The Phantom of the Marshes

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  Hal frowned around his pipe, pushing his hands into his pockets. “I suppose I do not have a choice in the matter.”

  “No, indeed,” the inspector said. “You have your duties, and I have mine. At the moment, I do not know whether a crime has occurred. If you cannot justify yourself—well, as Sir Hector says, you have confessed. And I will have no choice but to place you under arrest.”

  “This is absurd,” Sir Hector said. “You are aiding in his crime—you are no better than an accomplice. I will—I can have you both struck from the rolls. I can ensure that you never practice again!”

  The inspector turned to Sir Hector, regarding him benignly. “You must do as you feel right—but I do ask that you let me see my investigation through to the end. I feel certain that it shall turn up something worthwhile.”

  Hal’s frown deepened, and he cast a wary eye at Inspector Cross, though he addressed himself to Sir Hector. “It must also be remembered that there are lives yet in danger. Your own—and that of your daughter, as well.”

  “My daughter?” Some of the fire went out of Sir Hector’s eyes, a haunted look taking its place. He clutched the coin still more tightly. “What about my daughter? What have you done to her?”

  “I have done nothing to her,” Hal said. “But I should like to do something for her—and for you. I should like to rid you of this phantom that plagues your family. But I can hardly accomplish that if I am beset by fanciful accusations.”

  “Now, now,” Inspector Cross said mildly. “Fanciful is a strong word. You must remember that Sir Hector has lost a great deal.”

  Sir Hector sank into the chair behind his desk, turning the coin over in his hands and staring at it with that same haunted expression. “I have,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Dear God, I have lost so much already. I can’t—not Rose. Don’t let it take my daughter.”

  I felt terribly sad for him, despite his treatment of us, at that moment. He looked frail and old, and the pain in his voice was sincere. I looked over at Hal, who was watching Sir Hector with curious expression on his face.

  “I’ve no intention of letting it do so,” he said. “I shall continue my investigation—but I warn you, if you are keeping secrets, it will only harm you in the end.”

  Sir Hector did not answer, but kept his eyes fixed on his coin; there was a quality to his expression that suggested that his mind was on something that had happened far away and long ago. He waved a hand at us, and we understood ourselves to be dismissed. Hal and I and the inspector went from the room, making a silent journey through the passage and down to the front door of the house. I had a melancholy feeling as we walked down the stairs and past the portraits; I could not forget the pain in Sir Hector’s eyes, nor Rose’s quiet suffering.

  It was not until the front door had closed behind us and we were standing on the stoop that Inspector Cross broke the silence, turning to me with an expression of mild concern.

  “Ought you to be up yet?” he said, pulling at his mustache. “I must say—I didn’t expect to see you out and about again so soon. You were in a very bad way that night at the factory.”

  “I’m—I’m much better now,” I said. “It was only—I had a bad reaction to the spell. That’s all.”

  “Did you?” Inspector Cross said, stroking his mustache and frowning slightly. “Well—I suppose that is understandable. It was quite a powerful spell. But . . .”

  “He is quite well now,” Hal said curtly. “You must excuse us. We have work to get to.”

  “Ah yes,” the inspector said. “The papers you are deciphering. Perhaps I will walk with you. I should like to have a look at them.”

  Hal’s brow furrowed, lips thinning into a narrow line around his pipe. Inspector Cross waited, smiling benignly, though evidently prepared to wait until Hal gave him his answer.

  “It is heavily encrypted,” Hal said, after a moment. “I should like more time to work on it.”

  “Ah, but perhaps I could be of some help there,” Inspector Cross said. “I have done my fair share of study in the encryption of magical spells—part of my work, you know. What do you say?”

  Hal made no immediate reply, but his face gave a clear answer—his expression became something more of a grimace, as though he’d been forced to eat something unpleasant, and there was an agitated look in his eye.

  “Perhaps we could put it off a bit,” I said, rubbing at my forehead. “I am a bit tired, actually.”

  Inspector Cross turned to me, his expression one of mild concern. “Oh, of course. I suppose you can’t have really recovered completely yet, after all.”

  “Then perhaps another time,” Hal said. “We must be off back to the inn.”

  Inspector Cross frowned at him. “You really must be more careful with your apprentice, Mr. Bishop. I don’t like to see a master drive his student into the ground.”

  “Your concern is noted.” Hal turned to me, gesturing impatiently. “Come along, Jem.”

  Inspector Cross said nothing more, but watched after us, frowning and pulling at his mustache, as we walked down the steps into the street, and away from the Marsh home. When we had got out of earshot, he turned to me.

  “Are you feeling unwell?” he said, frowning. “You ought to have said something sooner.”

  “No, I’m all right—a bit tired, that’s all,” I said. “I just—I didn’t want him to come and look at the papers.”

  He stared at me a moment; then his lips curled up around his pipe in a half-smile. “I see. Well, I suppose that having the inspector believe that I am a cruel master is worth that. But we can hardly put him off forever.”

  “No,” I said, looking down at my feet. “But—it was Father’s spell. We ought to have the chance to work on it first—before anyone else sees it.”

  There was a moment’s silence, and I looked up to see him gazing pensively off into the distance, in the direction where the factory had stood, smoke curling up from his pipe.

  “I feel quite the same,” he said, without looking at me. “I had rather—it is for us to know what happened to him, before others may have their say. But I fear that—whatever it is that he was working on, whatever reason it is that he was killed—it will be something that cannot stay between ourselves. We cannot shut the world out from it forever.”

  I followed his gaze over to the factory, and thought of all the engines that it had made, that ran in trains all over Empire, and felt a sudden shiver pass through my spine. If T.S. had a hand in those engines—his influence spread over the whole world.

  “But what can we do about it?” I said. “If it is something so large? Where do we begin?”

  “By breaking this curse,” he said, pushing his hands into his pockets, and looking back at me with a spark in his eye. “And I think I am beginning to see just how to do that. Come. We have work to do.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I did not know precisely what conclusion my brother had come to, but as I followed him down the muddy streets back to the inn, I knew without a doubt that the investigation had taken a turn. Something Rose had said or done, or perhaps something Sir Hector had said, had illuminated for him a thread that he was just beginning to unravel. He was silent for the rest of our walk, taking long, hurried strides with his hands in his pockets and the smoke of his pipe curling about his head, deep in thought.

  For my part, I was quite glad when we reached the inn at last; my fatigue had been more than a ruse to put off the inspector, and I was quite weary by the time we reached our room. I pulled off my coat and flung myself down on the bed, lying back against the pillows with my arms behind my head. Hal sat down at his desk, rifling through his papers, and I closed my eyes, hoping to have a bit of a nap. I had just begun to drift off when Hal’s voice broke through the silence.

  “What does it mean to you that Alec Wright has suddenly gone missing?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” I said, without opening my eyes. “I don’t suppose he’s gone missing at all. Rose said he was
taking care of a family matter.”

  “A family matter, indeed,” he mused, and I could hear his fingers tapping against the desk. “But how curious that this family emergency should arise so soon after the fire.”

  “I suppose,” I said; then I remembered the picture Hal had shown me, of Sir Hector and another man at the mine in Canada, and I sat up. “Wait—do you think this has something to do with Canada?”

  He shrugged, closing his eye and leaning back in his chair. “I think nothing at the moment. I merely note that it is curious. We shall have to speak to Mr. Wright when he returns.”

  “If he returns,” I said. “If he is any relation to that man in the picture—I should think he has good reason to stay away from Sir Hector just now. He would be opening himself up for all manner of accusation.”

  “True,” Hal said. “But I think we need not worry on that score. Mr. Wright will return the moment he knows that Rose is in danger.”

  “Yes,” I said, lying back on my pillow. “I think you’re right about that.”

  There was another long silence, and I listened to the sound of Hal’s pencil scraping across the pages of his notebook. He was working on the spell again, and I could not help but recall the inspector’s curiosity about the notes; it gave me an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “What are we going to do about Inspector Cross?” I said at last, still staring up at the ceiling.

  The sound of Hal’s pencil stopped abruptly, but he did not answer immediately. I heard the striking of a match, and the familiar smell of his pipe tobacco filled the room.

  “I don’t yet know,” he said. “I should like to wait until I have worked through the puzzle myself. I don’t care for the idea of his seeing Father’s notes—this spell is one thing, but . . .”

  “I agree,” I said. The idea of the inspector rifling through the notes that Father had left for us gave me a sick feeling; those notes had been left for us only—and they were the final, damning evidence of Father’s madness. “A stranger shouldn’t see them.”

  “Hm.” Hal’s fingers tapped against the desk. “But he will insist upon knowing how I have deciphered it—there’s the rub.”

  He lapsed into silence after that, the pencil scraping against the papers once more. I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep, the weariness of the morning overtaking me. It was afternoon before I sat up, bleary-eyed, and turned to the door—the opening of which had awakened me.

  Mr. Bonham stood in the doorway, cheerful face framed by muttonchops. He did not wait for greeting, but entered in and settled himself upon the edge of Hal’s bed. Hal turned to him, with a rather annoyed expression, frowning around his pipe and tapping his fingers vigorously upon the desk.

  Mr. Bonham took no notice of Hal’s annoyance, beaming at him congenially. “Hello, Mr. Bishop. I gather you’ve had a busy morning.”

  “Why are you here?” Hal said. “I’ve work to do. This spell . . .”

  Mr. Bonham waved a hand. “The spell must wait. We both know you can’t decipher it without your father’s notes. I confess myself more concerned with the Marsh family—and your continued involvement here.”

  Hal turned back to the pile of notes on his desk. “I’ve already said I intended to finish my work here. I won’t justify myself to you any further.”

  Mr. Bonham laced his fingers over his stomach. “No, of course not. You are as stubborn as your father—and one of his own engines could not hold him back once he had an idea in his head. But I do hope you know what you have let yourself in for.”

  “What do you mean?” I said, scrubbing my hands over my face and blinking the sleep from my eyes. “What’s happened?”

  “Sir Hector has contacted Lord Markham,” Mr. Bonham said. “Evidently he had a telegraph sent as soon as you left him. It’s a bad way to go about keeping your license—Sir Hector has a great deal of pull with the licensors.”

  I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach; Lord Markham was the chief of the licensing board, and if Sir Hector could convince him to begin an inquiry—we would be tied up in it for months, without being able to do anything useful, even if, in the end, Hal was let to keep his license.

  Hal ran a hand over his face, looking suddenly weary. “Well, what am I meant to do? I can hardly leave it—the girl’s life is at stake, as well as his own. You are not being much help to me, Mr. Bonham.”

  “On the contrary,” Mr. Bonham said, looking dismayed. “Why, you behave as though I have come here to menace you—when I have come to give you very useful advice.”

  Hal frowned, folding his arms over his chest. “What advice? To leave Birmingham? It will not happen. I have told you . . .”

  Mr. Bonham waved a hand once more, batting away Hal’s protests like gnats. “No, no. You have made that much very clear—I am not in habit of arguing with brick walls. No, now that you have begun it, you must finish it. And when you do—be certain that the inspector is there to see it.”

  “Inspector Cross?” I said. “He’s all but said he thinks Hal has something to do with the fire—why should he be there when . . .”

  “When your brother makes a bargain with a spirit?” Mr. Bonham said, his eyes glinting. “Do you fear that the law is against you there?”

  I glanced over at Hal, who was watching Mr. Bonham with a troubled expression, his brow furrowed.

  “No,” he said evenly. “I have worked that out in my own mind. But I do not know that the inspector would share my conclusions.”

  “Perhaps not,” Mr. Bonham said. “And yet he has shown himself to be a man of deliberation. Did he arrest you on suspicion of setting fire to the factory? No—he is not a man of hasty action, even when faced with the wrath of Sir Hector.”

  Hal’s frown deepened. “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying that I have done my own investigation into our friend the inspector,” Mr. Bonham replied, lacing his hands over his stomach with a self-satisfied expression. “And you could scarcely have a better man on your side. Do not antagonize him—that would be the worst error you could make.”

  Hal was silent a moment, drumming his fingers rapidly on the desk. “Then you think I ought to show him how a curse is truly broken.”

  “Indeed I do,” Mr. Bonham said. “He would be a good friend—and a worse enemy than you realize. Let him see the truth of the matter.”

  “But say we do that,” I said, sitting up straighter. “Say we do that, and he doesn’t understand. Hal could—it wouldn’t end well.”

  Mr. Bonham turned his gaze on me, and his expression had taken on that same gravity it had when had spoken of the factory—his eyes glowing with a strange light, in a way that made him seem incredibly old.

  “It is up to you how it ends,” he said. “I am merely giving advice.”

  Then he rose from his seat, cheerful expression back on his face, and settled his hat on his head. “Well, I have said my piece—do mind you listen to me this time. You remember how it happened the last.”

  Hal’s fingers abruptly stopped tapping, and he glanced over at me with a pained expression. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Good,” Mr. Bonham said. “Now—good day to you both. I am away to London.”

  “London!” I said, rather surprised. “But what are you doing there?”

  “Why, fetching Mr. Wright, of course,” he said. “You did want to see him?”

  And with that, he was gone, out the door as suddenly as he had come in it, and Hal and I were left alone to mull over what he had said. Hal lit his pipe and folded his arms over his chest, staring silently down at his pile of papers with a brooding expression. I watched him a moment, a cold feeling of dread in my stomach. I was certain that he would follow Mr. Bonham’s advice now; but if Mr. Bonham were wrong—I could not think of it.

  “Hal,” I said, and waited for him to look up. “I don’t—it seems especially dangerous to let the inspector see you break the curse.”

  “No,” he said, frowning around his
pipe and looking back down at his papers. “No—in fact, it is the only way. I can’t think how I didn’t see it before. How else is he to understand?”

  I shifted my weight uncomfortably. “But—what if he doesn’t understand? If—if he thinks you’ve been practicing dark magic, you’ll . . .”

  “I shall be sentenced to hang, surely,” he said, as casually as though he were planning a day trip to the countryside. “But imagine this—I go to see the man who has cast this curse, whoever he may be, and he turns up dead. Mysteriously, not unlike my client and his brother. What is the inspector to think then? And you have the fire, on top of that.”

  I looked away from him, chewing at my lip. It was a terrible thing to imagine—and I saw no way out of it for us. “Why don’t we just—just go home, as Mr. Bonham suggested. We’d be better off in London.”

  “Perhaps, if we had done it sooner.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have defied Mr. Bonham’s counsel once—and I fear this is the consequence. We must take our chances with the inspector now.”

  “I don’t like it,” I said, thinking of the habit Inspector Cross had of showing up when least expected—and of the sharp look he had given Hal after the fire. “I’m not—I’m not certain that I trust him.”

  Hal’s lips quirked up in a half-smile. “Nor am I. But that is beside the point—we have already roused his suspicion. Now we must do what we can to quell it.”

  He leaned back in his chair, closing his good eye and pressing his hand against the patch over his blind on, his brow furrowed. He was silent for a moment in that attitude, before scrubbing that hand over his face, and turning back to the pile of papers on his desk.

  “Is your eye troubling you?” I said, frowning at him.

  “A headache,” he said shortly, scrubbing his hand over his face once more. “They are—it seems they are more frequent of late.”

  I looked down at my quilt, the cold lump of dread in my stomach growing. I could think only of the spirit’s words to him at Foxfire—something that will do just as well, if he wants to see—and Mr. Bonham’s warning that T.S. was watching us.