The Phantom of the Marshes

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  “Do you—do you think it means anything?” I said, without looking up at him.

  “Undoubtedly,” he said wearily. “But there is no time to dwell on it now. Let me think, Jem. There are things which I must puzzle out in my mind.”

  With that, he lapsed into silence, and I left him to his thoughts for the remainder of the afternoon.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The following morning was wet and cold, with rain pattering against the glass of the dingy window in our room. It dashed any hope I had of escaping the room—and Hal’s brooding—by taking a walk, and so I resigned myself to sit in the silence, pretending to study one of the books I had brought with me, while I watched Hal work. He had not slept the night before, and the strain was beginning to tell on his face. His pipe, long since burnt out, hung from his lips, and the room was filled with the smoky haze of his sage tobacco. He had given up going through the spell, and had now focused all his attention on the picture of Sir Hector and the other gentleman before the mine, staring at it with an intensity that I thought was like to burn a hole in it.

  Thus we passed the morning; just as I had begun to grow restless, and decided to go out for a walk in spite of the rain, the door to our room opened, and Mr. Bonham’s beaming face greeted us once again.

  “Still at it?” he said, glancing over at Hal and shaking his head. “Well, leave it. I have brought you something that will prove infinitely more useful.”

  “More useful?” I said, sitting up and casting my book aside. “What do you mean?”

  He looked at me, his eyes gleaming merrily. “Why, I have brought the key to the whole case!”

  I frowned, not immediately catching his meaning, but Hal sat up, his face lit with a strange intensity, and turned to Mr. Bonham.

  “It appears I was correct,” he said. “Mr. Wright has returned, then?”

  “Indeed,” Mr. Bonham said, looking immensely self-satisfied. “And it was no great struggle to bring him—as you said, when he heard that Miss Marsh was in danger, he left without hesitation.”

  “Good,” Hal said, scrubbing a hand over his face. “He is here?”

  Mr. Bonham nodded. “He intended to see Miss Marsh directly—but I have prevailed upon him to speak to you first.”

  “Excellent.” Hal stood, taking up his jacket from where he had laid it upon his bed, and shrugged into it. “Then let us speak to him at once.”

  “You may speak to him,” Mr. Bonham said. “I have other business to attend to.”

  With that, he took his leave of us, vanishing out the door and down the passage. I stood, running a hand through my hair, and pulled on my shoes while Hal sat at drumming his fingers impatiently upon the desk. The strain had gone from his face now, replaced by a look of intense purpose—and I knew that he must be close to his solution.

  When I was ready, Hal stood abruptly, shoving the photograph into the pocket of his coat. I followed him through the passage and down the narrow stairway into the pub, which was as close and dim and dingy as ever. It was almost empty—its only patrons one old man nursing a pint with his dog snoring at his feet, and a man sitting before the fireplace with his head in his hands—Alec Wright. He looked up as we approached him, his face pale and strained, with dark circles under his eyes.

  “Is it true?” he said, his voice hollow. “Is Rose dying?”

  Hal sat down across from him and took out his pipe, filling it with tobacco and lighting it before speaking. “That depends very much on what you have to say to me.”

  Alec blinked at him, looking startled. “What I—what do you mean? I don’t—tell me what is happening to her.”

  “I think you know quite well,” Hal said quietly. “Because it has happened before.”

  “Yes—to Simon and to Andrew,” Alec said, shaking his head. “That isn’t—why is this happening to her? She isn’t—she’s good. She’s the best—the best person I know.”

  “I am not speaking of her family,” Hal said, fixing Andrew with a solemn gaze. “I am speaking of your own.”

  He pulled the photograph from his pocket, and handed it over to Alec. Alec’s face went white as paper as he took the photograph, and his hands began to tremble violently. He looked up at Hal with wide, frightened eyes, like an animal caught in a trap.

  “Where—where did you get this?” he said. “I don’t—how did you get this?”

  “I think you know where I found it,” Hal said, leaning back in his chair and tenting his fingers under his chin. “The question is why I found it there.”

  Alec looked back down at the photograph, and was silent for a long moment. “I should have it, shouldn’t I? It—it belongs to me.”

  “I should think it belonged to your employer,” Hal said evenly. “After all—it was from his desk that you stole it, was it not?”

  “Stole it?” Alec lifted his head, his eyes blazing. “Stole a photograph of my own—that bastard kept it, kept all of it . . .”

  “Kept what?” I said. “What do you mean?”

  “He means that the photograph is his because his father is in it,” Hal said, without looking at me. “Am I wrong?”

  Alec stared at him a moment, eyes wide and frightened, then dropped his head into his palm. “Yes—Samuel Travers was my father.”

  “I know,” Hal said. “I could hardly have thought otherwise, given the resemblance. The name Wright—whence does it come?”

  “My mother’s name before she married,” Alec said, his voice quiet and shaking. “I never knew my father, Mr. Bishop. He was—he died when I was an infant. My mother never—she never forgave the man who was responsible.”

  “Sir Hector,” Hal said, fixing Alec with an intense gaze. “And how did she determine that he was responsible?”

  “She simply knew,” Alec said, sitting up and staring into the fireplace. “She never believed that it was illness that killed my father—though she thought he had been poisoned.”

  “Hm.” Hal rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “And when did you learn that it had been neither poison nor illness?”

  Alec set the photograph down on the table before the fireplace, face down, and leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his forehead.

  “I wanted to study magic—I knew that Sir Hector employed magicians,” he said. “But I could not afford—there was no way for me to go to school. I set out looking for a teacher. And that is when he found me.”

  A chill went down my spine at those words—it was something in his tone, a curious mixture of fear and awe. “He?” I repeated. “Who—who do you mean?”

  He shook his head. “I never knew his real name—I simply called him Master. But he told me that he knew what had happened to my father, and who had done it. And that he could teach me—he could show me the way to—to avenge him.”

  Hal raised an eyebrow. “Then that is the training that you told me of earlier—the blood sacrifice you were prepared to make. And now—just after you have come here—the two sons of the man you hated so much are dead. How curious.”

  “No,” Alec said, jerking his head up and staring at Hal. “No—I mean, yes, that is why I came here to begin with, but . . . I couldn’t do it. I told him I didn’t want to do it—and he said only that I must never tell anyone of what I learned from him. I didn’t—I couldn’t have . . .”

  “So you do admit that you came here to practice black magic,” Hal said, regarding him coolly. “That you intended to exact your vengeance on the man who murdered your father. Why should I believe that you have not done that very thing?”

  Alec turned away from him, burying his face in his hands. “Because—Rose. I love her. Surely you must know that—we have been in love with each other since we first met. And she—she loves her father. I couldn’t bear—I didn’t want her to know what he had done. I couldn’t hurt her.”

  “Hm.” Hal leaned back in his chair, filling his pipe with tobacco. “And yet, the very thing you have come here to accomplish is happening, nevertheless. Two people are
dead. You have stolen this photograph from your employer and hidden it away in your office—which has now burnt to the ground. You must admit it raises questions.”

  “Don’t be—I would never have set that fire,” Alec said, looking up with a hunted expression. “I can’t—I had to make certain that factory put out those engines—he said . . .”

  Hal raised an eyebrow once more. “Did he? How interesting. Well, I have heard enough from you, I think.”

  Alec dropped his head into his hands with a groan. “I suppose you shall report me to the inspector—but I tell you, I never did the spell. I couldn’t. And the fire—I don’t know what is happening here, Mr. Bishop, but I can tell you I played no part in it.”

  Hal’s lips curled into a half-smile around his pipe. “I shall not be reporting you to anyone. Go and see Miss Marsh—I believe she needs you now.”

  Alec sat up, staring at Hal with an astonished expression. “But why—what do you mean, interrogating me like that? I should have been—I could have been there already.”

  “I had questions,” Hal said evenly. “You have answered them. Go to the girl. She will need you very much tonight, unless I am much mistaken.”

  “What—why?” Alec said, his face rather pale. “She is still in danger—do you expect . . .?”

  “I believe she will be saved,” Hal said, blowing a puff of smoke into the air. “But it will not go easy on her.”

  “How?” Alec said, scrubbing his hands over his face. “How do you propose to save her?”

  “I shan’t,” Hal said. “It will be up to the one person who loves her as well as you do. Her father.”

  “That does not fill me with confidence,” Alec said, frowning down at the photograph. “I know what sort of man he is.”

  Hal followed Alec’s gaze, glancing down at the photograph. “Yes—but even a bad man may be persuaded to do a good thing. It is in his hands now—whether we wish it or not.”

  Alec nodded, and stood with a sigh. He reached down for the photograph, but Hal put out a hand, stopping him short.

  “I should like to keep that for the time being, if I may,” he said. “It may prove useful.”

  Alec turned to him with a puzzled expression. “Well—I suppose, though I don’t see . . . well, never mind. But—I should like to have it back. I don’t have . . .”

  He cut off, glancing back down at the photograph with a pained expression, and I felt a strong tug of sympathy for him. He could not have had many mementos of his father—the man having died when he was so young—and I could not help recalling the last years with my own father, when he scarcely spoke to me at all, shut up in his rooms as he was.

  “Of course you shall have it back,” I said. “It belongs to you.”

  Hal’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Yes, certainly,” he said. “I shall endeavor to see that it makes its way back to you.”

  “I should be grateful,” Alec said. “But now I must—I must go to Rose.”

  With that, he took his leave of us, hurrying from the pub without a backward glance. Hal leaned back in his chair, tenting his hands under his chin and puffing away at his pipe. I picked up the photograph, studying the faces—Samuel Travers, who looked so like his son, and Sir Hector, so young and ambitious. After a moment’s silence, I set it down, and looked back up at Hal.

  “Well, what are we going to do now?” I said. “Have you—do you know how to break it?”

  “I know who has cast the curse,” he said, without looking at me. “That has taken me halfway there. Now I must prevail upon him to take his medicine. That will be the more difficult part.”

  I looked down at the floor, chewing at my lip. “And—how do you propose to do that?”

  “I shall go and see Sir Hector, of course,” he said, closing his eye. “But first—I must call upon the inspector.”

  “The inspector,” I repeated, my mouth going dry. “Hal—what if he doesn’t understand?”

  “That is a risk we shall have to take,” he said, without opening his eye. “Mr. Bonham’s reasoning is sound—and I do not propose to ignore his advice again.”

  “But—he could charge you with practicing black magic,” I said. “What if . . .”

  “Ah, what if, what if,” he said, pressing a hand against the patch over his left eye. “It’s been decided. He will either understand—or not.”

  “And if he doesn’t?” I said. “What will we do? You can’t—you wouldn’t just let yourself be taken away to prison.”

  “No,” he said, without opening his eyes. “I have a plan for that eventuality. I have told you that.”

  “You have said you have a plan,” I said, irritably. Speaking of the inspector was giving me a sour feeling in my stomach, and I did not like Hal’s fatalistic attitude. “You have not told me what it is.”

  “If I should be arrested,” he said, “you are to go directly to Mr. Bonham. Speak to no one else. He will help you. And remember—you are shielded. You cannot be charged with the things that I have done or directed you to do.”

  “That’s all well and good,” I said. “But, you know—all things considered—I’d really rather not see you hang, either.”

  His mouth turned up at the corners briefly, but then he opened his eye and fixed me with a serious gaze.

  “You misunderstand,” he said. “I have shielded you by naming you as my apprentice—that was certainly one of my purposes.”

  I frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Another was that—if I should find myself in trouble—there would be at least one person who would understand what I had tried to do,” he said. “If anything should happen to me—you must carry on the work. Do you understand?”

  I looked down at my feet, a cold lump sitting in the pit of my stomach, and nodded miserably. “But—I’m not ready for that, Hal. I’ve hardly—I don’t know nearly what you do.”

  “Nor did I, when I began,” he said. “No matter. You will learn, as I did. You have an advantage over me as well—you have had someone to teach you.”

  I sat in silence a moment, chewing at my lip. “Well, not yet,” I said, at last. “I’m not—I don’t want to do that just yet.”

  He did not answer immediately, sitting up and filling his pipe before he spoke again. “Never mind,” he said, at last. “If Mr. Bonham is right about the inspector—we shan’t have to worry about it. There is nothing left to do but to finish it. Come along, Jem.”

  I looked up at him, frowning. “Where are we going?”

  “To see the inspector, of course,” he said, shrugging into his coat. “And from there, to see Sir Hector—and put an end to this thing, once and for all.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  We stepped out the inn to a cold and blustery day, the wind cutting sharply through my coat as we made our way through the muddy streets and to the police station. It was a miserable walk, made all the more miserable by the thought of what awaited us at the end of it. I could not see how Hal intended to explain the situation to Inspector Cross—nor could I tell how Inspector Cross would take the outcome of the case.

  We stepped out the inn to a cold and blustery day, the wind cutting sharply through my coat as we made our way through the muddy streets and to the police station. It was a miserable walk, made all the more miserable by the thought of what awaited us at the end of it. I could not see how Hal intended to explain the situation to Inspector Cross—nor could I tell how Inspector Cross would take the outcome of the case. Hal walked on ahead of me, hands in his pockets and head bent, smoke curling up from his pipe. He had been in a brooding mood since we’d left the inn, and it was a very silent walk up to the station.

  At last we reached the front door of the station, and Hal pulled it open, ready to step through, while I dawdled, scraping the mud off my boots. He gave me an impatient look and I followed him into the station with a sigh. The reaction to our entrance was precisely what I had expected, given the last time we had been in the building—a dozen pairs of ey
es turned toward us, then were quickly averted, though from time to time a furtive glance would dart our way, wary and suspicious.

  Hal, undeterred by the frosty reception, went directly to the desk. “I want a word with Inspector Cross,” he said, taking out his pipe and filling it with tobacco. “It is a matter of utmost urgency.”

  The officer manning the desk nodded warily and signaled over to another man, who was sent to fetch the inspector. We waited in silence for a moment; I could feel the weight of every suspicious glance, and I was very glad when the man returned and said that Inspector Cross would see us right away.

  We went back to the dusty office where we had met the inspector after Andrew Marsh’s death, and the sight of it gave me an uncomfortable feeling of déjà vu—a kind of cold lump that sat in my stomach. The inspector looked up from his work as we entered, beaming at us in his benign way.

  “Ah, Mr. Bishop,” he said. “Do have a seat. I suppose you have come to tell me about the papers you found?”

  Hal frowned thinly. “You suppose wrongly. I have come about the other, more urgent matter that we are both at work on—the Marsh family.”

  “Oh, indeed?” Inspector Cross said, pulling at his mustache. “And what about them? Has some new trouble befallen them?”

  “In some sense—yes,” Hal said. “The young lady—Rose—she has told me that she is suffering the same trouble as her brothers did.”

  “How unfortunate,” the inspector said, leaning back in his chair and shaking his head mournfully. “I do hope that she does not suffer the same fate. I am working night and day on it, Mr. Bishop. But I get nowhere.”

  “That is because you have started from a faulty premise,” Hal said. “But never mind. I have also been working on it—and I believe that I have a solution.”

  Inspector Cross gave him a sharp glance. “Have you? And what is it?”