Page 48 of Miss Moriarty, I Presume?
“Yes, that estimable gentleman.”
“Did he bequeath to you the human skulls, too?”
There were a good dozen, grinning from everywhere. Miss Charlotte, as she asked her question, ran her finger directly over the incomplete teeth of one.
“Most of the human skulls are plaster replicas and will shatter if you drop them,” said Mr. Peters. “We only have one that is real—the one you are studying, in fact.”
Miss Charlotte lowered her head for a closer look.
“Someone gave it to Dr. Robinson long ago,” continued Mr. Peters, “and once he saw the interior of the library, he decided to deposit it here.”
Mrs. Watson had been married to a doctor who had boasted not only a plaster skull in his possession, but an entire plaster skeleton. When they’d lived in India her dear John had even kept an excised tumor in a jar of formaldehyde and they had clinked glasses and shared meals in its vicinity. Her niece, too, was a medical student and did not shy away from discussing what she witnessed during her coursework.
Human anatomy, on its own, did not disconcert Mrs. Watson. But here the human skulls did not exist so innocently. She didn’t believe Mr. Peters’s claim that most were plaster replicas. And if they weren’t, whose skulls were they?
She shuddered.
Miss Charlotte at last turned away from the “only” real human skull and swept a hand around the room. “Are skulls particularly important to the study of Hermetism?”
Mr. Peters shook his head. “We had the ambitious plan to fill this place with books and manuscripts but despite our best efforts, there simply aren’t that many works to be acquired. To make the shelves look less empty we began to decorate them with alembic sets. And then, once Miss Baxter’s painting was installed, with its abundance of rat skulls, it became natural to add other skulls.”
He looked about. “I still wish we had more books, but since we don’t, this current collection looks very nice, too. I love spending time here.”
This last was said with a happy little sigh that made Mrs. Watson’s face feel as stiff as dried glue when she tried to smile.
The meditation cabin was once the chapel for the former holiday compound. Like the sanctuary, it, too, had a painted interior, except the hues were gradients of red, ending in a color on the ceiling that felt uncomfortably like clotted blood. Another eye looked down from the very zenith. Mrs. Watson quickly dropped her gaze, only to see a set of implements reminiscent of what Mrs. Crosby and Mr. Peters had used for their “simple little” homecoming ceremony.
She was, therefore, more than ready to depart from Mr. Peters’s company once Miss Charlotte had her fill of the meditation cabin. Mr. Peters, however, issued an invitation. “Would you ladies care to join me for a little promenade on the wall?”
“Oh, could we?” replied Miss Charlotte brightly. “I thought we’d need a special dispensation.”
“Of course not. Everyone here is welcome to go up and take in the view.” Mr. Peters smiled at her. “The stars can be breathtaking on a clear night. Sometimes the sea shimmers with starlight and I feel as if I am looking upon the very youth of the world, unpolluted by the passage of time or the advance of industry.”
Mrs. Watson blinked. Was she mistaken about Mr. Peters’s intentions? Was he taking them around not because he wanted to unnerve them, but because he wanted to spend time impressing Miss Charlotte?
If Miss Charlotte thought the same, she gave no hint, but only looked up at the clouds that had rolled in since nightfall. “What a shame that there are no stars left tonight. Still, the air will be fresh and bracing up there.”
“I shall be delighted by the company, if nothing else,” said Mr. Peters, half bowing. “This way, please.”
The night had grown sharp.The wind almost whipped off Mrs. Watson’s hat.
Mr. Peters led them toward the west. “That’s my favorite building, the kitchen. I always go and get my own basket—it’s nice to anticipate one’s meals. I’m not sure whether you can see it when it’s so dark but there’s our kitchen garden, of which the gardeners among us are very proud. I’m not a gardener—not yet in any case. But Dr. Robinson is adamant that horticulture will sink its tendrils into every man at some point. Are either of you ladies interested in spring planting?”
Did they plant hemlock here? Or belladonna?
Miss Charlotte shook her head. “Is it already time for spring planting?”
“Not quite, but Dr. Robinson and Miss Ellery have some carrot seeds growing under cloches. And they’ve already loosened the soil.”
They walked all the way to the front gate, to either side of which was a wrought iron ladder sunk into the monstrously high wall. Mrs. Watson, who did not normally fear heights, had to grit her teeth to make herself set foot on the first rung. Two thirds of the way up, when a strong gust blew, she whimpered but kept going.
The top of the parapeted wall was just wide enough for one person. Dresses these days had a narrow profile from the front, so there was a bit of clearance to either side. But if Mrs. Watson were to turn around, the bouffant folds to the rear of her skirt would scrape against the masonry and possibly sustain damage.
So she walked forward in Miss Charlotte’s footsteps, one hand on the parapet.
The wind had become fierce; clouds tumbled across the sky like blown fleece—barely visible blown fleece. Inside the compound, half a dozen windows were lit. Little else could be seen. Even on the eastern ramparts, closest to the edge of the cliff, the sea remained a specter that could only be heard, the headlands a dark, silent solidity.
“Lovely,” said Miss Charlotte. “It’s all lovely. I like how the air smells brinier at night, as if the sea has come closer.”
