by Robin Paige
Doyle thrust his hands in his pockets. “Chap’s dead,” he said. “Let him rest.”
“But why?” Kate persisted. “If one of my characters were to win such a fervent following, I do not believe I would dare to—”
Doyle’s half smile was patronizing. “My dear young lady, I doubt you can understand the situation, not being an author.”
“But I—” Kate checked herself on the brink of betraying Beryl Bardwell. “Perhaps you are right.”
“The truth is that I am no longer interested in detective stories,” Doyle remarked with a self-important air. “My aim is to write serious books. Micah Clarke is one such effort. Have you read it?”
“I must confess that I have not,” Kate said.
“An admirable work, my dear Doyle,” Wilde put in lazily, “if somewhat wearying. Still, one rather does enjoy robust adventure—when someone else does the adventuring.”
“Holmes gets in the way of my other writing, y’see,” Doyle said to Kate, ignoring Wilde. “And my psychic research, which is most interesting to me.” He looked around. “Which of course is why I am here.”
“Ghost-hunting,” Yeats said with some scorn.
“My dear man,” Doyle replied, raising his chin, “that is not an attribute one applies to the Society for Psychical Research.”
Kate regarded him with interest. “But why can you not write both serious literature and detective stories?” she asked. “Surely the two are not exclusive.”
Doyle spoke as if he were speaking to a child. “My dear young lady, you clearly do not understand the labors of authorship. The difficulty is that each short story needs as clear-cut and original a plot as a longish book would do.” He frowned. “At any rate, Holmes is dead. Even if I wanted to bring the fellow back to life, I could not. He lies at the bottom of a vast precipice.”
“But Sherlock Holmes can hardly remain dead,” Kate objected pertly. “Your readers will not allow it. And I think it would not be difficult to call him from the vasty deep, sir.”
Wilde’s full lips curved slightly upward. “Ah, but will he come when you do call for him? That, dear Doyle, is the question.”
“He will come,” Kate said, “if you call in the right way. He should reappear in some interesting disguise, I think, so that the manner of his reappearance distracts attention from the fact of it. He should then explain to Dr. Watson that he sent Professor Moriarty into the dreadful chasm in his stead, perhaps with some sleight of hand, such as baritsu.”
“Baritsu?” Doyle asked doubtfully.
“A form of Japanese wrestling,” Kate said.
Mr. Yeats smiled. “The lady is ingenious, Doyle.”
Doyle pulled his brows together. “You are forgetting the tracks,” he said. “In ‘The Final Problem’ Dr. Watson observed that two persons went down the path and none returned.”
Kate raised her brows. “I imagine that a man of Mr. Holmes’s resourcefulness could scale a cliff or two. I also imagine that he might go into hiding to escape the Professor’s confederates, while entrusting to his brother Mycroft the maintenance of his Baker Street lodgings. That would explain his absence from London and his failure to communicate with Dr. Watson.”
Wilde’s puffy-lidded eyes were amused. “As Holmes would say, my dear Doyle, ‘The impression of a woman may be more valuable than the conclusion of an analytic reasoner.’ ” He pursed his lips. “There you have it, dear sir. The plot, trotted out in toto—or is it en tutu?” Ignoring Willie Yeats’s groan, he added, “What do you say, Doyle, to Miss Ardleigh’s spirited resurrection of Sherlock Holmes?”
Doyle shook his head, stubbornly beetle-browed. “Fellow’s dead and dead he stays. I shan’t have him bullying me for the rest of my days.”
Wilde leaned toward Kate and lowered his voice confidentially. “I perceive, Miss Ardleigh, that we have hit upon our friend’s sore spot. Like Frankenstein, he has created in Holmes a being with eternal life. Like Frankenstein, he cannot be rid of the monster. Such a fate is truly something to fear.”
“Don’t see what you’re getting at,” Doyle said. He looked around, scowling. “When’s the séance?”
“Ah, yes,” Wilde said. He turned to Mrs. Farnsworth, who had just come up. “I told him there was bound to be table rapping, Florence. When do we begin?”
“I am sorry, gentlemen,” Mrs. Farnsworth said, “but there is to be no seance this afternoon.”
“No séance!” Doyle protested.
Mrs. Farnsworth smiled. “If I had known that’s what you wanted, Mr. Doyle, we could have arranged something.” Her smile became playful. “But spirits certainly abound here. They may communicate with you if you make your willingness known. Do be on the lookout.”
“Oh, I shall,” Doyle said with enormous seriousness. “I shall indeed. No spirit shall get by me!”
Kate was suddenly seized with the urge to laugh.
24
Errors, like feathers, on the surface flow;
She who would find the truth must dive below.
—AFTER CHARLES DRYDEN, All for Love
With a murmured excuse to Aunt Sabrina and the others, Kate left the group and looked around, wondering suddenly why everyone had come. If Beryl Bardwell had expected to witness magical rites or meet unconventional people, she was disappointed, for the men and women crowding the rooms, with the exception of Mrs. Farnsworth and the effete Oscar Wilde, were quite ordinary in their dress and demeanor. The only interesting thing about them, she realized suddenly, was that most of the men wore a cluster of blue feathers in their buttonholes, while the women wore some item of exotic feather jewelry—feathery earrings, a brooch, a pendant.
She looked around her, trying not to stare. What was the significance of all these feathers? Was the feather she had discovered in the seat of the chaise connected to the feathers in this room? Or was it all simply some vast coincidence?
Kate ventured into the dining room, where an elaborate tea was laid out on the sideboard. She put a cucumber sandwich on a china plate, allowed a maid to draw a cup of tea from a large silver urn, and went to stand behind a leafy thicket of potted bamboo, where she could watch and form an opinion without being observed. Over the next few minutes, she counted no fewer than nine men arrive at the table wearing blue feather boutonnieres in their lapels.
She was distracted from her observations by Mrs. Farns-worth, who appeared at the table with a well-fed gentleman with neatly trimmed gray side-whiskers. Above the whiskers, his cheeks were a mottled red, and his gray brows were drawn together in a scowl. The two of them stood together on the other side of the bamboo, talking intently, so deeply engrossed in what they were saying that they paid little attention to their surroundings. Kate, feeling as invisible as one of the servants, moved a step closer.
“Damned charlatan,” the gentleman exploded furiously. “How can he behave with such unfraternal ingratitude?” He hunched his shoulders inside his frock coat, and his mouth twisted. “I have been completely misled.”
The cords of Mrs. Farnsworth’s neck tightened, but when she spoke her voice was soft, her touch on the gentleman’s arm delicate. “My dear Wynn, I do understand your dismay. But you must not allow Mathers’s churlish behavior to distress you. I am sure that his accusations—”
“Are utterly unfounded!” the man exclaimed. “Reckless, baseless, unsubstantiated! And I shall prove it.” His voice rose and his side-whiskers trembled with passion. “I shall prove it, in open court, if need be! I have documents attesting to the antiquity of the manuscripts. A letter from Woodford, an affidavit from the German translator—”
Mrs. Farnsworth made a small mouth. “But if you so openly answer the man’s effrontery, do you not also open our Order to public challenge? That, I fear,” she added with light reproach, “would be a disaster.”
Mrs. Farnsworth’s reproof was casual and the toss of her head perfectly artless. But Kate heard the artful modulations in her tone, and saw that her glance spoke even more subtly. Th
e woman was a skilled actress. And there was a great deal of passion concealed by her art.
The gentleman pulled himself up. “But it will be a disaster if he makes this challenge public and I do not answer him!”
“Then we must do all in our power to keep the wretched man from making the challenge public,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. Her tone was silken, but there was a barely definable edge. “If the confidence of the members is shaken, or the reputation of the Order tarnished in the eyes of others, we could all be ruined. There will be no public display.” Kate had not the least idea what she meant, but the man appeared to understand and, reluctantly, to agree.
“Ah, very well,” he said disgustedly. His face was flushed with anger and his neck bulged over his stiff wing collar. “I will agree to say nothing—at this time.” He raised his voice slightly. “But I cannot promise for the future, Florence. I have my honor to consider, and my good name. If that miscreant Mathers continues to make unprincipled charges against me—”
“My dear, dear Wynn,” Mrs. Farnsworth said with easy affection, “that is all I ask. A few weeks’ reprieve, while I shepherd our fledgling group here in Colchester through its delicate formative phase. Our new temple will be consecrated shortly, and then you may have it out with Mathers and end his absurd challenge to Fräulein Sprengle’s warrant and your authority.” She stopped and looked up at the man. Her voice held a brittleness so slight it was almost indiscernible. “I believe you understand me.”
The man puffed out his cheeks. “I do, my dear. Yes, of course I do. I certainly do. And I am prepared at any moment to defend—”
“Thank you.” Mrs. Farnsworth smiled lightly, but there was a shadow in her eyes. “And where are the papers in question?”
A slight frown crossed the gentleman’s florid face. “The papers? They were left with the other historical documents.”
Mrs. Farnsworth’s remarkably mobile face darkened into a frown. “Is that not ... dangerous?”
The man made a harrumphing sound. “I hardly think so. Their significance is not apparent to—”
“You are quite right,” Mrs. Farnsworth said, half to herself. “Their significance would only be apparent under the most expert examination, and that they will not receive.” She reached up to touch his cheek with the tip of one finger. It was the lightest touch and hardly indiscreet, but it revealed a long-standing intimacy. The man impulsively caught her hand and kissed it.
“Thank you, my dear,” he said fervently. “You have ever been the genius of my better self.”
“Yes,” she said. The man moved away into the crowd, leaving Mrs. Farnsworth standing alone, lost in thought. After a moment she seemed to recollect herself and stepped to the other side of the table, where she smilingly engaged in conversation with Vicar Barfield Talbot, whom Kate had been expecting to see. The vicar, too, was wearing a cluster of blue feathers. Kate waited her chance to slip unobserved out from behind the palm, only to bump immediately into Aunt Sabrina.
“Ah, here you are, Kathryn,” Aunt Sabrina said. She looked around at the table, heavily laden with silver trays of olives ranked like fish scales, radishes arranged like the rays of the sun, and anchovies interlaced, basket-style, in an elaborate display. There were fine plates piled with meringues, jellies, and crystallized fruits, and the whole was centered with an elegant trifle. “Is this not a fine repast?” She picked up a small plate and began to help herself. “Oh, look—mushrooms, stuffed! I never miss a chance to eat mushrooms in any form.”
At that moment, the vicar said an affectionate farewell to Mrs. Farnsworth and came toward them. “Good afternoon, my dear Miss Ardleigh,” he said to Aunt Sabrina.
“My dear Vicar,” Aunt Sabrina said warmly. She looped her arm through his and drew him closer. “And of course you know our proposed Neophyte, my niece Kathryn.”
“Ah, Miss Ardleigh,” the old man said. His bow was gallant. “I am glad to learn that you wish to join our Order, my dear. I applauded your aunt’s wish to be reunited with you and to use your skills to our advantage, but I admit to feeling much more comfortable that the Order’s historical material is in the hands of members. The Golden Dawn is an esoteric society, and its rituals must be guarded from the eyes of the world.”
“Of course,” Kate murmured, although she hadn’t happened upon anything so far that the eyes of the world couldn’t see. She wondered whether the Order’s much-vaunted secrecy might be a smoke screen that concealed its lack of substance.
“Do you have any questions I might answer, my dear?” the vicar inquired.
“Yes,” Kate said promptly. “Please tell me about the blue feathers you and the others are wearing. What is their significance?”
“Ah, yes, the feathers,” the vicar said, touching his own feather cluster with a finger. “Our new temple has adopted the peacock as an emblem.”
Of course! Kate had never seen a peacock feather, but she had read of the bird.
“For centuries,” the vicar was saying, “the bird has represented immortality. The eyes depicted on its splendid tail feathers suggest the supernatural ability to see deeply into the spirit. And, of course, that is what we of the Golden Dawn are about. Seeing deeply into our hearts, in search of our souls.”
“I see,” Kate said thoughtfully, wondering to herself whether she should convey this information to Sir Charles or keep it to herself.
Aunt Sabrina put her arm around Kate’s shoulders. “You must come and be introduced, Kathryn. Annie Horniman wants to meet you, and Rachel Cracknell. And of course, our dear Dr. Westcott, the founder of our Order, for whom we all have such deep affection and respect.” She smiled at the vicar. “If you will excuse us, Barfield.”
“By all means,” the vicar said, bowing. His eyes held a special warmth as he looked at Aunt Sabrina. “It is always good to see you once again, Sabrina. Soon, perhaps?”
“Indeed,” Aunt Sabrina murmured, and took Kate’s elbow.
After several other introductions and polite social conversation, Aunt Sabrina steered Kate toward a corner. “Dr. Westcott,” she whispered in Kate’s ear.
To Kate’s surprise, Dr. Westcott proved to be the same man who had spoken so heatedly with Mrs. Farnsworth. But the mottled red had faded from his cheeks, and he smiled graciously when Aunt Sabrina introduced them.
“Welcome to our Order, Miss Ardleigh.” His words were resonant, his sentences fully rounded.
“Kathryn is assisting me with our history,” Aunt Sabrina put in. “She has an interest in ritual magic.”
Dr. Westcott’s look became stern. “You understand, I trust, that our magical practices are not parlor amusements. They are handed down from the ancients through a long line of individuals—priests—who communicate the sacred teaching to those who are willing to accept its esoteric discipline.” He lifted his hand, as if in blessing, and his voice took on an even richer timbre. “This sacred work enables us to raise ourselves to an understanding of our inner truth, our unerring and divine genius.”
Kate inclined her head, feeling almost obliged to say “Amen.” She couldn’t help wondering how Dr. Westcott’s unerring and divine genius had allowed him to be misled by the miscreant Mathers.
And what, if anything, the Order’s emblem had to do with the broken blue feather she had found in the carriage that had borne a man to his death.
25
“ ‘And yet you’ve gay gauntlets and blue feathers three!—’ ‘Yes: that’s what we wear when we’re ruined,’ said he.”
—AFTER THOMAS HARDY, The Ruined Maid
Given the inspector’s chilly reception of his first two pieces of evidence, the feather and the fingerprint, Charles had not thought it helpful to mention the third: the name of the street for which Monsieur Armand had been bound. And since it did not seem likely that Wainwright would release either Sergeant Battle or PC Trabb to make inquiry in Queen Street, he decided to do it himself. On Monday morning he borrowed Bradford’s saddle horse and rode to Colchester through a ch
illy gray drizzle. He left his horse at Taylor’s Livery Stable and asked directions of a vendor of hot pies. Having purchased a fragrant, crusty pork pie, he ate it with relish as he walked.
Queen Street proved to be a residential street a stone’s throw from the old castle. Chimney pots poured sooty smoke over roofs of gray slate that rose steeply above the narrow three- and four-story houses, closely spaced to conserve land. Charles noted with disapproval that here, as in the new suburbs of London, the roof lines of the ill-proportioned brick houses were interrupted at irregular intervals by gables, turrets, battlements, and dormers, so many and so varied that they confused the eye. The houses fronted directly on the street, so that there was not even the relief of a square of grass fenced by a few sprigs of privet.
Having arrived at his destination, Charles opened his portfolio and took out a photograph of the dead man. He looked once over his shoulder to ascertain that Miss Ardleigh was not following after him; then he climbed the first stoop and rang the bell. His summons was answered by a stiff-backed parlor maid with a long face, a trace of dark mustache over her upper lip, and the saddest eyes he had ever seen.
“Good day, miss,” Charles said, raising his brown felt hat. “I am making inquiries for the police about—”
“Tradesman’s entrance round back,” the maid said. She gave his canvas coat a scornful glance and shut the door.
Charles frowned with irritation. His hand was poised to ring again, but he thought better of it. He would return later, and trust that a more receptive person might answer his knock. He went back down the stoop, out to the sidewalk, and up the stairs of the next house. This door was opened by a butler with a brilliant red nose. Taking no chances, Charles swiftly inserted his foot in the opening.
“I represent the police,” he said, “in an inquiry of great importance.” He held up the photograph. “This man is said to have visited a house on this street. Have you seen him?”