Chapter Four
As Lindsay followedCruikshank’s manservant down the short corridor and into another gloomy chamber, he tried to put Drew Nicol from his mind, ignoring his wolf’s grumbling.
“The master will be back in a minute,” the servant said. “Ye can sit if ye like.” And with that, he left.
Lindsay examined his surroundings. He had been shown into a small, crowded study, dominated by an enormous desk hewn from the same black wood as the furniture in the parlour and carved in the same formal Jacobean style.
One wall of the room was lined with shelves, most of which were crammed with books, but the top three rows held a variety of curiosities. On the very top shelf stood a row of glass jars of varying sizes—the contents of which were unidentifiable from Lindsay’s vantage point—and a portable wooden chest with strap hinges and sturdy locks. The shelf below was taken up by porcelain, an absurd quantity of the stuff and much of it looking quite dusty. Lindsay spotted at least half a dozen very fine pieces amongst scores of far less remarkable ones. None of the pieces were shown to advantage by their crowded placement. Indeed, they all looked rather... forgotten. The third shelf contained a bewildering array of objects of all shapes and sizes: snuffboxes, bottles, packets of papers, some mathematical instruments. Lindsay’s eye was caught by a set of silver bodkins in a velvet-lined case. Stepping closer, he examined them: ornate mother-of-pearl handles and long silver needles gleaming against the plush black fabric. It struck him as odd that Cruikshank was displaying such domestic items.
“So, Mr. Somerville,” a high, thin voice said behind him. “Ye’ve come to see me.”
Turning to meet the owner of the voice, Lindsay was faced with a wiry old man standing in the open doorway, his thin frame made smaller by his round-shouldered posture.
The man shuffled into the study. He wore no wig and his head was almost entirely bald, just a few straggly puffs of white hair above each ear. His brown eyes were curiously round, his brow grooved with deep lines, and his thin lips were turned down mournfully. He looked like nothing so much as a little old monkey.
“Mr. Cruikshank, I presume,” Lindsay replied, stepping forward to greet his host.
The old man’s gait was slow and halting. He wore a drab brown banyan that swamped him, baggy woollen stockings on his thin legs and a pair of Turkish slippers on his feet, the once dark red brocade faded to pink. When Lindsay took his hand, it felt like a handful of fallen leaves, dry and papery, no strength in his grip at all.
He smelled of mouldering paper and dust. The smell of the crypt.
“Welcome,” he said. For several moments, he inspected Lindsay, his gaze travelling from the top of Lindsay’s powdered head to the tips of his elegantly shod feet. Then he added in a wondering tone, “Is this how the gentlemen are dressing in London these days?”
“Only the most elegant ones,” Lindsay said.
Cruikshank gave a wheezy chuckle, then pointed at the silver bodkins Lindsay had been examining. “Ye were admiring my witch prickers, I see.”
“Witch prickers?”
The old man sent him a sly, amused look. “The witchfinders used them,” he said. He gave Lindsay a broad wink and added, “The handles are hollow.”
“Really?” Lindsay feigned ignorance, though he knew of what the old man spoke. “To what end?”
“The witchfinder would appear as though he was plunging the needle into the accused’s flesh, but the spike was actually going into the handle. Having no wound or blood after being pricked with such a long, sharp needle was viewed as a sign of guilt.” Cruikshank’s eyes gleamed. “That set was reputedly made for a famous witchfinder called George Cargill. They say he was a friend of the King himself—James the Sixth, that is.”
Cargill. That was the name of the witchfinder Thomas Naismith had been following.
Lindsay gave no sign of recognition at the name. “Well, King James was certainly interested in finding witches,” he observed neutrally.
“That he was,” Cruikshank agreed. He waved at one of the chairs. “Sit yerself down, Mr. Somerville, and I will do likewise. I am no’ very good on my feet these days.”
Lindsay nodded and settled into the chair in front of the desk while Cruikshank hobbled round to the other side.
The chair was horribly uncomfortable, the backrest made up of barley-twist spindles that dug into his spine when he leaned against it. It was a style of furniture familiar to Lindsay from his childhood days, making him feel at once at home and discomfited. These rooms were not so very different from the ones Lindsay had grown up in, only a few closes away.
Cruikshank’s desk was covered in paper. There were books piled up on the left-hand side, all open and bristling with thin strips of paper that appeared to be marking pages of significance. In the middle of the desk lay another book in which Cruikshank had evidently been writing. His pen and an inkpot lay on a blotter beside it. The writing on the page was small and spidery. An economical hand, but not a tidy one. The ink on the page was smeared in places, and in a way that made Lindsay wonder whether Cruikshank was left-handed.
Cruikshank finally reached his own chair, then slowly, arthritically, lowered himself into it, letting out a soft, pained grunt when his skinny rump touched the seat.
He looked up then, fixing his mournful gaze on Lindsay, and said, “So, Mr. Somerville. I had a letter from one of my correspondents, George Fenton, telling me ye would be calling on me. He has vouched for ye as a man of means and a serious collector. So, tell me. What is it ye want from me?”
Lindsay offered his most winning smile. “You have quite the reputation, Mr. Cruikshank—I’m told you are the man to come to when one is seeking... unusual items. That is what I collect, you see. The most unusual. The rarest. I aim to have the most envied collection in all of Europe.”
