Read The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist) for Free Online Page B

look came to his eyes. “I could sell it—and get a nice price, too, if they don’t kill me instead.”
    “Who? If who doesn’t kill you?”
    He seemed shocked that I asked. “Profiteers.”
    “Oh. Yes, they are despicable. Profiteers.”
    I opened the door and he stepped outside. Night had fallen. I joined him on the stoop, closing the door behind us.
    “I’ve made a tactical error,” he acknowledged. “I wonder if I might find some other philosopher to consider . . .”
    “That heartens me,” I confessed. “It renews my faith that you are willing to sell to science what you could sell to profiteers at three times the price. It speaks to your good character, Maeterlinck.” I glanced around and lowered my voice, as if the doctor might be hunkered down in the bushes, spying on us. “Do not rush off just yet. It so happens I manage the finances as well as every other aspect of the doctor’s life. Are you staying in town?”
    He eyed me warily. Then nodded: First impressions, after all, can be deceiving. Perhaps he had misjudged me.
    “At the Publick House.”
    “Excellent. Give me an hour or so. I will speak to the doctor—he spoke true when he confessed his trust in me. I may be able to convince him to at least have a look at it.”
    “Why not speak to him now? I will wait. . . .”
    “Oh, not now. I’ll have to let him cool down a bit. He’s got his dander up. In his current mood you couldn’t convince him the sky was blue.”
    “I suppose . . .” He rubbed his quivering hand over his lips. “I suppose I could bring it here for him to have a look, but what assurances . . . ?”
    “Oh, no, no, no. Your instincts were quite right not to bring it here—if it is as valuable as you say. This place is watched, you know, by all sorts of rough characters. The house of Warthrop is known to attract unsavory business—not that your business is unsavory; that’s not what I meant. . . .”
    His eyes were wide. “I must tell you, I didn’t even know what monstrumology was a fortnight ago.”
    “Maeterlinck.” I smiled. “I’ve been up to my eyeballs in it for more than five years and I still am not entirely certain. In an hour, then, at the Publick. I shall meet you in the drawing room—”
    “Best if we meet privately,” he whispered, now my coconspirator. “Room thirteen.”
    “Ah. Lucky thirteen. If we aren’t there in an hour, you may assume we are not coming. And then you must do what your conscience and your business interests dictate.”
    “They are not mutually exclusive,” he said with great pride. “I am no swindler, Mr. Henry!”
    And I am no fool, I thought.

THREE
    While Warthrop fumed and pouted in the library, nursing his wounded pride and wrestling with the one adversary that ever threatened to undo him—self-doubt—I gathered my supplies for the expedition, loading them into my jacket pocket, where they fit nicely with no untoward bulges. Then I brewed another pot of tea and carried it into the library, setting the tray before him on the large table, over which he slouched, paging through the latest edition of the Encyclopedia Bestia, the authoritative compendium of all creatures mean and nasty. Muttering under his breath. Running restless fingers through his thick hair until it framed his lean face like the halo of a byzantine icon. He flinched when I set the tray down and said, “What is this?”
    “I thought you might like another cup.”
    “Cup?”
    “Of tea.”
    “Tea. Will Henry, the last known specimen of T. cerrejonensis was killed by a coal miner in 1801. The species is extinct.”
    “A charlatan who let his avarice get the better of him. You were right to throw him out, sir.”
    I dropped two sugars into his tea and gave it a swirl.
    “Do you know I once paid six thousand dollars for the phalanges of an Immundus matertera ?” he asked. There was an uncharacteristic pleading tone in his voice. “It isn’t as if I’m above paying for the