Chapter 5
I sipped my whiskey and suppressed the cough that rose when the liquid burned my throat.
I’d never taken to the liquor, finding it too rough for my liking.
I preferred wine or port but hadn’t wanted to refuse our host. He looked pleased when Oscar praised it and took another sip, so I praised it, too.
Mr. Defoe swallowed a mouthful then rested the tumbler on his thigh without commenting.
He was keen to get on with the purpose of his visit. “Let’s begin negotiations. I’ll offer double.”
“Double of what?” Oscar asked. “Mr. Kinloch hasn’t mentioned a price, and we haven’t made an offer.”
“It doesn’t matter what your offer is. I’ll double whatever you say.”
“And if we double your offer?”
“You can’t afford to.”
“That’s a little presumptuous.”
“My good fellow, if you had money, Kinloch would have offered to collect you from the station.” Mr. Defoe spread his arms wide, inviting Oscar to challenge his assessment.
Oscar sipped his whiskey.
Mr. Kinloch cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, before we discuss the financials, may I ask each of you why you’re interested in the book?”
Mr. Defoe had been about to plug the cigar back into his mouth but paused. “How is that relevant?”
“It may not be, but I’d like to know nevertheless. In deference to the distance you’ve traveled, you may go first, Mr. Defoe.”
Oscar’s jaw firmed in annoyance that we’d not been afforded the courtesy.
The movement was so subtle that I doubted either man noticed, and Miss Wheeler was once again peering out of the window after having re-opened the curtains.
She seemed disinterested in the negotiations.
I tried to signal to Oscar that going second was to our advantage, but he wasn’t looking at me.
“Gracious of you, Kinloch,” Mr. Defoe said. “I was thrilled when I received Lady Coyle’s telegram mentioning her discovery of an old letter from you to her husband about the book. I’ve been trying to get my hands on a copy for years.”
“Why?” Mr. Kinloch pressed.
“It’s rare.”
“Yet not particularly valuable, except to scholars.” Mr. Kinloch indicated me with a wave of his whiskey glass.
“I’d like to study it,” Mr. Defoe said. “Is that scholarly enough for you?”
“And when you’ve finished studying it? What will happen to it?”
“I’ll add it to my bookshelves, of course.”
Mr. Kinloch waited, but Mr. Defoe had finished. Our host invited Oscar to speak.
Oscar sat up straighter. “As I said in my letter, Professor Nash and I are traveling the world to collect books about magic with the aim of forming a public library. Matt and India Glass—Lord and Lady Rycroft—will be its patrons. They’re spearheading magician reforms in Great Britain,” he added for Mr. Defoe’s benefit.
“They were instrumental in ending the persecution of magicians here, the effects of which have rippled around the world. I believe the United States recently passed similar legislation.”
“There you have it,” Mr. Defoe declared. “Our intentions for the book are both scholarly. The only way to separate us is the amount each will offer.”
“Not true,” Mr. Kinloch said. “Mr. Barratt and Professor Nash will display it publicly. You’ll lock it away. No one will get to study it unless you approve.”
Mr. Defoe started to laugh, then realized Mr. Kinloch was quite serious. “Ah. I see what you’re doing. You’re a good negotiator, I’ll grant you that. Very well, let’s talk actual numbers. What do you want?”
“If it was about money, I would have sold it to Coyle years ago.”
Mr. Defoe scoffed. “He didn’t offer what I will.” When Mr. Kinloch remained silent, Mr. Defoe swirled the whiskey in his glass, as casual as can be. “Let’s not pretend you don’t have a price in mind. We all know the saying about a Scotsman and his money.”
Mr. Kinloch’s nostrils flared at the stereotypical slight.
Mr. Defoe failed to notice and barreled on. “Let’s also not pretend what this is really about. Eh, Barratt?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Oscar said.
“I’m a magician, as are you. Neither of us wants the Mackenzie book for its historical or scholarly value.”
I leaned forward to interrupt. “I want it for its scholarly value.”
Mr. Defoe ignored me. He kept his gaze firmly on Oscar. “We both want it because it references another book about tattoo magic that makes a man fly. Getting our hands on that book is our true endgame.”
“Why?” Mr. Kinloch asked. “How can you use the tattoo magic to your advantage?” He seemed unsurprised by the interest in that particular reference. It wasn’t news to him.
“I know a spell to make iron fly and want to experiment with blending it with the tattoo ink spell,” Defoe said.
“You don’t know for certain if the book Mackenzie references has the actual spell in it to make a tattooed man fly.”
“You’re right. I won’t know until I find it and read it.” Mr. Defoe thrust his chin in Oscar’s direction. “Do you know a flying spell, Barratt? What is your particular magic type anyway?”
Oscar merely glared back, silent. I sat unmoving, too worried to even blink in case I gave away that Oscar did indeed know a flying spell, and an ink one at that.
If either man could use tattoo magic to make themselves fly, it would be Oscar, not the iron magician.
But I felt in my bones it was something we didn’t want Mr. Defoe to know.
Mr. Defoe huffed, giving up on waiting for Oscar to answer. “Well, Kinloch? How much?”
Mr. Kinloch stood and crossed the room. He opened the door and Redmayne entered.
He must have been standing there, waiting.
“Mr. Defoe and Miss Wheeler aren’t staying the night, after all.
Please reload their luggage onto the carriage and ask Blackburn to take them to the hotel of their choice.
I can recommend the Windsor on Princes Street.
I believe Mr. Barratt and Professor Nash are staying there. ”
Redmayne wordlessly disappeared to follow orders.
Mr. Defoe chuckled but it held an edge of uncertainty. “Interesting negotiating technique.”
“This isn’t a negotiation. I’m inviting you to leave.”
The chuckle died on Mr. Defoe’s lips. He shot to his feet and pointed the cigar wedged between two fingers at Mr. Kinloch. “I thought the British did business like gentlemen.”
Miss Wheeler swept past her employer and offered her hand to Mr. Kinloch to shake.
“Thank you for the whiskey. It’s a smooth blend.
Good evening, gentlemen,” she said to Oscar and me, albeit mostly to Oscar.
“It’s been interesting.” She left without a backward glance, the pleats of her dress swaying with the movement of her hips.
Mr. Defoe wasn’t quite ready to give up, however. He pointed the cigar in Oscar’s face, his own face turning quite red. “You’ll regret this, Barratt.”
Oscar flicked the ash that had fallen from the cigar off his trousers. “Would you like to add ‘This isn’t over?’ to complete the cliché?”
Mr. Defoe’s face grew even redder and the muscles in his jaw bunched as he worked himself up to respond.
Before he could, the butler returned. Upon Mr. Kinloch’s nod, he stepped up to Mr. Defoe.
Redmayne towered over the smaller, slimmer man.
“The carriage is almost ready. Please follow me.” I’d not noticed how intimidating Redmayne was until that moment.
He was a tall, solid fellow with large hands.
He could easily win a fight against the American.
Unless Defoe used a spell to fling iron objects at us, that is.
I kept one eye on the fire irons.
Mr. Defoe strode to the door only to point the cigar once more, this time at Mr. Kinloch. “Fool. I could have made you rich.”
“You’re the fool for thinking I want to be rich. I am quite comfortable, thank you.” Mr. Kinloch exchanged a glance with his butler who came up behind Mr. Defoe.
The American tugged on his cuffs and marched out of the room, Redmayne dogging his steps.
Oscar strode to the window and looked down at the street below. I could just make out his smile in the reflection. The smile suddenly vanished, however, and he leaned even closer to the glass.
I joined him at the window. “Is something the matter?”
“Miss Wheeler appears to be arguing with Defoe.”
“About the book? His obnoxious behavior?”
“I can’t tell. She gestured toward the neighbor’s house then back at this one.”
I followed his gaze to where Mr. Kinloch’s carriage waited.
Miss Wheeler blocked the carriage doorway with her parasol, as she had done at the station to us.
She said something to her employer that made him bristle.
His response seemed to appease her, and she lowered her parasol.
I couldn’t make out her expression in the weak light cast by the streetlamps.
She climbed into the carriage ahead of Mr. Defoe.
I expected the coachman, Blackburn, to drive off, but he suddenly glanced up at us. Oscar and I quickly stepped back, out of sight from below.
“Professor Nash, Mr. Barratt, are you ready to see it?” Mr. Kinloch opened a drawer of the small desk in the corner and removed a book a little bigger than his hand.
My pulse quickened. “Is that it?”
He indicated I should sit on the sofa, then brought the book over.
“A Treatise on the Laws of Witchcraft and Maleficium in Scotland by His Majesty’s Lord Advocate George Mackenzie,” Mr. Kinloch said as he handed the volume to me.
“Calfskin binding, rather plain with some blind tooling decorations in the outer corners. It’s in remarkably good condition. ”
“It is,” I said on a breath as I opened it. I resisted the urge to sniff the old paper. The one time I’d done that in front of Oscar, he’d looked at me as if I were mad. Instead, I carefully turned the page.