The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist #4)(10)

She laughed and nervously rubbed her bare arms. “You’re drunk.”

“Too esoteric? Very well, how about this? I am the answer to humanity’s unspoken prayer: the sanest person alive, for nothing human taints my sight. The wholly objective narrator of the story.”

She became very serious and said in a level voice, “What is inside the Locked Room, Will?”

“The end of the long road, Lilly. The terminus of the journey—for those who have the eyes to see.”

TWO

It had begun months earlier, with the arrival of an unexpected caller.

“I am seeking a man by the name of Pellinore Warthrop,” the man told me at the door. “I was told that I might find him here.”

A vaguely continental accent, hard to place. Traveling cloak, dusty from a journey of many miles, draped over a tailored suit. Tall. Well apportioned. Eyes glittering wise as a bird’s beneath a finely sculpted brow. The unmistakable air of royalty about him, a thinly veiled haughtiness.

And, behind him, the shadows gathering upon Harrington Lane.

“This is the house of Dr. Warthrop,” I answered. “What is your business?”

“That is between me and Dr. Warthrop.”

“And you are?”

“I would rather not give my name.”

“The doctor is not in the habit of entertaining nameless visitors on clandestine missions, sir,” I said easily—and untruthfully. “But thank you for calling.”

I closed the door in his face. Waited. The knock came, and I opened the door.

“May I help you?”

“I demand to speak to Dr. Warthrop immediately.” Nostrils flaring. Cheeky youngster!

“Who demands?”

“Do you see anyone else here?”

“I would gladly inform the doctor, but I am under strict orders not to disturb him under any circumstances that do not include a national emergency. Is this a national emergency?”

“Let us just say it has that potential,” he replied cryptically, glancing about in the gloom.

“Well, in that case, I shall be happy to inform him that you are here. And your name, sir?”

“Dear God!” he cried. “Tell him Maeterlinck is here. Yes, Maeterlinck, that will do.” As if he had other names available to him. “Tell him Maeterlinck has urgent news from Cerrejón. Tell him that!”

“Of course”—and I closed the door a second time.

“Will Henry.”

I turned. The monstrumologist was standing just outside the study door.

“Who is calling?” he asked.

“He says his name is Maeterlinck—that will do—and that he has urgent news from Cerrejón—wherever that is—that has the potential to be a national emergency.”

His face drained of color, and he said, “Cerrejón? Are you certain? Well, what are you doing? Snap to and show him in at once! Then put on a pot of tea and meet us in the study.”

He whirled away. “Cerrejón!” I heard him exclaim softly. “Cerrejón!”

They were sitting by the fireplace, deep in conversation, when I returned with the tea. The man calling himself Maeterlinck glowered at me from underneath his heavy eyebrows, a look that did not escape Warthrop’s notice.

“It is quite all right, Maeterlinck. Will can be trusted.”

“Forgive me, Dr. Warthrop, but the fewer involved the better for all involved.”

“I trust the boy with my very life—he can be trusted in this.”

“Hmm.” Maeterlinck scowled. “Very well, but I do not like it. He hasn’t much manners.”

“What sixteen-year-old does? Come, have some tea. One sugar or two?”

I sat on the divan across from them and did the thing I did best, the tactic I had adopted since coming to live with him, out of self-preservation: blending into the woodwork. In a few moments I don’t think either of them remembered I was there.

“Of course,” the monstrumologist said, “you must understand that your story strikes me as extraordinarily far-fetched, sir. There has not been a sighting in nearly a hundred years.”

“For a good reason,” Maeterlinck countered. “I don’t pretend to be an expert in your field, Dr. Warthrop. I am no philosopher of natural history; I am a businessman. My client referred you to me. He said, ‘Go to Warthrop; he will authenticate the find. There is none better.’ ”

“Very true,” the doctor said, nodding gravely. “There is no one better. And nothing would delight me more than to authenticate it. The only hindrance is that you have failed to produce it!”

Maeterlinck shooed aside the objection with a patrician wave. “It would not be wise to carry it about like a traveling salesman. It is quite close by, quite safe, and quite taken care of, in the manner prescribed by my client in order to preserve its fragile, shall we say, potential. If we can reach an agreement, I can have it to you within the half hour.”

Warthrop’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t you think, as a businessman, it makes better sense to have the goods on hand that you wish to sell? For even if I agree to a price, you won’t see a penny until I see it.”

“Then I shall ask you, Dr. Warthrop, are we agreed?”

Warthrop frowned. “Agreed?”