by Robin Paige
“This Mr. Mathers,” Kate said. “He is the one you mentioned yesterday? The man who established the temple in Paris?”
“Yes,” Aunt Sabrina said. “The Ahathoor Temple. Mathers is a—” She returned to her chair and sat down, her brows pulled together. “I don’t mean to be uncharitable,” she said reluctantly, “but I must confess to disliking the man. He is arrogant and conceited, quite pretentious about his magical knowledge. And always in need of funds. He sponged on Dr. Westcott for some years, and now Annie Horniman virtually supports him and his wife, Moina, in Paris.” She made an exasperated gesture. “But to give the devil his due, the man is an excellent ritualist. He expanded the materials in the cipher documents to create the initiation rites for the Order.”
Kate was thoughtful. There were so many frauds about—the Order of the Golden Dawn would need unimpeachable credentials. “The authority you mentioned,” she asked. “Where did it come from?”
“From a certain Fräulein Anna Sprengel, a chief of a German Rosicrucian order called Die Golden Dämmerung. Dr. Westcott found her name and address in the cipher document and wrote to her. She wrote back, authorizing him to establish a London temple. He called it the Isis-Urania Temple, and invited Mathers to join him as co-chief. Fräulein Sprengel and Dr. Westcott exchanged several letters, until he received the news that she was dead.”
“There are other temples beside those in London and Colchester?”
“Five, altogether,” Aunt Sabrina said. “And several hundred members. But we do not have a reliable membership roster. That will be your first task, Kathryn. You will write to each of the temples and ask them to send a correct list of their members. When you are finished, I will ask you to sort and organize the rather disordered mass of papers that Dr. Westcott had accumulated, which now reside in the boxes under your worktable. When that is done, I would like you to copy the cipher manuscript for one of our members, Willie Yeats, an Irish poet, who wishes to make a study of it. You will enjoy meeting him, I think. He has a deep interest in the tarot, which is used quite frequently in our rituals.”
“The tarot?”
“The tarot cards are esoteric cards derived from an ancient Egyptian magical system. Those we use have been drawn by Moina Mathers from her husband’s design. Each card represents a particular psychic state, a sort of station along an allegorical journey toward higher spiritual knowledge. As such, the deck serves as a kind of Bible for the Order.”
“Ah,” Kate said thoughtfully. Beryl Bardwell was becoming quite interested. “I would like to see the cards, when it’s convenient.”
Aunt Sabrina shook her head. “I’m afraid you can’t see the cards, Kathryn. The privilege is open only to members.”
“I see,” Kate said. Then, being a person who acted upon the impulse of the moment, she added decidedly, “Well, then, I must become a member.” It was not so much that she wanted to join a magical society—Kate was naturally skeptical, and although she respected her aunt’s occult interests, she was doubtful about mystical orders in general. But the story Beryl Bardwell was writing featured the beautiful medium Mrs. Bartlett, who might be expected to understand and use such things as tarot cards. If becoming a member of an occult society would give Beryl Bardwell ready access to a magician or two who might serve as models, Kate was more than ready.
Aunt Sabrina gave her a searching look. “Are you quite sure you want to join? You’re not just seeking to please me?”
“I’m seeking to please myself,” Kate assured her. “Is it difficult to become a member?”
Aunt Sabrina smiled. “Not at all. In fact, your joining would make our work much more enjoyable, and I would feel more at ease in sharing the material. But I suggest that you attend a gathering or two before you make up your mind. The next one is on Saturday afternoon. Several members from London will be there, as well as a few visitors. It is said that Oscar Wilde will come—he is an admirer of Mrs. Farnsworth, and his wife, Constance, formerly belonged to the London temple. He is to bring a man of his acquaintance, Doyle, I believe. The writer of those detective mysteries that have become so popular.”
Kate’s heart leaped up. Oscar Wilde was chiefly a literary curiosity—at least, that’s how American papers portrayed him. But Conan Doyle! Perhaps she could speak to him and find out why he had allowed Professor Moriarty to fling Sherlock Holmes into the abyss, thereby bringing the series to an untimely end. If the successful Holmes had been Beryl Bardwell’s character, she would not have killed him!
19
“Is there, in human-form, that bears a heart—A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny’s unsuspecting youth?”
—ROBERT BURNS “The Cotter’s Saturday Night”
Kate was at the typewriter that afternoon when her work was interrupted by Amelia.
“Yer wanted in the drawin’ room, miss,” she said.
Kate looked up, frowning. She had just finished her aunt’s work for the day and settled down to Beryl Bardwell’s latest chapter. She did not wish to leave it, for she was trying to extricate her heroine from a particularly perilous situation. “Thank you, Amelia,” she said, “but I would rather—”
“There’s callers, miss,” Amelia said flatly, and withdrew.
Kate, resigned, tidied her russet hair into a semblance of neatness and smoothed the dark gray serge skirt she wore to work in. Her gray cotton shirtwaist was badly rumpled and one white cuff was ink-stained. Well, that was just too bad, she thought defiantly, collecting her papers and hiding them in the desk. Whoever had interrupted her writing time would simply have to take her as she was, dressed for work rather than attired for afternoon callers.
Kate wasn’t entirely surprised when she saw that one of the visitors was Eleanor Marsden, attractive and vivacious in china-blue silk. She was, however, a little nonplussed when Sir Charles Sheridan stood and bowed.
“Miss Ardleigh,” he said.
Kate felt herself reddening under his inquisitive glance. “Sir Charles,” she murmured, immediately conscious of her soiled cuffs and workaday costume. She sat down, remembering his dry amusement at her walking suit the day before and wondering if he thought that she was in the habit of wearing unladylike dress. She hoped he would not mention encountering her in Sir Archibald’s field tent, for across the room, Aunt Jaggers was scowling over her cup of tea. It would not be easy to explain why she had gone to the excavation without implicating Aunt Sabrina.
Eleanor’s eyes widened slightly when she took in Kate’s appearance, but she leaned forward. “My dear Kathryn!” she exclaimed. “How good it is to see you again!” Her cuffs were elegant with lace, and a blue straw hat, jauntily beribboned, perched on the back of her head. Dainty blue boots peeped out from beneath her skirt.
Kate smiled. “I’m glad you came,” she said with genuine warmth. “I had hoped to see you again before very long.” She looked curiously at Sir Charles. Some devil stirred in her and she said, lightly, “Did you come to inquire after the bats, Sir Charles? I understand the ruins are quite full of them.” Aunt Sabrina had told her about the remains of the old keep across the little lake at the foot of the lawn. She planned to go there as soon as she could.
At the mention of bats, Aunt Jaggers made a sputtering noise. Sir Charles looked regretful. “I’m afraid that Miss Marsden would not permit such an excursion today,” he said. “But I certainly hope to make a later investigation. The bat in question is quite a wonderful—”
“Sir Charles!” Eleanor admonished, tapping his wrist. She turned to Kate. “Really, Kathryn, you mustn’t encourage him.”
Aunt Sabrina sat back in her chair, chuckling. “And how is your mother, Miss Marsden?”
“Quite well,” Eleanor said, “although simply maddened with wedding plans. There is so much to do.” She smiled. “She asked me to inquire whether you plan to invite the G.F.S. to hold their annual tea at Bishop’s Keep this year.”
Aunt Sabrina nodded
. “Tell Lady Marsden that I have already informed the vicar that I would be glad for the Society to come. But he has not yet fixed upon a day.”
Aunt Jaggers narrowed her eyes. She seemed about to say something, but Kate spoke first. “The G.F.S.?” she asked. “Is that some sort of organization?”
Eleanor giggled. “The group is often referred to as the God-Forsaken Spinsters,” she said. Amelia’s back, turned to Kate, seemed to stiffen.
Kate glanced from Eleanor to Amelia and frowned. “How old must one be to belong to this group?” she asked innocently. Sir Charles cleared his throat, and she caught his glance. His lips were twitching and his brown eyes were wryly amused.
But Eleanor was not amused. “Oh, not you, my dear Kathryn!” she exclaimed, brows arched in horror. “You could never—”
“Perhaps I’m too old,” Kate persisted. Sir Charles began to cough into his napkin.
Aunt Sabrina laughed. “The Girls’ Friendly Society,” she told Kate, “is an association of young women in service. Its annual tea is arranged by the vicar and sponsored by several of the ladies of the parish. Many of our girls are away from home for the first time, you see, and—”
“And at loose ends,” Aunt Jaggers put in. “They should do better to stay in their places and work, rather than gallivanting about, footloose, in gowns and gloves.”
Teasing forgotten, Kate spoke up in protest. “But surely the servants are permitted to do as they like with their half days, Aunt.”
“I hardly imagine, Niece,” Aunt Jaggers remarked icily, “that you are sufficiently acquainted with the servant class to have formed a valid opinion.”
Kate bit her tongue. Aunt Sabrina moved in her chair but said nothing. The uncomfortable silence was broken by Mudd’s murmured direction to Amelia to replenish the tray of tea cakes.
Across from Kate, Sir Charles sipped his tea. His glance met hers over the rim of the cup, and she was startled to find it appreciative. He put down his cup and inquired, “Are you enjoying the autumn countryside, Miss Ardleigh? I can recommend the mill and the locks at Flatford, on the Stour. It is not a long walk from here, and quite picturesque.”
“I’m afraid I have been much too busy with my work to gallivant about the countryside,” Kate said. She glanced at Aunt Jaggers. The devil spoke. “With or without gloves.”
Aunt Jaggers snorted. Aunt Sabrina looked distressed. “How inconsiderate of me, Kathryn,” she said. “Really, you must take some time off, if only to see the ruins. You are working much too hard.”
Eleanor’s cup rattled. “Working?” she asked, staring at Kate. “Why, Kathryn, whatever are you doing?”
“I have come to Bishop’s Keep to serve as my aunt’s secretary,” Kate said. She displayed her inky cuff ruefully. “As you see, it can be quite a messy business.”
Eleanor’s cornflower-blue eyes widened. “Your aunt’s ... secretary? But I thought you were ... I mean, I had hoped we could be ...”
Kate lifted her chin. Eleanor’s voice trailed off before she finished her sentence, but her meaning was clear. She had thought that Kate was a member of the leisure class, just as she was, and that therefore they could be friends. Kate felt a sharp disappointment. But she should not blame Eleanor, who could hardly help being brought up to despise honest work, and to think of it as something done only by her inferiors. She was the one who was at fault. She should never have allowed Eleanor to think that she was something other than what she was.
“I’m sorry if I deceived you, Eleanor,” she said quietly. “I did not come to Bishop’s Keep to be a lady of leisure.” She hesitated, hoping that there might still be a chance for a friendship. “But if you were about to suggest that we go for a walk or a short drive some afternoon, I am sure that Aunt Sabrina would be glad to let me take an hour.”
“Certainly,” Aunt Sabrina said warmly. “I am only sorry I did not think to suggest it myself. I—”
“Excuse me, mum.” The door had opened to admit Amelia, hesitant, and without the tea cakes. “There’s someone t’see yer, mum, but I misdoubt that—”
“Stop blathering and show them in,” Aunt Jaggers snapped.
Amelia frowned uncertainly. “But he’s a constable, mum.”
Aunt Jaggers’s face grew dark. “Then send him to the kitchen.”
Aunt Sabrina intervened. “Did he say what his errand was, Amelia?”
Amelia’s head bobbed. “He said ’twas news, mum. Important news.”
“Then show him in, please,” Aunt Sabrina said.
In a moment Amelia reappeared. With her was a portly man, balding, with a pockmarked face. His navy serge uniform was grimy, his boots sheened with dust. He held a tall hat under one arm and a newspaper-wrapped parcel under the other. He looked uncertainly from one person to the other, as if unsure whom to address.
Aunt Sabrina relieved him of his uncertainty. “Good day, sir,” she said. “I believe you have news, Constable—”
“Clay, mum,” the man said, stepping forward. “From Chelmsford.” Kate recognized the name of a town that the train had passed through, about thirty miles from London. “I’m some sorry t‘intrude, mum, but I’ve brought somethin’ t’was left f‘r yer. I was on me way t’ Dedham, y’see, an’ thought it best t’ bring it t’yer, rather than send it by post, seein’ what it was.”
“Something left for me?” Aunt Sabrina frowned. “How odd. I know no one in Chelmsford.”
The constable shifted his bulk. “T‘be sure, mum,” he mumbled. “But happen that th’ girl bin an’ died yesternight ’n th’ workhouse, y’see, an’ she left—”
“The girl?” Aunt Sabrina spoke sharply. “What girl?”
The constable frowned. He managed to secure his hat under the same arm that held the parcel, and fished in his pocket, pulling out a soiled scrap of paper. “Name o’ Jenny, ’twere,” he said, reading from it. “Jenny Blyly.”
Suddenly there was a piercing shriek, the cry of a soul in torment. All eyes in the room went to Amelia.
“Not Jenny!” she cried. “Dear God, not Jenny!”
Cook stood in the kitchen, staring down at the opened parcel on the table. “An’ how’d she die?” she asked, her voice a brittle thread.
The constable lifted the mug of hot tea Nettie had given him. “In th’ workhouse,” he said. He looked up. “Th’ babe died afore her.”
Amelia’s muffled sobbing could be heard from the corner by the fire. Harriet was huddled beside her knee, trying to comfort her. Pocket stood an uneasy distance away, his face working. Mudd sat at the other end of the table, head bowed.
Cook lifted the ragged dress from the table. That and the green knitted shawl and the worn shoes were all that was in the parcel. “Nothin’ else?” she asked the constable. “I’m her aunt. I’m who has t’ tell her pore mother how she ended.”
He countered her question with one of his own. “D’you know some un called Tom Potter?”
Amelia’s sobbing grew louder. “I do,” Cook said shortly. “Why?”
“T‘was a note fer him in th’ pocket o’ th’ dress,” the constable said. He fished in his trousers. “Here ’tis.”
Cook took the crumpled bit of paper from his hand. “I’ll see’t he gits it,” she said.
The constable had been gone several minutes before Cook roused herself to smooth out the note. She went to the lamp and held it up so that the poorly penciled script was illuminated by the golden light. Finally, she turned and spoke into the silence.
“Nettie,” she said, “fetch me shawl. I’ve an errand.”
Nettie’s mouth made a round O. “But there’s the dinner!” she said. “Mrs. Jaggers’ll—”
“Jaggers kin go t’ bloody hell,” Cook said fiercely. “That’s where the Lord sends the murderers of pore babes and young girls!”
Mudd lifted his head and spoke. “An’ if th’ Lord don’t dispatch ’er quick,” he said through clenched teeth, “I will.”
From the doorway, there was a stifled gasp
. Cook looked up to see the startled face of the young Miss Ardleigh.
Aunt Sabrina was not eager to talk about what had happened, but Kate managed to wring a little information out of her that evening, after they finished the cold supper that Nettie and Harriet scraped together in the unexplained absence of Cook. Jenny Blyly, barely nineteen, had been Amelia’s predecessor. She had disappeared six months before under circumstances that Aunt Sabrina would not divulge but which seemed to involve Aunt Jaggers. In fact, having heard what she had in the kitchen, it was clear to Kate that the servants blamed Aunt Jaggers for Jenny’s disappearance and her death.
But even though Aunt Sabrina would not discuss the details of Jenny’s story, its sad outline was not hard for Kate to reconstruct. The girl must have become pregnant. Aunt Jaggers, discovering the fact, would have heaped recriminations on her head and discharged her on the spot, with no hope of a character. Penniless, despairing, she had found her way to the Chelmsford workhouse, where her newborn baby had died and she shortly after.
Jenny’s tale was the stuff of Beryl Bardwell’s novels, and under other circumstances, Kate might have pursued the details with a writer’s interested curiosity. But echoing in her mind was Amelia’s tortured cry and Cook’s impassioned consignment of Aunt Jaggers to hell. And when she saw Mudd the next morning, face impassive, eyes hooded, arranging the creamed eggs and kidney on the breakfast sideboard, Kate remembered his ominous threat with a shiver of cold foreboding. She was too practical for presentiment, but even she could not escape the certainty that something dreadful was going to happen at Bishop’s Keep.
20
“The reputation of Scotland Yard was unfortunately sullied by corruption during the latter eighteen-hundreds. One day the superintendent met a stranger who resembled a former Yard official. ‘Were you not on our staff?’ he inquired. To which the stranger replied, ‘No, thank God, I have never sunk that low.’ ”