Wicked Widow

by Amanda Quick

“Yes.”

  By the time she reached his side, one stone had shifted to reveal another heavy iron lock. Artemas set down the lantern and took out his picks.

  “We are fortunate that Pitney favors classic Vanza patterns and devices,” he said after a moment’s work. “Something to be said for tradition.”

  A short time later he breathed a sigh of satisfaction. Inside the wall, well-oiled pulleys and cables whined again. Madeline watched, fascinated, as a door-sized section of the stone slid aside.

  “Another flight of stairs,” she whispered. “There must be a chamber beneath this one.”

  “This portion of the house is very old.” Artemas contemplated the flight of ancient stone steps that led down into a sea of darkness. “This staircase probably descends into what must have once been the dungeon. There may have been an escape route down there, also. Such retreats were quite common in old castles and fortresses.”

  Madeline gazed into the deep gloom at the bottom of the steps. “Perhaps Pitney used it to escape from the intruder.”

  Artemas looked thoughtful. “I will return later to see where this staircase leads.”

  “After you take me home, do you mean? Rubbish.” She spotted a small heap of candles on the floor. “Come, we must not waste any more time.”

  He eyed her warily. “Madeline, I can see that I shall have to be firm this time—”

  “Save your breath, Artemas.” She picked up one of the candles and lit it. “If you do not want to accompany me, I shall find my own way.”

  For a moment she thought he would argue the point. Then, with a grim expression, he hoisted the lantern and started forward.

  “Has anyone ever told you that many gentlemen do not find stubbornness to be an attractive quality in a lady? “ he asked in a conversational tone.

  She winced and tried not to let his words hurt. But she could not deny the little jab of pain. “As I am not in the market for another husband at the moment, I do not consider it a serious problem. In any event, when it comes to stubbornness, I believe that we are well matched, sir.”

  “I beg to disagree. The honors go entirely to you.” He broke off abruptly. “Well, well, what have we here?”

  He had stopped so suddenly on the last step that she nearly collided with him. She paused on the step above and peered down over his shoulder. For a moment she could only stare in amazement.

  The lantern light played across what at first appeared to be a narrow corridor lined with flat, diamond-shaped jewels set into intricate patterns. It took her a few seconds to comprehend that she was looking through a narrow doorway into a hallway lined on all sides with small tiles.

  “Why would Pitney take the time and trouble to design such elaborate tile work down here?” she asked. “He must indeed be a very strange man.”

  “I think we can accept that verdict once and for all.” Artemas went down the last step and walked a short distance into the tile-lined corridor. “But, as you keep reminding me, he is Vanza.”

  She gazed about the passage in growing astonishment. The light of the lantern glowed on thousands of gleaming tiles set in strange patterns that disturbed and deceived the eye. Here the glare revealed an endlessly repeating series of tiny squares that appeared to vanish into infinity. Rows upon rows of parallel lines of various dimensions marched up the walls, shot across the ceiling, and plunged down the opposite side in an effect that left Madeline dazzled and slightly dizzy.

  She studied a section of the wall that featured a strange array of triangles within triangles. She could not seem to focus on the pattern. She raised her eyes and found herself gazing at an endless set of circles that looked as though they formed a tunnel large enough to enter. The effect was so real that she put out her hand to touch the opening. She felt only cold tile beneath her fingertips.

  “These are Vanza patterns,” she whispered. “I have seen some in the old books.”

  “Yes.” Artemas examined a design that tricked the eye into seeing a great chamber where there was only flat wall. “Illustrations from the ancient texts on the Strategy of Illusion. I used some in one of the tableaux in the Dream Pavilions.”

  He walked to the end of the tiled corridor, turned to the right, and promptly disappeared. It was as though he had simply vanished through one of the walls. The reassuring glow of the lantern disappeared together with him. Madeline was left with only the candle.

  A disquieting sense of dread gathered around her in an invisible shroud. She felt another cold draft.

  “Artemas?”

  He reappeared at the end of the corridor, bringing the light with him. “It’s a maze.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Fashioned entirely of tiles set in these dreadful patterns?”

  “Apparently.”

  “How very odd.”

  “Actually,” Artemas said slowly, “it’s a rather clever way to conceal a secret exit. And perhaps other things as well.”

  She looked at him as the implications struck her. “Do you think Pitney might have hidden something important in here? “

  “Something that was extremely important to a man as eccentric as Eaton Pitney might not be deemed of much interest by anyone else,” Artemas cautioned.

  “True, but given our general lack of clues, perhaps we had better pursue this one.”

  “I agree. We will need some string.”

  “String? Oh, yes, of course. To mark our route through the maze. I expect we can find some in the kitchen.”

  Artemas started back toward her down the slim passage. He was only a step away when she saw his gaze go straight past her to the dark staircase at the entrance to the maze.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  He turned down the lantern suddenly and blew out her candle. They were instantly plunged into a Stygian darkness.

  “What’s wrong?” Instinctively Madeline spoke in a whisper.

  “There’s someone standing in the shadows halfway up those stairs,” he said very quietly.

  “Pitney?”

  “I don’t know. I could not see his face. Come.”

  He took her arm and drew her deeper into the maze. She realized that he was feeling his way along the path. Panic shot through her. The thought of being lost in the unlit labyrinth unleashed an elemental fear. It was suddenly difficult to breathe. She reminded herself that they still had the lantern.

  She heard a whoosh of air and then a solid, jarring thud.

  “What was that? “ she asked.

  “The bastard closed the door at the top of the staircase,” Artemas said quietly.

  There was a muffled clang of iron-on-iron.

  “Locked it, too,” he added, sounding thoroughly disgusted. “No more than I deserve for allowing you to talk me into exploring this place.”

  “I’ll wager it’s Eaton Pitney up there.” Anger surged through Madeline, devouring some of the fear that had squeezed her chest. “He probably thinks he just surprised a pair of his so-called Strangers in his maze.”

  “He did surprise a pair of strangers.” Artemas turned up the lantern. “Us, to be precise.”

  “Perhaps we should call out to him. Explain that we mean no harm.”

  “I doubt that we could make ourselves heard through that heavy door. Even if it proved possible, I do not think that we will be able to convince him that we are harmless. After all, he caught us prowling through his damned basement.” Artemas paused thoughtfully. “And there is always the possibility that it was not Pitney who just locked us in here.”

  She stilled. “Do you think it was the intruder who searched the house before we arrived? “

  “Perhaps.” Artemas removed a pistol from his pocket, checked it briefly, and then looked up at the ceiling with an expression of grave interest.

  He was either fascinated by his own reflection in the overhead tiles or he was praying for divine guidance, Madeline decided. Neither effort promised much in the way of immediate help as far as she could tell.

  “Artemas, I h
esitate to point this out, but we cannot stay here indefinitely.”

  “Mmm? No, of course not. Cook will be concerned if we do not return for dinner, to say nothing of your aunt. I should likely never hear the end of it.”

  “It is not only your cook and my aunt who will be worried.” She looked around uneasily. “I am likely to become somewhat anxious myself if we are forced to stay in here for any great length of time. I would remind you that we do not have any of Bernice’s tonics with us.”

  “Must remember to pack some the next time we go adventuring.”

  She scowled at him with sudden suspicion. “Bloody hell, sir, I do believe that you are starting to enjoy yourself.”

  “It seems only fair that I get some amusement out of this affair.” He continued to contemplate the ceiling of the passageway. “After all, you were the one who said that breaking into Pitney’s house was quite exhilarating.”

  “This is no game, sir. How long do you think the intruder will watch the door? “

  “I haven’t any notion.” Artemas stopped looking at the pattern on the ceiling tiles and gave her an amused smile. “Nor do I intend to discover the answer. Come, let us be off or we shall be late for supper.”

  “What do you mean? Where do you think you’re going?”

  “This is a Vanza maze.”

  “Yes, I know that. What of it?”

  “There will be another exit.” He turned a corner and disappeared.

  “Artemas, don’t you dare tease me.” She picked up her skirts and hurried around the corner in his wake. She found him in the adjoining tiled passage. “What are you about? “

  “I intend to find the other exit. What else would I be about? “

  She glowered at his back as she followed him around another turn in the labyrinth. “And just how, pray tell, do you intend to find the second maze entrance? “

  “By following the trail, of course.”

  “What trail? “ She tried not to look at the eerie, unsettling patterns of the tiles surrounding her. “Artemas, if this is some bizarre Vanza game you are playing, I must tell you that I do not find it at all amusing.”

  He looked at her over his shoulder. There was more than a hint of arrogant satisfaction in his faint smile. “The path through this maze has been clearly marked. It is obvious to anyone who thinks to look for it.”

  She glanced around quickly but all she saw was a series of lines that appeared to extend to some far distant horizon and another false opening in the wall. “I don’t see any markings.”

  He swept one hand up to indicate the ceiling. She followed the movement. At first she saw only a whirling pattern of tiny tiles that made it difficult to concentrate. Then she looked closer and saw the faint trace of smoky residue on the glossy surface of some of the paler tiles.

  She recognized the sooty evidence left by the innumerable candles and oil lamps that Eaton Pitney must have used to light his way through the maze over the years. The relief that flooded through her was so strong, she decided she could almost forgive Artemas his smug cleverness.

  “Very shrewd of you to notice the marks,” she said gruffly.

  ““Have a care with your praise and adulation, my sweet. You cannot know the effect it has on me.” He turned another corner and started along a glittering passageway covered in more weird patterns. “I vow, your glowing words make my head spin.”

  She made a face, which he did not see because he had his back to her, and decided to change the subject. “Poor Mr. Pitney. He must be literally terrified of his mythical Strangers to act in such a fearful manner. Imagine, locking us in his silly maze. When we get out of here, I shall try to speak with him.”

  “What good will that do?”

  “I have had a great deal of experience with my father’s eccentric Vanza cronies. I am certain that if I can talk to Mr. Pitney directly, I shall be able to reason with him.”

  “I hope you are right, because I have a few questions for Pitney myself.” Artemas came to a halt once more and stood gazing down at something on the floor. “I trust that it will not be necessary to locate him in the metaphysical realm in order to question him, however.”

  She stared at the dried brown spots on some pale yellow tiles. A chill went down her spine. “Blood?”

  Artemas crouched to get a closer look. “Yes. Only recently dried. Whatever happened here took place within the past few hours.” He rose and glanced back the way they had come. “There were no stains on the floor until this point. Either this is where the victim was injured or he was hurt at some other place in the maze and managed to stanch the bleeding until he got this far.”

  Madeline was aghast. “Do you think Mr. Pitney actually shot someone who dared to enter his maze? That is hard to believe. He is a noted eccentric, but on the few occasions when I have met him, he always seemed like such a pleasant, harmless old man.”

  “He may be pleasant, but he most certainly is not harmless, even if he is advanced in his years.”

  “You need not elaborate on that point.”

  “We do not know yet if he was the victim or the attacker,” Artemas said. “You will wait here while I investigate further.”

  “But, Artemas—”

  He did not argue, merely fixed her with a look of such blazing intimidation that she was left speechless. It was, she realized, the first time he had ever shown her this particular side of his nature. It was quite daunting. She blinked and reminded herself that she had sought his help precisely because of his training. She must let him do his work.

  She nodded once to indicate that she understood.

  Apparently satisfied, Artemas raised the pistol to waist level and went forward with a soundless, gliding stride. He rounded a corner and vanished from view.

  She relit her candle with unsteady fingers and listened intently to the echoing silence. She breathed in slowly and deliberately, attempting to quiet her mind as she did on those occasions when she meditated.

  She did not know when she first became aware of the slight, almost undetectable fragrance in the air. She sniffed cautiously and caught a faint, sharp-sweet odor. Incense. She could not name the herbs but she was almost positive that she had smelled that blend on some other occasion.

  The acrid scent grew stronger. From out of her store of memories, she recalled the morning long ago when she had stood in the doorway of Bernice’s stillroom and watched as her aunt ground Vanzagarian herbs with a mortar and pestle.

  “What are you experimenting with this time, Aunt Bernice?”

  Fragments of Bernice’s answer flitted through her head.

  “. . . In small amounts the mixture is said to cause hallucinations and strange visions, but in larger doses it induces sleep, even in the most restless. ...”

  Shock held her immobile for a few seconds. Then, with a wrench of willpower, she unstuck herself from the floor and rushed forward.

  “Artemas, where are you? Something terrible is happening.”

  “This way,” Artemas called with grim urgency. “Come quickly. Use the bloodstains as a guide. They are quite clear.”

  She hurried along the twisting corridors, following the dreadful brown spots on the tiles. She turned one last corner and found herself in a small chamber furnished in the manner of a miniature library.

  It was an astonishing sight. There was an aging mahogany desk stacked with papers and a notebook. A handsome rug covered the cold stones. Two unlit lamps stood at attention behind the chair. Three glass-fronted bookcases overflowing with leather-bound volumes stood against a wall patterned with innumerable triangles within triangles.

  A gentleman’s study situated in the heart of a maze. Not so great an oddity, she thought, when one considered that the gentleman in question was Vanza and therefore constitutionally inclined toward oddities.

  Then she saw Artemas crouched behind the desk. She circled the massive piece of furniture and caught her breath at the sight of Eaton Pitney.

  He was slumped on the floor, half p
ropped up by the desk. A small pistol lay on the carpet near his limp, bloodstained fingers. He had made an awkward but evidently successful attempt to bind the wound in his upper left shoulder with his cravat.

  “Mr. Pitney.” She went down beside him and touched his wrist. He did not stir or open his eyes but he was breathing fairly steadily. “Thank God, he is still alive.”

  “Well, this does answer one or two pressing questions,” Artemas said. “Obviously it was not Pitney who locked us in here.”

  Madeline raised her gaze from Pitney’s sallow face. “I smelled incense a moment ago. I believe that it is made of some herbs that are used to promote hallucinations and, eventually, sleep. Someone is deliberately tainting the air in this chamber.”

  He inhaled deeply and shook his head slightly. “I smell nothing unusual.”

  “I assure you, I have an excellent nose, sir, and I do smell the sleeping herbs. My aunt once did some experiments with them. We must get out of here quickly.”

  He met her eyes, his gaze steady and intent. “I will not argue with you.”

  “You must locate the second exit you mentioned.”

  He glanced up at the ceiling. “It will be here in the heart of the maze.”

  “How can you tell that? “

  “The soot on the tiles is heaviest at this point and there is no path of smoke leading off in any other direction. In any event, it only makes sense that Pitney would locate his escape route in a location convenient to his study.”

  He slipped a knife from a sheath that he wore beneath his coat and walked to the nearest section of wall. He slid the point of the blade into the thin crevasse between two tiled panels. Only the tip disappeared. He moved to the next line of joinery and tried again. He was unable to insert the point more than a short distance.

  Madeline watched impatiently as he tried every line between panels with methodical precision. When he finished the walls he went down on one knee and began to test the tile joints on the floor. The scent of herbs grew stronger.

  “I should have brought the knife my father gave me.” Madeline glanced uneasily at Pitney’s bandage. “Two could have made short work of this business. Next time I will not forget it.”