From the author of the acclaimed Li Du novels comes Elsa Hart's new atmospheric mystery series.
London, 1703. In a time when the old approaches to science coexist with the new, one elite community attempts to understand the world by collecting its wonders. Sir Barnaby Mayne, the most formidable of these collectors, has devoted his life to filling his cabinets. While the curious-minded vie for invitations to study the rare stones, bones, books, and artifacts he has amassed, some visitors come with a darker purpose.
For Cecily Kay, it is a passion for plants that brings her to the Mayne house. The only puzzle she expects to encounter is how to locate the specimens she needs within Sir Barnaby’s crowded cabinets. But when her host is stabbed to death, Cecily finds the confession of the supposed killer unconvincing. She pays attention to details—years of practice have taught her that the smallest particulars can distinguish a harmless herb from a deadly one—and in the case of Sir Barnaby’s murder, there are too many inconsistencies for her to ignore.
To discover the truth, Cecily must enter the world of the collectors, a realm where intellect is distorted by obsession and greed. As her pursuit of answers brings her closer to a killer, she risks being given a final resting place amid the bones that wait, silent and still, in the cabinets of Barnaby Mayne.
A Macmillan Audio production from Minotaur Books
"Spectacular. An extraordinary time machine of a novel, transporting us three centuries into the past, when Stuart London roiled with color and clamored with the grinding of carriage wheels...And Cecily May, the supremely winning botanist-sleuth braving hidden dangers in The Cabinets of Barnaby Mayne, is a hero for the ages — her and ours." --A. J. Finn, #1 NYT bestselling author
“Hart establishes herself as a versatile talent with this exceptional standalone set in 1703 London...She is bound to become a household name for readers who love clever and fair whodunits.” --Publishers Weekly, starred review
Release date:
August 4, 2020
Publisher:
St. Martin's Publishing Group
Print pages:
320
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It has been suggested that the surface of the earth was once smooth, and that beneath it was an abyss filled with water. After many years, the crust of the earth became dry and brittle. At a command from God it cracked, and the waters that had been trapped within surged and roiled through the broken land. Thus the Flood was not a deluge from above that covered the mountains, but a welling from below that created them. The world inherited by man was but the jagged ruin left by that great devastation.
This was just one theory that was being debated in Signore Covo’s coffeehouse one drizzly spring morning. The year was 1703. Queen Anne occupied the throne, and for the citizens of London, there were enough new laws, new wars, and new books to sustain any argument. But Covo’s was popular because it inspired a more fanciful variety of conversation. Its walls and ceilings, encrusted with objects intended to provoke wonder and speculation, made serious gentlemen feel comfortable entertaining thoughts of subterranean giants, unknown civilizations, and even, with the appropriate tone of deprecation, magic.
Upstairs, Signore Covo reclined in a chair before the hearth, legs outstretched, affecting the casual elegance his English companion would expect from a secretive Italian noble. Wearing a bemused half smile, he watched Mr. Simon Babington, silver-buttoned and bewigged, pace across the floor.
“I am not an ignorant man, Covo. I know that through a glass lens, a man may observe living creatures in a drop of water. Fiery Noctiluca holds no mystery for me. And as for corpuscular philosophy—”
“Not even Newton himself could confound you,” said Covo.
“And he has tried,” said Babington. “He has tried. So you see there is much about the world that I understand. But for all my knowledge, I cannot fathom how a man as aloof, as conceited, as uncooperative as Sir Barnaby Mayne has attained such clout in our community.”
Covo rotated his hands so that his steepled fingertips pointed to an ornate clock standing in the corner. “Time,” he said. “It has a deleterious effect on youth, but there are advantages to its passage. Mayne has spent forty years funding travelers and having their briny crates delivered to him from as near as France and as far as China. He knows which letters to write, which parties to attend, which societies to join, and which monographs to debate. He has played the game, Babington, and he has played it for a long time. I cannot help but admire the old obsessive.”
“Admire him?” Babington exclaimed, with an indignant quiver of his cheeks. “He knows I’ve been pursuing an edition of Palissy’s Fontaines for more than a year, but instead of alerting me to the rumor that one had surfaced in Lovell’s Bookshop, he sniffed it out and bought it for himself. It is against all etiquette. He isn’t even interested in hydrology! He only wanted it because he knew I did. Prior to this, if I had come across a Picatrix or a Liber-Razielis I’d have told him at once. But no longer. No longer.”
“You might ask to borrow the book from him,” said Covo, pleasantly.
“And take my place among the toadying supplicants begging for access to his cabinets? It would please him too much. No, Covo. What I want is revenge.”
“What exactly are you asking me to do?” Signore Covo’s eyes slid to a pair of rusty swords displayed above the mantelpiece.
Following the look, Babington blanched. “Of course I don’t mean— What sort of man do you think I am?”
“What sort of man do you think I am?” asked Covo curiously.
The question prompted an uncertain laugh from Babington. “I really cannot say.”
“Tell me, then,” said Covo, “what manner of revenge you intend.”
Babington cleared his throat. “I want to take something that Sir Barnaby wants.”
“You have a particular item in mind?”
“Not just one item.” Babington lowered himself to the chair opposite Covo. “Is the name Follywolle familiar to you?”
“Naturally. He was one of you.” By one of you, Covo meant the set of gentlemen who considered themselves collectors. They were known for dedicating their disposable income, and in some cases their indisposable income, to the acquisition and display of rarities of art and nature.
“Then you know Follywolle is dead,” said Babington.
Covo nodded. “Several months ago, at his wife’s family estate in Sweden, where he had lived these past ten years.”
“He kept his whole collection there,” said Babington. “And now that he has gone to await the Resurrection, his widow intends to auction it.” He shuddered. “The man is to be pitied. His life’s work. Evicted from its shelves, predated upon, torn to pieces.”
“A tragic fate,” said Covo.
Babington, not noticing the mocking smile that curved Covo’s lips, carried on. “Of course Sir Barnaby has a contact already in Sweden.”
“Whom he has asked to pick the carcass, if you will,” murmured Covo.
“My apologies,” said Covo. “I was charmed by your metaphor and could not resist the opportunity to extend it.”
“My point,” said Babington, “is that Sir Barnaby’s contact in Sweden is to send him a catalogue of all the items to be sold at the Follywolle auction. What I want is to ensure that Sir Barnaby is prevented from acquiring a single object he desires.”
Covo repressed a sigh. What children these collectors were. “Mayne is a savvy competitor,” he said aloud. “He is hardly likely to discuss the items upon which he intends to bid.”
“Which is why I have come to you,” said Babington. “Is this not precisely the kind of service you offer?”
“Allow me to clarify,” said Covo. “You wish me to discover what Sir Barnaby Mayne intends to purchase from the Follywolle auction without alerting Mayne to the fact that his privacy has been compromised?”
Babington’s gaze grew distant as he fixed it on a desirable future. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, that is what I want. I want Sir Barnaby to choose from among the books, birds, bones, shells, and statues those he believes will most complement his cabinets. I want him to clear spaces on his shelves for his new acquisitions while he waits in eager anticipation for their arrival. I want him to instruct that poor curator of his to prepare lines in the registers. And after the crates are delivered to my door instead of to his, I intend to publish a monograph on whatever object he craved most.”
Covo drew in his long legs, planted his hands on the arms of his chair, and rose to his considerable height. “I believe I understand what is required of me. I presume you are similarly cognizant of what I require of you?”
Babington’s rapturous expression soured as he removed a heavy purse from his pocket and counted out coins. “The rest when I have what I want,” he said. Covo accepted the coins with a short nod.
As Babington moved to the door, his gaze wandered over the walls and ceilings of the chamber. “Your décor grows more dense every time I visit. What is this?” He pointed to an arrow that dangled from the ceiling, tied with a length of golden thread.
Covo’s expression grew more serious than it had yet been in the course of their conversation. “That is the arrow of an elf queen. They say that when allowed to swing freely, at midnight on the full moon its point will lead its owner to treasure.” Covo paused delicately. “A prize for any collector.”
“Come now, Covo. Do you take me for a credulous man? I will not condone you making a mockery of a serious pursuit.” Babington’s tone was chiding, but his gaze lingered on the arrow. Covo smiled inwardly. When Babington had gone, Covo stood for a long moment in thoughtful stillness, watching the arrow swing.
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