by Amanda Quick
“Bastard has wedged something heavy up against it,” he told Madeline.
He leaned his shoulder against the panels and shoved hard.
“Let me help.” Madeline moved into place behind him and planted both hands on the wood.
Artemas felt the door shift as the heavy object that had been placed in front of it scraped across the bare floor. He heard movement inside the room.
“What the bloody hell is he doing in there?” he muttered.
He gave one last shove against the door. It opened far enough to allow him to slip into the darkened chamber.
“Stay here,” he said to Madeline. This time he made it a clear command.
“For God’s sake, be careful,” she said in a voice that carried an edge of authority as sharp as his own.
Artemas lunged into the room, keeping his body low and angled to the side so as to present less of a target. Instinctively he fell back on his old training and sought the deepest shadows.
But he knew already that he was too late.
Cool night air wafted through the window that opened onto the miniature balcony. A net of artificial cobwebs danced on the currents of the light draft. The gossamer curtain billowed in an eerie fashion in the moonlight, silently taunting him.
Bloody idiot, Artemas thought. How did he expect to escape that way? Unless he chose to risk the long drop to the ground, the intruder was well and truly trapped.
Trapped creatures were often extremely dangerous, however.
He circled a recently painted canvas backdrop that featured a pair of specters hovering over a crypt. Easing aside the veil of cobwebs, he edged toward the window. He could see the length of the small balcony. It was empty.
“There is no one out there,” Madeline whispered from the middle of the chamber. “He has disappeared.”
“He’ll be lucky if he did not break his neck when he jumped.”
“I heard no sound.”
She was right.
Artemas stepped out onto the balcony and looked down. He saw no crumpled figure lying on the grass. Nor could he detect anyone limping away into the woods toward the seldom used south gate.
“Gone,” she whispered.
“There is no way he could have jumped that far without injuring an ankle.” He stepped back and looked up. “I wonder if he used another route.”
“The roof?”
“It’s possible, although he would still face the problem of getting down from his perch—” Artemas broke off as the toe of his boot brushed against a soft, pliable object. He looked down. A cold feeling twisted through him. “Bloody hell.”
Madeline watched as he reached to retrieve the thing he had trod upon. “What is it?”
“The reason our intruder did not crack his skull when he went over this balcony a few minutes ago.” Artemas held up a length of rope with an intricate knot tied in one end. “He no doubt used this to enter the mansion as well as to leave it.”
Madeline sighed. “Well, at least you know that I did not see a ghost.”
“On the contrary, I do not think that we can be entirely certain of that fact.”
She tensed. “What do you mean? “
Artemas drew the heavy cord slowly across the palm of his hand. “The knots he used in his rope ladder are Vanza knots.”
Chapter Eight
Tell me the tale from the beginning,” Artemas said.
Madeline looked out at the small, bare garden through the library window. She clasped her hands behind her back and concentrated on composing her thoughts. She was keenly aware of Artemas lounging against the edge of her desk, waiting for her to begin her explanations.
Last night after the incident in the Haunted Mansion, he had brought her straight home, checked the locks on her shutters, and promised to send someone to keep watch on her house for the remainder of the night.
“Try to get some rest,” he’d said. “I wish to do some thinking. I will return in the morning and we shall make plans.”
She had spent the night trying to decide how much to tell him. Now she must pick and choose her words carefully. “I told you that my husband murdered my father with poison. I found Papa before he died. Bernice tried to save him but even her strongest remedies proved ineffective. She said that Renwick had used some fatal Vanza brew.”
“Go on.”
His voice was very even in tone. It gave nothing away. She could not tell if he believed her.
“We had all realized by then that Renwick was quite insane. Oh, he hid it well for several months. Long enough to fool my father and me and everyone else. But in the end it became obvious.”
“What made it plain to you that your husband was a madman? “
She hesitated. “After our marriage it soon became clear that there was something very strange about Renwick. He spent hours in a special chamber at the top of the house. He called it his laboratory. He always kept it locked. He would not allow anyone inside. But one afternoon while he performed his meditation exercises, I was able to steal the key.”
“You searched the locked room?”
“Yes.” She looked down at her hands. “I suppose you are thinking that it was not the act of an obedient wife.”
Artemas ignored that. “What did you find?”
She turned around slowly to meet his eyes. “Proof that Renwick was deeply involved in the shadowy side of Vanza.”
“What sort of proof?”
“Journals. Books. Notes. Alchemical rubbish that my father always disdained. He said that sort of thing was not true Vanza. But I know from my own researches that there has always been a dark undercurrent of magic and alchemy running through the philosophy.”
“Bloody occult nonsense. The monks of the Garden Temples do not teach those things. The knowledge is forbidden.”
She raised her brows. “You know what they say about forbidden knowledge, sir. For some it holds great allure.”
“Your husband was one of those men who are attracted to it, I take it? “
“Yes. That was the real reason he sought out my father and wormed his way into our household. He even went so far as to marry me in an attempt to convince Papa to teach him what he wished to know. He believed that if he made himself a part of our family, Papa would share all his secrets with him.”
“What secrets did Deveridge wish to learn?”
“Two things. The first was knowledge of the ancient language of Vanza, the one in which the old books of alchemy and magic are written.”
“And the second thing? “
Her jaw tightened. “Renwick wanted to become a full master. Indeed, he was obsessed with attaining that status.”
“Your father refused to instruct him in the knowledge of the highest circles? “
She drew a deep breath. “Yes. Papa finally realized, too late, that Renwick was evil. My husband actually believed that if he could decipher the secrets of the occult texts of Vanza, he could transform himself into a sorcerer.”
“Deveridge was indeed mad if he believed that.”
“More than mad, sir. Murderous. Shortly before he died, my father warned Bernice and me that Renwick had vowed to kill us all. My husband intended to destroy the entire family because of Papa’s refusal to teach him what he needed to know in order to decipher the old occult books.”
“But Deveridge conveniently died at the hands of a housebreaker before he could complete his vengeance,” Artemas said quietly.
“Yes.” Madeline met his intent, steady gaze. “Bernice believes that it was nothing less than the hand of fate in action.”
“Mmm.” Artemas nodded thoughtfully. “Fate is always a handy explanation for that sort of thing, is it not?”
She cleared her throat. “Indeed, I do not know what might have happened if Renwick had lived. With Papa dead, there was no one to protect Bernice and me from him.”
“If what you have told me is true, I can certainly comprehend your dilemma.”
She closed her eyes for a few seconds, stee
ling herself. “You do not believe me.”
“Let us say that I am withholding final judgment at this point.”
“I know it all sounds very bizarre, sir, but it is the truth.” She clenched her hands. “I swear to you that I am not mad. The things I have told you are not the product of an overwrought imagination. You must believe me.”
He contemplated her for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he rose to his feet and crossed the room to the brandy table. He picked up the heavy crystal decanter, removed the stopper, and poured the liquor into a glass.
He carried the glass to her and folded one of her hands around it. “Drink.”
The glass felt cool in her fingers. She gazed down at the contents, aware that her mind had gone numb. She said the only thing that she could think of to say. “But it is only eleven o’clock in the morning, sir. One does not drink brandy at this hour.”
“You would be surprised by what some people do at eleven o’clock in the morning. Drink it.”
“I vow, you are as annoying as Aunt Bernice with her tonics.” Raising the glass, she took a swallow of brandy. It burned all the way down, but the heat felt surprisingly good. So good, in fact, that she decided to take a second sip.
“Now then,” Artemas said, “let us get to the meat of the situation. It has been a year since your husband’s death. What else besides the incident in the Haunted Mansion last night has happened to make you think that Renwick Deveridge has returned to avenge himself on you and yours? “
“Do not mistake me, sir.” She set the glass down forcefully. “I know that gossip has it that I am given to wild fancies and fevered visions. But I have good cause to fear that something very strange is happening.”
He smiled slightly. “I see the brandy has had a restorative effect on your spirits, madam. Tell me about the ghost of Renwick Deveridge.”
She folded her arms beneath her breasts and began to prowl the library. “I certainly do not believe that Renwick Deveridge has somehow done the impossible and returned from the grave to haunt us. If he is out there somewhere, it is because he managed to survive the fire. I have asked you to hunt for a ghost, but I do not actually believe in specters.”
“I will take your word for it.” He propped one shoulder against the end of a bookcase. He did not take his eyes off her face. “Allow me to rephrase my question. What has happened recently to arouse your fear of Deveridge?”
Explaining this next bit was going to be somewhat tricky, she thought. “A week ago I received a note from a gentleman who was a colleague of my father’s. He, too, is something of an expert m ancient languages, and he has studied the old tongue of Vanzagara.”
“What did this note say?”
She braced herself. “In his message he told me that he had seen Renwick Deveridge’s ghost in his library. He felt he ought to let me know about the incident.”
“Bloody hell.”
She sighed. “I know it is an outlandish tale, sir. But you must take portions of it seriously or you will do me no good at all.”
“Who is this scholar who claimed to see the ghost?”
Another nasty bit, she thought. “Lord Linslade.”
“Linslade?” Artemas gave her an incredulous look. “Everyone knows the man’s a crackbrain. He’s been seeing ghosts for years. Talks to the shade of his dead wife regularly, I’m told.”
“I know.” She stopped pacing and sank into the nearest chair. “Believe me, although his note gave me something of a jolt, I did not place any credence in it until...”
“Until what?”
“Until four days ago, when I got a message from Mr. Pitney.”
Artemas watched her closely. “Eaton Pitney? “
“Do you know him? “
“I met him once or twice years ago. He is also a distinguished expert in ancient languages.”
“Indeed.”
“I understand Pitney has become every bit as eccentric as Linslade in recent years.”
“Yes.” She leaned back in her chair and looked at him. “He is definitely odd, even by the standards of the membership of the Vanzagarian Society. For years he has believed that he is being watched by phantoms he calls Strangers. I understand that he fired his entire household staff last year in an attempt to get rid of any Strangers posing as servants.”
“Did Pitney claim to have seen Deveridge’s ghost, too?” Artemas asked dryly.
“No, Mr. Hunt.” She drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair and struggled to hold on to a few shreds of her patience. “He did not mention ghosts in his note.”
His expression softened slightly although his eyes remained cool and watchful. “What, exactly, did he say in his message?”
“I will show it to you.”
She rose, removed the key she kept around her neck, and went to the cupboard where she kept the journal of the members of the Vanzagarian Society. She opened the door and took out one of the notes she had put inside.
She glanced at the tiny, cramped writing and then handed the message to Artemas without comment.
He took it from her and read it aloud.
“My Dear Mrs. D.,
As a former colleague of your esteemed father, I feel that it is my responsibility to inform you that after years of watching me from the shadows, one of the Strangers recently grew so bold as to attempt to invade my library. Fortunately, he was thwarted by my stout locks and shutters.
It is the fact that the Stranger appeared to be intent on gaining entrance to my books and notes that led me to wonder if he might pose a threat to other experts in the old tongue. Your father once told me that he had taught you his skills in the ancient language of
Vanzagara. I am also aware that you still possess Winton Reed’s books and papers. I thought it best to warn you that someone may be searching for that sort of thing.
As you no doubt know, there were recent rumors about an ancient text of Vanza called the Book of Secrets. Utter rubbish, of course, but the tales may have drawn the Strangers out of the shadows to search for it ...”
Artemas refolded the note. He looked thoughtful. Madeline took that as a good sign.
“I realize that it is not much to go on,” she said carefully. “A message about a ghost from a gentleman who is known to see them on a regular basis and a warning about a phantom who may or may not have tried to enter the library of a gentleman who has been plagued by strange notions for years. Nevertheless, I cannot bring myself to ignore those notes from Linslade and Pitney.”
“You need not explain further, Madeline,” Artemas said quietly. “I comprehend now what it is that has alarmed you.”
A great sense of relief soared through her. “You do see the links between those two notes then, sir? “
“Of course. Either of these messages, taken separately, could have been dismissed out of hand as the scribblings of a crackpot. But together they comprise a pattern.”
“Precisely.”
He did understand, she thought. But then, he was Vanza. The willingness to see through the layers of reality to the possibilities beneath the surface was one of the most basic principles of the philosophy.
“The most interesting fact here,” Artemas continued, “is Linslade’s conviction that it was not just any ghost he encountered, but the specter of your dead husband.”
“You see why I felt it necessary to take precautions and to make some inquiries into the matter.”
“Indeed.” He looked at her. “I presume you wish to start with Linslade? “
“Yes. I thought we might call upon him this very afternoon, if that is agreeable to you.”
Artemas shrugged. “I will admit to some curiosity in the matter. I have never had an extended discussion with a man who claims to converse regularly with ghosts.”
———
“How kind of you to call, Mrs. Deveridge.” Lord Linslade dimpled with pleasure as he directed Madeline to a chair. She could have sworn that his bird-bright eyes actually twinkled as he turned to Artem
as.
“And you, sir. Delighted to see you again, Hunt.” He gave Artemas an elfin smile. “It has been some time since we last met, has it not? “
“Several years, I believe,” Artemas said as he took a chair.
“Indeed.” Linslade bobbed his head and perched behind his desk. “Much too long, sir. I understand you studied in the Garden Temples and are now a master of the old arts.”
Madeline looked at the full-length portrait of Lady Linslade that dominated the wall behind the baron’s desk. The picture showed a sturdy, full-bosomed woman who, while she was alive, had towered over her dapper little husband. She was dressed in a low-cut, square-necked evening gown decorated with Greek and Etruscan designs. It was a style that had been in the first stare of fashion at the time of her death twelve years earlier.
Madeline recalled that Lord and Lady Linslade had always been quite keen on keeping abreast of the latest fashions. While Lady Linslade was now forever stuck in a twelve-year-old gown, her husband had continued to stay current. Today Linslade wore an elegantly tailored ensemble that included a rose-pink satin waistcoat and a cravat tied in the latest, most intricate manner.
Linslade folded his small, neatly manicured hands on his desk and beamed at Madeline. “I must tell you, my dear, I have had some extremely stimulating conversations with your father.”
Madeline froze. “You have spoken with Papa?”
“Yes, indeed.” Linslade chuckled. “I vow, I see more of Reed now than I did when he was alive.”
Madeline noticed the amused glint in Artemas’s eye and tried to ignore it.
“What topics do you discuss with my father?” she asked cautiously.
“We generally consult each other about our researches into the old Vanzagarian tongue, of course,” Linslade said. “Winton Reed always did hold the most interesting notions. I have long been of the opinion that he and Ignatius Lorring were among the most expert authorities on the language in all of Europe.”
“I see.” Madeline gave Artemas another quick, uneasy glance. She was not sure what to say next.