Alice sat in front of the mirror pinning up her hair, capturing and imprisoning wayward locks that would apparently much rather remain at liberty. St. Ives watched her happily. It was a Saturday morning, and they meant to breakfast on the veranda and then do very little. Alice would no doubt spend some time with her begonias, the new rhizomes already putting out leaves. As for him, he meant to set his mind to the problem of the barn, perhaps sketch his plans out again now that the elephant had complicated things.
“But what do you believe you should do?” Alice asked, turning to St. Ives. “In your heart of hearts? What does Duty require?”
“What do I believe? I believe that the entire business is nonsense. There’s nothing nonsensical about the tragedy, of course. I don’t mean that. Mother Laswell suffers a great deal of pain. But I don’t for a moment believe that I can effect a cure for human misery. Perhaps time will answer in that regard, or perhaps Bill Kraken will answer. He seems wholly dedicated to her. As for Narbondo’s anticipated depredations, you’ve said yourself that there’s such a thing as the police. I have no regard for the lunatic idea that a man might open a lane to the land of the dead in this fabulous manner, although I have a high regard, if ‘regard’ is quite the right word, for Narbondo’s capacity for evil. If I found him lurking hereabouts I’d be inclined to shoot him like a mad dog. But will I go out searching for him because I’m motivated by this wild notion of a gate to the afterlife? I will not.”
“You sound quite certain.”
“Never more so. I’m certain that Mother Laswell dearly wants her son’s skull returned to her. She tells the truth. But I’m not persuaded that it’s my business.”
“I’m happy to hear it. It puts my mind at ease, and it cheers me that I don’t have to beat you with a coal shovel. Poor Mother Laswell, though. I’ll pay a visit to the farm and introduce myself.”
St. Ives looked out the bedroom window, taking in the view. He could feel warmth through the glass. There was a tonic quality to the heat, a salutary tonic, and he found once again that he was quite happy. The children had indeed been asleep when he had returned last night, and the house quiet. Alice, however, had not been asleep, nor did either of them have any particular desire to sleep until quite late, or early, he reflected happily. They had got out of bed some time after midnight and gone downstairs together to tuck up the children. It being a warm night, Eddie and Cleo slept in what Aunt Agatha Walton had referred to as “the sleeping gallery,” the windows covered with fine wire mesh against insects. As ever, when they tiptoed in they found Cleo’s blankets on the floor and Eddie’s virtually unmoved despite his being comfortably asleep beneath them. Mrs. Langley slept nearby in the adjacent scullery, which long years past had doubled as a maid’s quarters. They had watched the sleeping children for the space of several minutes, listening to Mrs. Langley’s soft snoring from beyond the door, and then had gone back up to bed, St. Ives falling instantly into a deep and grateful sleep.
It occurred to him now that Alice looked particularly radiant this morning, although she had only been a few minutes out of bed, and after a fairly short night. Her eyes very nearly sparkled. He thought again of Mother Laswell and her tribulations, and wondered if his own happiness was unnatural under the circumstances. It was not, he quickly decided.
“I’m thinking of running into the village today,” he said.
“Consider having Logarithm pull you in the wagon,” she told him, “unless you particularly want exercise.”
“You’re positively giddy,” he said to her. “Perhaps you’d like to come along. I’m going to talk to Mr. Milford and his son about tripling the size of the barn door.”
“On behalf of the airship?”
“Yes, indeed. It’ll need a commodious great door. Simple to build, I believe, and Aunt Agatha’s lumber room will answer for the materials.”
“I’d be happy to go along. We’ll take Eddie and Cleo, if that would suit you, and perhaps a picnic basket. I promised to show them where my nemesis the pike lives in the weir. The weir is a famous spot for newts and toads, you know, if you keep an eye out.”
“Excellent. Cleo loves a newt.” St. Ives nodded happily, his mind shifting effortlessly from airships to toads and newts and then quite naturally on to the notion of elephants. Certainly there was no better moment to broach the subject with Alice, given her high spirits. “An idea came into my mind yesterday, my love.”
“An idea,” she said. “Treat it kindly, then; it finds itself in a tolerably strange place.”
He laughed at the witticism. “You’re right about that,” he said, “more than you know, perhaps. I’ve come to the conclusion that we’re in particular need of an elephant.”
“What a perfectly wonderful idea, Langdon. One of your best, without a doubt. Perhaps we should have two of them?”
“I’m quite serious.”
“As am I. They pine away without the company of fellow pachyderms, I understand.”
Did he hear irony in her tone? There was nothing in her face to suggest it. “Finn Conrad has a sizeable knowledge of the creatures,” he said, shouldering on. “I intend to put Finn in charge of it. We’ve got plenty of room in the barn, and…”
“You’re serious?” she said.
“Quite. It will provide the motive power needed to shift the barn roof, do you see?”
“Don’t elephants go on rampages? Tread people flat?”
“Only when provoked. None of us are in the business of provoking animals. This place breeds serenity, Alice. You can feel it in the air this morning. The lion lies down with the lamb even as we speak.”
“An army of newts wouldn’t serve to open the roof?”
He smiled at her and was relieved when she smiled back. “Think on it,” he said. “We’ll speak to Finn together in order to get an educated opinion. Certainly there’s no tearing hurry.”
There sounded a pounding from downstairs, an urgent pounding – on the front door, perhaps. They listened for a moment, assuming that Mrs. Langley would answer it. Hasbro would have gone off early on his usual Saturday morning errands. The pounding started up again, accompanied by a muffled shouting. Alice was first through the door, and St. Ives followed, both of them taking the stairs two at a time, and hurrying into the drawing room. It wasn’t the front door at all. They found the gallery empty, the beds slept in but the children not in them. The pounding was coming from the scullery door. A chair was jammed beneath the door latch. St. Ives yanked it away, the door flew open, and Mrs. Langley staggered out, apparently mystified and angry.
“Where are the children?” Alice asked.
“I’m sure I don’t know, ma’am. I woke up a moment ago and found myself locked into the scullery. Perhaps Finn…”
“Finn wouldn’t have locked you into the scullery, Mrs. Langley,” St. Ives said, a morbid fear rising in him. “I suggest that you two search the house. I’ll find Finn.” He realized that it was more a certainty than a fear, or the two together, feeding each other. Before he was out the door, however, there came a second pounding. He heard crying – almost certainly Cleo – in the coat closet. The key was in the lock, but was turned – no need for a chair to keep the door shut. He unlocked it and let her out. She dragged her blanket behind her, evidently fuddled with sleep. As soon as she saw her mother she burst into tears, trying to speak but without any success. Alice picked her up, comforting her, walking her back and forth until she was sensible. St. Ives watched, his heart pounding, praying that this was one of Eddie’s games, although the chair against the scullery door…
“Did your brother lock you in?” Alice asked.
Cleo shook her head. “The man came,” she said between sobs. “He took Eddie. He put me in the closet and I mustn’t make a sound or he would hurt Eddie.”
“When did the man come?” St. Ives asked. “Was it dark outside, Cleo?”
She nodded.
“And did you fall asleep in the closet after?” Alice asked her, and she nodded again.
Alice looked evenly at St. Ives. “The man,” she said flatly.
“I’ll just speak to Finn now,” St. Ives said, pushing through the gallery door and down the several stairs. How much had he told Alice about the skulls when he had recounted his conversation with Mother Laswell – surely not that they were commonly taken from children? He hoped fervently that he had left the details out. As he sprinted to Finn’s cottage the idea came to him that he would tell Alice to be on the lookout for a ransom demand: there was hope in a ransom, after all. Surely that’s what Narbondo intended… He knocked on Finn’s door, which opened immediately, Finn disheveled from sleep and holding a magazine open in his hand. “I was lying abed, sir, it being Saturday.”
“Good for you, Finn, but there’s trouble. Eddie’s been taken.”
“Taken, sir?”
“Kidnapped, I fear. Did you see anything odd early this morning? Hear anything? You haven’t seen Eddie up and about?”
Finn stared at him blankly, and, it seemed to St. Ives, turned pale. “No, sir. But last night, there was a man on the road. I didn’t think…”
“What did he look like? A dark-haired smallish man? With a hump on his back?”
“Yes, sir. That’s him. I was out looking at a deer that had got into the roses. I seen a corpse candle near the road, and walked down the wisteria alley, and there at the crossing your man sat in the wagon. He asked the way to the London Road, and so I told him.”
“A corpse candle do you say?”
“Yes, sir. A spirit light, hovering nearby the wagon. It was the ghost of a boy; I could see that much. I didn’t like the look on your man’s face, sir, but I can’t rightly tell you why. It was a thing you could smell almost. I can’t think of another way to put it. I made sure to stand in the shadows. He wanted me to get into the cart with him, but I wouldn’t, and he drove away.”
“I fear that he returned,” St. Ives said, “after you’d gone back up to your cottage. He drove away only because you’d seen him.”
“Who was he, sir?”
“His name is Ignacio Narbondo. If you see him again, Finn, don’t speak to him. Don’t go near him. Run. He’s the king of liars.”
“I’ve heard you speak of this Narbondo, sir. And Jack Owlesby told me about him when I stayed at the house on Jermyn Street. Narbondo was the one as caused the trouble at Morecambe Bay.”
“Yes,” said St. Ives. “The very man, come round again.”
Finn stood staring for a moment, his hand at his forehead. “I should have come looking for you, sir, or Mrs. St. Ives. I knew it was long odds against anyone coming along to tell him of the London Road that time of night, but I didn’t think… I didn’t… I should have come up to the house.”
“You couldn’t have known, Finn. I knew that Narbondo had been lurking roundabout, and I neglected to tell you. The blame in that regard is my own.”
Finn was staring at St. Ives’s feet now, his face set. He touched his forehead again with trembling fingers, as if he couldn’t keep his hands still. “I didn’t know…” he said, as if trying to come to grips with his regret.
“Finn,” St. Ives told him. “The guilt of the crime lies solely with Narbondo, and what’s left over I’ll take. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” Finn said, nodding his head too rapidly to be convincing.
“Good man,” St. Ives said. “See to things, Finn, while I’m gone. I’ll be traveling in to London again.”
A wagon came rattling along the wisteria alley now – Hasbro come home, and none too soon. St. Ives pressed Finn’s shoulder and turned away, running toward Hasbro, who reined up the horses.
“We leave for London in half an hour,” St. Ives said without preamble. “Narbondo has taken Eddie.”