31

31

P IETER D E J ONG SCRAPED marmalade over his toast with the same slow, methodical deliberation he employed in all things. The toast was just to his liking: baked on the hearth that morning, a faint burst of steam rising with a crackle of crust as the cook first sliced it; the marmalade was made by his maiden aunt and shipped to him from Delft. Every bite reminded him of his childhood.

Although it was winter, the sun was out—and not all work on the farm could wait for spring. He heard the bleating of sheep in the ten-acre bottomland, and the calls of William, his factotum, to the sheepdog as he kept them from straying. Just a few years ago, New York City had carved its latest borough, the Bronx, out of the western edge of Westchester, which included his farm. This did not trouble him; the area remained rural, and his thirty acres—surrounded as they were by other dairy farms—would not be encroached upon. The road had been somewhat improved, and that had been a godsend: it allowed him to transport his prize cheeses across Hell Gate and south, to the eagerly waiting grocers and restaurateurs of Manhattan.

"Some more toast, Master De Jong?" asked Clara, the housekeeper.

"No, thank you, Clara. Please tell the cook she hasn't lost her touch with the bread."

"I'll do that, sir." Clara curtsied and left the breakfast room.

With a contented sigh, De Jong returned his attention to the New York Star , perusing it from front to back, occasionally grunting in approval or displeasure as one article or another caught his eye. He didn't get out to the farm often enough, and he enjoyed the relaxed, pastoral air. But at last he took out his pocket watch and peered at it. Ten o'clock: time to get busy with chores.

Enoch Leng had created several identities with meticulous care, of which Pieter De Jong was one. Some, like the good doctor Leng himself, required frequent curation, while others—such as this pastoral Dutch farmer in Whitlock Dell, West Farms, New York—needed only infrequent effort. Each of his identities was of unimpeachable pedigree and could stand a thorough background check. He was equally careful in choosing his staff. In this regard, the insane ward at Bellevue had proved a veritable cornucopia of potential talent. William, for example, out tending the flock—he'd been locked up for expressing a strong desire to eat his older brother. After several examinations and interviews, Leng decided this request was not as outrageous as it seemed on the surface; the brother, a vile person, had abused William abominably as a child. Leng intuited that William would be forever grateful if given the opportunity to achieve his heart's desire. This Leng was able to arrange without much difficulty. After the repast was complete, Leng took on the appreciative—and quite handy—William as farm help. Clara, on the other hand, had the occasional need to burn down a building. As long as she was given a day off once or twice a year to do so, and assisted in locating a suitable target, she was the best of housekeepers. Several others had required the use of a surgical device of Leng's own design, which resembled an icepick; this device was inserted into the brain through the lower edge of the orbital socket and then given a very specific up-and-down wiping motion. The operation worked wonders, turning the most refractory patients docile and obedient—and, under Leng's grooming, fanatically loyal, with none of the normal ethical constraints that might encumber ordinary servants.

Leng passed through the rooms of the large old farmhouse, exited through a side door, then crossed snow-encrusted stubble to a wedge-shaped structure with two metal doors rearing out of the ground: the cheese cellar. He removed the padlock with a key, pocketed it, and pulled one of the heavy doors wide with a grunt. Stone steps led down into darkness. A kerosene lamp hung on a peg nearby and, lighting it, he began to descend.

The cellar was deep—thirty steps into the earth. One reason his cheeses were in such demand at the city's finest restaurants was the hay, wildflowers, and pasture grasses unique to the soil of his farm; another was the cellar itself. Carved deep into the pink feldspar of the land's substratum, it afforded the ideal, constant temperature and humidity for his cheeses to deepen in flavor and complexity as they aged.

Reaching the bottom landing, he moved down a long corridor whose stone walls curved into a groined archway overhead. As he passed, he glanced over the rows of cheese stacked on both sides, sitting on wooden shelves and marble trestles, observing the progress of their aging. A number were now ready for sale: his finest crumbly sharp cheddars, aged up to three years; a nutty Gruyère that he found needed fifteen months to bring out its natural firmness; and the pride of the De Jong cellars—grana Padano, an Italian cheese no one else in America knew the secret of—voluptuous yet fine-grained, with a faintly sweet flavor.

Reaching the end of the storage area, he descended a few more steps to another, heavier door, which he unlocked. In the room beyond, he turned up the lamps until what was obviously a laboratory became visible.

On one table sat a tray of test tubes in a centrifuge ring full of liquid. This marvelous device had been invented less than a decade earlier for separating milk from cream. Leng had found a more important use for it. He picked up one of the test tubes and held it to his eye, examining it for both color and viscosity.

Perfect. He knew from prior research this light saffron color was the hallmark of a properly prepared elixir, but he had never before achieved such clarity and uniformity. Perhaps Constance had given him the true Arcanum after all. Time would tell.

He reached into a drawer, pulled out a syringe of metal and glass, and filled it from the tube. Then he returned the tube to its rack, dimmed the lights of the laboratory, and—keeping the syringe behind his back—unlocked and entered a door at the rear of the lab.

Beyond was a small, spartan room, with a bed, a desk, a clothes hanger, and an armchair. None of these, nor the single print on the wall, helped alleviate the cell-like claustrophobia. The room was lit by a single lamp, set high on one wall. There was a chamber pot under the bed, and a tray of plates covered with half-eaten food on the desk.

A girl in her late teens lay on the bed, dozing fitfully. Rousing herself at the sound of his entry, she sat up.

"Dr. Leng!" she said.

"Hello, my dear," Leng answered, in a gentle voice, as he approached.

"I'm so frightened. You said you'd explain everything—ouch, what's this?"

He smoothly injected the fluid into her plump arm.

"Just some vitamins." He glanced disapprovingly at the half-eaten food. "You really need to eat more—it's important to keep up your strength. Clara will bring you some fresh oranges."

"How can I eat while stuck in this cell, Doctor?"

Leng sat down on the bed and took her hand in his. "I did explain everything, you know… Perhaps you don't remember. Quite understandable. There was an outbreak of smallpox, and I had to move you from the hospital before we were all quarantined." He paused. "It's a severe outbreak, a true pestilence; had we stayed, I fear it would have done you mischief."

"But what about my brother, my—"

"Everyone is fine. You just have to be patient," Dr. Leng said, patting her hand, then releasing it and rising again. "I'll have Clara bring you fresh sheets and bathwater with the oranges—you'll feel better afterward. And you won't have to wait much longer down here—I understand the pestilence is beginning to subside."

Leng moved quickly toward the door and grasped the handle. "Just a week, perhaps a little more. I promise."

She looked at him. "Promise?"

"Yes, Mary. I promise."