Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 57, No. 1 & 1, January/February 2012

The Satan League James Lincoln Warren

On Saturday nights, it was Nat Spurlock’s habit to get staggering drunk.

The day had been deliberately chosen, as it was the week’s last day of labour, Sunday being the more proper for recovering from the aftereffects of crapulence, since it was the Lord’s day and provided the opportunity for Christian repentance, and also because no one, least of all Theodore Sault, his employer, could upbraid him for allowing the drink to interfere with his work. And so the evening of Saturday, July 22, 1785, was, as always, dedicated to the deep bibulation of quart after quart of rich Wiltshire ale, quaffed liberally from a leathern blackjack passed among the other tipplers at the Amesbury coaching inn, until the publican expelled them all into the sultry summer air.

Will Jackson staggered southward, Peter Figg to the east, and Nat along the western road towards Stonehenge. It was a fine night, clement and gentle, lit by a moon one night past full, and at this hour just past its zenith.

Nat did not notice the moon, but kept his eyes fixed on the horizon, experience having taught him that his best tack for not stumbling was to look neither up nor down.

And then he saw the flare of a distant flame in the sky.

He shivered in spite of the warmth, lost his rhythm and floundered, pitching forward into the dirt of the road.

What fell sign was this? What evil thus portended?

Struggling to his feet, he quickly crossed himself.

Nat Spurlock did not sleep that night, and was early to church the next morning, where his unaccustomed appearance was the source of mild gossip among the women, who regarded him as sort of a superior species of swine. They watched him with their sharp eyes and listened with their keen ears, and Nat was seen and overheard telling the vicar about his vision, begging for guidance, prayer, and the intercession of God against disaster.

That was when Nat Spurlock learned that the sidereal curse had not been intended for him, in spite of his many sins, a fact which the women knew quite well.

They, of course, had already heard about the crushed body in the stone circle.

Alan Treviscoe sat in his accustomed booth in the Subscriber’s Room at Lloyd’s in the Royal Exchange, reading Tuesday’s New Lloyd’s List, dated August 16. (To-day actually being Thursday the eighteenth, the next issue was due to-morrow, on Friday, but Treviscoe had neglected his newspapers that week and was catching up.) Hero sat to his left, quietly reading The Gazette, and Treviscoe was momentarily tempted to request that they swap newspapers, there being little of note in the List but dry accounts of the week’s shipping news — nothing to suggest the trials of sea-tempest and ocean-toss, neither any hint of the merciless blazing sun and heartless savagery in the Bight of Benin, nor the cruel blue ice and fiendish white bears of Baffin Island. No, the List bespoke the comforts of easy wealth and good commerce: life was solid, respectable, tranquil.

He adjusted his seat, removing some pressure from his left buttock, which might otherwise grow numb from inactivity. Feeling materially improved by the shift in position, he sipped his rich coffee, closed his eyes against the glow of the morning air, and gloried in the smooth summer warmth. He sighed with self-satisfaction.

In the distance, he heard a rumble of voices rise tide-like, reminiscent of the crashing surf on the beach at Dover, perhaps, and then a serene silence.

“Sir.” It was Hero’s voice, pointed but discreet, punctuated by an elbow to the small ribs.

He opened his eyes and realized he had been napping.

At first he thought he was still asleep, dreaming.

A rapturous vision of loveliness stood before him. Rapture was rapidly succeeded by shock.

A woman? — at Lloyd’s?

And not just any woman at that. Eight years had done nothing to dim her beauty. His entire body felt stunned, as if he’d fallen hard into a pond, flat on his belly.

“I can see that you are still no gentleman,” the woman said. Standing next to her was a subaltern in a blue uniform trimmed with red. At her words, the youth cocked an eyebrow and smiled ever so slightly, the very picture of restrained condescension.

Treviscoe sprang gracelessly to his feet and made his leg. “Pray forgive me, my lady. I had never expected to meet you again, especially not here.”

Without waiting to be asked, the woman swept her emerald skirts behind her and sat down, her chair almost magically placed beneath her by the subaltern as she descended.

“See here,” sputtered one of the underwriters. It was Langlade, the Huguenot, a man whose strict sense of propriety was as rigid as a stick of chalk. “What can ye mean by coming here, madam? This... this citadel of commerce, this bastion of masculinity, can be no place for you. I find myself exceeding ashamed for your sex.” He paused and smirked with self-approval, clearly beginning to warm to his theme.

“Thank you, Mr. Langlade,” Treviscoe replied, his wits returning all at once. “The baroness is my guest, in conformity with my right as a subscriber to entertain any person I choose.”

“Baroness?” Langlade blanched. “Baroness?”

“Fellow citizens,” — not by any stretch of punctilio could the commercial men of Lloyd’s be considered gentlemen — “allow me the honour of presenting Baroness Fitzdenys,” Treviscoe trumpeted. “Lady Fitzdenys, may I introduce Mr. Pierre Langlade and the underwriters of Lloyd’s.”

As one, the men bowed to her, most rather awkwardly. Lady Fitzdenys, an enigmatic smile on her lovely mouth, inclined her head as gently as a full-blown rose swaying in a light breeze, the broad brim of her hat amplifying the gesture. She then fixed her gaze on Treviscoe. He waited until the underwriters returned to their own business, or rather pretended to return to their own business, before acknowledging her glance and casting an inquiring eye at the young officer.

“Mr. Treviscoe, allow me to introduce Lieutenant-Fireworker the Honourable Walter Nightingale, of His Majesty’s Royal Artillery. Walter, Mr. Treviscoe.”

Nightingale offered his hand. His grip was strong and his hand calloused; he was obviously one of that breed of gentlemen who did not disdain labour.

Hero interrupted: “An it please you, my lady, the proper form of address is Sir Alan Treviscoe, baronet.”

Treviscoe blushed. Hero, a former slave and self-made man who regarded no man on account of gentle birth, and especially not Treviscoe, must have been extremely piqued to have betrayed Treviscoe’s new title. It had been less than a year since his brother Rupert, the previous holder, had died in Florence. But Hero had not forgotten the adventure in the Forest of Dean, nor Lady Fitzdenys’s part in it.

“Sir Alan, is it?” Lady Fitzdenys asked, laughing musically. “La, then you are a gentleman after all. The world upside-down.”

Treviscoe pulled the tails of his coat forward around his thighs and resumed his seat. Following his example, Hero did the same. Nightingale alone remained standing and took station behind Lady Fitzdenys, clasping his hands behind his back.

“I do not, as a general matter, avail myself of that style,” he said in a low voice, “and I do not believe that it has any relevance to this entirely unexpected visit.”

The light went out of her face like the flame of a lantern being shuttered against the wind. “There you are correct, sir. It were entirely different qualities of yours which recommended my present course of action. Sirrah — you cannot but be mindful of what you owe me.”

Treviscoe shut his eyes and briefly held his breath. When he spoke, it was with gentle deliberation. “Madam, I never sought to harm you. It was never your fault that your father was a traitor, as it was never mine that my own grandfather plotted against his lawful sovereign — you knew that not, I perceive, from your surprise — which may, in small part at least, explain to you why I do not flaunt a manner of address which was inherited from him. But as to any transgressions against your family, you must be aware I was under obligation to discover the source of the crimes of which your father was the author, not only for my own emolument under a contract to which I was bound in law and by personal honour, but for the common weal of our entire nation. Those events are, in any case, beyond recall. For the present, if now you seek my aid, for whatever purpose, I will not stint in providing it, so long as it be lawful.”

“ ’Tis justice, then, Mr. Treviscoe, that those same talents that occasioned my ruin, should be now bent toward relieving my instant disquietude. I can assure you that my purpose is within the law.”

“Then command me.”

“Very well. This is the charge I deliver unto you: Prove to the entire world that the man to whom I was betrothed did not die upon Stonehenge in thrall to the Devil, that he was in no wise a worshipper of Satan, and so might be properly, if posthumously, shriven and given a Christian burial.”

Devil worship?

“Madam — madam, I can only describe myself as — flabbergasted.”

But Hero’s face exhibited not so much astonishment as sudden comprehension. “You were engaged to wed the unfortunate Mr. Francis Paskett,” he exclaimed, belatedly adding, “m’lady.”

Treviscoe looked at Hero with something akin to wonder. He was more acquainted with the announcement of revelatory truths coming from his own mouth, and to Hero’s evident amusement, found the contrary experience unsettling. For the moment, Treviscoe had no more knowledge of Mr. Francis Paskett than he had of the Emperor of China.

“There is an account of his strange demise in The Gazette, sir,” Hero explained, his handsome face instantly inscrutable. He offered the broadsheet to Treviscoe.

“Do not trouble yourself with that vile scribbling, sir,” said Lieutenant Nightingale, “not when the truth is available from the lips of Lady Fitzdenys, and my own. Mr. Paskett was my second cousin and boon companion.”

He placed his hand solicitously on the baroness’s right shoulder. She reached across her pale full bosom with her left hand and lightly stroked his fingers, as if he were a pet songbird alighting there.

“Then I beg you to acquaint me with the horrid details,” said Treviscoe.

Nightingale paused, gathering his thoughts, then stood full erect, his hands behind him as if he were posing for the benefit of his soldiers. “Cousin Francis was suspected of being a devil-worshipper because he had named a fellowship of natural philosophers, of which he was the most prominent member, after the morning star.”

“That would not be the first blasphemous brotherhood in England dedicated to the adoration of Venus,” Hero said in a low voice.

“It was not that kind of a society,” Nightingale said, flushing.

“Not Venus, Mr. Hero, but Lucifer,” Lady Fitzdenys said.

“She’s correct, Hero,” Treviscoe confirmed. “So the Romans called the morning star. It’s in the Bible somewhere... I remember now. ‘Lucifer oriatur in cordibus vestries’: ‘And the day star’ — that’s ‘lucifer’ in Latin, don’t ye see — ‘arise in your hearts.’ The passage is to be found in second Saint Peter.”

The baroness narrowed her eyes. “How convenient it is, that you should have committed to memory that peculiar passage, Mr. Treviscoe.”

“I did so as a youth, in order that I might irritate my tutor,” said Treviscoe, a little sheepishly. In fact his knowledge of the Vetus Latina was as extensive and precise as any clergyman’s, but he didn’t want to give the impression he was boasting. “Teasing him was my only revenge. He was a Jesuit, and very strict.”

“Jesuit? Do you mean to say that you are a Catholic?” Nightingale asked.

“Continue with your account, dear Walter,” said Lady Fitzdenys.

“But His Grace Bishop Barrington is the most Protestant of clergymen,” objected Nightingale. “He is as likely to hearken to the entreaties of a Papist to permit my cousin a Christian burial, as he might to a black heathen.”

Hero sat up straighter, and Nightingale hastily added, “No offense, sir. I am sure you are no heathen.”

But his outburst had also vexed the lady. “Are you questioning my judgement, Walter?”

“No, m’lady—”

“Then do as I bid you.”

Nightingale grimaced in anger, but quickly overcame his temper. “As you wish.”

He pouted for an instant and then resumed his narrative. “Mr. Treviscoe, as I have mentioned, Francis Paskett was a member of the so-called Luciferian Society. The name was thus chosen, as the planet represents the new day and heralds the arrival of the sun’s light, shining down on all humanity and banishing the darkness of ignorance. But the society’s agnomen was willfully misunderstood by his enemies, who called it instead the Satan League, and claimed he and his companions had no less an aim in view than the overthrow of the Christian religion — and I must admit, that in his zeal to eradicate superstition, my cousin had been known to mock what he considered the more unenlightened tenets of our faith, scoffing at miracles and legends, without a care in the world as to who might be offended thereby. He did not, in any case, have much regard for the society of any men, except such as he considered his equals.

“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.

“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.”

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.”

Barrington picked up the letter and read it.

“I see, Mr. Treviscoe. There is no gainsaying the opinion of such a worthy man as Bishop Willes. You have quite persuaded me. I shall write to Snodgrace, instructing him to give Paskett a proper Christian burial, with the full benediction of the Church of England.”

“I thank you, your Grace, with all my heart. As to your instructions to the Reverend Snodgrace, may I say that I shall be only too pleased to convey them thither myself?”

“You are en route to Amesbury? But why? Surely, as saith Isaiah, your warfare is accomplished.”

Treviscoe smiled and bowed. “There is still to be determined the cause behind the ghastly circumstances of Francis Paskett’s death, sir, and I am strictly commissioned to discover same, or else find no rest.”

“But we may be assured, then, that it was never the work of the Devil, but of men,” Barrington said.

“I do not purpose to contradict you on such matters, your Grace... but in my experience, murder is always the work of the Devil.”

Nightingale had not reacted to Treviscoe’s theological excuse for the Luciferians’ name during their interview with Barrington, but once they were mounted again and on their way, his temper flared.

“I had thought you a gentleman, Mr. Treviscoe,” he said, scowling. “I should never have conceived that you would lie so perfidiously to a lord of the Church.”

“Perfidy? I do not so consider it. What was wanted was a pretext for allowing your cousin a decent burial,” Treviscoe replied, “just as there was a pretext for denying him same. We both know that he was never a Devil-worshipper, but in this case the simple truth would not have served us, as it could never have satisfied the Bishop. Aye, it was a lie, as you say — but a lie to counteract a much more perfidious one. You are a warrior, sir — how stand you on the use of ruses de guerre? For so it was.”

“That is altogether different,” Nightingale said, squaring his shoulders and sitting up proudly. “A ruse de guerre is a deception against an enemy. You cannot consider the Bishop of Salisbury an enemy.”

“Rather an adversary, I should say, and if not to ourselves, then to our mission. But if I were so inclined, I might very well regard him as enemy — you heard him say that he thought it just that men of my faith should be denied political power on strictly theological grounds. I do not regard myself as less English than you, sirrah, nor more prone to betray my King and country, because I am a Catholic.”

“Nonsense. You would put the King in thrall to a tyrant, had you your way.”

“This is not the seventeenth century, Mr. Nightingale. We are not at war with Rome — and as for thralldom, even Catholic monarchs have righteously opposed Papal authority in battle.”

“Falderal. I believe that you have no scruples at all.”

Treviscoe frowned. Such insults often led to pistols at dawn. Narrowing his eyes, he carefully regarded his companion. “None? Then you do not know me at all. Jesus told Pilate, regnum meum non est de mundo — ‘my kingdom is not of this world.’ But we, sir, live in the kingdom of this world, as should our scruples.”

Nightingale had solved the problem of their lodgings by the simple expedient of taking over the local town-house rented by Francis Paskett, just off Amesbury’s High Street. Treviscoe could tell from the most cursory examination that it had been used as little more than what his French cousins would call a pied-à-terre, a mere convenience, and that Paskett had spent very little time there, except to sleep and, apparently, to read. The first three volumes of Joseph Priestley’s Experiments and Observations on Different Kinds of Air (“Ha! So much for his detesting Unitarians,” Nightingale exclaimed when he saw it in Treviscoe’s hands), bound copies of Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier’s Sur la combustion en général, Considerations Générales sur la Nature des Acides, and Réflexions sur le Phlogistique, as well as various papers to the Royal Society by Henry Cavendish, were to be found scattered around the parlour, marked up by pencil in what Nightingale assured Treviscoe was Paskett’s own shorthand.

There was a long letter from Hero at the Post Office. Treviscoe pocketed this, and he and Nightingale then called on the vicarage.

They were not welcomed with any warmth, but they could hardly be refused, as Treviscoe bore Bishop Barrington’s letter. The Reverend Thomas Snodgrace was a large man of middle years, whose heavy face was unfashionably framed by a full-bottom wig, whose voice boomed like a kettle drum, and who suffered no opinion but his own to prevail in any conversation. In short, he was the worst kind of bully, one who used his physical presence as well as his erudition to browbeat dissent. He was not pleased with the Bishop’s letter, but did not dare to disobey the injunction it contained. Notwithstanding, he had no intention of easing the task.

“I cannot possibly lend you my sexton to help exhume the coffin,” he declared. “His duties demand his presence here.”

“We can hardly dig him up by ourselves,” Nightingale objected. “We are gentlemen, as you see.”

“Well, perhaps you can hire some of the local churls to abet you.”

“Is there someone specific to whom we might apply?” Treviscoe asked.

“Try the stonemason, Theodore Sault,” Snodgrace said. “He employs most of the strong backs hereabout.”

“And as we are about our business, you must have yours. Of course you will be prepared to receive the reliquiae once we have recovered them,” Treviscoe said. “I don’t misdoubt that one of the tasks to which you must set the sexton is a new grave.”

Snodgrace’s face went sour.

Sault, almost as ostentatious a personage as the vicar, gladly provided them with three men, Will Jackson, Peter Figg, and Nat Spurlock, and exacted a handsome fee in return. The men were sullen and distrustful — they were among the many who had believed the deceased to have been a malevolent sorcerer. Spurlock in particular seemed fearful of what they might find, and wasted no time in telling Treviscoe of the baleful omen he had witnessed the night of Paskett’s death to punctuate his misgivings. Treviscoe listened intently.

“Surely you had seen shooting stars ere then. What was so unusual about this apparition?”

“Weren’t no shooting star, sir. ’Twas a flash of hellfire, on my oath.”

“Mayhap like the discharge of a cannon?”

“Nor cannon, sir. Hellfire, sure.”

The Amesbury potter’s field was unkempt, but Paskett’s grave was reasonably fresh and the work went quickly. Soon they heard the thump of spades against the box of the coffin, but just as quickly the diggers scrambled out of the hole, their eyes wide with fright.

“God save us all,” Figg said, mashing his cap in his strong hands.

“What is it?” Nightingale asked, staring down into the dark cavity. “What is wrong?”

“Which it’s empty,” Jackson said, nodding sagely. “The Devil’s took him, hasn’t he?”

Treviscoe frowned with disgust and lowered himself into the grave to see for himself.

The top half of the coffin’s lid had been sheared off and roughly placed atop it. The body was obviously gone. Treviscoe lifted the tom plank to see more. There was nothing inside but long sharp splinters and a bundle of clothes, stained with blood, wrapped around a pair of shoes.

Treviscoe gathered the clothes and placed them carefully on the edge of the pit before hauling himself out, irritated that none of the workers so much as offered to assist him. Instead they backed away, as if he were a demon climbing up out of the depths of hell.

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.”

“Mayhap he is enamoured of the baroness and saw his cousin as a rival,” Hero said. “She has turned the head of more than one gentleman ere this.”

“This was no crime passionel, Hero. It was as cold and deliberate as if it were done by guillotine. I give you that Nightingale possesses as ill a temper as I ever saw, and might strike out of wrath, or passion, or wounded pride — but Mr. Paskett was not run through, nor was he felled by a pistol ball, as is likely had his death been in consequence of a matter of honour.”

“How was it done, then?”

“I require more evidence. Paskett’s grave has been robbed. You know why, of course.”

“I should say, so that his corpse might be anatomised.”

“Precisely. And that means it was stolen at the behest of a surgeon or physician, who should consider it a fine opportunity, for who’s to complain if an unconsecrated grave be violated? Nevertheless, Nightingale sought to prevent my making inquiry of the local doctor, claiming he was called away to attend a patient in the country. It may be true, but I do not believe it: A liar’s intelligence is no intelligence at all. In any case, it is impossible that I should canvass the matter with Dr. Witherspoon now, without I alert the lieutenant. But I think I shall not need his testimony after all, for the solution to the puzzle wants but a single fact, for which I need not apply to the doctor at all.”

“And what may that be?”

“I need to know what direction the wind was blowing on the night of the apparition.”

“That you may leave to me. I might easily find the answer at any farm with a weather vane.”

“So you should, Hero. Then until to-morrow.”

The summer sun having risen early to herald a glorious day, Treviscoe quietly departed the town-house while Nightingale was still sleeping off the previous evening’s vinous debauch. Hero was waiting for him in the courtyard of the George, already mounted. He had risen even earlier to put Treviscoe’s question to a local denizen, and was ready with the answer.

“On the night of July the twenty-second, there was a light breeze out of the north-east by east,” he said. “I should regard the testimony thereof as particularly reliable, as the man who gave it was an erstwhile naval gentleman, and finicky about such things.”

“I could not ask for better. Now to Stonehenge, Hero,” Treviscoe replied, “and thence westward.”

The sarsens cast long shadows on the sward, but any menace their crude architecture might have suggested was dispelled by the languor-inducing warmth of the golden sun. Gossamer flies and grasshoppers flitted lazily through the air. In the centre of the monument, exactly where the body had been found, Treviscoe consulted his compass, and indicated their course with his hand. They departed at a deliberate pace.

“Keep a sharp lookout, Hero.”

“I shall, though it might be of some little assistance if I knew what we were looking for.”

“Didn’t I say? Any of three things: sign of flagration in the grass, or a large basket, or what might appear to be a silken theatre curtain.”

Hero knew better than to evince any surprise at looking for a theatre curtain in an expanse of meadowland. Instead, he dispassionately asked, “How large a basket? Of a size to hold a bushel’s worth of com?”

“Larger, Hero — videlicet, large enough to comfortably accommodate a standing man.”

Hero creased his brow with surprise and then laughed in sudden enlightenment. “To accommodate—? Of course! A French balloon!”

“Rather an English aerostat — the invention whereby Mr. Paskett intended to make his fortune.”

“How long have you known?”

“I did not know until I saw your letter from London, had minutely examined Mr. Paskett’s choice of reading, understood the significance of his woollen scarf, and the iron filings embedded in the soles of his shoes, but I suspected it from the first. Consider the circumstances. First, the nature of his wounds. His body was crushed. What is the most likely cause of such extensive damage? What else, but a great fall?”

“The very fall of Lucifer.”

“That irony was not lost on me, Hero. Now, how can a man fall where there be neither mountain nor tower? He must be lifted into the air. The only means whereof I am aware to perform that task is an aerostatic balloon. And then there was the mysterious flash of fire in the welkin that night, in the direction of Stonehenge. I consulted with Mr. Herschel and his sister regarding meteors, and was convinced that the event was not any ordinary meteor, and I realized that although the local populace were gravely in error with respect to it being a demonic manifestation, yet they were right that such a singular occurrence must be connected to Mr. Paskett’s weird death. Recall also the evidence of fire upon and about Mr. Paskett’s person. It requires no great imagination to connect the fire that burned the body to that fire which Nat Spurlock saw in the sky.

“Finally, there was another clew in Paskett’s letter to Lady Fitzdenys. Do you recall his words? He wrote that his ascension was soon to begin — his ascension, Hero. It seemed to me that he used that word not figuratively, but literally — he meant that he was soon to fulfil his ambition to lift himself into the air.”

“But you were not yet confident in your theory.”

“Because every instance might be more sensibly explained by other means, Hero — it is only when they are taken in the aggregate that an aerostat is suggested. Paskett might have been writing poetically — he was, after all, writing to his paramour. The flash of light might have been a true meteor. His body might have been crushed by some mundane means and conveyed to Stonehenge. I needed further evidence. Which, I may say, you were instrumental in providing me.”

“I understand that his purchases of silk, hempen rope, and beeswax were evidence that he was constructing a balloon, they being necessary components for such a device, but what was the significance of iron filings found on the shoes?”

“Ah. There are two kinds of aerostat, Hero. The Montgolfière brothers use hot air to buoy their inventions, but Professor Charles and Monsieur Robert have improved upon them by making use of inflammable air, Monsieur Lavoisier’s hydrogene, to give buoyancy to their balloon. Only last year, they flew in one such marvel from Paris to Nesles-la-Vallée, a distance of almost thirty miles.

“But it were not their success, but rather the risk they undertook, which suggested to me that Mr. Paskett attempted to replicate their experiment. Inflammable air, as the name denotes, is most volatile, and prone to explode in a violent flash, such as our rustic acquaintance Nat Spurlock saw that fateful night. If Mr. Paskett’s balloon had exploded, it was evident that it had been constructed along the lines of the Charles and Robert aerostat. Furthermore, inflammable air does not exist in nature, but must be manufactured, and industry always leaves traces.

“There are two methods for creating great quantities of the gas. One, invented by Lavoisier, is to drip water through a musket barrel, which has been heated till it glows red; but the more common technique is to pour oil of vitriol over iron shavings.”

“I gave you the knowledge that Paskett had acquired the vitriol, and you found the shavings for yourself.”

“As you say. And among his effects was a woollen scarf, a peculiarly unfashionable accessory in the heat of July. He wore it because he knew that the high air is frigid, and he was thus prepared to encounter the temperature thereof; the inference to be drawn is unmistakable. To cap it all, Paskett’s library was a veritable thesaurus of scientific treatises on subjects atmospherical. And that was when I knew.”

“But why this secrecy? I should think he would prefer to share such an accomplishment with the world.”

“In a word, vanity,” Treviscoe replied. “Failure should ruin any chance of a reprise; given his general unpopularity, he must have deemed it prudent to eliminate any chance of miscarriage first.”

“Prudence is unlikely to result in death. The question remains as to how Mr. Paskett’s aerostat was caused to explode.”

“To determine that, we must needs find it first, but I have a notion as to how it was done.”

“Courtesy of our friend the lieutenant-fireworker, I daresay.”

“Indeed, I do not misdoubt that he was the author of the disaster. I have heretofore mentioned his claims to have been intimate with his cousin. Paskett must have had some assistance in so complex a project as making his aerostat, and who better than his cousin for such a purpose? Tell me, Hero, did you shake his hand at Lloyd’s?”

“He did not offer it. I am nought but a black heathen, after all.”

“When I took his hand, I noticed it was rough and calloused, not the smooth and soft hand one anticipates of an aristocrat. I thought at the time that he must be a keen farmer, a common enough proclivity among our English squires, as it is with the King himself. But you cannot travel in the country with a man without you discover his sentiments regarding a bucolic existence, and Lieutenant Nightingale showed nothing but contempt for husbandry, neither any other pastoral pursuit, save the hunt. How then did his hands come to be so hardened? Surely, it were other labour than farming which caused it. It is my supposition that Nightingale assisted his cousin in the facture of the aerostat, and in particular, the net which surrounded the balloon, the tying of which would induce such calluses — and afford him an opportunity for mischief.”

“That is reasonable. But I do not see what you are implying, with regard to mischief.”

“Hero, how is your knowledge of artillery?”

“I know that it requires a prodigious quantity of gunpowder. Do you believe Lieutenant Nightingale planted a bomb aboard the aerostat? I do not see how he could have done so without Paskett’s knowing of it.”

“I agree. It must have been something much more clever, hence my question to you about artillery. You see, certain kinds of shot make the use of fuses, for which a length of slow match may be used. Do you know how slow match be made?”

“You know that I do not.”

“A length of hempen line is imbued with saltpetre.”

“Hempen line...”

“Aerostatic balloons are contained within a hempen net.”

“Then Nightingale be the very Devil; it was he, and not his cousin, who was in league with Satan! I now perceive your thoughts,” Hero said. “Nightingale wove a long length of slow match into the net. At the launch of the aerostat, he ignited it in such a way as Paskett would not notice it, or else notice it too late to stop it. The aerostat rose up into the air, and when the burn reached the balloon, it first melted the wax used to seal the silken envelope, and in the sequel, burning through the silk itself, ignited the inflammable air within. What explosion must have ensued! Paskett would have been blown out of the basket to plummet to his death.”

“But the ruined aerostat would not have followed him directly down — it must have been conducted to its final resting place by the wind.”

“Wherefore we search for signs of it now.”

“And find it we must, or prove nothing.”

An hour had not passed before Hero espied a patch of charred grass. They dismounted and carefully perused the ground.

“Here is where the basket must have struck the earth,” Treviscoe said, kneeling. “The ground was dented by its corner, and here are shattered pieces of wicker.”

“But nothing else,” Hero said. “We were fools to think that a man of such cunning should ever have failed to conceal such evidence of his crime.”

“We must hie to Amesbury forthwith and confront him,” Treviscoe declared, pocketing the narrow twigs of broken willow. “On my oath, he shall not escape justice.”

But Nightingale was not to be found. The only sign of him was a letter, obviously written in haste.

“At least he confesses the motive for his crime,” Hero observed. “He meant to steal his cousin’s accomplishments to accrue to the benefit of his own military ambition.”

“He means to remove Lady Fitzdenys from London,” Treviscoe said. “That cannot be tolerated — we must ride instanter, Hero, day and night, to reach London before him.”

The weather, which for weeks had been fair, now proved contrary, the summer heat begetting roiling clouds, pelting warm rain down like liquid nails amidst wanton fits of lightning and thunder. But it did nothing to deter Treviscoe and Hero. They made London in good time, but just in time: the Baroness was preparing to decamp the City for the Continent as they arrived at her home, and mere minutes later would have been gone. Her coach awaited her on the drive of her lodging.

“Hero, do not let them leave,” Treviscoe said, as he slipped from the saddle and painfully bounded up the stairs to the front door. He pounded on the panel, and the door was opened by a startled maid. He pushed past her.

He stood in the foyer of the house, holding his hat at his side, water dripping from the sodden felt of its corners onto the floor.

“I must see her ladyship forthwith. The hour is desperate.”

“Mr. Treviscoe, I had not expected to see you here.” The voice was cold.

For a moment, Treviscoe was taken aback. She stood above him on the stairs, dressed as she had been when he had first seen her eight years before, as a boy in breeches. Her hair was no longer piled above her head, but pulled back and club-queued. Her face showed no trace of cosmetic, but her pale complexion accentuated rather than diminished the power of her eyes.

She descended with elaborate nonchalance.

“I see that you are escaping town,” he said.

“I have no choice. Walter will settle my debts,” she said, seemingly unconcerned. “My career as a lady of fashion has run its course, even if it hasn’t accomplished its purpose, and I fear it was not without considerable cost.” She smirked. “Would you have hearkened to my entreaties had I appeared before you at Lloyd’s as I am now?”

“You know that I would have,” he replied, his voice soft. “But, madam, I fear that you have put yourself in the power of a scoundrel. I shall not hinder your departure, but you must hear me.”

He told her everything. As he spoke, her expression softened, and when he at length fell silent, he saw that her eyes were glistening.

“Walter has summoned me to Dover, as if I were some trull to do his bidding,” she said, and he saw the anguish in her face. “We are to take passage to Calais, and thence to Italy. With Francis dead, I have no other resource, Mr. Treviscoe.”

She reached up and touched his cheek with her right hand, and then quickly withdrew it. “So many secrets. How I hate them! How different might life have been without them.”

Before he could realize what she was doing, she leaned into him and kissed him softly on his lips. He stood confounded. He had long ago surprised her with an uninvited kiss, but his had not been so tender.

“Good-bye, Mr. Treviscoe.” She strode past him with purpose.

He followed her outside, and signalled Hero to release the coach. She climbed in, and it rattled off into the mist. All at once, Treviscoe felt weary beyond endurance.

It was Thursday, September 16, and London was abuzz with excitement. The pervious day, the young and handsome “Daredevil Aeronaut” Vincent Lunardi of the Neapolitan Embassy had flown from London’s Artillery Ground to Hertfordshire in a balloon filled with inflammable air, accompanied by a dog, a cat, and a caged pigeon. The crowd at the aerostat’s launch had by most estimates surpassed two hundred thousand, and had included no less an eminence than the Prince of Wales.

There was no other topic of conversation, but Treviscoe did not share in the public’s enthusiasm. As if the day were no different from any other, he sat in his usual place at Lloyd’s, again reading the List.

The portly and overdressed Jervase Barkway, one of Treviscoe’s least favourite underwriters, sat down heavily across from him.

“Quite the news, eh, Mr. Treviscoe?” he asked. His faced was flushed; he had obviously been celebrating. “Astonishing, what?”

“All the world is in love with a balloon,” Treviscoe responded.

“Not that, not that,” Barkway said, frowning. “Damn’d French contraption. Dangerous. Nought but a crotchet if you ask me, and I daresay the fancy for ’em shall pass soon enough. No sir, no sir, I was speaking of your noble friend.”

“My noble friend?”

“That Baroness.” Barkway then winked ostentatiously and elbowed Treviscoe. “Fine filly, she. Still, quite tragic.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, Mr. Barkway.” Treviscoe folded his paper and looked quizzically at him.

“Haven’t ye heard? ’Tis in the Gazette. Tragedy. Her friend, that young Artillery officer.”

“What of him?”

“In Italy, they were, Tuscany — say, an’t Lunardi from Tuscany? — anyway, they were visiting that famous tower, the one that don’t stand up straight.”

“The campanile at Pisa?”

“Aye, the very one, the very one. Slipped and fell from the top, didn’t he, and right in front of her very eyes. Dead, of course. Well, sir, you don’t survive such a fall as that, do ye? The newspaper says she was most distressed. Apparently he was her protector, you see.”