The Night Gardener (28 page)

She fixed her eyes on him, hoping the meaning of her story might sink in.

“You’re right,” he said. “You’re right.” But Molly still wasn’t sure he had understood her. Bertrand bent down and collected the remaining coins from the floor. He stuffed the money into his pockets. “F-f-for the doctor,” he said apologetically. He lowered his head and retreated into the hall.

Molly felt a flood of emotions eddying inside of her—an overwhelming mixture of regret and shame. These were not just things she felt about Master Windsor; they were things she felt about herself.

A light lapping of water broke the silence, and Molly caught the familiar smell of salt air.

She turned around and saw that the knothole was no longer empty. It was filled with dark water. And floating on the surface was a new letter with her name on it. Molly took a step closer, seeing the careful script written in her mother’s loving hand. It bobbed up and down, waiting for her …

he mood at supper was grim. Even Alistair, who usually spent his meals happily taunting Penny, was silent. However, when Molly appeared in the hall with Kip behind her, he spoke up. “What’s
he
doing here?”

“N-n-now, Alistair,” Bertrand said. “With all the chaos in the house lately, I could hardly expect Molly to prepare a separate meal for herself and her brother. He’ll eat with us tonight.” He smiled at Molly. “No need to stand on ceremony.”

Molly led her brother to an empty seat beside Penny. “It’s very kind of you, sir.” She nudged Kip with her foot.

“Very kind,” he repeated, though his attention seemed to be on the platter of steaming mutton on the sideboard, purchased courtesy of Hester’s special discount.

“Quite right!” declared Doctor Crouch, tucking a serviette into his collar, indifferent to the mood of the family. “I’ve always said the only real difference between an Englishman and the most savage foreigner is their place of birth … That and brain size, of course.”

“Just ignore Alistair,” Penny whispered, scooting her chair closer to Kip. “He has a stomachache from eating too many chocolates.”

Molly rested Kip’s crutch against the wall and set to serving the table. Since Mistress Windsor was too sick for travel, it had been decided that Doctor Crouch would remain at the house for a few days to monitor her condition. This meant more work for Molly, who had to manage a guest while still playing nursemaid to her mistress. It was a miracle that she had been able to pull off even a simple roast.

Molly served mutton to everyone around the table. She noticed that Kip looked a little ashen—perhaps ill at ease about being inside the house—and made sure to give him an extra-big piece with plenty of fat around the edges. Master Windsor, usually talkative during meals, was apparently feeling more somber tonight. Instead, the silence was filled by Doctor Crouch, who droned on in an almost ceaseless monologue on the finer points of his profession.

“The thing that troubles me most,” he said, already on his second helping, “is how many of my esteemed colleagues are still taken in by superstition and nonsense.” He was one of those people whose speech could not be stopped by something so trivial as a full mouth. “Why, just recently, the academy announced it would host a symposium on the existence of the spiritual plane—can you imagine such a thing?” He rapped his wineglass, and Molly rushed to fill it. “I simply cannot understand—a little more, my dear—how in this modern age, forward-thinking men get hoodwinked into believing the unbelievable. Psychics and mediums? More like swindlers and mountebanks.”

Kip had apparently been listening more closely than the others. “So you dinna believe in spirits?” he said from his plate.

Doctor Crouch glanced up, looking equal parts amused and annoyed. “I believe in the natural world and empirical facts, my boy. Superstition is merely the reaction of a weak mind confronted with what it cannot fathom. Primitive man found spirits in every blade of grass and bush. Take that unusually large tree in front of your house, for example—”

Penny perked up. “Oh, it’s a
magic
tree.”

“P-p-preposterous!” Master Windsor cut her off. He smiled at the doctor. “I don’t know where she would get such an idea …”

“But the child proves my point!” Doctor Crouch rejoined. “In a less enlightened age, people would call the tree magic and make up a story. It would likely receive the same treatment as Homer’s lotus blossoms or the proverbial garden of paradise—which, coincidentally, archaeologists now place in the outer regions of Persia—hardly paradise, if you ask me.”

“Not all stories are made up,” Kip said.

Molly was unnerved to see that he was looking not at the doctor but at her. She shot him a glare, warning him to watch his manners.

“Of course stories are made up, my boy—otherwise, they’d be called ‘facts.’ We in the modern age should know better than to believe in such flimflam. Returning to our
magic
tree: clearly the surrounding soil provides a unique balance of nutrients that perfectly suits its
nutritional needs.” He popped a slice of roast in his mouth. “Much as this mutton suits mine!”

Kip seemed undeterred. “What about good an’ evil?” he said. “Are they just made up, too?”

Doctor Crouch gave an amused chuckle. “It seems we have a little philosopher among us!” He put down his knife and fork and folded his hands over his belly. “Young sir, please don’t think me unreasonable—indeed, I am a slave to reason. The curious mind investigates all possibilities. I only ask for scientific rigor. If you say, ‘The spirit world exists,’ I say, ‘Show me your proof.’ And if one
could
produce such proof? Why, he would find his name emblazoned alongside the greatest minds in history—Euclid, Plato, Copernicus …” He stared above the table, his eyes shining at the thought of achieving such immortal glory.

Bertrand clapped his hands together. “All right, then,” he cried, apparently keen to change the subject. “Who knows any good corkers?”

The remainder of the meal was unremarkable. Kip finished eating and retired to the stables to tend to Galileo. Molly cleared the table and set to preparing Doctor Crouch’s room for the night. She made up the sheets, eyeing the portable medicine chest he had brought with him from town. It was filled with a vast array of notebooks and jars and shining scientific instruments—a traveling laboratory. She stared at the strange tools, wondering how they worked. Surely such marvelous equipment would be able to cure Mistress Windsor’s sickness. She wondered if they could do more …

Molly dropped her work and rushed to Mistress Windsor’s room. She found Doctor Crouch at the bedside. He had a special glass tube called a thermometer inside Constance’s mouth. He took it out and examined some numbers at the end. “Well, that’s not right,” he muttered, frustrated, and put the glass back in her mouth.

“Any luck with the patient?” Molly said from the hall.

The doctor sighed. “I’m afraid not.
Crouch Fever
seems to be incurable.” It took Molly a moment to realize that he had taken the liberty of naming Mistress Windsor’s illness after himself. “I’ve tried everything I can think of, with no success.”

“You’ve not tried
everything
,” Molly said. “I been thinkin’ about what you said at supper. ‘The curious mind investigates all possibilities.’” The man showed visible pride at the idea of hearing himself quoted thus. “Well, what if it’s some kind of magic that’s done this?”

“Ah, I see.” Doctor Crouch stood, a patronizing smile on his face. “Irish, yes? I forget that yours are a credulous people—prone to superstition.” He patted her on the shoulder. “It was not my aim to confuse your little mind with speculations about the natural world—”

“I seen one,” Molly said. “A real live spirit.”

His smile froze into something less patient. “You mean you
thought
you saw one.” He snapped his fingers. “Perhaps delusions are another symptom of the disease?”

“It’s no delusion.” Molly shook her head. “He comes every night to the house, goes room to room. And that’s what’s makin’ us sick. You ever heard of anythin’ like that in your studies?”

The man stroked his chin, engaging despite himself. “There are, of course, creatures that can carry disease. I am reminded of the Black Death in the Middle Ages, but those were rats”—he gave a disingenuous smile—“not spirits.”

Molly bit her tongue, reminding herself that it did no good to argue with a person whose mind was set. “Spirit or not,” she said, “this creature is real. And it’s like nothin’ you’ve ever seen.”

His face perked up. “An undiscovered species?”

It seemed Molly had lit on something. “
Very
undiscovered,” she said. “I’ll introduce you. Tonight. And then you’ll have the key to savin’ the mistress.” She fixed her eyes on his. “To discover Crouch Fever is one thing, but what about
curing
it? The Queen herself would probably knight you. And you’d live on forever, your name next to them other smart men you talked about, blazed in history.”

“
Emblazoned
,” he corrected softly. “Emblazoned in history …” The man stared beyond her, his small eyes darting back and forth, as if imagining the possibility.

“It’s the greatest men who took the greatest chances.” Molly spoke with a lilt. “It’s your duty as a man o’ science to at least try.”

Doctor Crouch screwed up his chin. “Perhaps I
could
look into it—if only to cure you of your delusions.”

“By all means, prove me wrong. I ask just one thing.” She stepped closer. “If it turns out I am right and the spirit
is
real—will you catch him and take him with you?”

ip dragged his rake back, pulling dead leaves from the Gardener’s hole. “But what good can a doctor do?”

He glanced at Molly who was sitting beneath the tree on an overturned bucket. “Doctors know all sorts of special science tricks.” On her lap lay a tattered old net that had been left in Galileo’s cart, which she was now mending. “He’s probably got ways to trap the Gardener with a mirror or stuff it in a bottle.”

Kip wiped his brow. “I dinna think that’s how science works.” He had spoken to the doctor twice now and did not share his sister’s high opinion. Doctor Crouch was the sort who needed to be right about everything. You could tell him his head was on fire, and he’d tell you why you were wrong, even as he burned. “Besides”—he hopped closer—“you told me he dinna even believe you. He just thinks it’s some kinda animal.”