“So we should,” he said, “although I am not unmindful of your generosity, m’lady.”
“Very well. Then till the morrow, sir,” the lady said. She rose from her chair, picturesque and charming as a covey of partridges bursting from a tall clump of swaying grass, ignoring the staring multitude of insurers intoxicated by her lissom figure.
Nightingale shallowly and stiffly bowed, and offered his arm to Lady Fitzdenys, who lightly rested her dainty hand in the crook of his elbow. She curtsied as Treviscoe again made his leg, and then turned and proceeded towards the door as smoothly as a zephyr-drawn royal yacht.
When they had departed, Hero frowned at Treviscoe.
“What’s this, sir? I to remain in London, whilst you place yourself in danger? In the company of a stranger, yet? It will not do.”
“Peace, Hero,” Treviscoe said. “I cannot be in two places at once, and there is as much work to be done here as in Wiltshire. You may begin with Messieurs Samuels, Walcott, and Roebuck — to discover what manner of men they may be, and to discern what the quality of their friendships with Mr. Paskett may teach us. It may very well be that I shall require you in Amesbury after all, before it is all over, but first I must hie to Datchet, and thence to Mongewell Park, where, I assure you, I shall be perfectly safe.”
“Datchet? Mongewell Park? I believe the former is in Berkshire, nigh Windsor, but I have never heard of the latter. Why must you go there?”
“To discuss certain, shall I say, celestial matters, of both corporeal and spiritual import.”
“Sir, may I suggest that this is no fit subject for jest? And you know how I loathe riddles.”
Treviscoe always enjoyed being mysterious, but he realized he was being petty, revenging himself on Hero for the unspeakable crime of having read The Gazette before he had. He relented immediately, feeling a little ashamed of himself for indulging in such frivolous vanity. “I must visit Datchet because it is the home of our old friend William Herschel—”
“I had heard he discovered a new planet in the heavens, which he named in honour of the King. Is that why you wish to consult with him?”
“Aye, he being the very man to enquire after wandering supernal lights — and thence to Mongewell Park, which is in Oxfordshire, because that is the home of His Grace Shute Barrington, Bishop of Salisbury, the churchman whom young Nightingale believes I cannot influence, and whose approval is wanted to permit Mr. Paskett a Christian burial. As to that, we shall see.”
Treviscoe knew that Hero was eager to learn the contents of Paskett’s final letter, but that he would never ask Treviscoe to divulge something that had been shown to him in confidence. To make amends for his earlier boorishness, Treviscoe decided to tell Hero the substance of what he had read.
“Although propriety and taste alike preclude me from revealing the whole contents of Mr. Paskett’s letter to the Baroness, Hero, I think I may safely assure you that it was the letter of a man with great expectations for the future. He wrote, in fact, that as of that evening, his ascension was to begin, that his enemies were soon to be confounded, and that he and his lady were assured of their fortunes.”
Hero woefully shook his head. “I call it tragic, sir. He could not foresee that his ascension was not to be in this world, but rather from it.”
Treviscoe had an abiding love for instruments.
During the progress of their journey, he succeeded in irritating Nightingale with his constant consultation with his bright brass combination pocket compass and sundial (made by Monsieur Guibot of Paris), comparing it incessantly with his watch (made by Mr. Jefferys of London), and further annoyed him by his ceaseless scrutiny of insects’ wings and pond scum with his compass-type microscope (made by Herr Doktor Lieberkühn of Berlin). It was not to be wondered at, then, upon their arrival in Datchet, that Treviscoe should be entranced by Herschel’s magnificent twenty-foot telescope.
It towered above them like a giant cannon pointed at the heavens, supported by a tall frame in the shape of the letter A, a mighty weapon set against the jealous gods themselves. Pleased with the simile, he said as much to Nightingale, who was not in the least impressed.
“Why, such a flimsy carriage should tumble like a house of cards at the first discharge, sir,” he said. “It would not do at all.”
Before he could reply, a jovial voice interrupted.
“Mr. Treviscoe! To what fortunate circumstance am I indebted for the unexpected honour of this visit? Did you bring your flute?” These words, pronounced with a slight German accent, came from the direction of the house behind them. They turned.
William Herschel walked toward them, his arms outstretched in greeting.
“Accept my apologies for such a tardy reception to such a favoured guest — I would have you know, by means of extenuation, that my servants here are barely better than worthless,” he said in a low voice. “I have only just learned of your arrival.”
When they had knocked, they had been sullenly informed by a slatternly maid that Herschel was abed, having spent the night conducting his heavenly observations, while his sister Caroline was in the village attending to the shopping. Plainly, Mr. Herschel was finally awake.
“Not at all, sir,” Treviscoe said. “Mr. Herschel, allow me to present Lieutenant-Fireworker the Honourable Walter Nightingale, of His Majesty’s Royal Artillery.”
“You are most welcome, sir,” Herschel said. Nightingale almost imperceptibly bent at the waist in acknowledgement.
“I have come seeking your aid in an indagation, sir,” said Treviscoe, “in which I am being ably assisted by Lieutenant Nightingale. And yes, I have brought my flute.”
“Are you musical, too, Lieutenant?” Herschel asked.
The officer’s face took on a patronizing smile. “I regret that I have not the fortunate capacity for performing music, sir — although the listening to it affords me occasional amusement.”
Herschel curtly nodded and gave them a conspiratorial glare. “I shall only be too pleased to provide you whatever humble assistance I may, Mr. Treviscoe, and gratefully. Your presence is a gift from Providence. Caroline shall be delighted — such delight being out of the common, I must say, as she does not, ah, find our situation here to be in the least convivial.”
“It looks like a fine house,” Nightingale said. Although the house was a separate dwelling of two storeys with its own enclosed garden, it was attached to a large manor house, the Lawns, on the Horton Road — the sort of house Nightingale must have grown up in.
The lieutenant wrinkled his nose and frowned. Herschel smelled strongly of fresh onion.
“I was at first vastly pleased with it, myself, sir, as it is so convenient to Windsor Castle and my royal patron — but alas, it has proved damp in every season, built upon a marsh—” This explained the onions; the astronomer must have been rubbing them on his body to forestall disease. “—plagued by mosquitoes, and unbearably cold in winter. I have it to thank for giving me the malaria. And the exorbitant prices! You would never countenance them, especially for eggs and meat.”
“Indeed?” Nightingale asked, making no attempt to conceal his boredom. “You must find this bucolic existence a sore trial, then, as would I.”
Herschel was slightly taken aback. “Not at all, sir. The nights are glorious.”