“Five,” Oscar countered.
Mr. Kinloch considered the offer. “If it was about the money, I would have given Defoe a chance to bid. I want the book to go to a good home, but I do need to get a reasonable price for it.” His gaze flicked around the room, taking in the bare floor and the sparse furnishings. “Meet me at eight, Barratt?”
Oscar held out his hand. “Seven, and you have a deal.”
“All right. Seven pounds it is.”
They retreated to the desk to make the financial exchange, while I scanned more pages. Most of the text was quite mundane and bogged down by the language and legal terminology of the seventeenth century. But one name caught my eye. Indeed, it appeared quite a lot.
“Are you related to the Kinloch mentioned here?” I asked when they rejoined me at the sofa.
Mr. Kinloch’s eyes narrowed with his slight wince. “He was my ancestor. I hope that knowledge doesn’t color your opinion of me.”
“Not at all. The sins of Thomas Kinloch are not your sins.”
“Who was Thomas Kinloch?” Oscar asked.
I handed him the book and pointed at some lines near the top. “He brought several women to trial. They were convicted of witchcraft and burned at the stake, which was the punishment at that time in Scotland, as opposed to England where convicted witches were hanged.”
“Think of him as Scotland’s equivalent to Matthew Hopkins,” Mr. Kinloch said.
“The Witchfinder General?” Oscar asked.
I nodded as I accepted the book back from him. “This is a strange thing for your family to keep, considering Sir George Mackenzie doesn’t write favorably about your ancestor.”
“Indeed he doesn’t,” Mr. Kinloch said. “Thomas Kinloch deserves to be painted as the villain he was. I agree that it is a rather strange thing to pass down through the generations. I’m not really sure why it has been. It was kept under lock and key ever since I can remember. As one of the few surviving copies—perhaps the only copy—I presumed it was to keep it safe from thieves. But when I read the pages about Thomas Kinloch, I wondered if it was to keep the awful truth about my family’s history from the world.” He shrugged. “It no longer matters. As you say, my ancestor’s actions don’t reflect on me, centuries later.” He tapped the book’s cover with his finger. “It’s a valuable resource now, and I believe it should be studied by scholars like yourself, Professor. We live in a new age of enlightenment for magicians, and with enlightenment comes education and understanding. Books like this one need to be available to all, not just a few rich men like Defoe, or the late Lord Coyle.”
“We quite agree,” Oscar said. “Thank you for accepting our offer. Matt and India will be thrilled.”
“I must admit, if it wasn’t for them, I wouldn’t be selling at all.”
I peered at him through my spectacles. “Why not?”
“I’ve long wanted this book to be made available beyond these walls. It was simply a matter of who should get it. Lady Rycroft is a powerful magician, but also a cautious and sensible one. She doesn’t use her magic to benefit herself, unlike Defoe, who turned out to be as greedy as a I feared.” At my arched brows, he added, “He wanted to find the book referenced in this one that contains a tattoo magic spell. I doubt he, an iron magician, could make a tattooed human fly, but I wouldn’t put it past him to find an ink magician who could.” His sharp gaze suddenly pierced Oscar. “According to the biography in your book, you are an ink magician and may have that ability. Be careful, Mr. Barratt.”
“I won’t use tattoo magic for my own benefit,” Oscar assured him. “Merely for my own amusement.”
“So I presumed, thanks to your association with Lord and Lady Rycroft, which is why you now have that book in your possession. But that’s not what I meant. I meant be careful of Defoe, and people like him. When he discovers your magical craft is ink, and gets his hand on that flying tattoo spell, he may use you.”
Oscar’s smile was as bright as the sun. “Thank you for your concern, but I’ll be fine.”
They shook hands, and Mr. Kinloch called for the butler to show us out. Redmayne, however, had disappeared.
A commotion downstairs had us all turning to the door. A man’s loud voice could clearly be heard demanding to be released.
Mr. Kinloch frowned. “What the devil?” He strode out of the drawing room.
Oscar followed with me close behind, the book in hand. We trotted down the stairs to the entrance hall where Redmayne had a man’s arm twisted behind his back. The fellow’s hat had fallen off and lay upended on the tiles, and his unruly curls spilled over his forehead.
“Unhand me!” he cried. “Let me go or I’ll have you arrested for assault!”
“Redmayne?” Mr. Kinloch asked. “What’s going on?”
“Are you Kinloch?” the man asked before the butler could answer. “Tell your thug to release me!”
Redmayne tightened his grip, causing his captive to hiss in pain. “He came in via the service entrance, sir. He upset the female staff with his accusations.”
Mr. Kinloch’s spine stiffened. His nostrils flared. “Get out!”
