A Sickness in the Soul Page 12

  Fortunately, for his peace of mind, Mrs Danson agreed he could take it home to study it further and he returned home in a thoughtful mood. After taking his dinner, he therefore retired to his own library to try to make sense of what he had discovered.

  Questions crowded into his mind. How had the visitor known about Dr Danson and his collection? He didn’t believe the huge collection of rare books he had built up over the years was a matter of common knowledge, even among scholars. Foxe himself was engaged in buying and selling such books — had been for more than a decade. His father had arranged the sale and purchase of books long before then. Surely some whisper of the man’s collection must have reached them. Yet it had taken the man’s murder to bring his library to light.

  Foxe didn’t believe either that the strange Mr Cornelius Wake had come upon Danson by chance. The note, probably making arrangements for his visit, proved that. He came on purpose, most likely to try to acquire one or more books.

  But that only raised another question. From what he had discovered about Danson, Foxe was certain he would have been very unlikely to want to sell any of his collection. Especially one which was extremely rare and which he had paid such an amazing price to obtain for himself. Maybe the visitor offered an even more preposterously high price. No, that would only have confirmed its desirability in Danson’s mind and prompted a more definite refusal?

  Was this Mr Wake’s visit coincidental then, with no bearing on Danson’s murder? Foxe dismissed that thought at once. Somehow, Wake knew about Dr Danson’s interests and his fabulous book collection. Danson’s books must also have covered topics in which Wake took a keen interest himself. Where he had obtained that knowledge was totally obscure, as was the purpose of his letter and subsequent visit. There was also the mystery of the letter Foxe had found. Why write in cipher if all he wished to convey was his interest in the collection and a desire to buy one or more books?

  Of course! Foxe grinned. Wake had used code for several reasons. First, of course, to conceal the true purpose of his visit from prying eyes and the second reason must be because doing so would have excited Danson’s curiosity. It might also have been a way of establishing Wake’s bona fides as a scholar of the occult. He would have expressed his interest in the subjects Danson studied. No mention of buying anything. Writing in cipher not only added a sense of mystery, but it did so in a way likely to appeal to a man who devoted himself to uncovering hidden meanings. That must be it.

  A moment later, Foxe’s elation had ceased as swiftly as it had begun. He took up the letter and scanned it carefully to make sure. It was as he recalled. All save the signature was written in cipher. The question now was what was the cipher? Without knowing that, it might as well have been written in Egyptian hieroglyphics.

  Think, Ashmole! Think!

  Mr Gunton, the butler, had been clear that his late master had been expecting a visit on a specific day and at a specific time. His master had given him instructions to admit the man without question and take him to the library, where Dr Danson would be waiting. Unless he had been able to unlock the cipher, how could he have known when his visitor would arrive?

  But how? Where in all that mass of books was the one containing the key needed for deciphering what it contained?

  Foxe groaned, pulled the candle closer and bent his head over the wretched letter once again.

  After two hours, Foxe abandoned all efforts at decryption. He’d tried every cipher he knew or could find amongst his own books. Nothing helped. Yet he couldn’t shake free from the conviction that the answer must be simple. He’d found no notes or scribblings, no pieces of paper anywhere in Danson’s library, which he might have used while deciphering this message. He must therefore have been able to do it in his head. He had probably written down the decrypted version on a single sheet of paper and destroyed it afterwards.

  Another thought struck him. Danson had been a student of ancient writings. What if the decrypted message were in Gaelic or some other obscure tongue? Easy enough for Danson, impossible for him even to see when a decryption had been successful. Foxe was no linguist. He’d had a better-than-average education, thanks to his father, but one which focused on things of practical use, such as book-keeping. Over the years, he’d picked up a smattering of Latin, enough to read and understand book titles, but nothing more.

  Of course! He knew a man who might be able to help him — the cathedral librarian. He’d been to university. He’d take the letter to him the very next morning. It would probably amuse him to pit his wits against it.

  Time to turn your mind to other things, Foxe told himself. He’d found another ledger in Danson’s desk, in addition to the one listing the man’s books in such detail. No cipher was involved this time, but he’d still asked Mrs Danson if he might borrow it to study more fully. Now he took it up and bent his head once again.

  Damn it! It was filled with such tiny, spidery handwriting he couldn’t see to read it by the light of a single candle. He’d either have to call Molly to bring him more light or leave it to the morning. Then there would be enough daylight to make it out properly.

  Foxe was tired, so he opted for the latter course and called Alfred to help him get ready for bed.

  Next morning, he rose promptly, took a brisk walk in the garden to clear his head, and told Molly he would have his breakfast early. While he was eating, his carriage was to be prepared. He would have himself driven down to the small house in Cathedral Close where the librarian lived. He’d walked a great deal the day before and felt he’d earned the right to take things easy. It was, of course, much too early to be calling on anyone according to normal standards of politeness. Foxe knew that very well. He simply had to hope the man would be sufficiently interested in the task he was going to ask of him to overlook this gross breach of etiquette.

  Such proved to be the case, so Foxe left the letter with him and hastened home to his library to start on the ledger he had left unread the night before.

  It proved to contain lists of amounts of money loaned by Danson to a certain apothecary in the city, all at unusually high rates of interest. Foxe knew this particular apothecary, Mr Simon Craswall, was also a heartless money-lender and oppressor of the poor. So, this was how the man was financing all his lending. The interest Danson was charging him looked substantial enough, but the apothecary was doubtless charging double and treble that amount to the poor unfortunates who went to him for help.

  All this told a very different story about The Rev. Dr Danson than had appeared in his outward behaviour. He had been living a double life. On the outside, a respectable, if boring, scholar and recluse. Behind closed doors, he had become obsessed with the occult and similar matters. To further his studies, he needed material that was not to be found on the shelves of any normal bookshop. Not in any of the city’s libraries either. He had therefore set about collecting the necessary books himself. Unfortunately, they would be both rare and expensive to obtain. That sort of collection could only be built up and sustained by someone of considerable wealth. Someone who was prepared to spend freely. Someone able to keep replenishing his coffers from a suitable source.

  On the first occasion that Foxe had been to the man’s house and into the library, his attention had been concentrated on the man’s body which had been found there. He had not had the time to make any close inspection of the books themselves. Nevertheless, he could not have avoided noting the amazing number of books it contained. Now that he was able to make a full examination, he realised how many rare and valuable volumes stood on those shelves. As a bookseller, one with an interest in rare and valuable items, Foxe could make a rough estimate of what it must have cost to create a collection of that nature. It would have stretched the resources of even the wealthiest men in the kingdom, let alone an obscure local scholar. Danson would have needed to lay his hands on hundreds, even thousands, of pounds on a regular basis. His “pact with the devil” — the loans he made to Craswall to finance the man’s predatory money-l
ending — provided the answer.

  How and when had the two first come into contact? That was completely obscure, especially given the second of Mrs Danson’s statements that her husband despised modern medicines. It must have been a considerable time ago. That would have been when Danson’s first wife was still alive.

  Foxe shook his head in frustration. There was no way now of finding out. Still, that was a side issue. What mattered more was how knowing of the source of Danson’s wealth could help him unravel the mystery of his murder. Had Danson been aware of the true nature of the apothecary’s other business? He must have known. Borrowing such large amounts at ruinous rates of interest would have brought any legitimate business to bankruptcy in no time at all. Craswall’s pharmacy was large and prosperous. No sign of business problems affecting it in any way. The loans Craswall negotiated with Danson must have been just to support his activities as a moneylender. The ledger revealed how he had taken out and repaid loans multiple times — and for increasing amounts — so he was making profits there as well.

  What in the dealings between him and the apothecary could have caused Danson to be murdered? Had one of Norwich’s criminal gangs found out about it and tried to blackmail both of them? That’s exactly what they would do, given the chance.

  If they had, there was no sign of it. The amounts passing between Danson and Craswall increased steadily. If someone else had been intercepting much of the profit, they would have fallen. Nor had Danson given any sign of buying fewer books, at least according to his wife.

  What if Danson and Craswall had refused to pay? Unlikely, but possible. In such an event, a typical gang response would be to apply pressure. In the case of the apothecary, they’d turn to arson. There had been no fire at his shop or his home, to the best of Foxe’s knowledge. Nor had Danson’s home suffered an attack. They’d either paid or Foxe was on the wrong track entirely.

  What about Mrs Danson’s brother? Had he found out? How?

  Another thought. George Stubbings had worked for Jack Beeston as a thug and enforcer. If he’d now returned to Norwich, it must be because he knew he could get money there. A man who had committed several murders either tried to lose himself in London or fled abroad. Stubbings was well known amongst the criminal classes in Norwich. The only reason to return would be because he knew he could quickly get enough money there to finance a fresh start somewhere else.

  Craswall had been a loan-shark in Beeston’s time, so Stubbings probably knew all about him. His sister was now married to the source of Craswall’s extra funds. What better than to insert himself into that cosy arrangement and milk it for all he could get? Get a job with Craswall as one of those who enforced payment of interest. Get in touch with his sister at the same time. Then blackmail all three: his sister, Danson and Craswall. Pay him and he would go away. Hand him over to the authorities and he would tell all he knew.

  A mighty dangerous game, Foxe told himself. Danson and his sister might feel powerless to remove the threat any other way. But Craswall? Surely the wretched Stubbings would have known how dangerous an enemy the apothecary would be.

  Of course, he might simply be working for Craswall under a new name. He’d left Norwich as a fresh-faced seventeen-year-old. His time in prison must have marked him, as must his various fights and the wounds he would have received. He might have felt sure he would not be recognised. Some scars, the loss of a few teeth, perhaps a dose of pox might have produced a radical change in his appearance.

  What if the clerk in the city treasury, thought to be embezzling money, had got into gambling, encountered Stubbings in his second-favourite role as a card-sharper, lost heavily and been directed to Craswall? Stubbings might have recruited new victims for Craswall in such a way, rather than acting as a thug. Dressed up in good clothes, no one would link him to the violent boy who’d been sentenced to transportation.

  Foxe came down to earth with a bump. All this was no more than fantasy. There was no sign George Stubbings had played any part in Danson’s death. Not unless he’d disguised himself as Cornelius Wake and sent the cipher letter. Nothing he’d been told about the fellow — nothing in his past history — indicated he had enough brain for that.

  Had he contacted his sister and offered to help her do away with her husband? Foxe refused to believe she had been involved in her husband’s killing in any way. It would take a superlative actress to hide her involvement and the knowledge that her brother was the culprit in a murder in her own household.

  What if Craswall, the apothecary, had tired of paying interest to Dr Danson and decided to wipe out the loans instead? Possible, but unlikely, given how long their relationship had been in place. There was no logical reason for Craswall to have Danson killed. Given the calamitous amounts of interest moneylenders like him charged their victims, the interest he paid to Danson wouldn’t have been onerous enough. It had to have been someone else. Wake was the only credible suspect, even if he did prove to be untraceable.

  Foxe’s mood had gone from bad to worse as the morning progressed. He’d felt quite cheerful when he got back from talking with his friend, the cathedral librarian. At that point, he was convinced he was well on his way to solving two of the mysteries confronting him. First the murder of Lord Aylestone and then the death of Dr Danson. That would only leave the unexplained death and doubtful identity of the vagrant found by the street children.

  Since his return, it had been all downhill into despondency and gloom. Reading Danson’s ledger had further muddied the water. It made his death more difficult to unravel, if that were possible, not easier. Now Foxe had the added complication of a man continually in need of money who had turned to financing a crooked moneylender. What else might he have become involved with? What other illicit activities had he used to meet his constant need for cash?

  As for Aylestone’s death, Foxe could still see no means of discovering the proof he needed to allow Viscount Penngrove to bring a successful prosecution against his son’s killer. To cap it all, he’d risen early, eaten his breakfast in haste — something he abhorred — and given up his normal visit to the coffeehouse. All for nothing! It was enough to darken any man’s mood.

  If he had but known it, the tide was about to turn in his favour and sweep in a rich harvest of clues and ideas.

  11

  Foxe’s gloomy reveries were interrupted by Molly, his maid. Alderman Halloran’s man had arrived, she told her master. He was asking if he might talk with Mr Foxe at once, since he brought an urgent message from his master.

  Foxe had guessed what it must be before Molly had even returned with the fellow. Halloran wanted to know what progress he had made in discovering who was responsible for Lord Aylestone’s death.

  ‘The alderman asks if you would attend on him at your earliest convenience, sir. He tells me to say His Worship the Mayor is becoming most insistent in the matter of Lord Aylestone’s death, sir.’

  ‘Let him,’ Foxe snapped. ‘If he’s so worried, why doesn’t he get up off his fat, municipal backside and find the murderer himself, instead of sending me foolish messages? Does our worthy mayor imagine I am as lazy as he is?’

  The manservant was appalled. ‘Oh sir,’ he bleated in anguish. ‘I cannot take such a message back to my master! It would cost me my position.’

  ‘Forgive me,’ Foxe said. It was silly to take his bad temper out on the messenger. ‘Tell your master the matter is progressing quickly towards a conclusion but cannot be hurried any more than it will go. Give him my compliments but say that I beg to be excused from attending on him for a day or so. To do so would prevent me from undertaking the actions I have planned and, since they are to secure sufficient evidence to support a successful prosecution, I’m sure he’ll understand. As soon as I know more, I will inform him immediately.’

  The manservant left, cheered to be taking back a more emollient message, even if it was not what his master wanted. The fact that Foxe’s words were no more than a mixture of wishful thinking and soft soap e
scaped him.

  Poor Foxe was tired of sitting in his library alone, cudgelling his tired mind. He’d given up hope of extracting something — anything — from the confusing mass of truths, half-truths and irrelevancies which were all he knew about Aylestone, Danson and the dead vagrant. He needed to set his mind to something else.

  ‘Go for a walk,’ Mrs Crombie advised him, when he sought her out in the shop. ‘Call on Captain Brock.’

  ‘It’s too late in the day for that,’ Foxe said. ‘Besides, he’ll probably be out about his own business.’

  ‘I could explain to you what I am planning for the next steps in young Charlie’s education. You hardly seem to talk much with the boy these days, beyond sending him on various errands. And they have nothing to do with becoming a bookseller.’

  ‘I agreed to take him on as an apprentice, Mrs Crombie, only because I knew you would look after him. I am far too erratic a person in my habits to bring up any child. This shop is as successful as it is purely because of your careful dedication. The same will be true of Charlie Dillon’s future. It would be wrong of me to interfere in either matter.’

  ‘I asked you to listen, Mr Foxe,’ was Mrs Crombie’s sharp reply, ‘not interfere, as you put it. But if you are determined to find fault with every suggestion I offer …’

  Really! The man was infuriating at times!

  Foxe changed the subject at once. Mrs Crombie rarely lost her temper with him, but it did not do to provoke her. ‘If you believed a person who had been at the masquerade ball earlier in the evening had left, changed into a different costume and returned later — say just as the ball was breaking up — how would you go about proving it?’

  The sudden question took Mrs Crombie by surprise. For a moment she stared at Foxe in silence, open-mouthed.