One arctic Wyoming morning, the frost thick on the brown and beaten prairie-grass, Mallory had crouched beside the tepid boiler of the expedition’s steam-fortress, prodding at its meager buffalo-dung fire, trying to thaw an iron-hard strip of the jerked beef that the men ate for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. At that moment of utter misery, his beard rimed with frozen breath and his shovel-blistered fingers frost-bitten, Mallory had sworn a solemn oath that he would never again curse the summer heat. But never had he expected so vile a swelter in London. The night had passed without a breath of wind, and his bed had seemed a fetid stew. He’d slept atop the sheets, a drenched Turkish towel spread across his nakedness, and had risen every hour to dampen the towel again. Now the mattress was soaked and the whole room seemed as hot and close as a greenhouse. It stank of stale tobacco as well, for Mallory had smoked half-a-dozen of his fine Havanas over the criminal record of Florence Russell Bartlett, which dealt primarily with the murder of her husband, a prominent Liverpool cotton-merchant, in the spring of 1853. The modus operandi had been poisoning by arsenic, which Mrs. Bartlett had extracted from fly-paper and administered over a period of weeks in a patent medicine. Dr. Gove’s Hydropathic Strengthener. Mallory, from his nights down Haymarket, knew that Dr. Cove’s was in fact a patent aphrodisiac, but the file made no mention of this fact. The fatal illness in 1852 of Bartlett’s mother, and of her husband’s brother in 1851, were also recorded, their respective certificates of death citing perforated ulcer and cholera morbus. These purported illnesses featured symptoms very like those of arsenic poisoning. Never formally accused of these other deaths, Mrs. Bartlett had escaped custody, overpowering her jailer with a concealed derringer. The Central Statistics Bureau suspected her of having fled to France, Mallory assumed, because someone had appended translations of French police-reports of 1854 dealing with a crime passionel trial in the Paris assizes. One “Florence Murphy,” abortionist, purportedly an American refugee, was arrested and tried for the crime of vitriolage, the flinging of sulphuric acid with intent to disfigure or maim. The victim, Marie Lemoine, wife of a prominent Lyons silk-merchant, was an apparent rival. But “Mrs. Murphy” had vanished from custody, and from all subsequent French police-records, during the first week of her trial as a vitrioleuse. Mallory sponged his face, neck, and armpits in tap-water, thinking bleakly of vitriol. He was perspiring freely again as he laced his shoes. Leaving his room, he discovered that the city’s queer summer had overwhelmed the Palace. Sullen humidity simmered over the marble floors like an invisible swamp. The very palms at the foot of the stairs seemed Jurassic. He trudged to the Palace’s dining-room, where four cold hard-boiled eggs, iced coffee, a kippered herring, some broiled tomato, a bit of ham, and a chilled melon somewhat restored him. The food here was rather good, though the kipper had smelled a bit off — small wonder, in heat like this. Mallory signed the chit, and left to fetch his mail. He had been unjust to the kipper. Outside the dining room, the Palace itself stank: bad fish, or something much like it. There was a soapy perfume in the front lobby, left from the morning’s mopping, but the air was heavy with the humid distant reek of something dreadful, and apparently long-dead. Mallory knew he had smelled that reek before — it was sharp, like acid, mixed with the greasy stench of a slaughterhouse — but he could not place the memory. In a moment the stink was gone again. He stepped to the desk for his mail. The wilted clerk greeted him with a show of courtesy; Mallory had won the staff’s loyalty with generous tips. “Nothing in my box?” said Mallory, surprised. “Too small. Dr. Mallory.” The clerk bent to lift a large woven-wire basket, crammed to the brim with envelopes, magazines, and packages. ” ‘Struth!” Mallory said. “It gets worse every day!” The clerk nodded knowingly. “The price of fame, sir.” Mallory was overwhelmed. “I suppose I shall have to read through all of this . . . ” “If I may be so bold, sir, I think you might do well to engage a private secretary.” Mallory grunted. He had a loathing of secretaries, valets, butlers, chambermaids, the whole squalid business of service. His own mother had been in service once, with a wealthy family in Sussex, in the old days before the Rads. The fact rankled. He carried the heavy basket into a quiet corner of the library and began to sort through it. Magazines first: the gold-spined ‘Transactions of the Royal Society’, ‘Herpetology of All Nations’, ‘Journal of Dynamickal Systematics’, ‘Annales Scientifiques de l’Ecole des Ordinateurs’, with what seemed to be an interesting article on the mechanical miseries of the Grand Napoleon . . . This business of the scholarly subscriptions had been a faggot-above-a-load, though he supposed it kept the editors happy, happy editors being half the key to placing one’s own articles. Then the letters. Swiftly, Mallory divided them into piles. Begging-letters first. He had made the mistake of answering a few, that had seemed especially tearful and sincere, and now the scheming rascals had swarmed upon him like lice. A second pile of business-letters. Invitations to speak, requests for interviews, bills from shopmen, Catastrophist bone-men and rock-hounds offering co-authorship of learned papers. Then the letters in feminine hand. The broody-hens of natural history — “flower-snippers,” Huxley called them. They wrote in their scores and dozens, most merely to request his autograph, and, if he so pleased, a signed carte-de-visite. Others would send him coy sketches of common lizards, requesting his expertise in reptile taxonomy. Others would express a delicate admiration, perhaps accompanied with verses, and invite him to tea if he was ever in Sheffield, or Nottingham, or Brighton. And some few, often marked by spiky handwriting, triple underlining!!!, and ribboned locks of hair, would express a warm womanly admiration, and this in terms so bold as to be quite disconcerting. There had been a remarkable flurry of these after his fancy portrait had appeared in ‘The Englishwoman’s Domestic Weekly’. Mallory stopped suddenly. He had almost flung aside a letter from his sister Ruth. Dear little Ruthie — but of course the baby of the family was a good seventeen years old now. He opened the letter at once.