The Mermaid in the Basement (5 page)

“Come into the reception room, my dear. You are the last to arrive.”

“I didn’t mean to be late.”

“Oh, you’re not late. It will be rather an odd affair. Just three of us women and the rest gentlemen.”

Serafina wanted to say,
That’s the way I like it,
but she merely said, “I’m sure it will be an enjoyable evening.”

They passed down a hallway, the walls covered with paintings and sculptures of various kinds on shelves. They passed into a large open room with an interesting mixture of styles. On one side sat an old Chinese silk screen that had once been of great beauty but was now faded. Still, it held an elegance that gave the room charm and a comfortable grace. There was a Russian samovar on a side table, Venetian glass in a cabinet, a French ormolu clock on the mantel shelf above the fireplace, and a late Georgian mahogany table of total simplicity and cleanness of line that, to Serafina, was the loveliest thing in the room. Lady Wallace said, “Our last guest has arrived, the Viscountess Serafina Trent. Viscountess, let me introduce you to our guests. This, of course, is Mr. Charles Dickens.”

Dickens stepped forward, a rather short man with a neatly trimmed beard, observant eyes, and a friendly demeanor. He smiled, took Serafina’s hand, and bent over and kissed it. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Viscountess.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dickens. Might I say how much I enjoyed your book on the rulers of England.”

“Very kind of you to say so.Which of my novels have you read?”

“Oh, I never read fiction.”

A silence fell on the room, and Dickens seemed stunned. “And why not, may I ask?”

“I prefer reality to make-believe.”

“That must cut you off from a great deal of pleasure. I find the world of art and literature invigorates me and amplifies reality.”

“I’m sure it does for many people. Your success as a writer proves that. It’s just that my father educated me to be a scientific thinker, and I find it difficult to move in other realms. But I congratulate you on the success of your latest book,
David Copperfield.
Everyone is talking about it.”

“I wish you would try it, Lady Trent. I’ll send you a copy.”

“So kind of you, Mr. Dickens.”

“And this is Mr. John Ruskin. I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”

Ruskin was a man of medium height with mild blue eyes and an air of attentiveness.He kissed Serafina’s hand and then said, “I’m very happy to meet you, Lady Trent.”

“I must confess I haven’t read your book, Mr. Ruskin. I have so many scientific books to read, I have little time for other areas.”

“I assure you, you wouldn’t like it.” The speaker was a small man with quick black eyes and black hair to match.

“This is Mr. Clarence Morton, the reporter for the
London News
,” Sir Osric Wallace explained.

“Why is it you think, sir, that I wouldn’t like Mr. Ruskin’s book?”

“Because he likes the old and hates the new, and I think you are just the opposite.”

“I don’t hate the new,” Ruskin said quickly. “I just think it’s ugly.”

“You see, Viscountess? You like new inventions. Mr. Ruskin thinks that the older art was better because it was all done by hand. For example, he thinks the gargoyles on the Cathedral of Notre Dame are better because they were done by individual artists. Nowadays a factory would turn them out, and they would be exactly alike.”

“And they would not be art,” Ruskin said, his eyes glowing with something like anger.

Serafina stared at the man. “I see no value in badly made artifacts.”

Ruskin was displeased. “It’s your privilege to think so, madam. I see art as a product of the human imagination, not the result of a machine.”

“I’m afraid we will never agree, Mr. Ruskin. I believe in intellect and the machine.”

Sir Osric was disturbed at the conflict and said quickly, “This is Lord Milburn, a leader in the House of Lords.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Lord Milburn.”

“And I you, Lady Trent.”

“I’ve been reading about the Indian mutiny.”

“Ah, yes, it’s a sad thing.”

The papers had been full of the news of the Indian mutiny.Many of the native troops had rebelled against their British masters, and all of England was buzzing with ideas about what should be done.

“It seems to me, if what I read is true,” Serafina said, “that the solution should be fairly simple.”

“Politics are never simple,” Lord Milburn said rather stiffly.

“In this case I must disagree. If I understand it correctly, the trouble began over the cartridges for the new infield rifle.”

Lord Milburn stared at her. “That is true.”

“I understand the bullets were greased with the fat of hogs and cows.”

“That is correct.”

“But our leadership should have known that the Muslims and the Hindus are forbidden to eat such things, and that the cartridges had to be bitten before they could be inserted in the muzzle.”

“This is far too difficult for a layman to understand.”

Mr. Morton, the reporter, laughed. “It seems simple enough when Lady Serafina explains it.”

Quickly, Sir Osric said, “This is the gentleman you’ve been anxious to meet. Mr. Charles Darwin.”

At once Serafina turned her attention to the man who advanced to stand before her. He was not a handsome man, having a beetling brow and homely features, but she cried out with delight, “I am so happy to meet you, Mr. Darwin! I’ve read your books about your voyage in the
Beagle
over and over again .”

“I’m delighted to hear it, Lady Trent.”

“I hope they have put us together at the table.”

“Yes, indeed, we have,” Sir Osric said immediately.

“But let me introduce you to a lady I’m sure you will recognise.May I introduce, Lady Trent,Miss Florence Nightingale.”

“Of course. How do you do, Viscountess?”

“I’ve read so much about your work in the Crimea. I, along with all of England, admire you and encourage you in your attempts to improve the nursing situation. It is abominable.”

Florence Nightingale was a slight woman with aristocratic features.

Serafina’s words brought a glow to her eyes. “I hope you can help me get that message across.”

At that instant a butler entered and went to stand beside Sir Osric.

“Sir, the dinner is ready at your pleasure.”

“Why, thank you, Rogers. I believe we are ready. Come along.We can eat and argue at the same time, I trust.”

Immediately Serafina took Mr. Darwin’s arm and walked with him into the dining room. The room itself was sumptuously decorated in French blue and gold. The long windows were curtained in velvet, displayed in rich folds that skirted out over the floor in the approved fashion. The table glittered with silver and crystal. So many facets gleamed and glinted, the display dazzled the eyes. One could barely see the faces of the people at the farther end of the reflected light. Silver and porcelain clicked discreetly beneath the buzz of conversation as the meal began, footmen refilled glasses, and course after course came and went: two soups, two kinds of fish, partridge and duck, pudding, desserts, and fruits—pears, plums, nectarines, raspberries, grapes—all grouped in generous pyramids.

Darwin was monopolized by Lady Serafina, who said at once, “I read your paper on worms.”

Everyone suddenly lifted their heads. Darwin saw the reaction and smiled. “I have written a paper on worms. I’m going to put it into a book. It will be entitled ‘The Formation of Vegetable Mold through the Action of Worms, with Observations on Their Habits.’”

Morton laughed.“Mr. Darwin, I don’t think people will rush out and buy extra copies of that.”

“I believe you are right, Mr. Morton,” Darwin said amiably, “but I found something congenial about worms. I became interested in them and wished to learn how far they acted consciously.Worms do not possess any sense of hearing. They took not the least notice of the shrill notes from a metal whistle which was repeatedly sounded near them.Nor did they know the deepest, loudest tones of the bassoon. They were indifferent to shouts if care was taken that the breath should not strike them.”

“Somehow that is amusing, if you will forgive me,” Charles Dickens said, chuckling. “The idea of the great scientist tooting a tin whistle for worms is somehow beyond my imagination.”

Florence Nightingale had said little, but at one point she said, “I understand you are a scientist, Viscountess.”

“I pass for one among women, Miss Nightingale.”

“I wish you would do something in the medical field.”

“Indeed, I’ve been studying that very thing. I read your report about the many men who died of infection.”

“More died of infection in the Crimean War than were killed by bullets. The wounds were terrible.”

“I’ve been conducting a simple experiment of my own. It’s just beginning, you understand.”

“Indeed?”Miss Nightingale said, her eyes intent on Serafina. “I’d like to hear about it.”

“It involves maggots.”

Every eye swiveled then to face Lady Serafina Trent, who spoke directly to Miss Nightingale and was unaware of the stares. “Maggots eat diseased flesh. I have introduced maggots into diseased flesh of animals, and have discovered that they have a therapeutic effect.”

“We spend a great deal of time trying to keep maggots out of human flesh,” Florence Nightingale said. She smiled slightly, amused at the pained expression on the faces around her.

“I think the answer lies in my initial experiments. I hope they may prove something different.”

Charles Dickens suddenly cleared his throat, and his face was rather pale. “I think this might not be exactly the topic for a dinner conversation, Viscountess.”

Serafina looked around the table with surprise. “Oh, I am sorry,Mr. Dickens. I have very bad manners in society.”

Dickens began to talk of the literary world, his captivating presence entertaining everyone. Serafina was silent most of the time; she had not read most of the writers of whom Dickens and the others spoke.

Finally Sir Osric said, “Well, I confess I’m not as well read as most of you gentlemen here, but I did meet a rather famous writer in America. Mr. Edgar Allan Poe.”

Dickens at once turned to face Sir Osric, a light in his eyes. “Indeed, you knew Mr. Poe?”

“Oh yes, we became friends of a sort.”

“I have read his short stories,” Dickens said, “and his poetry. I can’t comment on the poetry, but he’s a genius with words.”

“He writes about such gloomy things,” Lord Milburn said. “I tried one. It was about burying someone alive. I can’t see the value in that.”

“Well, he has a macabre imagination,” Sir Osric said, “but he’s very popular in America, or was. He died a few years ago.”

Dickens was very thoughtful as he said, “The stories of the detective C. Auguste Dupin are excellent. They are almost a new genre.”

“Indeed, they are,” Sir Osric said warmly. “Mr. Poe told me he was tired of the bumbling of the police. He wanted to create a detective who would use pure mental powers, deduction, don’t you see, to solve a crime.”

Serafina listened as the talk about Auguste Dupin, the literary detective, went on, but she made no comment. Finally Sir Osric gave a self-conscious laugh. “Indeed, I wish there were such a detective as this Auguste Dupin.”He looked at the faces around the table and said,“Of course there is no such man, but I have need of one like him.”

“For what reason, sir?” Dickens demanded.

“Well, I managed to get from Mr. Poe, during our relationship, an original manuscript. His fame wasn’t then what it is now, but the manuscript is worth at least ten thousand pounds. It’ll be worth more later, but it’s gone.”

“Gone?”Morton, the reporter, said. “What do you mean, sir?”

“I mean a thief broke in and stole the manuscript just last night.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Oh yes. They came and looked around, but they said it would be almost impossible to identify the thief or to recover the manuscript.”

Serafina suddenly said, “I’m interested in this robbery. Could I see the room that was broken into?”

Sir Osric looked baffled. “Well, of course, Viscountess, if you’d like.”

“I’d like to see it myself,” Dickens said. He smiled and said in a teasing tone, “I think Lady Trent feels that she might have the kind of mind of Mr. Poe’s fictional character, Auguste Dupin.”

A smile went around the room, and Serafina said, “It’s an interesting problem. All science is a problem, is it not, Mr. Darwin?”

“Indeed, it is, and many of them are never solved.”

Sir Osric was embarrassed, but he said,“Perhaps all of you would like to come.”

Indeed, the entire company did follow Sir Osric as he led Lady Serafina up the stairs.He opened a door, saying,“These are my private quarters.”He crossed the room and motioned. “There’s the broken window. The fellow obviously smashed the window, then reached in and unlocked it.”

Serafina walked over and looked down at the window. She turned, and her face was stiff with concentration. “Where was the manuscript kept, Sir Osric?”

“Ah, that’s the puzzling thing. See here.” He walked across the room and opened the door of an armoire. Several garments were hanging there, but he swung back a door. The back of the armoire seemed to be hinged. It swung out, and Sir Osric smiled. “There’s my secret safe.”

Serafina moved closer. “How many people know the combination of that safe?”

“Only my attorney and I. I hardly think he broke into my house to steal.”

“You must have written it down.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I did.” He smiled ruefully. “My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“I suppose you put it in your desk? Perhaps taped to the underside of one of the drawers?”

Wallace stared at her with amazement. “How in the world did you know that?”

“It was the first place I thought of to hide such a thing. Ergo, you would do the same.”

Serafina walked around the room thoughtfully, and Dickens said jovially, “Well, have you determined who the thief is, Viscountess?”

Serafina turned and walked over to the window. “There’s no glass on the floor.Was there any outside on the ground?”