“It’s worth three times that to the men we’ve been talking about,” Maeterlinck pointed out. “Even at two million it would be a bargain, Doctor. One million is a steal.”
Warthrop was nodding. “I agree it has all the characteristics of a theft.”
He rose from his chair. He towered over Maeterlinck, who seemed to shrink before my eyes, dwindling down to a nub of his regal self, like a bit of kindling thrown into a crackling fire.
“Out!” Warthrop roared, his self-control slipping. “Get out, get out, get out and do it now, at once, with all alacrity, you despicable scoundrel, you perfidious, pretentious rascal, before I toss you out on your avaricious ass! Science is not some two-penny whore for your buying and selling, nor are those who practice it patsies and fools—well, not all of them, anyway, or at least not this one. I do not know who sent you—if anyone sent you—but you may tell your client that Warthrop will not take the bait. Not because the asking price is too high—which, by the way, it is—but because he does not bargain with self-important, half-witted swindlers who believe, unwisely, that a student of aberrant biology would be ignorant of aberrance of the human kind!” He turned to me, eyes burning with righteous indignation. “Will Henry, show this . . . this . . . salesman to the door. Good day to you, sir—and good riddance!”
He stormed from the room, into which a distinctly uncomfortable silence descended.
“Actually, I expected a counteroffer,” Maeterlinck confessed quietly. I noticed his hands were shaking.
“It wasn’t the asking price,” I said. The doctor could easily afford it. “It’s an enormous sum to bandy about with no product to justify it.”
“I thought we could negotiate as gentlemen.”
“Oh, you’ll find very few of those in monstrumology,” I answered with a smile. “Living ones, that is.”
I walked him to the door, helped him on with his cloak.
“Should I return with it?” he wondered aloud, perhaps seeing the wisdom of my observation. “If he saw it with his own eyes . . .”
“I’m afraid he would refuse to even examine it. The bridge of trust has been burned.”
His shoulders slumped. A desperate look came to his eyes. “I could sell it—and get a nice price, too, if they don’t kill me instead.”
“Who? If who doesn’t kill you?”
He seemed shocked that I asked. “Profiteers.”
“Oh. Yes, they are despicable. Profiteers.”
I opened the door and he stepped outside. Night had fallen. I joined him on the stoop, closing the door behind us.
“I’ve made a tactical error,” he acknowledged. “I wonder if I might find some other philosopher to consider . . .”
“That heartens me,” I confessed. “It renews my faith that you are willing to sell to science what you could sell to profiteers at three times the price. It speaks to your good character, Maeterlinck.” I glanced around and lowered my voice, as if the doctor might be hunkered down in the bushes, spying on us. “Do not rush off just yet. It so happens I manage the finances as well as every other aspect of the doctor’s life. Are you staying in town?”
He eyed me warily. Then nodded: First impressions, after all, can be deceiving. Perhaps he had misjudged me.
“At the Publick House.”
“Excellent. Give me an hour or so. I will speak to the doctor—he spoke true when he confessed his trust in me. I may be able to convince him to at least have a look at it.”
“Why not speak to him now? I will wait. . . .”
“Oh, not now. I’ll have to let him cool down a bit. He’s got his dander up. In his current mood you couldn’t convince him the sky was blue.”
“I suppose . . .” He rubbed his quivering hand over his lips. “I suppose I could bring it here for him to have a look, but what assurances . . . ?”
“Oh, no, no, no. Your instincts were quite right not to bring it here—if it is as valuable as you say. This place is watched, you know, by all sorts of rough characters. The house of Warthrop is known to attract unsavory business—not that your business is unsavory; that’s not what I meant. . . .”
His eyes were wide. “I must tell you, I didn’t even know what monstrumology was a fortnight ago.”
“Maeterlinck.” I smiled. “I’ve been up to my eyeballs in it for more than five years and I still am not entirely certain. In an hour, then, at the Publick. I shall meet you in the drawing room—”
“Best if we meet privately,” he whispered, now my coconspirator. “Room thirteen.”
“Ah. Lucky thirteen. If we aren’t there in an hour, you may assume we are not coming. And then you must do what your conscience and your business interests dictate.”
“They are not mutually exclusive,” he said with great pride. “I am no swindler, Mr. Henry!”
And I am no fool, I thought.
THREE
While Warthrop fumed and pouted in the library, nursing his wounded pride and wrestling with the one adversary that ever threatened to undo him—self-doubt—I gathered my supplies for the expedition, loading them into my jacket pocket, where they fit nicely with no untoward bulges. Then I brewed another pot of tea and carried it into the library, setting the tray before him on the large table, over which he slouched, paging through the latest edition of the Encyclopedia Bestia, the authoritative compendium of all creatures mean and nasty. Muttering under his breath. Running restless fingers through his thick hair until it framed his lean face like the halo of a byzantine icon. He flinched when I set the tray down and said, “What is this?”