing in the dress that you will have made for you. Your sister will also stun any audience in the cloth you chose for her. But …’

‘So you would not be ashamed to be seen with either of us at this ball?’

‘In no way! I should be honoured to have either you or your sister on my arm, for you would both far outshine the other ladies present.’

‘That is good, Ash. And if having one Catt sister on your arm would be such a distinction, to have one on either side must be doubly so. Do you not agree?’

‘What! Take both of you!’

‘Of course, Ash dear. No woman could possible receive a gift of such magnificence as the fabrics and trims you bought today and not desire the earliest opportunity to show herself off in them.’

Foxe groaned and hid his head in his hands. If he had feared she was up to something, this was far beyond his worst expectations.

‘Ash! I will be quite put out if you take on so. You yourself said taking me would be an honour. How can two honours become a disaster?’

‘My dear Kitty. I already have something of a doubtful reputation with some persons of note in this city. Not that I have ever sought to make any secret of my relations with you or your sister. Indeed, I have counted your company as something to be shown to all. But to arrive at a ball with the two of you …’

‘It is settled, Ash. Gracie and I talked of it yesterday evening and we are sure your reputation, such as it is, will survive. Besides, do you not always make sure each sister receives the same attentions as the other? Speaking of which, my sister not only has news for you, but, hearing of the agreeable time we spent together recently …’

‘Kitty! Kitty! I yield. Only let me go now to rest and renew my strength for what your sister has in mind.’

‘You make her sound like a wrestler with whom you must contend at peril of your life.’

‘That is an excellent analogy! A bout with either of you is enough to test the strength and skill of any man, though the contest is, I own, most sweet. Nay, do not frown, Kitty. For if you may jest with me and tease, may I not do the same with you? Though I dare say I will scandalise the whole of Norwich, I will take both you and your sister to the ball and hold my head high. The ladies will tut and frown, but I vow every man in the place will be consumed with envy. And I will also visit your sister in the next day or so, as I had already determined to do. When, as I am sure she will, she comes to you to make comparison, I will do my best not to be found wanting.’

‘As if we would compare!’

‘As if you would not. No, no, Kitty. Delay me no more. For I have much to think about and have neither the time nor the capacity for more distractions.’

And with that, Foxe hurried to the door and out of the house, lest his resolution crumble to nothing at the touch of Kitty’s soft fingers.

F
oxe waited
until the earl’s footman had withdrawn from the library at Pentelow Hall. Then he crossed the huge room to stand again before the bay of shelving that had attracted his attention on his last visit. He considered that a bad flaw in the design. Had the exterior presented a more uneven appearance, he would never have noticed anything amiss. Still, the sixth and seventh earls probably expected few but invited guests to enter this room. The purpose of the deception had likely been more to deter servants or more curious guests from seeing whatever the shelves concealed. He hoped it would not be lewd books. That would be boring.

Whatever was there, he must first find the release mechanism. It proved no easy matter. As if to make up for allowing the presence of something unusual to be visible, the carpenter had employed great ingenuity in hiding the release. It took Foxe near thirty minutes of pushing, pulling and pressing various books to decide that approach was not going to work. At last he did what he should have done at the start. He stood back, stared at the shelves and considered what he might do in the same situation.

The release must be in a position that would be convenient for use. That ruled out those shelves too high to reach without a ladder, or too low to be seen without bending. None of the wooden framing showed any marks that might indicate a place to press or pull. What was left? The books, of course, but he had tried all of those.

But had he? He had followed the pattern of the alderman’s library shelving, despite Halloran’s warning. He should have known that the carpenter never used the same method of concealment twice. He had pivoted books forward and backward. He had tried pushing on their spines or feeling along the tops for some hidden lever. What he had not done was take any out of their places altogether.

That was it, of course. On removing the fifth or sixth book from the middle shelf, he felt the wood beneath where it stood and touched metal, not wood. His finger hooked neatly into a gap that allowed part of the metal to be raised like a lever. There was a satisfying click and the right-hand edge of the bay of shelving swung outwards by a space of maybe two inches. Just enough to slide his hand behind.

Another minute or so of feeling around the gap located another metal lever. When he pulled that forward, the whole bay of shelving could be swung outwards like a door. Behind was a space deep enough to contain shelves of a normal size.

To Foxe’s relief, the bulk of the hidden books were not erotica. The few that were lay on the topmost shelves. All the rest were unfamiliar to him. Some were in English, some in French, one or two in Latin. None, to his disappointment, had dates within that were more than a hundred years ago. Many had been printed in places like Amsterdam, Leiden or Geneva within the past fifty years or less. They seemed to be books of philosophy, which puzzled him. Why hide philosophical books? Then he stumbled on one book in plain binding with no title. When he opened it, all became plain.

What he had found was a work called ‘The Treatise of the Three Imposters’. It was said to be written by an Irishman called John Toland, though that was not established. Foxe had never had a copy in his hands before, but he knew it was a book valued highly by freethinkers. More conventional persons judged it a repository of the rankest blasphemy.

Maybe the rest were books of radical, even revolutionary, ideas. That would be reason enough to hide them. Well, Alderman Halloran had indicated an interest in the works of freethinkers. Foxe would make a list of some of the authors and titles and take it to show him. If these were books of such a nature, he would be the most likely purchaser, since Foxe knew no one else with similar tastes.

He closed up the shelves again. Then he applied himself to finding another dozen or so volumes that he knew he could sell swiftly and for a good price. Those he placed on the central table with the same care as before. He estimated he had now taken books that might fetch some four hundred pounds. That was enough to cover the amount of the draft he had given to the earl. It did not quite match his usual margin of profit, but Foxe was not a greedy man. He could find the five hundred pounds the earl needed and still provide himself with a satisfactory return.

He had finished his selection of books for that day and was about to call for the footman, when he noticed something else odd. On the shelving devoted to books on alchemy, the books stood in the normal order of size. The smallest were on the topmost shelves, the largest at the bottom. Yet at the far edge of the top shelf, two slim volumes were far taller than all the books around them. Indeed, they were so tall that Foxe, standing uncertainly on a library ladder, had the greatest difficulty in extracting them. The only way he could do it was to remove several other volumes first, then tilt each larger book sideways until it was almost flat. They must have been inserted that way, on their sides, then turned upright. That meant several inches of them were hidden behind a band of wooden decoration that fitted between the upper edge of the bookshelf and the ceiling.

Why put these two books onto the shelves in such a way that they could not be removed without the greatest difficulty? The lettering on the spines indicated nothing unusual. Two volumes of yet another set of obscure works on alchemy. Not even a respectable area of enquiry. Foxe thought it was little more than wishful thinking and a desire to claim knowledge that others could not contest.

When he began to leaf through the first volume, he had another surprise. He was used to the habit of some men to add notes of their own to the books they read. Usually, this reduced their value at once. Only in a few cases, where the person making the annotations was famous, was the value of a book increased. Yet what he could see before him was not the normal type of annotation. Most of the pages were free of any kind of note. But where there was a large empty space, or the binder left a blank page to make sure the next chapter opened on a right-hand page, there was writing enough. What these notes might be was obscure. They looked like the receipts used by those wishing to cook a special dish. Or maybe the reminders used by apothecaries in making medicines. Each began with a list of ingredients, then instructions on how to prepare them. That was followed by the right time for steeping the mixture and the amount of boiling water and cold water to use.

It was not foodstuffs. That was clear soon enough. No one adds urine or flowers of sulphur to something to be eaten. Some of the ingredients were also minerals, by the look of them. Others had odd names that meant nothing to Foxe.

Could they be the secret formulae of some alchemist? If that was the case, it might account for any special interest in these volumes. Foxe could find no name or identification of a past owner. Nothing to say whether the person who wrote down these formulae, if that was what they were, was famous or not.

For a while, Foxe continued to leaf through the pages, musing on possible solutions to the mystery. Then, almost on a whim, he put one of the books in the pocket of his coat. He would take it home to examine. He might also show it to one or two people whom he knew had some interest in chemical experiments. They might be able to tell him enough to set a value on these mysterious books and their annotations.

He checked the books on the central table – another dozen – and called the footman. ‘Have these volumes packed and delivered as before, if you would be so good. I have also selected one small book to take with me now. It is not easy to identify and value, so I will take it to my shop and allow myself time to consider it in greater depth. Please tell His Lordship that I will reckon up all. Then I will send him another banker’s draft to cover what amount goes beyond the last one I left with him.’

‘Very good, sir. May I enquire whether the first box of books was packed to your satisfaction?’

‘Certainly. All arrived quite undamaged.’

‘Then I will see these are packed in the same way. Please remain at your leisure here while I call the earl’s carriage to take you home again.’

On his way back into Norwich, Foxe took the mystery book from his pocket. It had been printed and published in Geneva in 1666. He would wager also that some at least of the writing dated from close to that time. There was something old-fashioned about the means of forming the letters and the ink was much faded. That would make what was written here over a hundred years old. And, while the text of the book itself was in French, the notes were in several languages. Sometimes French, sometimes what he thought must be Flemish and once or twice in English. If he was right, these notes had been begun about a hundred years ago in France, then continued in Flemish and English, probably at various times between then and now. The few English notations showed up by their blacker ink and more modern form of handwriting.

The picture he was building was of a secret notebook, used and added to over more than one generation. It was, he thought, written in blank spaces in printed books as another means of keeping its contents hidden. They must have been quite valuable to the ones who wrote them. Even so, they might have no value today. Few in this modern world held alchemy to be more than a primitive form of the chemical science. A sad mixture of genuine experiment with wild phantasies and dreams of infinite power and immortality.

Foxe cursed himself under his breath. The earl had promised to look out the records of book purchases that his father and grandfather had kept. Foxe had forgotten to ask the footman whether this had been done. If he could discover who had sold them these two strange books and when, it might go a long way to help understand such value as they might have.

Almost on a whim, Foxe rapped on the roof of the carriage with his stick to signal a halt. Then he asked the driver to detour so that he could call at the alderman’s house. He would leave this annoying book there for his patron to see. He might know what, if anything, these annotations could mean.