“He had lately removed to Wiltshire, to Amesbury on the Salisbury Plain near Stonehenge, that he might conduct his essays into the laws of nature absent the distractions of town life, and over which he imposed a strict veil of secrecy, fearing that his discoveries might be anticipated, or even stolen outright, by his scientific rivals. This secrecy was not well received by the local populace — you must be aware of how naturally suspicion attends the peasant character — and together with his flaunting of his membership in a society seemingly named after the Devil, he became horrendous unpopular, his only true friend being the town physician, Dr. Witherspoon, whose medical training had endued him with a rational spirit.
“This dark reputation was unfortunately and unintentionally exacerbated by the nature of Francis’s particular researches into natural philosophy, which frequently involved the use of certain chymical operations, requiring brimstone, vitriol, aquae fortis, cinnabar of antimony, and other noxious decoctions sometimes associated with irreligious purposes. A conviction, wholly untrue, arose among the immediate population that he made use of these substances in conjuring the presence of evil spirits and demons. It is ironical, sir, as these are precisely the sorts of beliefs that he sought to obviate for all time.
“So much for his habits and history. This much would have had no maleficent influence, had he met his demise in any less grotesque manner, or if he had not earned the particular enmity of the local vicar, the Reverend Thomas Snodgrace, who demanded repentance of him or threatened him with excommunication.”
“I had never heard of the Church of England excommunicating anyone,” Treviscoe said.
“As may be surmised, Francis was outraged, and fell upon the creature Snodgrace with his walking stick, giving him such a thrashing as he had not known since public school. This was seen by the locals as further proof of my cousin’s irreligiousness.”
“Beating a man of the cloth is rarely a prudent act,” Treviscoe said, “even if he be a swaggering hector.”
“And lastly, there is this: The evening before his ruined body was found at Stonehenge, a drunken drudge claimed to have observed a bright meteor. This was taken as an evil omen. There are legends surrounding Stonehenge, sir, that imbue it with diabolical influences — it is said that the Devil built it himself, and cursed it so that the number of stones could never be accurately counted. There is even a legend that Satan hurled one of the stones at a brave priest who had overcome the curse.”
“I have also heard that Druids performed human sacrifices there, and that King Vortigern built it as a memorial to commemorate the dead who defended Britain from the Saxons, and that Merlin transported the stones from Ireland by magic,” said Treviscoe. “In short, exactly the sort of tales which your testimony would lead one to conclude that your cousin despised with every breath.”
“So I believe. Nevertheless, that some unnatural event transpired there cannot be discounted — consider the condition of his corpse, sir, which defies rational explanation. His very bones were smashed, as if by some vast giant out of legend. Or as if the stones themselves had moved of their own accord, and crushed the life out of him for his insolent pride, before returning to their several stations as sentinels of the occult.”
Treviscoe had nothing to say to that, but his eyelids drooped as though he were unaccountably bored by Nightingale’s strange story. In truth he was fascinated.
“And there was something else most hideous,” Nightingale said, lowering his voice, “consistent under the dark notion of Hellish intervention — he had been lately touched by fire. The hair upon his head had frizzled, and somewhat of his flesh and clothing seared, as if he had been touched by the blazing hand of the Devil himself.”
“Finally, there is this, Mr. Treviscoe,” said Lady Fitzdenys, reaching into her reticule. She produced a letter and passed it over to him. “I do not make it a custom to share my correspondence with any person. I do so now only that you may understand why I am convinced that Francis was murdered, and his burial in unconsecrated ground part of the vilest of conspiracies against him, and even against his very remembrance.”
Treviscoe perused the missive, folded it, and returned it to her. “I do understand, Lady Fitzdenys. You may utterly depend on my fidelity and discretion. Mr. Nightingale, perhaps you may tell me of the other members of the Luciferian Society. Had any of them accompanied Mr. Paskett to the Salisbury Plain?”
“Why, no, sir. They are without exception men of commerce and industry, much occupied with their own affairs. There is Mr. Samuels, who supplies cordage to the Navy, also Mr. Walcott in the textile trade, and the famous Dr. Roebuck of the Carron Company — not the sort of men to favour the tease of experiment over the promise of business, as you may perceive. There are others whose names I do not at the moment recall, lesser lights you may call ’em, but they are all of a similar disposition. I am certain that my cousin travelled to Wiltshire unattended by any one.”
“My lady Baroness,” Treviscoe said, rising and bowing before her. “I accept your commission. I perceive that it will be necessary for me to travel to Salisbury Plain in the progress of this indagation, and further, taking into account the growsome nature of Mr. Paskett’s demise, that there may be considerable clanger involved. I would therefore urge you to remain safely in here in Town. Whilst I am away, Mr. Hero shall remain in London looking after my affairs and other matters, and should you find it necessary to communicate with me, you may apply to him.”
“Danger, sir? Then I am your man,” said Nightingale.
Treviscoe paused slightly, and then nodded. “If you wish to join in this endeavour, I can have no objection, as the victim was your own kin. If you wish to provide yourself with useful employment in the meanwhile, may I suggest that you repair hither to Amesbury, and there secure lodgings for me prior to my arrival? There are a couple of matters I must see to first, matters in which I must act as sole agent.”
“That task I may more easily accomplish by mail than by meander, Mr. Treviscoe,” the young officer replied. “Is there any reason why we should not journey together?”
Treviscoe was taken aback. He was not used to having his plans altered by anyone, but he could hardly say so to a baroness and a young aristocrat, especially as he was now in her employ. “Very good, then, sir. I shall obtain passage for both of us on the post coach, although we will not be going to Amesbury directly.”
“Post coach, humbug,” said the Baroness. “I shall place my own coach at your disposal — I shall not need it in town — and you will be free to travel whither you will, and in your own time.”
“You are too kind, m’lady,” Nightingale said, “but I reckon we should travel more expeditiously on horseback.”
Still Treviscoe’s plans were being laid for him, not only without his consent, but even without consultation. He dreaded the idea of a long journey mounted on a horse, knowing instinctively that he could never keep as sure a seat as the spry young officer, who had been born to it. His legs and back almost felt the stiff aches that were sure to come. But he could hardly disagree with the good sense of Nightingale’s suggestion on the grounds of mere comfort.