A Mortal Likeness

by Laura Joh Rowland

  Mick, instantly alert, leaps from the bed. Hugh stretches, coughs, and groans before he swings his legs over the side of the bed and shakily stands. The door opens, and Inspector Reid strides in. He looks so furious that I’m afraid he’s going to arrest Hugh and me. Mick puts himself between us and Reid, spreads his arms, and says, “You ain’t takin’ them anywhere.”

  “You’re right. I’m not.” Reid jerks his chin at Hugh and me. “You’re free to go.”

  My relief quickly crumbles under a sense that things are far from good. Hugh says, “Not that I want to look a gift horse in the mouth, but how come? Yesterday you were so sure that we were murderers.”

  Reid’s mustache is straggly at the ends, as if he’s been gnawing them in frustration. “You’ve got an alibi.”

  “Who is it?” I ask, hardly daring to believe.

  “A grounds keeper at the Crystal Palace. He was in the dinosaur park that day and saw you and Staunton leave. He also saw Noel Vaughn and Ethel Norris. They were still alive when you left.”

  I understand why Reid is furious; he thought he’d solved the crime and was about to get his revenge on us, and now he has to start over from scratch. I’m amazed that there was yet another person we didn’t notice at the park.

  Delighted, Hugh grasps Reid’s hand and shakes it. “You proved we’re innocent. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

  “Don’t thank me,” Reid says, pulling his hand away and wiping it on his coat. “Thank Miss Bain’s sweetheart.” He aims a dirty look at me. “Yesterday PC Barrett sneaked over to the Crystal Palace. He beat the bushes until he found you an alibi.”

  I’m thrilled to learn that Barrett didn’t forsake me.

  “Don’t be such a bad sport, man,” Hugh says. “This witness could be a lucky break for you too. Maybe he can lead you to Robin’s kidnapper. Did he see the ransom exchange?”

  “Oh, now you want to talk about the kidnapping.” Reid grins as if he’s maneuvered us into a corner. “So tell me what you know about the Mariner family.”

  We’re silent, bound by the confidentiality agreement and loath to trust Reid.

  “Changed your mind? Well, in that case, pack up and go home.”

  Mick plants his feet wide and his hands on his hips. “You can’t kick us out. We’re working for Sir Gerald.”

  Reid sets his sights on Hugh and me. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll hand in your resignation. Didn’t you almost get burned to death last night? And if that’s not enough reason”—he jabs his finger at our faces—“if you poke your nose in my investigation again, not even God will be able to save you.” He storms out of the room.

  Hugh and I are speechless for a moment, intimidated.

  “We’re not gonna knuckle under to him, are we?” Mick asks.

  “I should say not.” Hugh coughs strenuously, then says, “We have to find out who killed Robin.”

  Mick grins. “Yeah!”

  I sense that justice for Robin isn’t Hugh’s only concern; he wants to stay at the estate so that he can be near Tristan and prove that he isn’t the kidnapper and killer.

  “First, a hot bath to steam my lungs clean.” Hugh shuts himself in the bathroom.

  “Keep an eye on him,” I tell Mick. “Don’t leave him alone.”

  Opening the door, I find myself face-to-face with Tristan Mariner, his hand raised to knock. He drops his hand and steps backward, alarmed to see me. I shut the door and advance on him, forcing him to back away down the passage.

  “Stay away from Hugh,” I say. “You’ve done him enough harm.”

  “Miss Bain.” Although he’s dressed in full clerical garb, Tristan seems ill at ease, bereft of his usual haughty dignity. “It’s you I came to see. Please allow me to speak with you.”

  We stop at the end of the passage, which is deserted except for the two of us. “I suppose you’re going to ask me not to tell anyone that I caught you and Hugh together?”

  He bites his lip, and his handsome face flushes, but he holds my gaze. “Whether you tell or not is up to you. But whatever you do, you should consider the consequences.”

  “Are you threatening me?” After last night, I’m afraid of Tristan and everyone else in Mariner House, but anger makes me bold. “Did you set the fires? Did you try to kill Hugh and me? Are you here to tell me that if I don’t keep quiet, you’ll try again?”

  “No. I didn’t. I came to talk to you about my sister.”

  I frown, surprised because I evidently read him wrong. “What about Olivia?”

  “I apologize for her behavior the day we went riding.”

  “You needn’t,” I say, wondering what he really wants. “Olivia’s the one who knocked me off my horse.”

  “She didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  “That you know of.”

  Tristan rakes his hand through his black hair. Not even after I caught him with Hugh did he seem as distraught as now. “Olivia can’t help how she is. She’s had a difficult life.” Before I can say I’m aware of that because of what she told me last night, Tristan says, “Her mother was mentally unstable.”

  Like mother, like daughter.

  “Vittoria had fits and delusions. She once attacked the conductor at the opera house because she thought he was trying to murder her. My father didn’t know how serious her condition was until after they were married. He thought she was just a volatile, temperamental opera singer. But she became worse after Olivia was born.” Tristan relates this story in the grave, hushed tone that I imagine he would use during confession. “When Olivia was three, my father had to put Vittoria in an asylum. That’s where Vittoria committed suicide.”

  I remember Olivia at dinner, saying her mother had killed herself with poison.

  “Olivia had been our father’s pet, but after her mother died, he couldn’t bear to look at her. I think her mother was the only woman he ever truly loved, and Olivia is so much like her. He thinks she inherited her bad blood. He left her in the care of nurses and governesses, who let her do whatever she wanted just to keep her quiet. I tried to comfort her and guide her, but I’m twelve years older, and I was mostly away at school, then the army, then the seminary. She misbehaves to get our father’s attention. It’s the only way she knows how.”

  Tristan’s expression softens with pity and tenderness for Olivia. He suddenly seems more human, less formidable. I remember that he too lost his mother, and I suppose the tragedy they have in common bound him and Olivia together despite the difference in their ages. I wish I’d had an older brother to protect me and care for me after my father disappeared. My antipathy toward Tristan lessens as I perceive something of what Hugh must see in him—compassion and generosity behind his arrogance. But I can’t quite bring myself to trust him beyond doubt.

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I don’t want you to think Olivia is an evil person,” Tristan says. “She isn’t. She’s just immature and reckless and unhappy.”

  Maybe Tristan isn’t evil either. That Hugh fell in love with him must mean he has virtues besides his looks. But I also wonder if he knows that he and Olivia are suspects in Robin’s murder and he’s told me these things to make himself appear noble and innocent and her deranged and guilty. “Or maybe you want me to believe the exact opposite of what you said.”

  He bends a long, somber look on me. “Just remember what I said, Miss Bain. Whatever you do, consider the consequences. And you should warn your friends.”

  He strides away down the passage, leaving me to wonder again whether he just threatened to kill us.

  I go looking for Barrett and find him in my burned room. There, the smoke smell is strong, pungent, and sickening. The drenched, soggy ashes of the Chinese carpet lie on scorched floorboards. The bed is black, burned down to the mattress stuffing, and the wallpaper hangs in charred tatters. Barrett stands by the window, whose curtains are completely burned, gazing outside. My heart leaps; I’m so glad to see him. At the sound of my footsteps
squishing on the wet floor, he turns. His expression is tight-lipped, unfriendly. He raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to speak first.

  My spirits descend. “Thank you for finding an alibi for Hugh and me.”

  “I was just doing my job.” Barrett’s tone is as cold as his gaze.

  I feel guilty because I lied to him. I love him so much, and I can’t bear for us to be at odds. “Please don’t be angry.” My emotions are still fragile from my brush with death. Tears sting my smoke-irritated eyes.

  “Why shouldn’t I be angry? You say you’re going to Nottingham to visit a sick friend, and then you turn up here. How am I supposed to feel?”

  “I’m sorry. Sir Gerald—”

  “Shove his confidentiality agreement! Who’s more important to you—Sir Gerald or me?”

  Although dismayed that he should question my love for him, I remember how hesitant I was to express it. “You are, of course.”

  Barrett narrows his eyes in disbelief. “But you knew that if you took the job, you would have to lie to me, and you took it anyway.”

  He’s right, but I leap to my own defense. “It wasn’t like that. When Hugh and I met Sir Gerald, things happened so fast, I barely had time to think.”

  “You had time to think about the murders in the dinosaur park. You told me that you just happened onto the crime scene. Inspector Reid thought I’d known all along that you and Hugh were there and I was covering for you, but I was completely blindsided!”

  Imaging his shock and mortification, I feel terrible. “I’m sorry. Hugh and I thought it wouldn’t be fair to Mrs. Vaughn if we told the police about her husband.” My excuse is just a cover for the real reason I didn’t tell Barrett why I went back to the park.

  “The fact is, there’s always somebody or something more important than being honest with me.” Barrett grimaces in self-disgust. “I should have known. Last fall you kept secrets from me, and I’m a fool for believing you wouldn’t do it again just because we’re—” He throws up his hands. “Hell, I don’t know what we are.”

  Fear seeps into the well of my guilt. Have I offended him so badly that he no longer loves me? But I’m also angry because he won’t try to see my side, because my love for him gives him the power to hurt me, and because I know that his every complaint against me is justified.

  “I’m sorry I lied to you.” I’m genuinely remorseful. “Please forgive me.” I try to sound dignified instead of as if I’m begging.

  Barrett regards me as if I’ve missed a point that should have been obvious. “It’s not a matter of you apologizing and me forgiving. It’s this.” He grabs my shoulders and turns me to face the drenched wreckage. “You and Hugh took a job that you had no business taking. You got in over your heads with somebody dangerous.” His hard, hectoring tone batters me like a club. “You could have ended up burned to death in that bed. And you don’t understand that the reason I’m so angry is that I care about you!”

  I pull away and face him. His eyes shine with tears. My own anger melts, but as I reach for him, he backs away, hands raised.

  “Don’t try to get around me by making love to me.”

  “I’m not!” My cheeks burn with embarrassment that he would think me so devious. “I just want us to be the way we were before.”

  “Then be honest. Tell me everything.”

  Even though I’m aware that our relationship is at stake, I hesitate. My habit of secrecy is of much longer duration than just the six days since I signed the confidentiality agreement and more entrenched than my trust in Barrett.

  “For God’s sake, Sarah!” Exasperation raises Barrett’s voice. “You don’t owe Sir Gerald or his family your loyalty. One of them tried to kill you and Hugh.”

  His common sense pierces my defenses, erodes my justification for keeping him in the dark.

  “Why are you protecting them?” Barrett looks thunderstruck as an answer occurs to him. “Is it Sir Gerald? Are you and he—?”

  “No!” I’m horrified that he would think it, ashamed because my feelings for Sir Gerald aren’t entirely neutral. Now I have to come clean, or Barrett won’t believe that I’ve been faithful to him. “All right. I’ll tell you everything. But not here.”

  #

  After I don my coat and hat, Barrett and I walk down the grand staircase. I don’t need my crutch, but my ankle is still sore. The foyer is dim, its windows shuttered and the chandelier swathed in black crape. Candles burning in silver candelabra provide the only light. Inside the parlor, the heavy curtains are closed. The mirrors, paintings, and mantels are also swathed with black crape, and more candles flicker. People dressed in black surround a little white coffin. The sweet, heavy scent of roses and lilies mingles with the smell of burning wax. Quiet weeping and murmured condolences echo. Servants wearing black armbands usher in more black-garbed ladies and gentlemen through the front door. Carriages are lined up along the driveway as other visitors arrive. It’s Robin Mariner’s wake.

  Barrett leads me outside. The sun is a hazy white globe floating in the chill mist. I can still smell smoke from the fires. We walk in silence across the garden. Barrett’s profile is like stone; he doesn’t touch me or look at me. An eternity separates us from our last time in my bed. How I regret taking the job with Sir Gerald! Robin was already dead then; Hugh and I couldn’t have saved him. I also regret spying on Noel Vaughn because if Hugh and I hadn’t been in the park that day, we wouldn’t be in this fix now, and I wouldn’t have learned that my father probably murdered Ellen Casey.

  We descend the hill to a section of the grounds I’ve not seen before. In a woodland clearing stands a folly with a circular stone base enclosed by fluted white columns, topped with a round dome, and surrounded by grass in which daffodils and hyacinths bloom. Barrett stoically waits for me to speak.

  I take a deep breath, as if preparing to dive into shark-infested waters. After I tell Barrett about the toy rabbit dropped on the stairs the night of Robin’s kidnapping, I reveal everything I’ve learned about Tristan and Olivia Mariner, Lady Alexandra, John Pierce, Tabitha Jenkins, and Raphael DeQuincey. I include my theory that something was wrong with Robin and his parents covered it up. Barrett listens intently; his stern expression gives no hint of his thoughts. Unnerved by his scrutiny, I describe Tristan’s nighttime trip to the pond and my conversations with Lady Alexandra, Pierce, Olivia, and Tristan. Guilt needles my conscience as I think of Hugh. When I’m finished, I feel lighter, euphoric—as if I’ve cast off a heavy burden I’d been carrying—but sick too, as if I’ve gorged on poisonous fruit.

  Barrett doesn’t speak, and his expression doesn’t change. The distance between us is greater, not less. My sick feeling worsens. “What are you going to do now?”

  “I’ll tell Inspector Reid what you told me. He’ll take it from there.” Barrett’s aloof manner says he hasn’t forgiven me. “You and Hugh and Mick had better go home before Reid catches you hanging around here.” He starts to walk back toward the mansion.

  We can’t part like this. I’m afraid but also angry. After I’ve betrayed Sir Gerald’s trust, broken my own word, and jeopardized my friendship with Hugh, Barrett is brushing me off. “Wait! I told you everything. Why are you still mad?”

  Barrett turns on me, his eyes so full of revulsion that I let go of him and step backward. “‘Everything?’” He shakes his head. “I think there’s a lot you left out.”

  Guilt roils my stomach because he’s right. I feign innocence. “What else could there be?”

  “Let’s start with why you went back to the dinosaur park the day after you spied on Noel Vaughn and Ethel Norris.”

  I can’t tell Barrett that I went to look for my father. He would have to tell Inspector Reid, and Reid would launch a manhunt for Benjamin Bain, who is not only the fugitive prime suspect in Ellen Casey’s murder but a possible witness to the dinosaur park murders and the collection of Robin Mariner’s ransom.

  “I went back to photograph the dinosaur models.”

 
Scorn twists Barrett’s mouth; he doesn’t believe me. “How did you and Hugh get Sir Gerald to hire you?”

  “Hugh’s father knows Sir Gerald. He introduced us.” That, at least, is the truth.

  “And Sir Gerald just up and decided to hire two amateur detectives with no credentials?”

  It sounds preposterous, but I say, “Yes.” I can’t tell Barrett about the photograph of my father. And now I become aware of another, more personal reason that’s holding my tongue: Barrett has been a policeman much longer than he’s been my lover, and he might think I’m contaminated by my father’s crimes—spoiled goods, unworthy of his respect or affection.

  The skepticism in Barrett’s gaze turns to disappointment laced with pain. “Oh, Sarah.”

  He gave me a chance to make matters right between us. I lied, and he knows it. But I couldn’t have done otherwise. Twisting my hands, with my stomach churning and a craven, beseeching smile on my face, I wait for his response.

  “I can’t do this anymore.” Barrett’s voice wobbles. “I love you, but I can’t trust you, and I can’t be with somebody I can’t trust.”

  Alarm seizes my heart. I move toward Barrett, arms outstretched. “Please don’t do this!”

  The resolve in his expression halts me. “It’s over, Sarah.”

  My pride demands that I accept his decision with dignity, but my anguish is so great that I can’t stifle my sobs. Now that I’ve finally lost him, I realize how much I love him—much more than I ever thought.

  Barrett regards me with a mixture of pity and resentment. “Why are you so upset? You never really wanted to marry me. You could’ve been honest about that, if nothing else.”

  Then he’s gone.

  21

  I want to lie down on the ground amid the daffodils and hyacinths, bury my face in the cool grass, and mourn. My fear that every man I love will abandon me is reality. Because I dared to search for my father, he’s more lost to me than ever, my memory of him tainted by what I’ve learned about his past. And my own recklessness and dishonesty have driven Barrett away.