the rear door of the shop flew open and the woman from the street came out with a heather broom, which she swung first at St. Ives, clipping him on the shoulder, before turning to Hasbro, who shifted on his feet so that it was Slocumb who took the blow on the side of his head. She descended again upon St. Ives again, who trod back toward the street, putting up his hands and managing to wrench the broom from her grasp. He pitched it over the wall behind him and stood his ground, hoping to God that she would come to her senses. It was Slocumb who rescued him. Hasbro had set him free, and the man put his hands on the woman’s shoulders now, and guided her weeping back into the shop, shutting the door behind her and shaking his head sadly. St. Ives found that he was shaken by the woman’s anger, which he not only understood, but admired and feared.
“She’s here to pick up little Claire, sir,” Slocumb told them. “They’ll be off to gather up young James, who studies at Mr. Markham’s Day School. He’s a bright lad, is Jimmy, and Jenny’s fixed on the idea that he’ll come to something, and not have to pick up a living on the streets like his poor father. Perhaps you’d give me a moment to lock the street door behind her?”
“I could attend to the shop,” Hasbro said, “and leave you gentlemen to discuss business. I worked in the trade, Mr. Slocumb, when I was a young man – Benson’s Millinery off Euston Square.”
“Old man Benson!” Slocumb said, momentarily cheered by the memory. “I was fond of Benson, although he was an eccentric of the first water. He died some few months back, I’m sorry to say. Well… Thank you, sir. I’d be grateful if you’d step in. It’s best to keep regular hours. Nothing worse than customers fagging down here for nought.”
Hasbro nodded and went in through the door. St. Ives listened for sounds of a confrontation, his own friends naturally being the woman’s enemies. But there was nothing. If anyone could calm the waters, it would be Hasbro.
“You say that the business went badly,” he said to Slocumb, getting to the point. “That’s coming at it a little mild, I should think.”
“In that we agree. How did you know to find me? Not that I’ve any business putting questions to you.” He stepped back into the shadow of the building, out of the remains of the day’s sunlight, which was still quite warm.
“The unfortunate man who died that night,” St. Ives said, “he knew me the instant he saw me, but it was just today the reason came into my mind. I had seen him at Merton’s on two or three occasions, going out on deliveries. I remembered the limp as well as his face. The rest followed.”
“That was my nephew, George, sir. I wondered why he had bolted that night. That wasn’t his way. He could brass it out in front of Lucifer himself. I suspected that he twigged that something was amiss and ran, but I had no idea it was you. When Jenny just now told me the truth of it, seeing you on the street as she did, I bolted, just like George. I couldn’t stand a stint in Newgate, sir, not at my age, and no one to take care of Jenny and the little ones now that George is dead.”
“I assume that the notebooks were frauds,” St. Ives said, “two sets of frauds, one perfectly believable and one flawed. Merton’s contrived them both, no doubt.”
“No, sir,” Slocumb said. “Merton found the notebooks right enough in an old trunk at Banks’s home in Lincolnshire, in the Abbey. They’d been stored away this last century. Miraculous discovery, but you know Merton. He hears a rumor from a crow’s mouth and then follows the bird to its nest.”
“The ubiquitous old trunk, you say? Forgive me, but it’s always the old trunk. I’ve seen Merton’s work. I’ve profited from it, in my way. I’ve looked through his workroom – old paper, doctored ink, chemicals of all sorts. He can work marvels with weak tea and garden soil. William Henry Ireland was an amateur compared to Merton. It stands to reason that he mugged up Banks’s early work and fabricated the notebooks himself. I believe that you negotiated the sale to the Royal Society, not naming Merton. When the fraudulent work was authenticated you contrived to have the notebooks replaced with the second, inferior set. Merton recovered the first set that way along with the papers that authenticated them, and sued for the money that was owed him for the lost set, which wasn’t lost at all, but was once again in his possession. And of course he could resell it in due time, with the authentication papers in order. The Royal Society had a reputation to protect, and admitting to the whole business would mean scandal, which eliminated the police, and thus I found myself involved in this ill-conceived plan to re- purchase the stolen notebooks. Whose idea was it to sell them
Slocumb stared at him for a moment and then said, “That was mine, sir. Merton had nothing to do with that bit. It was me alone who put George in the way of that Hansom cab just as surely as if I had pushed him.”
St. Ives took this in. “Your niece Jenny would say that same thing about me.”
“Perhaps it was the fates that pushed him, sir. It’s an ill wind that blows no good. But you’ve still got it wrong about the old trunk. The three notebooks were Joseph Banks’s work right enough, like I said. There’s no gain in my making that up. Merton got it into his head that he could devise a fair copy as good as the original, out of artistic pride, if you like, and he set out to do it. That was the copy I took to the Society. Merton’s name was never mentioned, nor my own, of course. I was a Frenchman named Diderot that evening. If their experts saw through the notebooks, that was to be the end of it. I would be outraged or aggrieved, whichever suited the general atmosphere, and Merton not suspected at all.”
“And Merton with nothing to show for his work?” St. Ives asked. “Strange that he would be happy with that.”
“For Merton it’s the art of it, do you see, not the profit? And come to that, he would still possess the original notebooks and could do with them as he pleased. That was worth nothing to me, though. And so it was I who talked Merton into giving me his working copies of the notebooks, as he called them, for my part in the drama. I could do with them what I would, he said, although he had no idea I would do what I did. A fellow I know – I won’t tell you his name – exchanged them for the fair copy, which was left lying on a desk by some pitiful fool. The exchange was discovered almost at once, and it was then that the Society prevailed upon you to play the role of unscrupulous collector in order to buy back what they assumed were the originals.
“Wheels within wheels, sir, but it all came apart when George ran for it, poor beggar, and him with a game leg. Would you credit it, sir, if I told you that his right leg was destroyed in his youth when he ran afoul of a wagon? It’s long odds that it would happen twice, and that the second encounter would finish him, although perhaps it’s the fates again. There but for fortune…” He shook his head sadly. “I’ve had my say, sir. Don’t be too hard on Harry Merton. He fancied giving the money back to the Society as a variety of executory bequest, legally speaking, upon his death. That kind of largesse was good for the soul, he said, and of course he still had Banks’s originals, the copies having been run over along with George. He saw the Society’s money as a sort of loan, you see, that he would repay in due time.”
“What of Jenny and her children?” St. Ives asked. “Who’s to care for them with George gone?”
“That would be me, sir, in my way. There would perhaps be no need for it if it hadn’t gone ill for George, but…” He shrugged.
A mongrel dog came around the corner of the shop now and stood staring at the two of them. It evidently recognized Slocumb, for it came forward eagerly, wagging its tail, and Slocumb brought a piece of biscuit out of his pocket and gave it to the creature, petting it absently on the head. It lay down in the shade, looking at St. Ives as if waiting for him to come to a decision. St. Ives wished for a morsel of Hasbro’s always-excellent advice at that moment, but Hasbro was inside the shop, selling hats.
“The Royal Society were careful not to bring the police into the business,” St. Ives said at last, “and I’ll stand by them in that regard. The entire thing turns out to have been a travesty, or perhaps tragedy, the two being close cousins under the circumstances. Your secret is safe with me, Mr. Slocumb, on one condition, and I’ll warn you that you are in a precarious position if you refuse. Think of Jenny and the children before you answer.”
“Anything, sir, and I thank you very kindly.”
“It’s vital that I know the likely whereabouts of Dr. Ignacio Narbondo. He keeps rooms in London, but it’s certain that he moves them from time to time for the sake of secrecy.”
Slocumb stood staring at him, the doubtful look on his face making it perfectly clear that the thanks had gone out of him. “I can’t say, sir.”
