But when Caroline returned home, they were treated to further complaints. The local butcher was a thief — “I cannot bring myself to give him our custom, Mr. Treviscoe. He will not give me an honest measure.” The servants were likewise all petty criminals — “When we first arrived, the woman who was recommended to us, and by none other than the Royal Upholsterer, was to be found in prison — in prison, sir! — for theft. I could get no sight of any woman but the wife of the gardener, who was of no further service to me than shewing me the shops.”
Lieutenant-Fireworker Nightingale found this exposure to disgruntled domesticity unbearably dull, and at supper liberally partook of Herschel’s cellar as an acceptable substitute for interest. He continued drinking immoderately well into the evening, Herschel being well supplied with Spanish brandy — so that by the time Treviscoe produced his flute and Herschel was seated at the harpsichord, not even Caroline’s full-voiced singing was sufficient to keep Nightingale awake. He sprawled insensate in an armchair, mouth agape and eyes shut. Thankfully, he did not snore. The conversation slipped from English into German.
And so Treviscoe was able to query Herschel and his sister concerning meteors without having to endure the military puppy’s evident self-importance.
“I still do not understand how it is that you have been granted an audience with His Grace,” Nightingale said, as they waited in the elegant foyer of Mongewell Park. The manor was beautifully situated on a placid pond, set in the most charming pastoral setting imaginable. The house itself was quite modem and comfortable, in striking contrast to Herschel’s miserable dwelling.
“You have not heretofore asked,” Treviscoe replied. “He is seeing us because he was expecting us.”
“But why is he expecting us?”
“Because a mutual friend requested it.”
“And what friend may a Popish tradesman have in common with an Anglican bishop, I should like to know?”
The “tradesman” rankled somewhat, but Treviscoe chose to ignore it. “His name is the Reverend Percival Stockdale.”
“I think I have heard of him — a miserable poet, if I am not mistaken, with a reputation for querulousness. He wrote a ridiculous elegy to Dr. Johnson’s dead cat.”
Treviscoe liked cats and found himself disliking Nightingale more than usual. “I find him a fine poet, Lieutenant. Our friendship was founded in a mutual antipathy for the abomination of slavery—”
“Ha! You own a slave yourself.”
“Hero is no slave, sirrah, although he was once in bondage — but that is a discussion for another time. Notwithstanding, the amity between the Reverend Stockdale and me was cemented by our mutual antiquarian tendencies, he being a formidable classical scholar. As to his querulous nature, he is a man who considers himself much wronged by society. I doubt you be aware of it, that before the late Dr. Johnson wrote his Lives, the commission for that work had originally been given to Stockdale, and subsequently withdrawn — to his great consternation, especially given the result. He considers Johnson’s cavalier treatment of our English poets to be a disgrace to English literature.”
“That is absurd.”
“Perhaps, but it is nonetheless fortunate, for it is to our purpose. Percival was only too happy to provide me with an introduction to the Bishop when I made it clear I was on a mission of justice — for any man who believes that justice has been denied him, may feel deep sympathy with those to whom it has also been denied, as with your cousin — and feel obligated to act. Hence the letter.”
“The footman returns.”
“Lieutenant, I once again conjure you to allow me to conduct this interview according to my own inclination. Do not on any account interrupt, or our trip here may be wasted.”
They were led to the library, where they found the bishop, modestly dressed as a gentleman and seated at an escritoire, his correspondence laid out before him. He arose when they entered and smiled warmly, first approaching Nightingale.
“Why, young Walter, what a joy to behold you after so many years — and what a fine figure of a man you have become.”
Treviscoe raised an eyebrow.
“My father, and especially my brother Simon, wish me to convey their warmest regards to your Grace,” Nightingale said, taking the bishop’s proffered hand.
“Are they well? Is Simon still at Chichester?”
“I may report that the viscount is in the very pink, and Simon still at the cathedral, although he has high hopes of a preferment.”
“That would be splendid. Forgive me, Mr. Treviscoe, for first attending to the scion of an old friend. Stockdale writes very well of you, although he does not mention how I may be of assistance.”
“It is the matter of Mr. Paskett’s funeral in Amesbury, your Grace,” Treviscoe said, “and although I was reluctant to solicit your aid, and anticipate that you must be reluctant to give it, I feel that you are the only hope to amend a terrible, albeit innocent, mistake.”
Barrington frowned. “Paskett? Paskett the Satanist? What is this?”
“I should hope in despite of our disparate faiths, that we are both sincere Christians, your Grace,” Treviscoe said, dropping his gaze to the carpet. “ ’Tis only that I know there has been a monstrous misunderstanding, for Francis Paskett was also as devout a Christian as either of us—”
“I do not begrudge you your Papism, Mr. Treviscoe. Although I find your theology to be materially in error, I believe in giving Catholics every degree of toleration short of political power and establishment.” In spite of these reconciliatory words, Barrington was plainly beginning to lose his temper. “But the Devil is as much your enemy as mine. Do you mean to say that Paskett’s Satan League was but a joke? Rather anathema! There are some things it is mortal perilous to joke about, sir, and none more so than the Prince of Darkness.”
“But your Grace, it was not the Satan League, but the Luciferian Society—”
“Call him Lucifer, Satan, Apollyon — he has many names — it does not signify.”
“—and named not for the Adversary, but for Lucifer Calaritanus, your Grace — he who was bishop of Cagliari in Sardinia in the Fourth Century. Lucifer Calaritanus, sir, the champion of the Nicene Creed, and founder of the original Luciferians, whom he established to oppose the Arian[1] heresy.”
Nightingale stared at Treviscoe in shock.
“What?” Barrington was no less astounded.
“Mr. Paskett did not form his society in mockery of the Church, but in its defence, to confound the pernicious Unitarian doctrines of Joseph Priestley, Theophilus Lindsey, William Robertson, and their adherents — videlicit, our modem Arians,” Treviscoe said, as solemnly as if he were praying. “It has been fourteen centuries since the Lord called Bishop Lucifer to his bosom, your Grace, but in Sardinia, he is still regarded a saint. Who better to name such a society for, than the most dedicated of Trinitarians?”
Barrington sat down heavily.
“I am all in amaze,” he said. “But see here — Jerome himself held the Luciferians in contempt, wherefore he wrote Altercatio Luciferiani et orthodoxi—”
“It was Lucifer’s spirit in defiance of heresy, rather than his theology, which Mr. Paskett sought to invoke, your Grace.”
“Do you have proof of this claim?”
“Only my word, your Grace — the aims of the Society were kept most confidential, that their efforts might not be countered before they were mature — but as to the value of my word and honour—” Treviscoe reached into his coat and withdrew a folded letter, which he opened and laid down on the desk before the bishop. “I have no doubt you were familiar with the late Edward Willes, Bishop of Bath and Wells. This is his testimony as to my character, given to me for such occasions as this — although I have never before had occasion to use it.”
1
Of or relating to the doctrine of Arius, a 4th century presbyter of Alexandria, concerning the divinity of Jesus. Arius argued that Jesus Christ was not