THE BEAUTIFULLY APPOINTED CLARENCE coach, with a coat of arms on its door and a pair of black Percherons at the reins, passed the Post Road milestone at St. Nicholas Avenue and 116th Street, then turned north. It was dusk; the Hudson River was spread out to the left, glittering in its restless rush to the sea, the ramparts of the Palisades beyond. To the right was a procession of small, well-tended farms, punctuated here and there by country mansions, their broad façades facing the river.
After about a mile, at a whispered word from the occupant, the carriage pulled over at the broad entranceway to one of the mansions, larger than the others, built of dark limestone in the Beaux Arts style. The somewhat grim lines of its bulk were softened by the growing dark and the gas lanterns that illuminated both sides of the lane leading to its front doors. The iron gates yawned wide, barbed points at their tops gleaming wickedly in the failing light.
Now the carriage door opened, and Constance Greene slipped down onto the graveled shoulder. She was dressed in a long, pleated skirt and a top with tapered balloon sleeves, over which had been thrown a wrap to ward off the chill. The edge of a small bandage was just visible under her right cuff. In the shadow of the coach, her clothing looked almost plain—unless one was close enough to see the quality of the material, the fastidious tailoring and stitching, and the small chenille tassels that hung from the silk-and-velvet French wrap. She held a leather notebook in one hand, its cover scuffed and stained.
She walked up to the coachman’s box, where Murphy was seated. “Remember,” she told him. “On no account should you approach, no matter what you see or hear … unless I specifically call for your assistance.”
“But, milady—”
“Please obey my instructions. If I require your help, I’ll let you know: that I promise you.” And with this, she turned and began walking toward the mansion.
As she entered the lane, the rough stones of the Post Road became smooth bricks, carefully interlaid. She walked at a measured pace, taking in the building and its surroundings. Now and then, her eyes flickered in recognition of things long forgotten; otherwise, her expression remained impassive, despite the emotions roiling within.
As she came near the wide front steps, a dozen figures materialized out of the dark topiary and neatly trimmed shrubs decorating the façade. They were dressed in clothes so similar they suggested a uniform: black trousers with suspenders and button flies; dark-gray shirts; jackets of thin leather with broad lapels; bowler hats worn cocked and low over the ears. Silently they lined up, barring her progress. They were young, moving with confidence and physical ease. Each one wore a tiny earring in the left lobe, with gemstones of differing colors.
Having grown up in the streets of the Five Points herself, she recognized this as similar to the street gangs that infested that slum: the Dead Rabbits, the Swamp Angels, and a dozen others. The primary difference was this group looked well fed and satisfied, rather than poor and desperate.
One stepped forward from the rest. The short hair, narrow stature, and delicate features told Constance she was a woman. She had eyebrows shaved to mere arrowheads, and bore on her neck the tattoo of an opium pipe. Her own tiny earring held a colorless diamond, which—along with the confident bellicosity she radiated—made it clear she held a high rank in the gang, perhaps the leader. This was unusual, and it made Constance wary.
“Search her,” the woman said.
One of the young men stepped up and Constance backed away. “You do it,” she told the woman.
“Not keen on a man’s touch, eh?” the woman said with a leer. “Perhaps we’ve a wee bit in common.” She approached Constance and frisked her thoroughly and professionally, finding only the Italian stiletto.
The woman took the knife and turned it over in her hands, admiring the gold workmanship. “Such a dainty little shivvy,” she said mockingly. “A perfect toy for milady’s soft hands.” As she examined the knife, Constance noticed a long scar, purple and imperfectly healed, running across her right palm. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen one like this before.”
“That’s because you’ve never set foot in a museum,” Constance retorted.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. But at that moment, the double doors of the mansion flew open and the figure of Leng appeared, framed in brilliant light.
“The Duchess of Ironclaw!” he said with feigned deference. “What a pleasant surprise—Decla, clear the way, if you please, and let Her Grace pass unmolested.”
Constance stared at the tall figure in the doorway, her hatred of this murderer of her sister so overwhelming she staggered slightly before regaining her composure. If she was to get through this, she had to maintain rigid control of herself.
After an insolent moment the young woman stepped aside—without returning the knife. The others did the same and Constance mounted the broad marble steps. Leng bowed as she passed. As he closed the doors behind them, Constance could see the gang fanning out into the darkness.
Without a word Leng turned, then stepped past her, and she followed him through a long, narrow passageway, lined on both sides with suits of armor, then stopped at the entrance to the grand reception hall. She looked around, taking in the natural history collections, the fossils and butterflies, the meteorites and gemstones and stuffed animals. She felt, acutely, the assault of memory. The hall, like the mansion itself, was deeply familiar—although she had not seen it like this for many, many years.
As they entered the reception hall, she saw the misshapen figure of Munck, watching her intently from beneath the shadow of the main stairway. A hideous cut, fresh and deep, ran across his face from right forehead to left cheekbone. It had been crudely stitched and was partially covered in cotton bandages, still weeping a yellowish discharge.
“You can thank me later,” Constance said as their eyes met.
Munck said nothing. But his expression changed.
Leng motioned her into the room off the right of the reception hall: the library.
She paused at the threshold. She had spent most of her recent years in this room, usually in the silent but affirming presence of Pendergast. Here was her retreat from the world, where she read, did her research and writing, or played the harpsichord. The crackling of its fireplace, the book-perfumed recesses, the baize-covered tables: everything about it had spoken to her of comfort, safety, and intellectual pleasure.
The room she stepped into now, however, was like a mirror image in chilling reverse.
She was careful to keep her expression neutral as her eyes moved across the room’s contents. Here was furniture she hadn’t seen in years, items Pendergast had removed upon taking possession of the mansion. The old furniture squatted in the library like malignant specters from the past: The secrétaire à abattant of flame mahogany, with its little cubbyholes and drawers; the hand-painted Louis XV writing desk, on which Leng kept a large leatherbound notebook; the shadowboxes fronted with Tiffany glass, containing exhibits designed to provoke madness in viewers—and Leng’s most prized acquisition: three completed studies, in oil, for Jan van Eyck’s The Last Judgment, hanging in heavy gilt frames above the shuttered windows at the far end of the room.
“Please sit down,” Leng said.
Constance ignored the invitation and remained standing.
Leng seated himself behind the writing desk. “I hope my welcoming committee met with your approval.”
Constance remained silent.
“Other gangs collect ears. Here, I dole out various gems to signify rank and accomplishments.” He paused. “I did not expect you to beard me like this—the lion, I mean, in his own—”
Abruptly, Constance tossed the weathered notebook at him. Taken by surprise, the man fumbled it, and it fell from his hands to the floor.
Constance did not move.
Leng stared at her and then, after a moment, reached down and picked it up. He paged through it rapidly, now and then stopping to peer intently. Constance remained motionless until he at last closed the notebook and placed it on the desk.
“I went to a great deal of trouble arranging our anticipated meeting, you know,” he told her. “But coming here as your own messenger, in this fashion, you’ve rendered all that unnecessary.”
“You have the Arcanum. Now give me Binky.” She spoke in a flat voice, again making a great effort not to reveal a glimpse of the overwhelming loathing she felt.
“Ah, Binky,” Leng repeated in a singsong, his equilibrium already restored. “Bing-kee. It’s very strange, you know; that Hungarian scientist Ferenc offered up so much information—toward the end, he was desperate to offer more—but he couldn’t say precisely why you were so eager to cross universes to rescue your kin. I can only assume that Mary and Joe must have perished while still young? You, of course, survived—obviously. And you came back to change that tragic outcome?”
Constance ignored this. “I’ve fulfilled my end of your bargain—now you do the same.”
“Ah!” Leng raised a peremptory finger, as if to silence a student giving a wrong answer. “You have brought a formula to me: on that point, we are agreed. But how am I to be sure it is the formula? Perhaps it has been altered slightly, compounding a painful and deadly poison into the mixture? You see—” and here he put his forearms on the desk and interlaced his fingers—“Technically, you have not yet fulfilled your end of the bargain. What were my terms? ‘Give me the formula, true and complete.’ There’s no reason for me to believe either of those corollaries have been proved. And it will take some time to confirm them.”
“That is the formula, as concocted by you … over many long years still to come,” Constance said. “I have no reason to lie. I want Binky—now.”
“Pardon my contradicting, but you have every reason to lie. Among many other interesting things, the nosy Dr. Ferenc told me you returned to this past time, via your infernal machine, specifically to avenge yourself upon me.”
Constance struggled to control her rage. “I won’t ask again. Give her to me.”
“I’m glad to hear you won’t. That would be tiresome.” Leng rose from behind the desk. “Now, now, Your Grace—don’t look at me like that. I am not without compassion. I’d like to think you are telling the truth; that you’ve had a change of heart; that your mad passion to murder me has ebbed. But I can’t be sure. Until I have fully tested your formula, however, here is something—shall we say?—in consideration for the trouble you’ve taken.”
He had begun to move around the library as he spoke: slowly, as if weighed down by thought. But now his hand reached out, grasped something out of sight, and tugged it—a blind, patterned after the fashion of William Morris and blending with the wallpaper. In drawing it up, he allowed her a view out of the library and across to the east wing of the mansion. A single window was illuminated in the uppermost story of that wing, and within it was outlined Binky. When she in turn saw Constance, her eyes widened visibly, and she put up her little hands to the leaded glass, as if trying to escape.
Leng allowed the moment to linger. Nothing else was visible in the room: no furniture, no fireplace, no source of comfort. Then Leng let the blind fall—and Binky was gone.