The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist) (6 page)

She became very serious and said in a level voice, “What is inside the Locked Room, Will?”

“The end of the long road, Lilly. The terminus of the journey—for those who have the eyes to see.”

TWO

It had begun months earlier, with the arrival of an unexpected caller.

“I am seeking a man by the name of Pellinore Warthrop,” the man told me at the door. “I was told that I might find him here.”

A vaguely continental accent, hard to place. Traveling cloak, dusty from a journey of many miles, draped over a tailored suit. Tall. Well apportioned. Eyes glittering wise as a bird’s beneath a finely sculpted brow. The unmistakable air of royalty about him, a thinly veiled haughtiness.

And, behind him, the shadows gathering upon Harrington Lane.

“This is the house of Dr. Warthrop,” I answered. “What is your business?”

“That is between me and Dr. Warthrop.”

“And you are?”

“I would rather not give my name.”

“The doctor is not in the habit of entertaining nameless visitors on clandestine missions, sir,” I said easily—and untruthfully. “But thank you for calling.”

I closed the door in his face. Waited. The knock came, and I opened the door.

“May I help you?”

“I demand to speak to Dr. Warthrop immediately.” Nostrils flaring.
Cheeky youngster!

“Who demands?”

“Do you see anyone else here?”

“I would gladly inform the doctor, but I am under strict orders not to disturb him under any circumstances that do not include a national emergency. Is this a national emergency?”

“Let us just say it has that potential,” he replied cryptically, glancing about in the gloom.

“Well, in that case, I shall be happy to inform him that you are here. And your name, sir?”

“Dear God!” he cried. “Tell him Maeterlinck is here. Yes, Maeterlinck, that will do.” As if he had other names available to him. “Tell him Maeterlinck has urgent news from Cerrejón. Tell him that!”

“Of course”—and I closed the door a second time.

“Will Henry.”

I turned. The monstrumologist was standing just outside the study door.

“Who is calling?” he asked.

“He says his name is Maeterlinck—that will do—and that he has urgent news from Cerrejón—wherever that is—that has the potential to be a national emergency.”

His face drained of color, and he said, “Cerrejón? Are you certain? Well, what are you doing? Snap to and show him in at once! Then put on a pot of tea and meet us in the study.”

He whirled away. “Cerrejón!” I heard him exclaim softly. “Cerrejón!”

They were sitting by the fireplace, deep in conversation, when I returned with the tea. The man calling himself Maeterlinck glowered at me from underneath his heavy eyebrows, a look that did not escape Warthrop’s notice.

“It is quite all right, Maeterlinck. Will can be trusted.”

“Forgive me, Dr. Warthrop, but the fewer involved the better for all involved.”

“I trust the boy with my very life—he can be trusted in this.”

“Hmm.” Maeterlinck scowled. “Very well, but I do not like it. He hasn’t much manners.”

“What sixteen-year-old does? Come, have some tea. One sugar or two?”

I sat on the divan across from them and did the thing I did best, the tactic I had adopted since coming to live with
him, out of self-preservation: blending into the woodwork. In a few moments I don’t think either of them remembered I was there.

“Of course,” the monstrumologist said, “you must understand that your story strikes me as extraordinarily far-fetched, sir. There has not been a sighting in nearly a hundred years.”

“For a good reason,” Maeterlinck countered. “I don’t pretend to be an expert in your field, Dr. Warthrop. I am no philosopher of natural history; I am a businessman. My client referred you to me. He said, ‘Go to Warthrop; he will authenticate the find. There is none better.’ ”

“Very true,” the doctor said, nodding gravely. “There is no one better. And nothing would delight me more than to authenticate it. The only hindrance is that you have failed to produce it!”

Maeterlinck shooed aside the objection with a patrician wave. “It would not be wise to carry it about like a traveling salesman. It is quite close by, quite safe, and quite taken care of, in the manner prescribed by my client in order to preserve its fragile, shall we say,
potential
. If we can reach an agreement, I can have it to you within the half hour.”

Warthrop’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you think, as a businessman, it makes better sense to have the goods on hand that you wish to sell? For even if I agree to a price, you won’t see a penny until I see
it
.”

“Then I shall ask you, Dr. Warthrop, are we agreed?”

Warthrop frowned. “Agreed?”

“You will take delivery upon our reaching a fair price.”

“I will take delivery when and only when I’m assured you aren’t a scoundrel trying to separate me from my money.”

Maeterlinck threw back his head and laughed heartily. “My client warned me you were tight with a dollar,” he said after catching his breath. Then he grew serious. “You do understand, sir, that there are a dozen men who would gladly fork over their weight in gold for it—well, who would sell their own daughters for it, truth be told. Men who are the furthest thing from a natural philosopher as you can get. I could bring my offer to one of those men . . .”

“Yes, you could,” the monstrumologist said, becoming very still in his chair. He was furious, but his guest had no inkling of it. The more emotional Warthrop became, the less emotion he revealed. “A living specimen would be worth twice the fattest person’s weight in gold and then some. It would also bring upon this continent a scourge more devastating than the plagues of yore sent down to teach the Egyptians a lesson.”

“And surely no one wants that!”

Warthrop rolled his eyes. He took a deep breath to steady himself, then said, “For the sake of argument, I will assume that you have it in your possession and this is not some elaborate hoax. What is your price?”

“Not my price, Doctor. My client’s price. As his broker, I will receive a modest commission. Five percent.”

“And that is . . . ?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

Warthrop barked out a laugh. “That is his price?”

“No, Dr. Warthrop. That is my commission.”

Warthrop was better at math than I. He had the answer quickly: “One million dollars?”

Maeterlinck nodded. He actually licked his lips. He smiled, as if he found Warthrop’s stunned expression amusing.

“It’s worth three times that to the men we’ve been talking about,” Maeterlinck pointed out. “Even at two million it would be a bargain, Doctor. One million is a steal.”

Warthrop was nodding. “I agree it has all the characteristics of a theft.”

He rose from his chair. He towered over Maeterlinck, who seemed to shrink before my eyes, dwindling down to a nub of his regal self, like a bit of kindling thrown into a crackling fire.

“Out!” Warthrop roared, his self-control slipping. “Get out, get out, get out and do it now, at once, with all alacrity, you despicable scoundrel, you perfidious, pretentious rascal, before I toss you out on your avaricious ass! Science is not some two-penny whore for your buying and selling, nor are those who practice it patsies and fools—well, not
all
of them, anyway, or at least not
this
one. I do not know who sent you—if
anyone
sent you—but you may tell your client that Warthrop will not take the bait. Not because
the asking price is too high—which, by the way, it is—but because he does not bargain with self-important, half-witted swindlers who believe, unwisely, that a student of aberrant biology would be ignorant of aberrance of the human kind!” He turned to me, eyes burning with righteous indignation. “Will Henry, show this . . . this . . .
salesman
to the door. Good day to you, sir—and good riddance!”

He stormed from the room, into which a distinctly uncomfortable silence descended.

“Actually, I expected a counteroffer,” Maeterlinck confessed quietly. I noticed his hands were shaking.

“It wasn’t the asking price,” I said. The doctor could easily afford it. “It’s an enormous sum to bandy about with no product to justify it.”

“I thought we could negotiate as gentlemen.”

“Oh, you’ll find very few of those in monstrumology,” I answered with a smile. “Living ones, that is.”

I walked him to the door, helped him on with his cloak.

“Should I return with it?” he wondered aloud, perhaps seeing the wisdom of my observation. “If he saw it with his own eyes . . .”

“I’m afraid he would refuse to even examine it. The bridge of trust has been burned.”

His shoulders slumped. A desperate look came to his eyes. “I could sell it—and get a nice price, too, if they don’t kill me instead.”

“Who? If who doesn’t kill you?”

He seemed shocked that I asked. “Profiteers.”

“Oh. Yes, they are despicable. Profiteers.”

I opened the door and he stepped outside. Night had fallen. I joined him on the stoop, closing the door behind us.

“I’ve made a tactical error,” he acknowledged. “I wonder if I might find some other philosopher to consider . . .”

“That heartens me,” I confessed. “It renews my faith that you are willing to sell to science what you could sell to profiteers at three times the price. It speaks to your good character, Maeterlinck.” I glanced around and lowered my voice, as if the doctor might be hunkered down in the bushes, spying on us. “Do not rush off just yet. It so happens I manage the finances as well as every other aspect of the doctor’s life. Are you staying in town?”

He eyed me warily. Then nodded: First impressions, after all, can be deceiving. Perhaps he had misjudged me.

“At the Publick House.”

“Excellent. Give me an hour or so. I will speak to the doctor—he spoke true when he confessed his trust in me. I may be able to convince him to at least have a look at it.”

“Why not speak to him now? I will wait. . . .”

“Oh, not now. I’ll have to let him cool down a bit. He’s got his dander up. In his current mood you couldn’t convince him the sky was blue.”

“I suppose . . .” He rubbed his quivering hand over his lips. “I suppose I
could
bring it here for him to have a look, but what assurances . . . ?”

“Oh, no, no, no. Your instincts were quite right not to bring it here—if it is as valuable as you say. This place is watched, you know, by all sorts of rough characters. The house of Warthrop is known to attract unsavory business—not that
your
business is unsavory; that’s not what I meant. . . .”

His eyes were wide. “I must tell you, I didn’t even know what monstrumology was a fortnight ago.”

“Maeterlinck.” I smiled. “I’ve been up to my eyeballs in it for more than five years and I
still
am not entirely certain. In an hour, then, at the Publick. I shall meet you in the drawing room—”

“Best if we meet privately,” he whispered, now my coconspirator. “Room thirteen.”

“Ah. Lucky thirteen. If we aren’t there in an hour, you may assume we are not coming. And then you must do what your conscience and your business interests dictate.”

“They are not mutually exclusive,” he said with great pride. “I am no swindler, Mr. Henry!”

And I am no fool,
I thought.

THREE

While Warthrop fumed and pouted in the library, nursing his wounded pride and wrestling with the one adversary that ever threatened to undo him—self-doubt—I gathered my supplies for the expedition, loading them into my jacket pocket, where they fit nicely with no untoward bulges. Then I brewed another pot of tea and carried it into the library, setting the tray before him on the large table, over which he slouched, paging through the latest edition of the
Encyclopedia Bestia,
the authoritative compendium of all creatures mean and nasty. Muttering under his breath. Running restless fingers through his thick hair until it framed his lean face like the halo of a byzantine icon. He flinched when I set the tray down and said, “What is this?”