“Think you so?” asked Mr. Morrison, who removed an amethyst on a chain from his pocket. “It appears that the deaf girl is the only one of us generous enough to share.”
“I presumed my gem would be sufficient for all of us,” Lucy answered sulkily. She did not like to be accused of being unkind.
“It will. I should not have let you come if I were not prepared for what we might find,” said Mr. Morrison. “I don’t much care for ghosts—bit of a bad history there—and the ones here are more unpleasant than most.”
Lucy laughed nervously. She was eager to move on. “You know the way to the library?”
“He has no great library,” Mr. Morrison said. “But I know where he will have such books as he possesses—in the old drawing room.”
Again, there was that tone in his voice, but Lucy did not ask questions. Instead, she took Sophie’s hand and followed Mr. Morrison into the great expanse of the entryway. Here was a vast, cold stone room with vaulted arches. There was little in the way of decorations or wall hangings, and Lucy perceived it was but an entrance to the abbey proper. Somewhere in the distance she heard a slow drip of water.
Mr. Morrison turned back to her. “This is the crypt.”
“Splendid,” she answered.
They turned right and proceeded up a great and broad stone staircase, the steps wide enough to be negotiated without much difficulty by a horse. Horse droppings scattered about the floor gave evidence that Byron had actually ridden indoors. Lucy also observed overturned plates of food upon which rats nibbled, occasionally turning to stare at them brazenly. There were, however, no ghosts in evidence.
At the top of the staircase they entered the great dining room, which showed more evidence of horses, discarded food, and overturned and shattered bottles of wines. Cobwebs tickled their faces, and they heard the scurry of little animal feet—more rats most likely, but this being Newstead, there could be no assurance that they would not be poisonous lizards or African monkeys or anything else Byron’s imagination might desire and his credit might procure.
Through a carved doorway they entered a corridor which took them to a short set of steps, and then a door, which Mr. Morrison pushed open. They followed him inside.
It was a massive room, sixty feet long, and almost half as wide, and it was the most orderly and well-kept space Lucy had yet seen in Newstead. There were paintings upon the walls, and comfortable furnishings near the ornate fireplace. Along the far wall, even in the dark, Lucy could perceive bookshelves. Relief washed over her. Their journey was near an end.
“This is the great drawing room,” said Mr. Morrison. “Byron keeps his collection here. Nothing like what a gentleman would call a library, but a few hundred volumes, so this may take some time. Let us see if we cannot find some candles or lamps to light to make the work go faster.” He raised up his lantern and then began to let out a long string of uncharacteristic curses.
Lucy saw at once his reason. The shelves along the wall, where Byron’s books ought to have been, were completely empty.
“Damn him,” said Mr. Morrison. “I should have known he would do something of this sort.”
Lucy tugged on his sleeve.
“You will have to endure my language,” he said. “And the deaf girl cannot hear me.”
“Not that,” said Lucy. “By the door.”
Mr. Morrison turned his lantern toward the door. At first, he saw nothing in the gloom—Lucy watched him shift his light about in search of what had alarmed her—and then he saw it, the massive gray wolf, its yellow eyes reflecting the lantern’s glow. Even in that dim light, they could see that its mouth was open, its head low to the ground. The animal let out a low, rumbling snarl.
They stood on the far side of the furnishings, so the sofa and chairs and tables were between their position and the wolf’s, but that would do them little good. Very slowly, Lucy reached into the inner lining of her cloak and removed a small felt pouch. Loosening the drawstring, she began to sprinkle its contents on the floor around them while she muttered an incantation. She hoped it did not need to be spoken clearly, for she was still slightly embarrassed to do such things in front of other people.
“Monkshood,” she told Mr. Morrison when she was done. “The wolf won’t like it.”
“Very clever, bringing that with you,” he said, “though we’re in some trouble should we decide to leave the circle.”
“What happens then?”
“Then,” said Mr. Morrison, “then we shall resort to other means.”
The wolf moved closer to them, and Sophie gripped Lucy’s arm. Mr. Morrison, for his part, remained motionless and apparently unperturbed.
“You are most calm, sir,” said Lucy.
“I have taken you at your word that it is monkshood,” he said. “You are certain it is?”
“My father taught me to recognize and distinguish plants,” she answered.
“Then it is monkshood,” said Mr. Morrison.
The wolf walked slowly, casually, around the furnishings, and approached the circle with a cautious snort. It stopped and sniffed again at the thin line of monkshood and let out a whimper, taking a few steps back. When it was perhaps twenty feet distant, it stopped and turned toward the door, but it did not move. Instead it watched something else with great interest, and it took Lucy a moment to see that there was a light approaching, moving raggedly as whoever came ascended the stairs. Then a figure appeared in the doorway holding a candle in one hand. It let out a whistle, and the wolf ran to it.
“Ah, well done, boy,” Byron said to the wolf, patting it upon the head with his free hand. “You have caught the intruders.”
Byron’s delighted grin reflected the two lights. He wore a dressing gown, open to the waist, revealing his muscular chest. Lucy noted the gown was unusually long, trailing to the ground so as to conceal his clubfoot.
Sophie began to breathe heavily, and she pulled away from Lucy. The wolf, seeing this, turned and growled at her. Lucy grabbed the girl to keep her from leaving the circle, though she pulled wildly and began to let out low animal noises.
“What have you done with your books?” Mr. Morrison demanded.
“I do make Newstead available from time to time that the commoners might view it, but I assure you that this is not a convenient hour. And Miss Derrick, I am surprised to see you here in such company. Last time we spoke, you made it clear you did not wish to see your name compromised. I cannot think late-night excursions with such a man to be wise.”
“Byron, don’t poison this lady with the sounds of your voice,” responded Mr. Morrison coldly. “Tell me, where are the books?”
Even in the poor light, Lucy saw Byron’s face darken and his expression contort into pure rage. He jabbed a finger toward Mr. Morrison as though he thrust a sword. “You don’t demand anything of me!” he shouted, sounding very much like a madman. “This is my home. Mine! You are an intruder. Thank me for not shooting you dead, Morrison.”
In her surprise and fear, her grip slackened, and Sophie broke away, running toward Byron. The wolf turned and leapt at her. Lucy wanted to look away, but she forced herself to look and saw Sophie unclench her hand and toss a handful of something at the wolf. It must have been monkshood, because it was as though the wolf struck something in mid leap. It yelped and fell to the ground, where it began licking its haunches. The girl, meanwhile, had hurled herself at Byron and clung to him. He put his arm around her and patted her affectionately, like a man with his child. There was something else there too, Lucy thought. His movements were slow and sensual and knowing, and Lucy understood that Byron had already taken full advantage of this girl’s devotion to him.
“Lord Byron,” said Lucy, somehow emboldened by his outrageous behavior with Sophie. His defiance of all morality made her trespassing seem insignificant. “We should never have come here without your leave if we thought you were home, but we believed you in London, and the matter too important to wait. Please, you must tell us. Where are the books?”
“Oh, Lucy. If you had come to me, I could deny you nothing. You know what is in my heart. But I cannot abide your aiding this man.”
“Your heart?” Mr. Morrison demanded. Now he retrieved from his pocket a pistol, which he pointed at Byron. “What feelings do you pretend to have for this lady?”
