“Her? Good heavens, no. A fine girl, of course, but-” I blew air through my cheeks. “The tongue on her. She would wear any man out within ten minutes. I’d rather hear a dog bark than her voice.”
“Is that so,” said Henry, sounding utterly unconvinced.
“What did you mean when you said, ‘You are not in love with her as well?’”
“She is a wonder,” Henry admitted frankly. “It’s impossible to know her and not love her. I’ve long suspected Konrad does as well.”
I shook my head. All around me, everyone was in love-and me without a clue! What kind of imbecile was I?
“You’ve never spoken to her of your feelings?” I asked, jabbed by jealousy once more. I’d often thought that these two had a great deal in common, with their love of writing. When they’d collaborated on our play, they had spent a great deal of time together, words and laughter ricocheting between them, eager ink staining their fingers and hands.
“No,” said Henry. “And I trust you will keep it secret. She would never have me. I have no delusions. Around her I feel like a pale, feeble moth. It’s all I can do to avoid her flame.”
“You really do have a poet’s tongue, Henry,” I said in admiration. “Would you, you know…”
“What?”
“Scribble a few lines for me?”
He looked at me, askance. “You wish me to scribble you some declarations of love?”
“Just a few little things. You’re a genius, Henry,” I said, warming to my cause, “and no one has your talent with words. Just five of your words could make the sunset itself pause.”
He frowned. “That is not bad, you know,” he said thoughtfully. “Maybe something like, ‘Your beauty would make the sunset itself pause.’”
“Ha! You see!” I cried. “You have the gift! I could never have done that myself.”
“You very nearly did,” he said.
“No, ’twas you, my friend! I knew you wouldn’t disappoint me! You genius!”
“You flatter me,” he said. “I don’t dislike it.”
“You put Shakespeare to shame. Just two or three more baubles like that, and I’m forever in your debt. I know how easily these things trip from your tongue. You don’t mind, do you?”
“I will see what I can do,” he said with some reluctance.
“You’re a true friend, Henry. Thank you.”
We were in the village by this time, and I looked about for the widow’s cottage Polidori had described.
“Is it that one there?” Henry asked, pointing.
It was a mean place indeed, surrounded by a dismal yard with chickens, goats, and a pig.
We dismounted and tied up our horses.
“Now, remember our plan,” I said to Henry.
We had dressed smartly, for we had wanted to look as credible as possible.
I knocked on the cottage door. A dog barked from within; a baby squalled. The door opened, and filling nearly the entire frame was a large woman whose face wore an impatient scowl.
“Can I help you?”
“Madame Temerlin, I presume,” I said.
“Not anymore I’m not,” she said, and sniffed. “Madame Trottier it is now.”
Henry consulted the notebook he’d brought as a prop. “Ah, yes, I see that notation here. Forgive me. But you were once the wife of the late Marcel Temerlin, were you not?”
“I was,” she said guardedly.
Henry and I looked at each other and smiled. “Well, that is excellent news,” I said. “We understand that your late husband was a very talented maker of maps.”
“Who sent you?” she demanded.
Henry and I had agreed ahead of time that we would not mention Polidori.
“We’re acting on behalf of the city archives, madam,” I said, playing my part. “The magistrates have ordered a complete geographical survey of the republic, and have sent emissaries like ourselves to collect any materials that might prove of historical or practical use.”
Seeing her hesitate, I took a purse from my pocket and made sure it jingled nicely. “We’re authorized to pay a fair sum for any materials we deem appropriate.”
“They’re in a trunk in the barn,” she said. “I almost burned them when he died, I was so distraught.”
“It must have been a terrible loss,” I said.
“Leaving me with three little ones…”
“The hardship must have been-”
“Would’ve liked to strangle him myself.” She turned and called, “Ilse, watch the baby!”
She led us through the yard to the barn. Judging by the smell, it needed a good mucking out. Near the back, in a closet below the hayloft, she showed us a small battered trunk. She opened the lid. Inside were a number of mildewed notebooks.
Henry and I made a show of paging through them quickly, muttering vague remarks to each other.
“I think these will all be of great interest to the archives,” I said.
“Indeed,” said Henry.
“He was always running damn fool errands for that witch Dr. Polidori,” said the woman darkly.
“I don’t believe we know him,” said Henry innocently.
“Had him looking for minerals and molds in the caves. Then my husband got it into his head that there was diamonds or gold or both down under the mountains.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re not mixed up with this Polidori, are you?”
“Goodness me, no,” said Henry. “Our interest is purely archival.”
For a moment her scowl disappeared, and she looked at Henry and me with a mother’s concern.
“You’ve not got some scheme in mind, have you? To go exploring?”
“We are merely messengers, madam,” I said, and to avoid her eyes I started to count out silver coins from my purse. “We would like to take all these maps, if you’re agreeable.”
“They’re yours to take.”
She watched the coins as I pressed them into her palm. I did not like the look and smell of poverty about her home, and I gave her more than I needed to.
“That’s very decent of you, young sir,” she said, but with some reluctance still. “I just hope you’ve not got some fool notions like my late husband. Those caves kill. That’s all they do.”
“Thank you, madam,” I said. “Thank you very much indeed.”
We loaded the notebooks into our saddlebags, and she watched us from the door of her cottage as we rode off.
We did not speak for several minutes. Henry looked uneasy.
“Do you think it was Polidori who sent him to his death?” he said.
“That is overly dramatic. It sounds as if he rendered some services for Polidori, but then undertook his own adventures.”
“The point is, the caves are dangerous,” Henry said.
“But we will not be exploring. We will only follow his map to the pools. We know exactly what we’re looking for. We will go and return.”
I urged my horse to a canter and headed for home.
“What about this one here?” asked Konrad.
Elizabeth, Henry, and I were in his bedchamber after dinner, and we’d spent the last two hours on the floor, poring over Temerlin’s yellowing notebooks and maps by flickering candlelight. Temerlin had been an energetic man. It seemed there were very few caves, paths, cracks, and crevices he had not explored.
Konrad had unfolded a large map from within one of the notebooks. We came closer with our candles.
It was a wonder, almost frightening, for it looked like the intricate scribbling of a very methodical madman. A single passage quickly became many, and while most of the turnings and intersections were very clear, sometimes the lines of ink trailed into nothingness like the wanderings of an unhealthy mind.
“I suppose those were the tunnels he never explored to the end,” said Henry, touching some of these ghostly
