“Hm.” He returned his attention to his notebook, and silence fell once more.
I stood and began pacing about the room, looking for something to occupy my attention. The room was small and quite empty—I made several circuits of it in very little time. After several minutes, Hal shut the notebook and looked up at me, frowning.
“Do you want something to do?” he said drily.
I shook my head. “I’m—thinking.”
“Well, perhaps your thinking may better be done outdoors,” he said, turning back to the notebook. “As it seems to require perambulation.”
He pulled a bit of paper from the notebook and dashed off a few words. He blotted it and held it out to me. I took it and read, in his sprawling hand:
Andrew arrested. Yard says second magician. Who?
I looked up at him, brow furrowed. “What am I meant to do with this?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Take it to the telegraph office—send it to Mr. Bonham. I had rather he heard of it from me before Sir Hector’s secretary sends whatever word he intends to send. Doubtless he will bungle it somehow—lay people never do get magic quite right.”
I sighed, tucking the paper into my pocket. I could not see how Hal’s perfunctory note could better convey the situation than the letter Alec Wright was no doubt composing, and I suspected that the errand had been created solely as a reason for me to leave the room. I looked back at Hal, who had returned his attention to his notebook, a hazy cloud of smoke settling about his head, and reflected that I did not mind the opportunity.
I set off from the inn, stepping out once more into the muddy street and the bracing, chill wind. It carried with it the smell of the smoke from the factories, the wet feel of the river, and the thrumming pull of industrial magic. I wended my way through the streets, dodging puddles and sprays of mud shooting up beneath the hooves of horses, until I had found the telegraph office.
It was an unassuming little building, and I pushed in the door to find an operator hard at work, bent over his machine and tapping out a message with a look of extreme concentration. The telegraph ran on a different sort of wind spell from the illusion spell that Hal and the inspector had used—a sylph was pressed into service to carry sound from one place to another, occasionally to mixed results, depending on the skill of the caster and the power of the spirit. This one was powerful, and well-cast; the brisk, fresh-scented sense of a wind spell filled the room, and I breathed it in deeply.
The operator finished up his message and looked up at me peevishly from beneath his green visor. “What can I do for you then, eh?”
I dug out the bit of paper from my pocket and held it out to him. “To Rupert Bonham, esq., of London.”
He took the paper, frowning down at it. “Bonham, eh? From whom?”
“Henry Bishop,” I said, rocking back on my heels. “It’s urgent.”
“Bishop?” He raised his eyebrows. “Not that magician fellow? The one at the inquest?”
I sighed. “Yes, if you must know. As I said, it’s urgent.”
He nodded, running a hand over his chin. “Funny business, that. I suppose Andrew Marsh takes after his father, after all.”
“What do you mean?” I said, intrigued in spite of myself. “How does he take after him?”
The operator leaned forward, a conspiratorial look on his face. “I mean, when he wants a thing, he doesn’t balk at what it takes to get it,” he said, speaking in a low tone despite no one besides ourselves being present. “Even murder.”
“Murder?” I said, and the word seemed to ring through the small office. The operator frowned, tapping a finger against his lips, and I lowered my voice. “Sir Hector? Who is he meant to have murdered?”
The operator sat back, shrugging. “Eh, it’s only rumors, you know. Gossip. But I can tell you this—when he went out to make his fortune, he took a friend along. But he came back alone. Some story about a foreign illness—I never believed it. Nice and convenient for him—he got to claim the whole taking from the mine.”
“Well, perhaps the man did die of an illness,” I said. “Had he any claim to the mine?”
“Not according to Sir Hector,” the operator said. “Claimed he discovered that mine after the man became ill. He sends money to the fellow’s family, but you know—think what they might have been.”
He nodded toward the small window of the telegraph office, through which could be seen the tower of the Marsh Factory, billowing out smoke. I pushed my hands into my pockets and watched the smoke curl into the air, a bleak feeling settling vaguely in my chest.
The operator cleared his throat, and I turned to see him holding out his hand. I counted out the money and gave it over to him. He smiled and touched the brim of his visor.
“I’ll have it out post-haste,” he said. “I see it’s urgent. Tell Mr. Bishop I wish him luck—it’s a tangled web he’s stepped into.”
I nodded, and left the telegraph office with an uneasy feeling in my stomach. That single word—“web”—had reminded me of T.S. lurking in the shadows, of the card he had sent to us and to Lord Ransom, and I hurried through the muddy streets, to tell Hal what I had learned.
I found him exactly as I had left him—bent over his notebook with his pipe in his mouth. The tobacco had burned out, but a haze of smoke hung heavily in the air. He turned as I pushed the door shut behind me.
“You took a while at that errand,” he said, frowning. “Is something wrong?”
I shook my head, shrugging out of my coat. I flung it over the foot of the bed and sat down heavily. “I learned something.”
He raised his eyebrow questioningly, and I recounted for him what the telegraph operator had told me. “Do you think there’s anything to that?” I said, when I had finished the tale.
He leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers under his chin. “Difficult to say. Speculation and rumor, of course—but it lends itself to possibilities. I will file it away as something relevant.”
He turned back to the notebook, scanning it for a moment, then shut it with a sigh and pushed it away. He rubbed at his forehead, looking tired.
I frowned. “What are you studying? You’ve been at it all day.”
He sighed, rubbing his forehead once more. “Father’s notes—well, some of them, at any rate. The engines—I wondered if he mentioned them at all. But there’s nothing. At least, nothing that I can understand.”
He sounded terribly frustrated—and more than a little bitter. I looked down at my feet, silent for a moment. “I wonder if Father would have wanted us to know,” I said at last.
There was another long silence before Hal spoke again. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged, but in the back of my mind I was thinking of T.S., of what the operator had said, and I felt uneasiness tug at my stomach once more. “It all seems—rather dangerous. I mean—isn’t it possible that he was trying to hide it from us?”
“I suppose,” he said, and paused once more. “But—I can’t leave it, Jem. He left the notes with me. I have—it’s my duty to him. To learn what happened.”
I nodded; though the thought still made me uneasy, I could scarcely quarrel with him on that point. He had made up his mind long ago to pursue this to the end, and I would not be able to persuade him otherwise.
“All right,” I said. “But—we should be careful.”
“Of course,” he said, absently touching the patch over his left eye. “I know that well enough.”
He turned back to his notebook, and I lay back on the bed, lost in thought, for what little remained of the day.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The following morning, we made our way down to the jail where Andrew was being held. It was a gloomy sort of morning; grey and overcast, with the smell of the river permeating the air. The columns of smoke rose darkly against the grey of the sky, filling the air with soot, and horses flung up clods of dark mud as they passed. Hal’s pipe sent up its own smoke, curling up in the air
, as he walked rapidly down the street, head bent over his feet and hands in his pockets.
I turned up my collar and pushed my own hands into my pockets, warding against the winter chill, following behind my brother. Hal had not said anything more about Father after our conversation the previous evening, but I could see that he was brooding over it. I chewed at my lip, looking down at my feet, a tingling unease crawling across the back of my neck at the thought of T.S.
But these thoughts soon fled, for we had arrived at the police station. An indifferent-looking sergeant led us down into the dungeons where our client was being held; a damp, dark set of cells beneath the station. He led us down a set of stone steps, keys jangling in his hand, and held up a lantern as we walked down the rows of cells. Andrew sat in the last, folded up onto a cot with his knees pressed against his chest. He looked up as the sergeant approached, eyes wide and frantic with fear—but the fear passed into a dull weariness when he registered who had come.
“What is it now, sergeant?” he said moodily. “Disturbing my neighbors again?”
“You haven’t got any neighbors,” the sergeant said placidly. “You’ve got visitors, though.”
“I told you, I don’t want my sister . . .” he began, stopping when Hal stepped into the light of the lantern. His eyebrows went up. “Mr. Bishop? Why have you come?”
“I have questions for you,” Hal said.
He waved a hand at the sergeant, who ambled away, leaving us in the dark; the sergeant returned a moment later with a candle, handing it to me. I stepped closer to Hal, holding it up, as the sergeant left for good, the jangling of his keys echoing through the stone halls. The candle was a poor light after the lantern; its small pool of faint light circled around the edges by the creeping dark gave me an unsettled feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“It’s always dark here,” Andrew muttered, as though he had read my mind. “Always dark. Do you know what that means?”
Hal frowned slightly. “The creature is still troubling you?”
Andrew laughed hoarsely, running his hands through his hair. “Troubling me? He is—he is everywhere here. In the corner of my eye—at my back, watching me—every hour of the night. Last night was the worst of my life. I can’t—you must get me out of here.”
“I have sent for Mr. Bonham,” Hal said. “When he arrives, we may sort this out. But for the moment, I have questions.”
“Questions!” Andrew gave another bark of laughter. “Questions! All have questions. Here is my answer: I did not kill my brother. Father—Father is right about me. I should never have had the gumption to do it, even if I wanted to. I’m not a murderer, Mr. Bishop.”
“Perhaps not,” Hal said evenly. “I admit I am not inclined to think it of you. But there is a new piece in this puzzle—a question I must have answered. Who is the other magician you spoke to?”
Andrew stared at him blankly. “Other magician? I don’t—I haven’t spoken to anyone else of this.”
“No?” Hal folded his arms over his chest. “Curious, then, that Inspector Cross should tell me that you had been seen with another magician days before your brother’s murder.”
Andrew looked away from him, rocking back and forth. “Other magician? Other magician? But there wasn’t another. Why—oh God. Was he a magician?”
Hal moved closer to the cell. “Who?”
“The—the man,” Andrew said, jerking his head up. “Yes, there was a man—he came to the pub at the inn. Sat down at my table. I didn’t know him. He said he had a proposal for me.”
“What sort of proposal?” Hal said.
Andrew hesitated, looking away again. A shudder ran over his back. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t take him up on it.”
“But it does matter,” Hal said. “Perhaps very much. What did he say to you?”
There was a long silence; only the sound of the wind whistling through the stones filled the air. I felt a shiver run over me, and I pulled my coat more tightly. Andrew rocked on his cot, shaking his head.
“I didn’t take him up on it,” he said at last, his voice hoarse. “You must believe that. He told me—he said that he could dispose of Simon. Make me my father’s only heir. But that I must do a favor for him.”
“A favor?” Hal frowned around his pipe. “What sort of favor?”
Andrew stood abruptly and began pacing about the cell, running his hands through his hair. “I don’t know. I never asked him. I’m telling you—I never took him up on it. He gave me an uneasy feeling.”
Hal contemplated this for a moment, rocking back on his heels. “What can you tell me about him?”
Andrew shook his head. “I never got his name—nor whom he worked for. He gave me a card . . .”
“A card?” Hal said sharply. “Do you have it still?”
“No,” Andrew said, looking startled. “I threw it into the fire before I left the inn. That man—I didn’t like the look of him.”
“But what did he look like?” I said, curiosity compelling me to speak. “How did you know he was a magician?”
“I didn’t know he was anything,” Andrew said, sitting heavily on the cot. “I don’t—somehow I can’t bring his face to mind. But there was something . . .”
He draped his arms over his knees and stared at the floor for a moment, his brow furrowed. Then he looked up, his eyes wide. “Oh, yes, now I remember—the spider web. On his hand. It made him look dreadfully unsavory—like he’d been a sailor or something.”
A chill ran over my spine, and I glanced over at Hal. He had gone rigid; I couldn’t see his eye, but I felt certain that he was staring at Andrew.
“A spider web?” he said, his voice carefully neutral. “You are certain?”
“Of course I am,” Andrew said. “I mean—you wouldn’t forget a thing like that, would you? It’s not the sort of thing you see every day.”
“No,” Hal said, in that same careful tone. “No, you would not forget it.”
Another silence fell, and I shivered in the sudden chill of the dungeons. Andrew rubbed at his arms, and even in the dim light, his exhaustion was obvious—he looked pale and gaunt, dark circles under his eyes.
“Well, I don’t see how this matters,” he said at last, his tone dull and weary. “That fellow had been and gone long before Simon—before Simon died. All I want—I can’t spend another night here. I can’t—that thing watching me. It—I can see it, lurking in the shadows, even now. I must—please help me.”
“It may matter a great deal,” Hal said. He rummaged in his pockets a moment and drew out something that glinted in the candlelight—a small gold pin. He held this out to Andrew, who stared at it blankly.
“What do I want that for?” he said. “I—I am not my father. I have no need of charms.”
Hal kept his hand out, the pin gleaming. “It is not a charm. But—if this creature is what I believe it to be—it may save your life. Take it.”
Andrew frowned, puzzled, but he reached a hand through the bars and took the pin from Hal’s hand. He held it up in the candlelight, furrowing his brow, and glanced back up at Hal.
“What can it do?” he said hoarsely. “Will it—will it stop the creature from coming here?”
Hal shook his head. “No. As you have seen yourself, not even iron bars can accomplish such a thing. But if you have gold about you—it will not harm you.”
Andrew nodded, closing a fist around the pin. He sat back down heavily on his cot, resting his fist on his knee, while he rested his forehead in his other hand.
“Sometimes I think I shouldn’t mind dying,” he said, after a moment. “Then, at least, this nightmare would be ended.”
Hal frowned, pushing his hands into his pockets. “It will be ended when I know who summoned this creature, and why they have done so. Do not despair.”
Andrew sighed heavily, then nodded. “I suppose. Rose should be dreadfully upset if I were to die—even if she is the only one.”
“Keep that pin with you—on your person,�
�� Hal said. “This is of vital importance, Mr. Marsh. You must not let go of it.”
Andrew nodded again. Hal looked over at me, holding the candle that was now dribbling wax over the edge of the holder.
“I suppose we had better go,” he said. “We have learned what we need from you. But—you must keep that pin with you.”
“I know,” Andrew said, his voice hollow and strained. He gave a desperate glance at the candle. “I wish—I so wish that I could have a bit of light down here.”
My stomach twisted in sympathy for him. I could not fathom the idea of spending full days in darkness here in the dungeons beneath the police station—and to be haunted by that terrible creature. I remembered the sound of hooves following behind me at the factory, and a shiver rand down my back.
Hal glanced at Andrew sympathetically. “It cannot be helped, for now. I have contacted my solicitor—your father’s solicitor—we shall see what he can accomplish.”
Andrew clenched his fist more tightly about the pin, his knuckles white. “Then I shall try to hold on at least that long.”
Hal gave a short nod, then turned toward the stairs. “Then we shall be about our work. Come along, Jem.”
He took the candle from me and I followed him down the narrow passage, to the guard who sat at its end, near the foot of the stone stairs. He glanced up at us, held his hand out for the candle, and took it from Hal, blowing out its little flame. Then he took up the lantern that sat at his feet, and led us up the narrow stairway and back into the station.
I followed Hal up the stairs, with a chill feeling creeping up my spine. I could not shake the image of Andrew’s haunted eyes as we left him in the dark. My mind was filled with pictures of what he must be seeing—the red eyes glowing out at him from the darkness. Out of the corner of my eye, a shadow flitted; I turned, and there was nothing, but when I turned back, a faint glow of red lingered at the corner of my vision, and behind me, I heard the pounding of hooves.
I stopped short, swinging around to face what I’d heard, but only darkness greeted me. I stood there staring a moment, my heart pounding heavily in my chest, until I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned to see Hal frowning at me.
The Phantom of the Marshes Page 7