ISBN: 9781483541938
PRELUDE
He grimaced as he watched the last of the men flee into the cave, threadbare tunics flapping over woad-streaked bodies. It was a trap, of course, and a poorly disguised one, but he was not concerned—though they outnumbered him five to one, the men, little more than tangled thickets of hair draped atop emaciated limbs, posed as little risk to him as a fly alighting on its back might threaten a highland cow.
Still, he knew that she was involved. Viviane. The cowards huddled in the cave would offer scant resistance, true, but the same could not be said of her. He should have killed her decades before, but he had chosen to be merciful; he would not make the same mistake again.
The man rubbed a hand across his jaw, dirty fingertips leaving dark smudges that stood in stark contrast to the light brown stubble they covered, as he stepped out from behind the hedge where he had concealed himself. They would expect him to enter boldly, and so he would.
As he crossed the threshold of the cave, he detected a faint flutter, like a shadow glimpsed from the corner of sleep-encrusted eyes, but he had no time to consider the sensation, for the men—“druids,” he thought with a sneer—attacked instantly, chanting and gesticulating wildly. Before their energies could coalesce, however, he raised his right hand, barked an arcane syllable, and sent crackling blue light bursting from his extended fingertips to strike the nearest man before it arced to the second, creating a chain lightning that quickly consumed all five and left them nothing more than withered husks.
The man shook his head with contempt, the smell of charred flesh a satisfying testament to his foes’ weakness. His attention did not linger long on their corpses, however, for he sensed that the woman was near, and he would need all of his remaining strength to face her.
He turned warily, eyes darting from side to side as he prepared to exit the cave. He did not see her, but he knew she was there. Balling his fists at his side, he stepped forward.
Everything shattered. His body collapsed as his mind splintered into tiny fragments, each one embedding itself into the cave’s jagged walls. He screamed, a raw, primal howl, as his nerves caught fire. He whimpered as his power, the very fiber of his being, fled from the cave, beyond the desperate grasp of the last conscious bits of his essence.
As he drifted into darkness, a dreamless slumber he knew could last for decades, perhaps centuries, he took grim satisfaction in knowing that he had prepared himself even for this unlikely outcome. He could recover what he had lost—he would simply need to find it. When he awoke…
CHAPTER ONE
As companions went, they were quieter than most, but their silence did little to diminish the pleasure he took in their company. To the contrary, their tranquility, interrupted occasionally by a satisfying crackle or whispered hint of friction, enhanced their appeal, as they never offered advice unsolicited, yet never failed to provide information. The ancient tome that currently rested in his lap was among the most prized in his vast collection, and as he carefully turned a vellum page, he marveled once again at its smooth feel, like the leaf of an orchid, and at the elegant script that covered its surface.
Lord Alfred Fitzwilliam had spent countless hours amidst the towering bookshelves and sliding ladders of his library, which housed one of the most impressive private collections in all of Queen Victoria’s England, his mind ranging far afield while his body remained ensconced in the worn leather chair in which he now sat, its creased surface conforming to fit the contours of his body with the familiar touch of an intimate companion. It was with the certainty that he would spend much of his life in this very room that he had first cultivated his well-manicured beard, hoping that it would give him the distinguished look of an academic. A sheepish smile crossed his lips as he recalled the youthful notion that a man’s appearance was indicative of wisdom, though the beard—now snowy white, save for a few persistent brown rivulets—remained.
He raised his eyes to the window to watch as snowflakes fell from the sky with a nonchalance that seemed defiantly at odds with their short lifespans. The blowing wind made him grateful for the warm glow that emanated from the library’s fireplace, an antique structure surrounded by a bronze relief that depicted a parade of ancient gods. In the evening, the fire would cast shadows across the wall, presenting a fierce struggle worthy of those same gods, one that raged until the blaze had burned itself out. Despite his failing eyesight, Alfred often read by the light of the fire alone, as he found the combination of ancient knowledge and flickering flames even more intoxicating than the Scotch—the Macallan, always—that fueled his late-night reading vigils.
Tonight, however, rather than reading, he would instead embark on a cold carriage ride to a dreadfully dull dinner party at the estate of another of the county’s most prominent families. Though bored to the verge of catatonia by such proceedings himself, his wife, Ellen, was fond of such galas, and it was in deference to her wishes that he continued to attend them, despite the fact that she was no longer well enough to accompany him.
Alfred rose and stretched. He heard a crack and felt a discomfiting pop, prompting a symphony of groans. Years had passed since he could rise without pain in one extremity or another, though, on the whole, he remained remarkably fit, his slender figure devoid of the extra carriage so common to his contemporaries. The pallor in his cheeks, however, indicated too many hours spent in the library. Earnest, blue-gray eyes peered out through pince-nez spectacles, and his neatly trimmed beard conveyed a stately elegance that his frequently arched eyebrow quickly dispelled. His voice, a deep baritone only just beginning to roughen from the rigors of long discussions, was warmly authoritative, and it was not uncommon even for people he had only just met to defer to his judgment.
Alfred moved toward the fireplace, picked up a poker, and prodded the logs, shifting them to smother the flames. Unlike his neighbors, he did not retain a retinue of full-time servants, relying instead on the many talents of his manservant, Stephen, and his house-maid, Sally. Sally did her best to keep the house, far too large for her alone to tend, free from cobwebs, though she had given up on the rooms her master and mistress no longer frequented, brokering an uneasy truce with the dust mites that had taken up residence within them in exchange for their tacit agreement to refrain from inhabiting the rooms they did use.
With the fire extinguished, Alfred walked to the window and gazed out over the grounds of his estate. Though scarcely mid-afternoon, daylight had already begun to fade. He watched as a stiff breeze gave the snowflakes free reign to flutter about before they alighted on the ground atop their predecessors. They reminded Alfred of the people with whom he would dine this evening—at a glance, they appeared identical, their clothes and mannerisms muted echoes with a shared origin, but a closer examination revealed the idiosyncrasies each possessed. A wry smile touched his lips as he considered the fact that “flake” served as such an apt descriptor for those same individuals.
After casting a last glance over his shoulder at the shelves where his bound companions rested, Alfred slowly descended the spiral staircase that led to his bedroom. Though dinner invitations came less frequently of late, social functions still took place far too often for his liking, and each time he received a summons, he gave serious consideration to ignoring it and taking up the hermit-like existence his peers predicted for him after Ellen inevitably succumbed to her illness. Doing so, however, would only further distance him from the last vestiges of the life they had enjoyed together, and there was always the hope that this evening would prove different.
Alfred shook his head ruefully and smiled as he reached the bottom of the stairs. His father had once upbraided him for being too much of an idealist, but Alfred had never quite given up on believing in something beyond the practical, though he tended to ignore such feelings. With his father long since gone, however, Alfred supposed that, at least for a night, he could allow his more quixotic side a temporary victory. Perhaps this evening would be different.
CHAPTER TWO
Alfred stepped down from the coach and pulled his long coat tightly around his body. The snow had ceased, and the calm of the winter landscape was broken only by the squeaking arrival of other carriages. Judging by the steady stream of people spilling out from those that had already arrived, the inclement weather would have little effect on attendance.
“I would prefer not to make it a late evening,” said Alfred, turning to face his servant. “Would you return in, say, three hours?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Stephen, snapping the reins and turning the coach back toward home.
Alfred glanced over his shoulder, savoring the majesty of the tableau before him. The moon hung low in the cloudless sky, and the stars flickered like the flames of the fire he had so recently snuffed. Despite the temperature, he would almost have preferred to remain outside.
Shaking his head and exhaling, he turned and walked to the front of the house, a stately manor well suited to one of the nation’s more prominent families. That its current occupants included the recently deceased Duke of Welshire’s widow and her frivolous brood brought a grimace to Alfred’s face, an expression he nimbly turned to a smile as the door opened in response to his soft knock. “Good evening, Lord Fitzwilliam,” said the Duchess’s butler, a thin man dressed immaculately in livery, as he took Alfred’s coat, hat, and muffler.
“Evening, Geoffrey. You are in for a long night, I fear.” Alfred inclined his head back over his left shoulder, indicating the arrival of yet another carriage.
The butler’s expression remained impassive. “So it would seem, my lord. The guests who have already arrived have availed themselves quite freely of the Duchess’s sherry, and if she continues to allow it to flow so liberally, I’m afraid many of our dinner guests will also be joining us for breakfast.”
Alfred chuckled. “Were it my party, I might suggest—purely as a hypothetical, mind you—that you water down the drinks halfway through dinner. By then, most of the guests will be past the point of noticing, and perhaps they will be more amenable to the prospect of departure if the water serves the dual purpose of sobering them up.”
The butler allowed himself a brief smile. “An excellent suggestion, my lord, but one I will have to give you full credit for if we’re forced to implement it and the Duchess finds out.”
“I shall happily take responsibility—if she blames me, perhaps I will be fortunate enough to be omitted from the guest list in the future.” Alfred patted the man lightly on the shoulder and moved past him into the hallway.
Nearly a score of people occupied the drawing room when Alfred entered, and voices from the adjacent room told him that more were present. He spotted the Duchess on the far side and began to make his way over to pay his regards, eager to discharge the onerous task. Before he could reach her, however, a bulky man blocked his path.
“Waltzing by without even a nod, old man?” The statement was accompanied by a wink and an outstretched hand.
Though the speaker appeared older, he was, in fact, two years Alfred’s junior. The man’s ample midsection, red cheeks, and gleaming pate contributed to his prematurely aged appearance, and a slight stoop only added to the perception that he was well into his dotage rather than just beginning it. His smile was warm, however, and the woman standing next to him, a wispy and wrinkled matron with a shock of gray hair that hung limply to one side, beamed when she saw Alfred.
“Benjamin! Lucille!” exclaimed Alfred as he grasped the man’s hand. “I thought your affairs would keep you away until next week.” He sketched a small bow to the woman, who laughed and extended her own hand, palm down, to Alfred, who kissed it lightly.
“I managed to complete a few deals early, and the weather was simply dreadful, so we decided to return home,” replied Benjamin. He offered a wry grin. “And, of course, Lucy wouldn’t have missed the Duchess’s dinner for all the tea in China, though I did my best to purchase it in place of actually having to attend.”
Alfred laughed. “A transaction from which you would have no doubt prospered.” He had never met anyone as shrewd as Benjamin Bradshaw, a man whose business empire, begun with a fruit cart when he was six years old, was built on the foundation of his ruthlessness in procuring the best deal. Alfred’s father had invested in some of a much-younger Benjamin’s more adventurous schemes, most of which, despite their seemingly scant chances for success, resulted in a healthy return for their investors. Over the past decade, Alfred had granted Benjamin the right to manage his own fortune, a decision he had no cause to regret.
“I am glad you are here,” said Alfred, looking around the room and shaking his head, “though I suspect that the truest of the bluebloods do not share my sentiment.”
“There will come a day when new money will simply be money, but until then, I will take great pleasure in offending with my presence.” Benjamin smiled as Lucille patted him gently on the arm. Though she had never possessed great beauty, a charming blend of common sense and a nurturing nature had won over her pragmatic husband who, with his philandering days long past, appreciated her more every day.
“At least we seem to have timed our arrival well,” noted Alfred as the guests began to make their way to the dining hall.
“True—if nothing else, the Duchess sets a fine table. And, she spares no expense when it comes to purchasing the finest brandy,” said Benjamin.
Alfred arched an eyebrow. “I suppose she procures it from you?”
Benjamin winked. “If I’m going to have to tolerate these people, the least I can do is ensure that I have something worthwhile to drink.”
After paying Duchess O’Malley the necessary compliments, the trio took their seats in the dining room. Servants poured libations with such efficiency that glasses rarely dipped below half full, despite the high rate of consumption. Alfred was seated across from Benjamin and Lucy, who sat at the end of the table, as far away from the Duchess as possible.
To Alfred’s right sat a man he had never seen before. The man was clearly younger than Alfred, but how much younger he could not say, for though the man’s clean-shaven face lacked age lines, wary brown eyes made him appear older. His closely cropped black hair complemented attire that was so fashionable as to make the man appear out of place at a gathering that consisted primarily of wizened matrons, curmudgeonly widowers, and overfed, elderly couples.
Though seated, Alfred could tell that the man stood several inches taller than he, and the cut of his suit hinted at an impressively broad-shouldered physique. Despite the din of conversation around him, the man stared silently down at the table, idly swirling the dregs of a glass of wine and apparently oblivious to Alfred’s examination. Lucy sought to draw the man from his solitude, but he responded only with small nods or in a monosyllabic monotone, though Alfred thought he detected an Irish accent. The only truly useful information he divulged was his name, Brendan Quinn, and the manner in which he distinctly pronounced the two syllables of his first name and rolled his r’s at least confirmed Alfred’s speculation as to his nationality.
Dinner proved unexpectedly enjoyable. The couple seated to Alfred’s left, a stodgy old pair whose contempt for egalitarianism so far exceeded the bounds of decorum that it was charming, provided ample entertainment. Benjamin took great pleasure in goading the couple into increasingly vehement exclamations as he went deeper into his cups. It was shortly after the old man had banged his fist on the table and shouted, “Those born without money do not deserve money!” that Alfred began to notice that Brendan Quinn was watching him.
At first, he thought that the man was looking past him to the couple on his left, either entertained, or appalled, by the conversation; as dinner progressed, however, Alfred realized that Quinn focused on him alone. Lucy continued her efforts to engage the stranger, but each time she tried, he deflected her attempts. After a while, she gave up and turned her attention to the conversation taking place between her husband and the old couple, leaving Quinn to continue his observations uninterrupted.
Alfred began to strategically place objects, such as a napkin or fork, in positions that allowed him to use reaching for them as a pretext to turn toward Quinn, but each time he did so, the man contrived to be looking away, or down at his plate. Though he felt his eyes on him all night, not once did Alfred successfully catch Quinn in the act of staring at him.
At the meal’s conclusion, the guests separated, the women to the parlor to gossip and the men to the drawing room to smoke pipes and “talk business,” a euphemism for their own unsavory brand of gossip. Benjamin yawned theatrically and announced that he was rather fatigued from their travels and ready to depart immediately. A grateful Lucy smiled at her husband before turning toward Alfred. “Will you remain, dear?”
Though Stephen would arrive soon with the carriage, Alfred had observed Brendan Quinn heading into the drawing room with the other men, and the stranger’s odd behavior had piqued his curiosity. “I will undoubtedly regret this decision, but I believe I shall.” He kissed Lucy’s hand once again, earning him a smile in response before she wandered off in search of the Duchess to say goodbye, leaving Benjamin and Alfred alone.
“Wonderful, isn’t she?” said Benjamin, beaming as he watched his wife disappear.
Alfred shook his head, a gesture his friend missed. Benjamin’s unabashed tenderness toward his wife stood in such stark contrast to the coldness of his professional demeanor—not to mention the wandering eyes and hands that had plagued him in his younger years—that it never failed to surprise him. “You are a most fortunate man, Mr. Bradshaw.”
Benjamin placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I wish Ellen were here too, old chap. No change in her condition, then?”
“None for the better; none for the worse. For the latter, I suppose I should be thankful.”
“While I was away, I obtained the names of a few more doctors—don’t give up hope.”
“I appreciate your efforts, my friend.” Alfred appeared as though he wanted to say something more, but no words followed.
Benjamin smiled sadly. “You’ll join us for supper Tuesday as usual, I hope?”
Alfred managed a nod. “Of course.” They shook hands, and Benjamin turned to depart. Alfred grabbed his arm before he managed to take more than a step. “Before you go…what do you make of this Brendan Quinn?”
“It’s unlike a stranger to show up to one of these dinners unaccompanied, or at least without some bloody toff trying to introduce him to everyone.”
“I could not rid myself of the notion that he was staring at me throughout dinner.”
“I know you’re lonely these days, old man, but don’t flatter yourself—he’s too young for you. And, terribly sorry to say, considerably more attractive.”
“He is hardly my type. Obviously, I prefer men with money.” Alfred leered, and both men laughed.
“You will…” began Benjamin.
“…let you know what I discover, yes,” replied Alfred, his eyes bright.
CHAPTER THREE
Alfred nodded to familiar faces as he entered the drawing room, his nose wrinkling as he caught the pungent scent of a particularly strong—and cheap—cigar. Under normal circumstances, he would make a quick circuit of the room to exchange pleasantries and then depart. Tonight, however, he was determined not to leave until he had satisfied his curiosity, and to do that, he would need to draw Brendan Quinn into conversation.
He spotted the man by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantle, his face expressionless as Alfred approached. “Mr. Quinn.”
Quinn seemed not to have heard, as his eyes remained fixed on some unknown object across the room. After a moment, however, he glanced furtively from side to side, as if seeking to ensure that no one was listening. At last, he responded, his voice both stern and lilting. “Perhaps you would do me the favor of joining me on balcony for a brief conversation?”
Alfred’s eyebrow shot up. “You do realize that it is the middle of winter, and hardly a pleasant evening. Men of my age find that their aches and pains, even if momentarily dulled by the cold, tend to worsen with prolonged exposure to it.”
“I’ve no wish to cause you discomfort, but it would be better if our discussion took place in private. I ask only for a moment, my lord—it is of the utmost importance.”
Curiosity warred with caution and, after Alfred stared at Quinn for a moment, the former won out. He nodded his assent and followed Quinn.
Alfred marveled as Quinn made his way across the room. The man moved with fluid grace, each foot lightly skimming the floor’s surface as he walked. He navigated a meandering path through the maze of brandy snifters and pipe smoke so subtly that their exit went unnoticed. Emerging onto the balcony, Quinn led them to a spot that offered no clear lines of sight from either the parlor or the drawing room, and together they stood gazing out over the darkened grounds. Alfred’s breath clouded before him, and he savored the crisp chill in the air. The bitter cold of the afternoon had diminished, replaced by a mild night draped in a velvet-black sky punctured by gleaming star bits.
Alfred did his best to force the rapidly forming questions from his mind, focusing instead on the majestic landscape before him. At last, Quinn spoke. “I understand you are a highly regarded scholar.”
“I suppose you might say that I know quite a lot about very little of consequence,” replied Alfred, confused. “I think ‘highly regarded’ does me more credit than I deserve.” Alfred crossed his arms as the cold seeped into his bones. “I confess, however, that I am puzzled as to why this discussion could not have taken place indoors. My scholarly efforts are hardly a topic worthy of secrecy.” Something in Quinn’s voice put Alfred on edge, and he could not be sure if the chill he suddenly felt so keenly could be attributed solely to the temperature.
Quinn paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. “Your particular area of expertise involves our Roman and Anglo-Saxon roots, with a particular emphasis on the so-called ‘dark ages,’ correct?”
Alfred rubbed his forehead with his right hand, perplexed. “In my youth, I had the privilege of studying under Professor Eric Aubrey, one of the finest Anglo-Saxon scholars that ever lived, at Cambridge, and his tutelage sparked a life-long interest that—”
“And your expertise extends to the subject of King Arthur?” interrupted Quinn, leaning in close, his voice low.
Alfred was taken aback at the man’s sudden intensity. “I have published a few trifling monographs on the subject.” Alfred had amassed an impressive collection of Arthurian lore in his library, including some exceedingly rare and coveted tomes. He began to worry that Quinn had somehow learned of his collection and was, perhaps, a book hunter in search of his fortune. Now on guard, Alfred glanced toward the house, hoping an inebriated guest might stumble out onto the balcony, but no such aid arrived.
“Your country, and your Queen, have need of that knowledge,” said Quinn, interrupting Alfred’s thoughts. “Do you consider yourself a patriotic man, Lord Fitzwilliam?”
“I take pride in Britain’s rich cultural heritage, and in her tremendous achievements in the arts and sciences. As for the Queen, she is a benevolent ruler.” He was not especially enamored of the Crown’s rampant colonization efforts and attempts to “civilize” indigenous “savages,” but, under the circumstances, Alfred felt that withholding that particular opinion might prove a wiser course of action.
“A suitably cautious answer.” Quinn looked over his shoulder to make sure they were alone. “I seek your assistance in a matter that I’m sure is close to your heart.” He paused. “Your wife…she is ill?” The pause sounded rehearsed, as though the man needed to practice sounding sympathetic.
Alfred’s face hardened. “You refer to a matter I do not wish to discuss.”
“My intent is not to bring you discomfort, Lord Fitzwilliam,” said Quinn, “but instead to offer you a chance to help prevent others from experiencing your pain.”
Alfred turned away, placed his palms down on the balcony, and leaned forward. He breathed deeply and exhaled slowly, his breath forming a misty cloud. “I am not in the habit, sir, of assisting those who would use my grief as a means of coercion.”
“I’m not a diplomat, my lord—I’m a soldier,” replied Quinn, sounding almost contrite. “As it stands, however, the member of my organization who wishes to speak with you was unable to come himself, and so he sent me instead.”
“Who is it who wishes to speak with me, then, Mr. Quinn?”
“This will explain all.” Quinn reached inside his jacket and produced a sealed envelope. There was no writing on the outside, nor was there anything remarkable about the seal itself. He held it out to Alfred.
Alfred stared hard at Quinn as he accepted the envelope. Alfred opened the letter, turning back toward the balcony to make better use of the moonlight.
The letter was dated three days previously.
My Dear Lord Fitzwilliam,
Please accept my most sincere apologies for sending this missive in lieu of calling upon you in person. I am afraid that I am confined to my quarters, and Tuesdays are such irritable days anyway—I have yet to experience one that was not, for one reason or another, particularly unsociable. Generally speaking, they are terrible days for travel.
In my stead, I have sent Mr. Brendan Quinn, a man of great intelligence and even greater accomplishment, particularly on the field of battle. He is a loyal servant of Her Majesty, but he is not, I fear, the most cordial of men. Mr. Quinn possesses a rather unique ability to transform mundane interactions into confrontational exchanges, for such are of the type with which he is most familiar.
This would, perhaps, be an ideal moment to introduce myself. My name is Henry Milner, and I belong to an organization that, though secret, falls directly under the Queen and her cabinet’s purview. Our group has existed for nearly 300 years and, God willing, will survive long after we are gone. Our raison d’être is simply stated: protect the British government and expand its power, influence, and magnificence. The endeavors we undertake, however, are often far more complex.
I shall not go on at length about the history of our organization, though I strongly suspect that you would find it fascinating. In fact, I refrain from sharing not from any reticence on my part or any potential lack of interest on your part, but simply because I am not allowed. Perhaps, if you are kind enough to acquiesce to the proposal outlined below, I may be able to reveal a few tidbits of interest at some point in the near future.
While our initiatives vary widely, and I confess that some are distasteful to men of honor (one of the reasons, perhaps, that men like Mr. Quinn are in our employ, though perhaps I treat him unfairly), there are times when I have the privilege of undertaking a task that has the potential to provide such benefit to the Empire, and the world at large, that I sink to my knees and give thanks to my Creator for allowing me the opportunity to be a part of this organization, one that has the resources and wherewithal to achieve the impossible. I am currently engaged in such an undertaking, one that it is my greatest hope you will be willing to assist us with.
When God calls upon men to make sacrifices for the greater good, we cannot help but heed the call, no matter how much pain we must endure. Were it within my power to make this request without bringing you sorrow, I would do so. Alas, however, it is only by reminding you of the horrible pain you now endure that I can convey to you the sanctity of our mission.
Consumption and other wasting diseases plague our nation. Each year, thousands of individuals, mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, husbands and wives, lose their lives while our most brilliant physicians wring their hands helplessly. I understand that your wife has been suffering for some time; I myself lost a cousin just last year.
There is hope, however. Our organization may have the means to stem the tide of consumption, and we may be able to prevent the spread of other illnesses as well, ensuring that no one ever need suffer the tragic and premature loss of a loved one again.
These claims undoubtedly sound outlandish, and I do not doubt that you will regard them—rightly, I might add—with skepticism. I, too, had doubts, but I now believe it not only possible, but, in fact, most probable that we can achieve this goal. In order to do so, however, we must recover a long-lost artifact, and it is for this reason that I seek your assistance.
Like you, I was fortunate enough to study under Professor Aubrey, though my tutelage occurred several years after yours; he always spoke most highly of you. When I read your recent monograph speculating on the final resting place of our legendary King Arthur, I knew at once that you were the right man to assist us in our endeavor.
I understand that this must be quite perplexing, and I can practically hear you wondering aloud what your knowledge of Anglo-Saxon England has to do with curing disease. I assure you that the two are inextricably linked, and that, with your aid, we may very well be able to accomplish the unthinkable and make miracles an everyday occurrence.
I pray that I do not ask too much of you by seeking an audience, a chance to convince you of the veracity of our claims and to ascertain whether you have the knowledge to assist us in our search. On the back of this letter, you will find an address. If it pleases you, I would be honored to host you at that address at the hour of 4:00 PM on Friday, 17 January. Fridays are very agreeable days, perhaps owing to their position in the week. Whatever the reason, I find them very accommodating, days that one can depend upon to provide succor no matter what ignominious events Tuesdays and those dastardly Thursdays have wrought.
You needn’t respond with any indication as to whether you have chosen to come; your appearance, or lack thereof, at the appointed hour will provide sufficient response. While I feel that are many compelling reasons for you to come, I certainly have no wish to coerce you.
Regardless of whether we meet next week (a meeting, incidentally, that I would look forward to greatly, as it is always pleasurable to converse with a man of such scholarly reputation, particularly one who is as esteemed a peer of the realm as you, my lord), I pass along my kindest regards and admiration for your academic accomplishments.
Warmest Regards,
Henry Milner
Alfred turned back toward the house as he finished reading, but was not surprised to find himself alone on the balcony.
CHAPTER FOUR
Panic seized Alfred during the ride back to his estate as he recalled his fear that Quinn might be a book bounty hunter after all, and the letter simply an elaborate ruse meant to distract him while Quinn slipped away to rummage through his library. By the time the carriage stopped and Stephen helped him step down, however, he realized that the odds of Quinn knowing what tomes he had hidden in his library were as remote as the chance that so strange a letter had been crafted for the sole purpose of briefly delaying him from returning home.
Nevertheless, he bade Stephen good night and headed directly to the library to confirm that his fears were unfounded. Everything remained undisturbed, with the most valuable tomes locked away safely. Alfred considered stoking the fire and reading, but with his mind struggling to make sense of the evening’s events, he knew he could not focus. He gave the library shelves one last look before descending the stairs toward his bedroom.
He discovered, however, that as unfit for reading as his distracted brain rendered him, it proved equally detrimental to his attempts to sleep. He tossed and turned for an hour before conceding in the face of overwhelming opposition, his tangled bedcovers evidence of the restless battle he had valiantly fought but decisively lost.
After returning to the library with a tumbler of Scotch, Alfred sat in his chair and gazed into the fire pit, gray with ashes, and replayed his conversation with Quinn while mentally reviewing the contents of the letter. Alfred had the ability to recall sentences, even entire passages, word for word from texts that he had read years before, a skill that had, in his opinion, fostered the development of a reputation for brilliance that exceeded his actual mental acumen.
Though he harbored reservations about Quinn, he had to admit that the letter intrigued him. There was something eminently likeable about its author, something in the handwriting that suggested that his brain worked faster than his hands could move. Alfred was also amused, if perplexed, by the man’s personification of the days of the week and other odd remarks, a hint, perhaps, that Mr. Milner might not enjoy full possession of his faculties.
He had a week to decide whether he would accept the invitation, but his mind could not rest until he had chosen a course of action. Alfred rose, stretched, and began to pace, hands clasped behind his back, eyes locked on the precise track his feet would follow. Eight steps and turn, always pivoting on his right foot and alternating left turns with right turns to prevent his mind from becoming locked on a single train of thought.
It did not take long to determine a course of action. He had already begun planning a trip to London to visit William Upton, his closest friend and primary book dealer, so he decided to simply move up the date of his trip, giving him the option to meet with Milner if he so desired. He yawned, ready at last for sleep, noting with dismay that the clock had just passed 3 AM. Before returning to bed, however, he picked up a pen and scratched out a note.
Will,
Moving up the date of my trip—arriving 16 January. Dinner?
Regards,
Alfred
Alfred sealed the enveloped, addressed it, and left it in the kitchen where Stephen would see it in the morning. Still unsure about the meeting itself but satisfied with his decision, he returned to bed, where his conquest over his busy mind was unequivocal, and he celebrated his victory until late in the morning, far past the hour at which he normally woke.
* * * * *
The days that followed brought more snow, leaving Alfred content to forsake the outside world in favor of quiet hours spent sitting before a roaring fire, pouring over a variety of Anglo-Saxon history texts while his wife dozed next to him. He remained perplexed by the alleged link between King Arthur and curing consumption. Debate still raged over whether Arthur had even truly existed, though many scholars accepted that there had indeed been a great Anglo-Saxon ruler with that name who fought against the Romans in the late fifth or early sixth centuries. Alfred knew, too, that the most iconic and popular trappings of Arthurian lore—in particular the legend of the Holy Grail—were the result of the vivid imaginations of poets born hundreds of years after Arthur’s death, storytellers such as Sir Thomas Malory and Chrétien de Troyes, the first such writer to mention the Grail.
The Holy Grail, the chalice used by Jesus Christ at the Last Supper that was believed to have mystical healing powers, seemed the only logical solution to the puzzle, if logic could apply to such an unusual situation. There was a subset of Arthurian knowledge seekers, more crazed alchemists than scholars, who obsessively sought the Grail and could offer more educated conjectures as to its potential whereabouts than Alfred—if, indeed, it had ever truly existed. Such legends had intrigued Alfred as a lad, but ultimately he came to view them as he did the Punch and Judy shows he had snuck into in his youth—an entertaining and fanciful diversion. Nevertheless, he pulled from his shelves two rare volumes that contained mention of the Grail in order to perform his academic due diligence prior to departing for London.
On a blustery Tuesday evening, he dined with the Bradshaws, and though Benjamin plied him with questions about Quinn, Alfred offered only vague responses and neglected to mention the letter. For reasons he could not articulate, he was hesitant to reveal what he had learned. Even after Lucy retired and the men sat alone in Benjamin’s study, Alfred remained reticent, prevented from telling all by the inexplicable feeling that discussing the details of the surreal encounter would cause it to fade away like the threads of a dream that, upon waking, slip farther away from the dreamer’s grasp the harder he tries to recall them. When Alfred departed later that night, he felt strangely relieved that his secret remained intact.
* * * * *
William Upton, bookseller, confirmed his availability in a note Alfred received on Wednesday, and suggested that Alfred come by his shop prior to supper. Given Will’s instrumental role in acquiring a considerable number of the rare books that populated Alfred’s library—including most of the volumes that occupied a clandestine hiding place beneath the library floor that Alfred reserved for his most valuable books—it was a welcome entreaty.
Upon completing his studies at Cambridge, Alfred had spent several years living as a bachelor in London. It was during that time he had befriended Will, who had inherited his father’s shop at the tender age of nineteen. Though Will’s father had contentedly maintained a select but loyal group of patrons, Will had grander notions. He sought to provide what other booksellers could not: access to the rarest codices, folios, and manuscripts. It was his willingness to go to great lengths for his clients—and ability to do so discreetly—that had enabled him to carve out a unique niche in an otherwise fungible profession.
With his preparations for the trip completed, Alfred allowed himself to relax, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes as his mind drifted back to events that had occurred far in the past, a location he had visited with increasing frequency since Ellen had fallen ill.
* * * * *
Charles Darwin had just completed his historic voyage aboard the HMS Beagle, though publication of his landmark work On the Origin of Species remained two decades in the future, when young Lord Alfred Fitzwilliam, baccalaureate in hand, prepared to embark on a twelve-month expedition that would take him across Europe, through Asia, and around Africa before returning to England. The normally reserved young man could scarcely contain his excitement, and even his father, the model of reservation from which the son drew his cues, fidgeted as he rode with Alfred to the train station.
Upon arriving at the station, Alfred shook the elder Lord Fitzwilliam’s hand heartily, bid Tom, the coachman, farewell, and rushed into the train station with suitcase in hand, not waiting for the servant to descend from atop the carriage to carry it for him. Tom quickly scrambled down and made to follow his young master, but a touch upon his arm stayed him, and he glanced quizzically at the elder Lord Fitzwilliam. “My lord?”
Lord Fitzwilliam shook his head. “Let him go.”
Inside the station, Alfred paced back and forth, checking his pocket watch every few moments and constantly glancing at his Bradshaw’s, though he knew the train tables by heart. At last, three minutes before his train was due to arrive, he spotted the man he had been looking for. “William!” he called out, doffing his hat and waving it about to attract the man’s attention.
William Upton, aged nineteen, grinned at the sight of his eminently proper friend brandishing his cap like a blind cricket batsman. He shook his head before taking his friend’s proffered hand and clamping it hard to restrain Alfred’s enthusiastic shake. Though three years Alfred’s junior, Will carried himself with the confident air of a man ten years older. “Relax, friend,” said Will as he watched the train steam toward the station, “we’ve a minute to spare.”
Will’s near-tardiness was forgiven as they boarded the train. In time, both would come to cherish the first step of a journey as much as what followed, but those days were yet to come, and for now their impatience to begin the next leg of the journey was matched only by their appetites. While they could do little to speed the coming of the former, they could easily fill the time by appeasing the latter, and so they set off for the dining car almost immediately.
This grand excursion was Alfred’s reward for his diligence at university, a chance to see the world before returning to England to follow his father into the House of Lords. His father believed that, once across the channel, his son would rendezvous with some of his well-bred school chums before setting off to Germany, an assumption that Alfred had never actually confirmed, but one which he had not denied, either—as close as he had ever come to willfully misleading anyone. Even mild acts of dissembling left Alfred nauseous, but he knew that his father would never have consented to him making the journey with Will as his sole companion (nor his use of his father’s resources to fund Will’s portion of the journey).
Sailing to Italy, their first destination, the pair enjoyed lively discussions that lasted deep into crisp, clear nights. Though Will had little formal schooling, he was as well read as any of the young men Alfred had met at Cambridge, and, unlike those fellows, not afraid to criticize even the greatest of authors, surmising that de Tocqueville was “an incredible bore whose self-indulgence was matched only by his soporific prose” and summing up Richard Whately as “an oafish prig whose next insightful comment would be his first” in response to Whately’s favorable comparison of Jane Austen to Homer and Shakespeare. In contrast, he defended—very nearly to the death in one unfortunate instance—every word ever written by Sir Walter Scott (notwithstanding that great man’s praise of Austen), a quality that endeared him to Alfred, who shared his taste for adventure fiction.
As much as both men relished their literary conversations, however, it was with barely restrained impatience that they disembarked in Livorno on their way to Lucca, where a letter from Will’s father—whose connections on the continent were far less prominent than Lord Fitzwilliam’s, but considerably more interesting—would provide an introduction to a man who might provide access to a little-known but most eclectic private library…if he were inclined.
Dr. Oliver Johnson—an English expatriate and professor of literature at Imperiale e Reale Accademia Lucchese—was a Dante specialist who had a passion for obscure saints, and Alfred and Will wasted little time in seeking him out upon their arrival in Lucca. They arrived just as Dr. Johnson completed his last lecture of the day. As his students dispersed, Johnson, a short man on the cusp of his fourth decade who sported a wild shock of curly salt-and-pepper hair that coiled around wireframe spectacles, took note of their presence, recognizing them, by the color and cut of their clothes, as fellow countrymen. “May I be of assistance, gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Will, withdrawing the letter of introduction from his pocket. “My name is William Upton, son of Philip Upton, the London bookseller. He sends his regards.”
Johnson scanned the brief letter, adjusted his spectacles, and peered intently at Will. “You certainly favor your father, though I have not laid eyes on him in a decade.”
Will gestured toward Alfred. “This is Alfred Fitzwilliam, son of Lord Fitzwilliam, Chancellor of the Exchequer.”
Alfred sketched a small bow and said, “At your service, Dr. Johnson.”
Johnson returned an even deeper bow. “I believe you have it backwards, sir—I am at yours.” Straightening, he said, “To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from such distinguished guests?” Alfred thought he detected a faint trace of sarcasm in Johnson’s voice.
“We were hoping that we might trouble you for a peek at your library.”
“I see.” Johnson stiffened. “Truth be told, gentlemen, this is an extremely busy part of the academic year, and I’m afraid now is most inconvenient. Perhaps another time.” He picked up his briefcase and donned his hat, doffing it briefly. “Good day.”
Before either of the stunned young men could react, Johnson was gone, leaving them to exchange dumbfounded glances. “Less cordial than I expected,” Alfred finally managed.
“My father always said the man was a bit…eccentric. Not to mention protective of his books…” Will’s voice trailed off and he shrugged. “Still, I wasn’t expecting that.”
“What now?”
“What do you mean? We came to have a look at his library, and so we will.”
“How?”
“I have an idea.”
* * * * *
“You do realize, of course, that the gentleman from whom you, ah, liberated that tome is unlikely to let its absence go unremarked, nor is he likely to forgive its disappearance.”
Will reverently ran his hands over the cover of a rare seventeenth-century copy of Dante’s Purgatorio, which he had purloined from a bookseller he considered unworthy, in his professional opinion, of possessing it. After wrapping it delicately in a soft cloth and nestling it securely in his bag, he turned toward Alfred and said, laconically, “Rubbish.”
“So, you do not believe that he will pursue us?”
“Oh, I’m sure he will.” Will shrugged. “But, he can’t say I didn’t make a fair offer.”
“You offered barely a quarter of his asking price.”
“His asking price was astronomical!” Will shook his head indignantly.
“Be that as it may, asking too much for a book hardly gives you the right to steal it.”
“It does if the man insults my father.”
Alfred, who had been cautiously peeking around the corner from their concealment in an alley off Via Vittorio Veneto, just a block away from Piazza Napoleone and a few blocks further from the scene of the crime, turned toward his friend. “I missed that exchange.”
Following Oliver Johnson’s abrupt dismissal of their request to see his library, which, according to Will’s father, included numerous rare and obscure volumes they would not likely see elsewhere, Will had proposed that they acquire an equally rare tome and present it as a gift to the professor to incent him to grant them access.
Will had tried to purchase the Dante, but its illicit acquisition now threatened to derail not only their attempt to see Dr. Johnson’s collection, but their ability to continue their trip as free men. Still, Will seemed unperturbed. “I don’t suppose it’s entirely accurate to say that he insulted my father directly,” he said. “But, you’ve seen how meticulously he cares for his books—that man’s shop is an affront to everything my father stands for as a bookseller.”
Alfred stared blankly at his friend, and then, after a moment, began to laugh, a quiet titter that quickly grew until it echoed off the stone walls of the alleyway, forcing Will to clap a hand over his friend’s mouth. “Have you lost your mind?” he whispered.
Alfred wiped tears from his eyes. “We must return immediately to the store, where you will return the book—discreetly, if possible, on the off chance he has not noticed its absence, and, barring that, openly and with your most sincere and heartfelt apologies.”
“But it’s just not right that…”
“Allow me to pose the question thusly: is possessing this tome on the chance that it convinces Dr. Johnson to permit us to view his collection worthwhile if the downside, which I suspect we are far more likely to experience, is that one, if not both, of us end up in jail or, worse, missing limbs, depending on how the local magistrate metes out justice?”
“Sometimes you’re an insufferable toff.” Will sighed. “Fine. But, I won’t apologize.”
“Will.”
“All right, all right—I’ll apologize. But, I’ll be damned if I’m going to be sincere.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Though the air remained cold, the snow had ceased, allowing for a smooth ride into London. The train arrived on schedule, giving Alfred time to stop at his favorite inn before calling on Will. Alfred made his way to Will’s shop on foot, navigating a meandering route that afforded him the opportunity to immerse himself in the sights, sounds, and smells of London, a city that had always invigorated and aggravated him in equal measure.