The Phantom of the Marshes

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  “You have me at a disadvantage, sir,” Hal said, his tone guarded. “It seems you know me—but I do not know you.”

  The man’s smile broadened, and he put out a hand. “Mage-Inspector Alistair Cross, of Scotland Yard.”

  Hal shook the offered hand, though with a wary expression. “So the Yard has already sent a magician? I thought the man only died last night—this seems rather prescient of them.”

  “I was here on other business,” Inspector Cross said. “My presence here is fortuitous—as is yours.”

  “Hm.” Hal took out his pipe and began filling it, tamping down the tobacco without looking up. “Well—now that I am here, I must ask: who has died?”

  Inspector Cross chuckled. “There you are, Constable—to the point, just as one would expect. Come along, Mr. Bishop—I have a feeling most of your questions are best answered at the scene of the crime.”

  We followed him along through the factory’s wide yard, past stacks of iron beams and chains, past smoking stacks, and into the dingy red building that made up the main part of the factor itself. I could just feel the aether-spirits—the strange, electric quality of their energy, pent up behind the smoke and iron of the factory—but the spell of the aether-engines, the spell my father had written, eluded me still. I ran a hand over my forehead, and returned my mind to the task at hand; I thought of Andrew, and felt an uneasy dread.

  As we entered the building, there was a strange sense of quiet—the great factory was silent as the grave, the machines still in the light that filtered in through the dusty air. Engines in various states of manufacture sat scattered about, pieces of metal inert until the spell that drove them could be activated. It gave the impression of a mighty machine that had come to a sudden halt, waiting upon the moment that it would be called upon once more.

  Inspector Cross strode past the silent machines without a second glance at them, taking the stairs up to the office two at a time. Hal followed behind him, his expression still wary. I recalled Mr. Bonham’s words to us, remembered the discomfiting impression of being watched that I’d had in the pub, and felt uneasiness tug at my stomach. I wondered what other business the inspector had to bring him here to Birmingham.

  All these thoughts fled from my mind when Inspector Cross pushed open the door to the office, and I had my first sight of the man who had been killed. It was not Andrew, though the two were so similar in appearance that the man must have been his brother. He sat upright in the chair behind his desk; his fingers dug into the wood of the desk, his face twisted and frozen in an expression of utmost terror—eyes wide and dilated, his mouth fixed in a horrible grimace. Not a mark lay upon him; his hair remained neatly combed, his suit unrumpled—only his face, that rictus mask of horror, gave any indication of what had happened to him.

  I stared at the body, my stomach twisting. The spell that I had felt on the letter filled the room—the odor of sweat and iron pressed against my nose, while an acrid taste of blood and smoke clawed at my throat. My eyes watered; I closed them and pressed the sleeve of my jacket against my nose in a futile attempt to shut out the clinging, choking feeling of the magic.

  “Not a pleasant sight, is it?” Inspector Cross said. “Never is.”

  “It’s not that,” I managed to say, my voice hoarse. “It’s—it’s the magic. Can’t you feel it? It’s terribly strong.”

  Hal gave me a sidelong glance, his brow slightly furrowed. “Perhaps you ought to wait outside, Jem.”

  I shook my head and took a deep breath. “No—I’m fine. It was just—it’s very strong. I didn’t expect it.”

  “The boy has a very fine sense of magic,” Inspector Cross said, his eyebrows raised. “I’ve never seen anyone react like that to a spell. You’ve been lucky in your apprentice, Mr. Bishop.”

  “My brother,” Hal said shortly. “And he has always had a very good sense of magic. My father remarked upon it.”

  “Did he, indeed?” Inspector Cross murmured, his expression thoughtful. Then he clapped his hands together and turned back to the body. “Well, let us return to the subject at hand. What do you make of it? It’s magic, certainly—the door was locked when we entered this morning, and not a mark on him. And—though I haven’t so strong a sense as your brother—I did at least note the presence of a spell, and one markedly different from the industrial sort.”

  Hal moved around the side of the desk, crouching down beside the body. He gave a cursory glance to the hands, and spent some time in studying the face, his pipe billowing out smoke. He opened the drawers of the desk, rifling through each in turn, and then made a pass of the room, pushing aside papers and picking up various objects. Finally, he turned back to Inspector Cross, pushing his hands into his pockets, and rocking back on his heels.

  “It is certainly a curse—I can feel the magic myself,” he said. “But it was not cast in this room. Whoever did it would certainly have needed a spell circle to summon the creature, and I find nothing of that nature here.”

  “I see,” Inspector Cross said, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. “But mightn’t the spirit have been bound to some object?”

  “Possibly,” Hal said, frowning around his pipe. “But I doubt that is the case. This—this is a true curse. One of the Fair Folk has been summoned here.”

  “Ah!” Inspector Cross smiled. “I know your theory on the subject of curses. But—and forgive me for saying so—the elemental spirits have been proven to exist. These others—it is the prevailing opinion that they are little more than nonsense. Mightn’t it be prudent to assume a simple spell until proven otherwise?”

  “I know these spirits well enough—I have met them myself,” Hal said, his tone grim. He touched the patch over his left eye. “They are certainly real, Inspector—and it would be imprudent to deny it.”

  Inspector Cross’s smile shifted slightly; it became more indulgent, like a parent humoring a child. “Yes, your other cases—but I understand that there have been only two. Isn’t that a bit thin for a theory?”

  “It isn’t a theory,” I said. “He’s just told you—we’ve seen them.”

  “But, you see, I only have your brother’s word for that,” Inspector Cross said, turning his indulgent smile on me. He put out his hands, palm up, mimicking a scale. “And on the other side, years of practice and study by many eminent magicians. You can understand my caution.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, angered at his taking the matter so lightly—especially when the proof of the power and the danger of the spirits stood before him, in the face of the man behind the desk and in the patch that covered Hal’s eye. But before I could get out a single word, Hal settled a hand on my shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

  “No—the inspector is right to be cautious,” he said, giving me a warning look. He turned back to Inspector Cross, his features settling into a more neutral expression. “But for my part, I have seen enough to be convinced that these spirits are real—and truly dangerous. My caution must be in assuming that they have been at work here.”

  The inspector stroked his mustache, looking thoughtful. “Indeed. Well, then—you may pursue your theory, and I will pursue mine. The truth will be arrived at one way or another—but I must ask you to share what information you have.”

  “Information?” Hal’s brow furrowed. “What information? I have only now come upon the scene. What could I know?”

  “A curious question,” Inspector Cross said, still stroking his mustache. “When you were seen with the victim’s brother yesterday.”

  I gave a startled glance at Hal; he was frowning at the inspector, his lips narrowed to a tight line around his pipe. He laid a hand on my shoulder once more—a warning to say nothing. I swallowed back my questions, trying not stare at the inspector as I remembered that distinct feeling of being watched in the pub.

  “He had business with me,” Hal said, his tone careful. “But this—I did not expect.”

  “No.” Inspector Cross turned his gaze on the body, his blue eyes sharp.
“But still—it is curious. When you consider that he found the body—and that they were known to be in a quarrel. Yes, curious.”

  “If you are making an accusation, then make it,” Hal said. “You know that I met with Andrew Marsh. Very well. I do not deny it. He met with me because he fears for his own life—and, having seen this, I do not blame him.”

  “An accusation?” Inspector Cross turned back to Hal, a benignly surprised expression on his face. “No. On what basis could I accuse you? But I knew that you had not told me all. Have you told me now?”

  Hal’s frown deepened, and he rocked back on his heels. “I have told you all that you need to know.”

  Inspector Cross chuckled, shaking his head. “You are a close one—like your father, or so I’m told. But perhaps that is as well—it would not do for a detective to be too forthcoming.”

  Hal’s jaw tightened at the mention of Father, and he took his pipe from his mouth, looking down at it as he tamped down the tobacco. “Did you know Father?”

  “Not at all,” the inspector said. “But I certainly heard of him—a genius magician. A mere mortal such as myself stood in awe of him. Terrible shame what happened to him.”

  “If you did not know him, then do not speak as if you did,” Hal said, looking up at the inspector at last, his expression dark.

  Inspector Cross looked suitably taken aback. “I meant no offense, I’m sure. But never mind—would you like to hear my theory?”

  Hal finished lighting his pipe, tucking it back between his teeth. He took a deep draw from it, blowing out a puff of smoke, and his expression smoothed out into something more like irritation than anger.

  “I suppose you shall tell it to me regardless,” he said. “So—how could a mere elemental spell accomplish this?” He waved a hand at the body, rigid in its chair, the mask of terror still stamped upon its face.

  “Very simply,” Inspector Cross said, gesturing to the face. “Look—the manner of death is written there. He died of fear—no injury, no ailment. Simple fear. And how does an elemental spell accomplish this? Illusion, Mr. Bishop. A very ordinary spell, and one any student—or apprentice—might do.”

  “Yet there is no circle,” Hal said, pushing his hands into his pockets. “And I sense no spirit of the air—certainly Jem would have sensed such a thing, even if I did not.”

  Both turned to me, and I let my gaze fall back on the man in the chair—the feeling of the spell crept back over me, filling my lungs with the burn of smoke, the taste of blood at the back of my throat.

  “No—not an air spell,” I said, clearing my throat. “It’s—I don’t know what it is.”

  The magic seemed to grow in intensity as I spoke, the air choking me, and I suddenly felt that I could not breathe. Hal and the inspector seemed to fade into darkness as my vision narrowed to a tunnel focused on the man who had died in such terror, staring blankly at me with his wide eyes frozen open in death.

  “I need—I need air,” I choked out, turning blindly to the door to push it open. But before I could, the door opened on its own—and I stopped just short of running into Andrew Marsh.

  “I couldn’t stop him, sir,” said a querulous voice from behind him. “He demanded to know why we were keeping him here.”

  Andrew pushed past me and I leaned against the open doorway, drawing a deep breath of the outside air into my lungs. The burning in my chest eased, and I ran a hand over my face.

  “I’ve been sitting down there for hours now,” Andrew said, his voice sharp. “They’ll be waiting for me at home—has Father even been told? And what about—oh! Mr. Bishop—I forgot you were coming.”

  “Yes,” Hal said. “I was met by Inspector Cross at the gate.”

  “It’s quite all right, Constable,” the inspector said, utterly unruffled by this turn of events. “I was making ready to come see him, as it happens. You may go.”

  The constable nodded, turning down the hallway without a backward glance. Andrew’s glance fell upon his brother’s body, and his face went grey. He closed his eyes and ran a hand over his mouth.

  “The inspector tells me you were the one who found him,” Hal said quietly. “Did you send for the police?”

  “Yes, of course I did,” Andrew said. “And they’ve been keeping me downstairs. It’s been a ghastly morning. I’m having a cigarette. I shan’t ask if you mind.”

  He pulled the packet from his coat and shook out a cigarette, lighting it with a shaking hand. He dragged in a deep breath, blowing a stream of smoke out of his nostrils, and shook his head. “God—it’s ghastly. The whole thing. I can’t look at him. For God’s sake. Can’t we speak somewhere else?”

  “Certainly,” Inspector Cross said, his tone conciliatory. “Let us step outside. I think your brother wouldn’t mind a change of air either, Mr. Bishop.”

  Hal glanced at me and nodded. Andrew fairly fled from the room, followed by the inspector, and I pushed myself up from the doorway. Hal stopped as he came up beside me, his brow furrowed.

  “Are you all right?” he said, his voice lowered. “You looked—that was a rather strong reaction.”

  “I’m fine now,” I said, rubbing at my forehead. “It just—for a moment it was just so—I couldn’t feel anything else.”

  His frown deepened at that, but he said nothing more—simply followed Inspector Cross and Andrew Marsh from the room, while I trailed behind. When I stepped out into the hallway, I saw Andrew leaning against the railing of the passage, his face dark, puffing furiously at his cigarette. Inspector Cross stood with his hands in his pockets, his expression benign.

  “I’ve just told Mr. Marsh that I believe we should all be more comfortable at his residence,” he said. “And, as he has so rightly pointed out—the family must be told. Let us remove ourselves there, and leave the scene to the constabulary.”

  He began walking down the stairs, and Andrew stared after him darkly. He crushed the cigarette on the railing and leaned his elbows on it, resting his head in his hands.

  “This will be ghastly, too,” he said. “Though—in an entirely different way. It’s bad enough that damned policeman thinks I’ve done it. Now I’ll have to hear it from Father.”

  “Thinks you’ve done it?” I said. “What makes you say that?”

  “Of course he thinks I’ve done it,” he said, standing up abruptly and gesturing wildly to the office. “What does it look like, me finding him like this? And after I’ve been speaking to a magician, no less. You’ve got to get me out of this, Mr. Bishop.”

  “I shall do what I am able,” Hal said. “I can promise nothing else. Come. We must speak with your family.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  It was another short walk from the factory to the Marsh residence. Despite soot and smoke in the air, it was a relief after the tainted air of the office, and I breathed it in deeply, letting it push away the taste of blood in my mouth. Inspector Cross led the way, despite—to my knowledge at least—never having been to the residence. Andrew followed behind him, hands thrust into his pockets and a moody slump to his shoulders. He had lit another cigarette as soon as we left the factory, and it dangled from his lips, ash dropping to the ground as he walked.

  Hal had said nothing since we’d left the factory, but he kept his gaze fixed on Inspector Cross as we made our way through the muddy streets, a troubled expression on his face. For my part, I did not know exactly what to make of the inspector—he seemed forthright enough, but my mind kept creeping back to the feeling in the pub—the sense of being watched. The more I thought on it, the more certain I was that it had been Inspector Cross who had watched us there, but try as I might, I could not recall seeing him there.

  That train of thought came to an abrupt halt as we reached the front steps of the Marsh home. It was a large and solid-looking residence, nothing so elaborate as Rowanwood Hall or Foxfire Manor, but a place of substance nonetheless. Inspector Cross stood aside, and Andrew trudged up the stone steps to push open a heavy wooden door. A maid met us as
we entered, looking harried as she took our coats.

  “Oh, Mr. Andrew,” she said. “Thank goodness you’re here—Sir Hector is in a state. He wants to know why the factory isn’t running yet—and half-past eight already.”

  Andrew grimaced. “Tell him I’ll be up shortly. Is Rose with him?”

  She nodded, and Andrew sent her off with a wave of his hand, watching her disappear up the stairs. When she had gone, he leaned back against the wall with a heavy groan, running his hands over his face.

  “Well, there’s no sense in putting it off,” he said, after a moment, standing straight and taking a deep breath. “Come. You’ll meet my father now.”

  He led us up the steps, past paintings and portraits, to the second floor of the home, and down a dim passage to a door at the end of the hall. He knocked, and was bade to enter—not by a man’s voice, but the soft voice of a girl. He pushed the door open, and we entered into a large study. Light filled the room from a large picture window overlooking the town—and through which one could plainly see the factory. Before this sat a large desk, and there sat an old man—silver hair brushed back severely from his face, a neatly trimmed mustache, and sharp steel-blue eyes that took in his son coldly as we entered. In his left hand he held a gold coin; this he rubbed between his thumb and forefinger as he watched us, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the people straggling in behind Andrew.

  “Andrew,” he said, his voice chill. “Where have you been? Never mind—I can guess that by looking at you. I do wish that you would at least make an effort to appear sober occasionally.”

  Andrew pushed his hands into his pockets and looked down at the floor, looking for all the world like a schoolboy caught out by the headmaster. “I was at the factory, Father.”

  “The factory!” Sir Hector said, raising his eyebrows. “Wonders never cease. Though that does explain why work appears to have stopped altogether. And have you brought these persons with you from the factory?”