The Alchemist in the Attic (11 page)

“Clearly.” Atwood glanced at her. “But how did Stokes know that?”

“Magic,” Madame Valli said with a laugh. “He communed with the spirits.”

Atwood raised an eyebrow. “Oh, of course,” he said. “How silly of me.”

Madame Valli stood with a wink and went to turn the lights up. The gas lamps flickered to light and Atwood blinked in the sudden glare. The room seemed far more pedestrian suddenly. In the far corner, Coombs began to pack away his camera equipment, but the balding man remained lingering at the table.

An awkward silence descended, punctuated by the clattering of Coombs’s equipment. The door creaked open at last and Stokes returned alone.

“You must be Mr. Atwood,” he said. He was at Atwood’s side in an instant. “Pleased to meet you, sorry about the…” he waved his hand absently at the table and the jar.

“Don’t mention it,” Atwood said. “Though I’d love to know how you managed all that.”

“Yes, I’m sure you would,” he said. “I’m Professor Balfour Wallace Stokes. Yes, the name is real.” He shrugged. “But the title is not. You can call me Wallace.”

Atwood shook his hand cautiously. The tall, bearded man was far more affable than he expected. Atwood distrusted him instantly.

“And this gentleman is Mr. Lloyd Autenberry,” Stokes continued, indicating the bald man, who appeared distinctly less distraught than he had only moments before. “I believe you already know Madame Valli, and over there is…”

“Coombs,” Atwood interrupted. “Hearst’s man.”

The cameraman gave him a wary nod. “But I have a sideline in spirit photography,” Coombs said. “I promise that’s all this is. Selby won’t hear about this from me.”

Atwood regarded him for a long moment. He wasn’t sure if he believed Coombs, but he didn’t have many options. “Tell Selby whatever you want,” he said. “Makes no difference to me.”

Coombs snorted disbelievingly, but made no further comment. He collected the last of his gear and left.

“Same time next week,” Stokes called after him. “And I’ll want to see a copy of the photograph.”

“Of course,” Coombs called over his shoulder. “I know the drill.”

As soon as he was gone, Atwood turned to Stokes. “I see you like to stack the deck, Wallace,” he said.

“Every little bit helps,” Stokes said. “And it allows us to gather without suspicion.”

“Suspicion?” Atwood asked. “Why would anyone be suspicious?”

Stokes shrugged noncommittally. “Madame Valli has been invaluable in that respect as well.”

Atwood fixed his gaze on Autenberry. “Don’t tell me you’re an actor, too,” he said.

“Bookseller,” Autenberry said with a smile. “But I can do a passable Hamlet.”

“How appropriate,” Atwood muttered. “But I didn’t come here for trade secrets. I was told you would have information for me.”

“And so we do,” Stokes said. “But perhaps you would care to adjourn to the sitting room for a drink.”

“I wouldn’t say no.”

“Splendid.”

*

The sitting room was far more cheerful than the rest of the house. The curtains were drawn back, letting the last of the afternoon sun inside. Atwood was surprised at the sudden brightness. It seemed like hours since he had last seen daylight. Madame Valli immediately made herself at home by the drinks cabinet and poured herself a generous helping.

“I’m sorry, darlings,” she said after a moment. “Did anyone else want a drink?” Autenberry shook his head.

“That’s quite all right,” Stokes said. He took a seat in one of the armchairs and steepled his fingers. “But now I think we’ve made Mr. Atwood wait long enough.”

Atwood nodded firmly and sat across from him.

Stokes smiled. “I thought as much. If you would, Autenberry?”

The bookseller produced a leather-bound folder. “This is for you, Mr. Atwood,” he said, handing it over.

Atwood accepted the file. “And this is?”

“Everything we could find about Valencourt.”

Atwood raised an eyebrow and quickly thumbed through the file. There were old newspaper clippings in both French and English, and pages of handwritten notes.

“What kind of books do you sell?” Atwood asked incredulously.

“Rare ones,” Autenberry replied. Atwood absently noticed that Madame Valli had joined the bookseller on the couch and was sitting dangerously close to him. Autenberry clearly had experience dealing with her advances, but a faint blush was visible on his cheeks. Atwood took no small pleasure in his evident discomfort. It was reassuring to know that no one was entirely immune to Madame Valli’s dubious charms.

“I have friends in strange places,” Autenberry said. “And I made a few discrete inquiries. Dr. Marius Valencourt, formerly of the Academie de Métaphysique, is apparently a man of some notoriety in certain circles. He left academia under a cloud after an incident involving a cadaver and a kite.”

“A cadaver and a kite?” Atwood asked incredulously.

“So I was told. University gossip can be particularly vitriolic.”

“Oh I know,” Atwood said.

“Yes. I’m sure you do. Everyone I spoke to was only too eager to share their colleague’s misfortunes, especially with the proper incentive. I exchanged a series of telegrams with a Professor Merminod, also of the Academie. According to him, Valencourt has abandoned modern scientific endeavor for the lofty heights of alchemy.”

“Alchemy,” Atwood repeated slowly. “Are you sure?” It was a word from another time, hinting of secrets and madness.

“Yes,” said Autenberry. “The so-called Great Work.”

“I see,” Atwood said. “So Valencourt’s an alchemist? Turning lead into gold, making the elixir of life, that sort of thing?”

“Possibly,” Stokes said. “Alchemy has meant different things to different people, and none of us have seen inside his lab.”

“Why not?”

“There are…rules,” Stokes said, glancing at Madame Valli.

“Rules?”

“Yes. Rules that we cannot break, but they don’t apply to you.”

“I see.” Atwood shook his head. “Well, don’t look at me,” he said. “I tried, but he wouldn’t let me inside. I couldn’t even get a proper peek.”

Madame Valli sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

“Is that why you’re helping me?” Atwood asked. “Because you thought I’d seen his lab?”

“No,” Madame Valli said quickly.  “But that would have been useful.”

“Then why?” Atwood directed the question to Stokes, whose friendly air had faded slightly.

“Well, clearly Madame Valli has taken a shine to you,” he replied. “And Collins was one of us.”

“A table-rapper, a bookseller, an opera singer, and a clerk. You’re a very peculiar bunch.”

“We have common interests,” said Stokes.

“I’m sure you do.”

“And you’re perfectly placed to help us with this. All we ask is that you keep us involved.”

“Oh,” said Atwood. “Involved, is that all?”

Madame Valli snorted into her glass. Stokes cleared his throat and threw her a dark look.  “Yes, Mr. Atwood,” he said. “That is all. For now.” Atwood smirked knowingly, but Stokes quickly held up a hand to forestall any comments. “Any further services would, of course, be paid for in kind.”

“Naturally,” Atwood said. “Quid pro quo?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, thank you for the information.” Atwood tapped the folder. “And I will consider your offer.” On the surface it was no different than his arrangement with Quirke or McManus and Keeler, but he knew those men, understood their motives and desires. These occultists and their so-called common interests were a mystery, and Atwood wasn’t eager to yoke himself to their unknown purpose.

“That’s all I ask for,” Stokes said. Madame Valli nudged him none-too gently. He grimaced. “Forgive me,” he said. “There was one more thing.”

“Isn’t there always?” Atwood studied them curiously. The dynamics were interesting. He couldn’t quite put his finger on which of them was in charge. It had shifted several times during this conversation alone. That could be dangerous, or advantageous, or both.

Madame Valli graced him with a sardonic smile. “Almost always.”

“We’ve having a small gathering this evening,” Stokes said. “A few friends and…colleagues, those in the know.”

“In the know,” Atwood repeated. “And what is it they know?”

“This and that.” Stokes smiled an enigmatic smile. “And we were wondering if you would join us?”

“Were you?” Atwood regarded them with a mildly curious expression, but he was already weighing the possibilities.

“There’ll be a few people there I’d like you to meet, darling,” said Madame Valli with a mischievous grin. “And one or two you might already know.”

Atwood raised his eyebrows. “Well,” he said. “That sounds promising.”

It was nearly nightfall when Atwood returned a few hours later. He had been of two minds about coming, but curiosity had won out. He needed to figure out what game they were playing as soon as possible. He didn’t like not knowing. It made him restless and uncomfortable. And then there was his father. He wanted to know how they’d done that. He needed to know.

All the lights at the front of the house were dark, but there was a distant murmur of voices from inside. Atwood reached up to knock, but the door swung open at the last possible second, revealing Stokes himself standing in the doorway in white tie and tails.

“Welcome,” he intoned dramatically.

Atwood grunted to himself. Stokes had clearly been waiting for him, and hadn’t been able to resist the amateur dramatic flourish.

“Wallace,” Atwood greeted once he was safely inside.

“Atwood.” Stokes nodded. “Please forgive an old man his fun.”

“Old man!” They both turned. Madame Valli was posed flamboyantly in the doorway behind them. “If you think you’re old, whatever must you think of me?”

Stokes stuttered as Madame Valli pushed her way between them. “Oh, darling!” she cried, giggling, and engulfed Stokes in a grand hug before planting a kiss on each cheek. “Don’t be so silly. I’m only teasing.”

She was a piece of work. The balance of power had already shifted slightly in her favor and they hadn’t even reached the party yet, but as he admired her technique, Atwood couldn’t help but wonder if their little power plays were staged in part for his benefit.

“The others have already arrived,” Stokes said, regaining his equilibrium. “And they’re very keen to meet you, Mr. Atwood. We haven’t had a new member in quite some time.”

Atwood frowned. “A new member?” he asked. “Is that what I am now?”

Stokes glanced at Madame Valli, but neither of them replied.

“This way,” Stokes said and led them toward the back of the house. Atwood raised his eyebrows at Madame Valli, but she merely grinned and shrugged.

*

The gathering was already in full swing. There were maybe two dozen men and women in the sitting room. Atwood felt out of place. He was used to blending in wherever he went, but this peculiar assemblage was resplendent in their finery. Atwood had brushed down his suit and polished his shoes, but that hadn’t helped. His penguin suit had not survived his encounter with Selby and his men, and Atwood could not afford a replacement.

Atwood glanced around the room. It seemed bigger than he remembered, but that was probably a trick of the light. He recognized Autenberry immediately. The balding man was in conversation with a stern-faced gentleman. Coombs was there as well. Atwood plastered a smile on his face. For all their sparkle, more than half the ladies’ jewels were probably fake, and behind the gentlemen’s tuxedos they were as grubby and grasping as Atwood. They were all wearing masks of one form or another.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Stokes said. “I need to make the rounds. Please make yourself at home.”

“Thank you,” Atwood said. Stokes gave him and Madame Valli a nod, then went to greet another of his guests.

When he was gone, Atwood turned to Madame Valli. “I thought he said a
small gathering
.”

“This is a small gathering,” Madame Valli said.

“I see.” Atwood paused. In the far corner he noticed a familiar-looking woman. It took him a moment to place her. It was the middle-aged woman from the séance. “Was everyone in on it?” he asked.

“No.” Madame Valli followed his gaze. “Not everyone. But it helps to set the stage.”

“For whom?” Atwood asked suspiciously.

“For Mrs. Everett and her niece,” Madame Valli said. “They are extremely wealthy.”

“So I gathered,” said Atwood. “And does everyone here chip in?”

“It depends. Most of them are swindlers and hucksters like us, but there are a few amateurs and dabblers.” Madame Valli nodded to a pair in the back. “And there’s Vyse and Heron. They’re occult detectives by profession.”

“Don’t they expose people like you?”

“Oh yes,” Madame Valli said smiling. “With great enthusiasm.”

“And that isn’t awkward?”

“Not especially.” Madame Valli shrugged. “We have other interests in common.”

“I see,” said Atwood, who did not.

“And your friend in the corner claims to be the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter.”

“And presumably that is significant?”

“It means she’s a witch, if you believe in that sort of thing. It’s nonsense, of course, but there are a few here with genuine talent.”

“Meaning you, of course.”

“Oh no, darling!” She put her hand to her breast. “Not a drop in me. Not a drop.” Atwood regarded her protest with suspicion.

The woman from the séance saw them watching and headed over to them with a friendly nod. Madame Valli returned it. “I’ll leave you two to get acquainted,” she said. “Mingle, darling. There’s someone I want you to meet. I just need to find him.” She exploded into the crowd in a fluttering of hands and ‘darlings.’

Atwood watched her, warily. It was a motley band, but he couldn’t quite figure out what any of them had to do with Valencourt. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to find a foothold. It was disorienting.

He forced himself to smile at the woman from the séance. “Pleasure to see you again,” he said with barely a trace of irony.

“We’re very glad you could join us, Mr. Atwood,” she said.

“Thank you, Mrs….”

“It’s Ms.,” she said. “Ms. Peake.”

“No dead husband, then?”

“An old maid and proud,” she replied. “Besides, who would marry a witch?”

Atwood swallowed a snort. “In any case,” he said, “I’m impressed. I never suspected you for a moment at the séance.”

“No, of course not,” she said. “Not with Madame Valli and her dramatics taking center stage.”

Atwood followed her gaze. Madame Valli was gliding through the crowd leaving a trail of exasperation and embarrassment in her wake. “She certainly draws attention,” he agreed.

“And the rest of us can operate more freely in her shadow. Isn’t that right, Mr. Atwood?”

“I wasn’t aware that I was in anyone’s shadow.”

Ms. Peake laughed. “You’re not the first handsome young man that Madame Valli has brought to us.”

“Handsome and young.” Atwood smirked. “Not sure I’m either.”

“False modesty, an excellent touch. I can see why she likes you.” Ms. Peake grew suddenly more serious. “Collins was one of hers too, but unlike you he was a believer from the beginning.”

“Are you going to convince me then?”

“That’s not my role, Mr. Atwood,” she said.

“And what is your role?” he started to ask.

“Atwood!” a vaguely familiar voice interrupted him. “That is you!” Atwood turned. It was Henry McClellan with his brother Malcolm in tow. The erstwhile grave robbers looked oddly at home in this den of charlatans and mountebanks.

“Ma’am.” Henry gave Ms. Peake what he probably thought was a courtly bow.

“What are you doing here?” Atwood asked, frowning.

“Expanding our horizons,” Malcolm said.

“Your horizons?”

“That’s right,” said Henry. “We’re keen students of the occult, ain’t we, Malcolm?”

“Very keen,” his brother agreed. “But what are
you
doing here, still chasing McManus and Keeler?”

“Why?” Atwood asked. “Are they keen students as well?”

Henry shrugged. “Wouldn’t know. We haven’t seen them.”

“I have,” said Atwood. He had no time for their nonsense.

“You have?” The brothers glanced at each other, worriedly.

“Yes, but I doubt they care that you’ve been taking over their territory. They had other things on their mind.” Atwood smiled. It was not a nice smile.

Malcolm grimaced, but largely managed to control his expression. His brother was considerably less successful. Henry practically turned white at the thought. Not that Atwood could blame him. McManus and Keeler had a reputation for ruthlessness that was well earned. Atwood still wasn’t certain that they hadn’t killed or at least dumped the bodies themselves, on Valencourt’s orders.

The McClellan brothers made their excuses soon after and practically fell over themselves on their way out, no doubt to prepare themselves as best they could. There was no shortage of sneers at the sight.

“What were they really doing here?” Atwood asked Ms. Peake.

“They’ve recently begun plying their trade among certain members of our circle,” she said, drawing his attention back to her.

“Body snatching?”

“Doctors and medical students aren’t the only ones with a use for corpses,” Ms. Peake said.

“What sort of uses?”

“You seem to be a clever boy, I’m sure you can think of something.” She smiled. “But here’s your patron now, perhaps you should ask her.”

Madame Valli returned, accompanied by a sharp-nosed gentleman in tweed.

“Ms. Peake,” he greeted. He had a slight accent—German, perhaps.

“Doctor,” she replied. “I’ll leave you to your business. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Atwood.” She leaned in close. “Be careful,” Ms. Peake whispered, and then she was gone. Atwood nodded. He was always careful, although not always careful enough.

“This is Dr. Staalman,” Madame Valli said. “He runs the St. Benedictus Home for the Incurably Insane, and I believe you’ll be interested in one of his more recent patients.”

“Will I?” Atwood turned to Dr. Staalman inquisitively.

“A Mr. Collins,” the doctor said. “I understand you know him.”

Atwood raised an eyebrow. “We met,” he said. “Once or twice.”

Madame Valli seemed to have friends everywhere. He even thought he’d caught sight of the young woman from the Academy earlier.

“Yes.” Dr. Staalman was studying him closely, with a peculiar intensity. “And I was given to understand that you would like to see him again.”

Atwood glanced at Madame Valli. She regarded him with an innocent expression, but there was a knowing twinkle in her eye.

“Yes,” Atwood said after a moment. “I would. We have a great deal to discuss.”

“About Dr. Valencourt?” Staalman frowned. “You should be aware that Mr. Collins is very unstable, and that Valencourt is a particularly sensitive topic for him.”

“I understand that, doctor, but I need to see him.”

“Well then, Mr. Atwood,” Staalman said, after a quick glance at Madame Valli. “I’m sure we can arrange a short visit, but please understand that my chief concern is for my patient. ”

“I’m sure that does you credit, doctor,” Atwood said with all the sincerity he could muster. Staalman, at least, seemed convinced. He left with a half-smile.

“I hope,” Madame Valli said after the doctor left, “that you feel the trip was worth it.”

“That remains to be seen.” Atwood shrugged. “But it was certainly a good start. You seem to have friends everywhere.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” Atwood grinned. “But I do believe it is time we had another talk with your friend Stokes.” Madame Valli narrowed her eyes, and then nodded.

They found Stokes in hushed conversation with a gaunt, sallow-faced man. “Excuse me, Mr. Carlier,” Madame Valli said. “But could we borrow Wallace for a moment?” There was an unaccustomed note of deference in her voice, and Atwood noted that she hadn’t called the man ‘darling.’ It was disconcerting.

“Certainly,” Carlier said. “We’ll talk later. Lovely to see you, Madame Valli.” He gave Atwood a level stare and a nod.

“Now then,” Stokes said. “How can I help you, Mr. Atwood?”

“You tell me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Quid pro quo,” Atwood said. “If we’re going to work together, what precisely did you have in mind?”

“You’ve decided then?”

“I have. I don’t know what you’re up to, and I don’t expect you to tell me, but for now, at least, we can help each other.”

“Excellent,” said Stokes. “We have a few ideas.” He glanced at Madame Valli. “Starting with your living arrangements.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Collins was well placed to keep an eye on Valencourt.”

“So are you,” Atwood said to Madame Valli.

“Yes,” Madame Valli said. Something passed between her and Stokes that Atwood couldn’t place. The occultists had an agenda. It wasn’t his, and he wasn’t entirely certain it was Madame Valli’s either, but Atwood would work with them for now. “But we need as many eyes as possible. He’s very dangerous and very tricky.”

“I see.” Atwood thought of Swifty and Little Jake. They were still missing, but he was risking their lives for much the same reasons. “Very well. I understand completely.” He smiled his most sympathetic of smiles.

“He’s lying through his teeth,” Madame Valli said with a smile of her own.

“It takes one to know one,” he replied.