Brushing the loose dirt off his breeches and coat, he turned to Spurlock and said, “Fill it up. We are done.”
“I won’t,” Spurlock said, belligerently sticking his chin out. “This be Satan’s work.”
“Only if Satan be an anatomist,” Treviscoe said. “The grave was robbed, you dolt, and not by demons, but by men. Now fill it up before I take my boot to your backside.” After hesitating a moment, the three obeyed, and with more enthusiasm than they had used when digging it up, proceeded to fill in the hole.
Treviscoe looked at Nightingale, his eyes blazing. “Didn’t you say to me that Mr. Paskett’s only friend was the doctor? I trow we owe him a call. But first, let us repair to Stonehenge to examine the scene, and thence to our lodgings, that I might with due sedulity inspect these garments.”
Nightingale looked at the pathetic bundle with distaste. “They are but the rags of the dead, sir. You should burn them.”
“There is nothing more eloquent relative to a man’s station in life — nor, on occasion, to his death — than the nature and condition of his dress. Let us go.”
It was late afternoon by the time they arrived at the stone circle. The summer evening was warm and humid. The gentle breeze gave no hint to the mysterious violence that had taken place there not so long before.
Treviscoe diligently examined everything, the altar stone, the grounds, even the tall grey sarsens and their monumental post-and-lintel construction. More than once he paused and stared upwards, as if searching for some sign from heaven. Then he shook his head, remounted, and they rode the few miles back into Amesbury.
As soon as they returned, Treviscoe sequestered himself in the library with the garments and pored over them, examining them with his microscope and at one point drawing out his pocket compass and holding it next to the shoes. He was still deeply engaged when Nightingale returned from his errand to locate the doctor. He finally stood to stretch, and Nightingale pounced.
“What do the clothes tell you, Mr. Treviscoe?” Nightingale asked with a smirk. “Do they reveal a midnight attendance to a witch’s sabbath?”
“Since you ask, sir, I shall tell you. Mr. Paskett went abroad that evening on foot, perhaps to take the air, but without the intention of calling upon anyone. He was either not alone to begin with, or he had not gone far before he encountered someone of his acquaintance, perhaps his killer. His body was somehow conveyed to the circle at Stonehenge, rather than his having walked there. And before going out, Mr. Paskett had been engaged in chymical operations at his secret laboratory — it was there, perhaps, that he was exposed to a flash of fire, perhaps even an explosion, which might explain the extreme force with which his body was battered.”
“I do not believe a word of it.”
Treviscoe regarded him for several seconds as if he were the village idiot, then patiently began to explain. “The clothes are threadbare, in such a state that they are wholly unsuitable for receiving company. They are precisely the sort of habiliments a man would wear to labour in, especially if the work mayhap occasion something of a muck, as is so frequently the case with chymical experiments. You will perceive that there are more stains on the coat than bloodstains, and that the sleeves have been bleached in places, perhaps by exposure to weak concentrations of vitriol or aquae fortis. He was not therefore planning to entertain or be entertained.
“He went abroad, or he would not have taken this thick woollen scarf with him — a strange accessory for a warm summer night, I must say — wherefore I believe it has more to tell me, but I cannot quite grasp it yet — and on foot, for he wore shoes, and not boots, in which he should have been attired had he been riding — for the man who won the heart of Baroness Daphne Fitzdenys owns riding boots, you may be sure of that. The first time ever I saw her, she was on horseback, as wild as Atalanta.
“That he was not alone, and travelled by conveyance, is obvious, for he could not have gotten to Stonehenge on his own — a cursory examination of the shoes confirms that he did not walk thence, for instead of bearing signs of the road, dirt and pebbles and suchlike, the soles have tracked something very curious: iron filings. Either he has turned farrier — a rather unlikely turn, wouldn’t you say? — or the filings betoken something else. A visit to the blacksmith? That suggests the facture of some special apparatus. Hence, he had been conducting some sort of experiment or operation.
“You certainly recall telling me in London that the condition of his hair indicated he had been exposed to a very hot fire — that it was a flash is supported by the fact that the clothes are not charred, not in the slightest.”
Nightingale blinked twice. “Ah... but where did you get the fantastical notion of a secret laboratory?”
“As with the tale of fire, from your own mouth — did you not make a great point of telling me he performed experiments in secret? As we both can plainly see, he did not do them here, so he must have had a new laboratory, the location of which he must needs have kept confidential in order to avoid further confrontation with the populace.”
Nightingale’s handsome face was marred by a sullen scowl. “I see, Mr. Treviscoe. I cannot allow that your conclusions are correct, however they be most facilely reasoned. But I have not made my report concerning Dr. Witherspoon. I regret that he is absent from the town, sir, having been called away to attend an urgent illness at some farmstead or other, whither I know not.”
“That is most unfortunate. We must look for him to-morrow, then.”
“I live in hope,” Nightingale said, his voice soured by sarcasm. “What news from your mambo?”
Treviscoe froze, and then took a deep breath. “You must be ignorant of the legend of the Black Spartacus, Mr. Nightingale. Allow me to commend it to your attention, ere you say ‘mambo’ in Hero’s presence. As to his letter, the particulars he discovered are most suggestive. It appears that your cousin was engaged in trade, in stuffs I should not have thought him concerned with: silks, beeswax, leaden pipe, and hemp. Also a large quantity of oil of vitriol, acquired from his friend Dr. Roebuck. What might you deduce from such facts?”
“How should I deduce aught?”
“Then I shall keep my own counsel, for now. You look upon me as cracked enough, without I say more.”
Nightingale demonstrated no compunction against availing himself of the cellar, which was rich in clarets. By the time the young officer was deep in his cups, Treviscoe announced he was sallying forth for supper, there being neither cook nor victuals in the house. Nightingale waved him off, and Treviscoe clapped on his hat, buckled his sword belt, and left without further ceremony.
Many of the inns of Amesbury were closed. The town was clearly in decline, but a few blocks away lamplight filtered out of the windows at the George, and Treviscoe entered.
A solitary man with one corner of his hat pulled down over his face and wearing a bulky travelling cloak sat at one of the rough tables. Treviscoe pulled out a chair and sat across from him.
“You will roast alive in that greatcoat,” Treviscoe said, “and the hat hides a comely countenance.”
Hero looked up and removed the hat. “I did not wish to recommend attention to myself. I reckon there be few Africans in Amesbury.”
“It is enough that our precious lieutenant-fireworker be unaware of your presence for the nonce,” Treviscoe replied. “He is our man, I am sure of it. But he will be precious hard to bring to ground.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Why, the man lies like a French lover. He claims to have been Paskett’s bosom friend, the while pleading an utter ignorance of all his doings — there are clews enow at the house to paint as clear a picture had it been done by Sir Joshua Reynolds. Furthermore, I discovered that his family is well known to the Bishop of these parts, which should have made it easy for us to make an appointment with his Grace — but I had to depend on a letter of introduction from the Reverend Stockdale.”