Merciless Reason (8 page)

VIII

TYPICALLY UNSYMPATHETIC

IT WAS UNSETTLING FOR NATE
to read his father's words. Edgar Wildenstern wrote as he spoke, his statements made with a sense of inevitability. When Nate's father made any kind of declaration, it was either already a matter of certainty, or soon would be. The closest thing to God that Nate had ever known was the will of his father. To be reading Edgar's words after the old man's death brought back memories of fearful meetings in his father's study, mentally battered by lectures about duty to the family. The stern warnings against disobedience delivered by this terrifying man had been enough to send young Nathaniel to bed with nightmares, the following days spent dreading the next time he would be summoned to an audience with his father.

Even holding this notebook left Nate slightly nervous that it might anger the dead Patriarch. He shook off the absurd feeling and began reading from the start. This was something he had learned to do more thoroughly since leaving home—read. Before, the thought of reading three such densely packed tomes would have filled Nate with dread. Now, he eagerly sought out the mysteries these books held.

The first book was actually the last few months of 1845. It was not long before he reached an entry for December, one that brought to mind the fearsome old man whose shadow had hung for so long over Wildenstern Hall:

As winter bites, the last flares of resistance are burning out. What hunger had begun, the cold is finishing off. The anger of the peasants towards the family is abating as they are faced with more pressing concerns. After a summer of starvation, the destruction of the crop of potatoes continues to cause desolation among the population. Those that cannot grow enough to eat on their farms must agree to do the additional work we set them and take the American grain we pay for that work. They can no longer afford to protest at evictions or what they perceive as unfair terms. This famine will not be like the others that have preceded it. I believe that this shall prove the breaking of the Irish peasant.

Even at their height, the acts of rebellion were sporadic at best. As it happens, exports of calves, most kinds of livestock, and meat such as bacon and ham have actually increased during this famine, though they travel through the country under heavily armed guard. Enraged at the wagonloads of grain and other foodstuffs being taken out of the country, a band of local rabble have recently been engaging in ‘clifting' cattle on our estates. Only last month, an entire herd of forty cattle were driven over a cliff to perish on the rocks below. This barbaric practice has cost the family much money over the last few months, as have the fires in our stables and the attacks on our bailiffs. But our strength of will is already bearing fruit. In a country more densely populated than China, any kind of reorganization is difficult. This famine is a great opportunity.

It is a time to bring in new changes to Irish farming. These tiny family farms are inefficient. By moving the tenants off the land and combining these small holdings into larger farms, we can unify production and increase our control over the management of the harvest. I have undertaken to learn as much as I can about the peasants' situation, that I might use it to make Ireland a better, more productive place.

This country is a disgrace. People survive on the potato simply because when one has only a limited amount of land to grow one's own food, the potato is often the only crop to offer nutrition enough to feed a family living on an individual holding. The common people here do not eat bread. Unlike their counterparts in England, not enough wheat or corn can be grown on their small plots to feed the Irish peasant.

The island is too crowded. Half the population lives in one-roomed, windowless mud cabins, their entrances obstructed by piles of manure. Pigs sleep with their owners. The evicted and the unemployed put roofs of boards or turf over ditches to sleep in, or they burrow into banks or live in bog holes. ‘Poverty worse than the Negro in his chains' I have heard it called. Indeed, I have been to Africa and there was little in that misbegotten sprawl of a place to equal the disgust I feel when I ride past the typical dwelling of an Irish peasant. I am ashamed for my country. These people need to pull themselves up by their boot-strings. The land they farm could turn out twice what they produce, if they had the gumption. Modern methods seem beyond them. Even millstones for grinding grain are rare in the countryside. Many cannot use a plough!

But in the wake of the disease that has destroyed the potato crop, and the famine it is causing, the pe
asants' usual slovenly squalor has given way to scenes of true horror. It is as if the land is inhabited by limping, staggering, staring figures of the living dead. I recently asked Warburton to explain to me the effects of starvation, that I might better understand the pictures of suffering I see through the windows of my c
arriage.

In his words, a body that is suffering starvation effectively begins to digest itself. It starts to break down the muscles and other tissues to keep the most important organs alive. It succumbs to diseases such as dropsy, beriberi and scurvy, and can be afflicted by diarrhea, skin rashes, and fungi among others. The organs begin to fail, along with the eyesight and other essential functions. The wasting away of the muscles and the areas of dried, cracked skin can make moving extremely painful. Ironically, extreme starvation can lead to throat infections that make swallowing agony. The victim becomes lethargic and experiences loss of hope. Death is eventually caused by severe organ damage.

Add to this the outbreaks of diseases such as cholera, tuberculosis, measles and smallpox and you have an entire nation that is in the process of being broken down much as a starving body is. But from that death can come new life, just as one might demolish a city slum in order to build anew. This is a human catastrophe, but I am determined that Ireland will emerge the better for it. And the Wildensterns will be among the first to herald in that new future. I smile as I remember something Gideon said at dinner:

“Frankly, I never liked potatoes anyway!”

But this country is facing desperate times, and desperation makes even the most submissive people dangerous. I have warned Miriam about taking the children beyond the estate without a proper guard. Apart from the risk of catching one of the many types of fever, it would be all too easy for them to be attacked and hurt—or captured and used as leverage against me. Particularly if any of our relatives got involved. The threat is all the more potent now as Miriam's pregnancy progresses. She is almost six months on at this point, with the child due in April. I do not normally concern myself with womanly matters, but I had always believed pregnancy to be a debilitating condition, what with nausea, discomfort and back pain and all that. But it seems to have slowed her down not one whit.

The fact that Miriam also seems to have gone in for archaeology—showing a particular fancy for exploring the origin of engimals—leads to a net result in that I am burdened with a wife who seems determined to put herself and our unborn child, in harm's way.

I will never understand this desire to wander the land, digging holes in the ground in order to discover the garbage of past generations. On top of this, she has informed me that where she disturbs the crop of any farm she visits, she is paying the tenant for the inconvenience. It is one thing for her to put herself in danger by gallivanting around without a proper escort. It is quite another for her to dish out good bloody money to our tenants for the pleasure of digging holes in our own land.

When I married Miriam, I thought her a good match: a young new wife whose forward-looking character would complement my plans for a modern Ireland. Instead, I seem to have been lumbered with something of an intellectual ninny with less sense than God gave a gaggle of geese. It is time I reined her in, I think, before she does herself a mischief.

Nate marked the page with a piece of string and closed the book. Whatever his mother had been, an intellectual ninny she was not. Though Nate had never heard mention of her interest in archaeology. But then, he would have been three years old in 1845 and, truth be told, he had not enquired into her interests much after her death. As a child, it did not occur to him, and as an adult it seemed … too late.

IX

A TRADITIONAL DEATH TRAP

DAISY CARRIED A SMALL LAMP,
but did not light it. She was wearing a light dress, a warm cardigan and comfortable shoes. It was three o'clock in the morning. The gas-lamps in the corridors of Wildenstern Hall had been turned down and most of the rooms were completely dark. Daisy was making her way down to the basement where Gerald's laboratory lay. In one hand, she held the little oil lamp. In the other, she carried a broom handle.

At the door to the laboratory, she stopped. All was quiet around her. The huge house emitted little ticks and creaks and groans as its structure settled in the cold of the night, but otherwise she could hear nothing suspicious.

Three days had passed since her conversation with Gerald on the roof of the tower. In that time, she had continued combing through the accounts for their many businesses throughout the country. Over two dozen wagons, as well as numerous horses and men, had been pulled away from their normal work for some purpose she could not uncover. Pieces of machinery and equipment from a score of different factories were also unaccounted for. Many of these businesses were suffering from these losses, struggling to stay up and running.

And then there were the engimals. Many were missing from the Wildensterns' zoological gardens, and Gerald had been buying more in from all over Europe. Engimals, particularly the rarest types, could be hideously expensive, but he didn't seem to care. They were imported—and then they disappeared. None of the relatives seemed to realize that Gerald was driving the North American Trading Company towards bankruptcy. Either they didn't know, or they were too scared to do anything about it.

Keeping three feet back from the door to the laboratory, and a little to one side, Daisy reached out with the broom handle. She tried to push down the handle of the door, but it was hard to get any leverage on the handle while standing so far back.

Daisy had little experience in dealing with booby-traps. Many of the family members lived in such fear of being killed in their sleep that they set lethal devices around the doors and windows of their rooms. The house was riddled with secret passages and hidden rooms, some of which were also death traps. She had no idea if Gerald had rigged this door to kill any intruder, but she had seen devices that used blades, spikes, garrote-wires, crossbows, firearms of various descriptions, acid and explosives. She hoped that standing three feet back from the door would give her some degree of safety.

“What are you doing?” a loud voice said from behind her.

Daisy gasped and turned round to find Tatiana staring at her. The girl was wearing a frilly white nightdress covered by a pink dressing gown. She was hugging a badly worn doll and Siren, her ever-present bird-like companion, sat perched on her shoulder, close to her ear.

“Is it your mission in life to give me a heart attack?” Daisy hissed.

“More of a hobby,” Tatty retorted. “Why are you sneaking around trying to open doors with a broom handle?”

Daisy felt annoyed and foolish at the same time. “Keep your voice down! And what are
you
doing up at three o'clock in the morning?”

“Following my sister-in-law around in the dark. You haven't answered
my
question yet.”

“I was trying to see if I could find Gerald's private accounts books,” Daisy told her. “They might tell us something about this secret scheme of his. I know he keeps them down here—or at least he once did.”

“I see,” Tatty said. “And the broom handle?”

“Obviously, I'm trying to avoid any lethal devices that might be set around the door.”

Tatty took the stick off her sister-in-law and laid it on the floor. She held out her hand for Daisy's lamp. Daisy sighed, struck a match and lit the lamp's wick before handing it over. Tatty used the light to look all around the edges of the door. Then she examined the frame. Siren leaned forward with her, as if ready to offer an opinion on the matter at hand. Daisy watched nervously. She knew that Tatty had taken to educating herself in the ways of the family, but this was a serious matter. A person could be killed opening the wrong door in this house.

“Perhaps he doesn't keep anything of value here any more,” Tatty commented. “There doesn't seem to be any trigger that I can see.”

And with that, before Daisy could stop her, she tried the handle. Nothing happened. The door was locked. Tatty laid her doll on the floor, took a small purse from a pocket in her dressing gown and opened it, taking out two thin pieces of metal. She slid one, and then the other into the keyhole.

“Since when could you pick locks?” Daisy asked in a shocked whisper.

“Since I was about nine,” Tatty replied. “My nanny taught me.”

The lock clicked open, and Tatty picked up her doll and pushed the door open. Siren let out a frightened squawk and launched itself into the air. Daisy grabbed Tatty by the collar and pulled her to the side an instant before a semicircular blade flashed down from the ceiling, swinging from a cable-like pendulum. It swept back and forth through the doorway as Tatty clutched her doll to her breast, taking deep breaths. A lock of her blonde hair floated down through the air—the blade had a keen edge. Daisy picked up her broom handle and used it to stop the swinging blade.

“That would have cut your head right down the middle,” she muttered. “Your nanny should have taught you some caution.” She stepped across the threshold, peering into the darkness and the floor suddenly gave way beneath her. Tatty caught her friends flailing hand as she fell, but it took all of the girl's strength to stop Daisy from plunging down onto the spikes lining the bottom of the pit fifteen feet below. Putting down the lamp, she and Daisy clasped their hands together and, with Daisy pushing against the wall of the shaft with her feet, Tatty was able to haul her out.

“A ruddy trap door,” Tatty sneered. “How
traditional
.”

“Good God, you're
strong
, Tatty,” Daisy remarked. “I wouldn't have thought you capable of holding me up like that. You're a marvel. Perhaps that Wildenstern blood has its uses after all.”

“It's all the training I've been doing,” Tatty told her. “Though I do worry I'll end up with hands like a boy.”

“You're one of the richest, most fashionable women in Irish society, dear. If the worst came to the worst, you could always start a craze for gloves.”

“That's true, I suppose.”

Thinking this must surely be the end of the death traps, Daisy picked up the lamp and they jumped across the gap. Siren followed them in, swooping around the room on the lookout for more hazards. The two young women waited on the stone floor on the other side of the trap door for some new surprise. Nothing presented itself.

It was a large room, echoey and chilly at night. Off to one side, they could see the double doors that opened onto a corridor leading to another part of the basement. There, among the massive steel stanchions that formed part of the building's skeleton, Gerald had a bank of hideously expensive refrigerators. In these, he stored some of the subjects of his experiments. He still kept some of his arcane electricity generators there too, though Daisy wasn't sure if he had any use for them now.

They continued on across the cold and dusty laboratory to the door that led to Gerald's study. Daisy looked at Tatty, who shrugged, then she took a deep breath, grasped the door handle, twisted it and then jumped back. The door opened with a squeal, but it was merely the hinges needing oil. Once again, nothing tried to cut, stab, shoot, or blast them.

“I daresay he's getting mellow in his old age,” Daisy said. “That wasn't so hard. I'm half expecting the desk drawers to explode or something like that.”

“I wouldn't put it past him,” Tatty warned her.

As it turned out, it wasn't necessary to open any drawers. The study was about twenty feet square and filled with shelves, filing cabinets and a few glass display cabinets showing small, dissected engimals with their parts labeled. The books that Daisy was looking for were on a walnut bookcase which stood against the wall behind the desk. Taking note of where each one stood, she took a few down and started to examine their contents.

The pair of young women would not be able to reset Gerald's­ booby-traps, but Daisy didn't want him knowing what the intruders had done there if at all possible. Tatty, who found book-keeping­ extraordinarily boring, kept watch at the door, hugging her doll. Siren started to play a low spooky tune, but Tatty shushed it—she needed to be able to hear if someone was coming. Siren flew to the other end of the room in a huff.

Daisy did not want to stay too long. She knew Gerald was out of the house, as he so often was at night now, but he could still come back early. Or Elizabeth might decide to come down and root around in his work again. She wasn't too worried about the servants. They knew to mind their own business where family maneuvers were concerned.

There was no way of telling where Gerald went at night, though Daisy had tried to have people follow him on more than one occasion. Knowing his obsessions, she was sure he had another laboratory somewhere and, judging by the amount of money and resources he was siphoning from the family business, whatever experiments he was carrying out must be taking place on an industrial scale.

Looking around this dark, neglected space, she played with the idea of trying to find out who Gerald planned to bring in to help him control the family. She had already accounted for all of the relatives, and Gerald didn't trust any of them, but she could not conceive of anyone without Wildenstern blood who could handle the task. Whatever their quarrels, the family always closed ranks against outsiders.

For the sake of speed, Daisy only read down the columns labeling each entry in the books. Gerald kept direct control over some of the Company's factories, as well as a few ships in the fleet and a small army of private soldiers. He kept a number of armories well stocked and maintained too.

“He's pulled machinery from three different factories,” she said quietly to Tatty. “Steam presses, pumps, engines, steel mills. But there's no mention of where they've been taken. What's he up to?”

Tatty knew she was not required to answer and, for once, actually stayed silent. Daisy kept combing through the ledgers. Then she came to something that didn't fit.

“Tatty? Do you remember when we had that run-in with the Knights of Abraham? And we forced them to hand over the orphanage, because they were using some of the orphans in their experiments?”

“Of course,” Tatty replied. “You said it was a vile place. We closed it down and arranged for the children to be sent to foster homes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you and I saw some of them delivered to the foster parents ourselves,” Daisy said. “But we didn't follow up on all of them personally. We just assumed our instructions would be followed, didn't we? And that if there were any problems, we would be informed.”

“Yes. So?”

“Well, according to this”—Daisy pointed to a recent entry in one of the ledgers—“we're still paying to feed and clothe nearly a hundred children from that orphanage. And Gerald has added a note to the end of this column: ‘Have words with Red. Rates of accident and injury are unnecessarily high. Productivity is being affected.'” She looked up from the book to gaze at her friend. “What the dickens does that mean?”

The following afternoon found Tatiana sparring with Cathal, as Daisy spectated. A young man and woman crossing bare blades like this was considered highly improper, but Tatty was on a mission to throw such conventions aside, and Cathal had never cared much about them in the first place. Siren was flying in circles around them, playing a lively waltz, which jarred somewhat with the aggressive antics of the combatants.

Daisy was bouncing Leopold on her knee. Elizabeth entrusted the boy to her like this sometimes and Daisy suspected that this was intended as an insult—Elizabeth treating her as a kind of nanny or governess—but she was happy to spend time with the boy. The two of them got on well, and Daisy felt that someone should teach the lad some morals before he got too old for them to sink in. The only principles he learned from his mother were concerned with scheming, manipulation and betrayal, along with the Old Testament style of religion that his mother felt was appropriate for a future ruler of the world.

Daisy, on the other hand, believed a child needed a more rounded code of ethics if he was to live a good Christian life. And seeing as his wayward father was not here to do the job, Daisy, Tatty and Cathal had taken it upon themselves to ensure that Leopold grew up as reasonable a human being as his breeding would allow.

Daisy had mixed feelings about letting the boy see Tatty and Cathal at their fencing practice, but she couldn't deny it was good fun—and given the nature of the family, there were some skills Leopold needed to start learning early. For the Wildensterns had a unique means of encouraging ambition, cunning and ruthlessness in their family: they permitted the assassination of one male member of the family by another, as a means of improving one's rank in the family. In the Wildensterns, a man could kill his way to the top of the pile. But any such killing had to be carried out according to the family's Rules of Ascension. As long as this was the case, the crime would be covered up, hidden from the authorities. There were eight rules: