by Robin Paige
Murdstone turned around. “Sir Charles Sheridan,” he said, with a careless wave of his hand. “Mrs. Murdstone. Sir Charles is inquiring about the affair last week, m‘dear. Over at Florence-what’s-her-namevs—”
“Florence Farnsworth,” Mrs. Murdstone said peevishly. She had at least three chins, receding one after the other like foothills into her mountainous bosom. “Why you can’t manage a simple name—” The poodle made a quick sally in Charles’s direction and was pulled back. She retreated sulkily behind her mistress’s full skirts.
“Ah, yes, Farnsworth,” Murdstone said, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Farns-worth,” he repeated to himself, as if trying to memorize it.
Charles frowned slightly, remembering that Miss Ardleigh had also directed him to Mrs. Farnsworth, and his suspicion of yesterday that there was some connection between her and the dead man. What did she know? How did she come by her information? She had appeared to recognize something about Monsieur Armand’s photograph—how was that possible? Had she seen him, spoken to him, perhaps in London, before she came down to Bishop’s Keep? If that were true, Miss Ardleigh was almost certainly other than she seemed.
But those questions, however compellingly they were beginning to prod him, had to be postponed for the moment. “I would like to learn more about the Order,” Charles said.
Mrs. Murdstone turned to Charles and her manner changed. “Are you interested in becoming a member, Sir Charles?” she inquired ingratiatingly.
Charles bowed slightly. “One does not wish to commit oneself on a matter of such importance without some previous intelligence of the group. What can you tell me of it?”
Mrs. Murdstone’s plump face took on a mysterious look and she lowered her voice. “Only that if you are interested in the occult, sir, I daresay you will find it a most fascinating group. I cannot speak further without revealing important secrets, you understand—”
Mr. Murdstone shaped “flummery” with his lips, but did not speak the word.
“Of course,” Charles murmured. “I would not for the world ask you to violate a sacred trust.”
“The Society’s charter was obtained from a very ancient Society in Germany,” Mrs. Murdstone continued. “Unlike the sham societies one sees so much of these days, it enjoys an entirely legitimate lineage, with roots going back to the Rosicrucians and even to the magicians of Egypt. Its authority is transmitted through our respected chief, Dr. William Westcott, whom all the world knows as a man to be admired and trusted. Our temple is named the—” But here she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Forgive me, sir, I go too far,” she said coyly, through pudgy fingers, heavily ringed. “It is permitted to speak the name of our temple only to initiates.”
“To be sure,” Charles said. “Mrs. Famsworth—would the lady live in Keenan Street?”
“Indeed,” Mrs. Murdstone said helpfully, “Number Seven. Some two years ago, she left a distinguished career on the London stage to marry Mr. Farnsworth, a gentleman who made his fortune in railroads. Unfortunately, she was left a widow shortly after their wedding, and has now taken on the task of establishing and organizing our temple—a rather difficult task, if I may say, requiring a great investment of her time and personal attention.” She paused and gave Charles a benevolent glance. “If you require introduction, you may say that Mrs. Murdstone recommends you to her as a Seeker after Truth.”
“I most certainly shall,” Charles said, bowing low. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Murdstone.” He inclined his head toward her husband. “And yours, Mr. Murdstone.”
“Glad t‘oblige, sir, glad t’oblige,” Murdstone said heartily, and Charles took his leave. As he retrieved his hat from the maid at the front door, he could hear Precious’s yapping bark and Mrs. Murdstone, scolding sharply. The smell of onions followed him out of the house.
The houses in Keenan Street were as undistinguished as those in Queen, built of brick, high, with only a modest frontage. Charles raised an eyebrow. Was it possible that Prodger had misunderstood his customer’s accented English? Had Monsieur Armand been in search of Keenan Street, not Queen? Again, a compelling question, but not capable of answer, since the seeker was unfortunately dead.
The stoop of Number Seven, like those of its neighbors, descended directly to the sidewalk without the amenity of hedge or grass. To the right of the stoop was the bow window of the parlor hung with lace curtains and filled with a small forest of fern. There was no evidence of Mr. Famsworth’s railroad fortune, for the door was answered by a maid-of-all-work with a mop in her hand and a churlish frown on her narrow face. She hung Charles’s wet coat and hat on a wooden coat tree, and showed him into the small parlor.
The room was cheaply furnished, but a few exotic touches gave it something of distinction. A plaster statuette of the Egyptian god Seth stood on a pedestal in the corner; several unframed hieroglyphic tomb paintings were prominently placed; and the floor was spread with Turkish carpets of purple and blue, much worn. The furnishings were of Japanese design, and a painted Japanese screen was angled beside the fireplace. Peacock feathers were artfully arranged on the walls. The only evidences of Mrs. Farnsworth’s acting career were the framed playbills that Charles had seen in the entry hallway, where the name Florence Faber was prominently featured.
“Sir Charles Sheridan?”
The woman who came toward him was small and slight, but her features were sharply defined, with a classical balance and a jaw that hinted at a firm will. Charles would not have called her beautiful, but some, no doubt, would have. A gold net bound her softly waved brown hair away from a face that was dominated by large, luminous eyes and a mobile, mercurial mouth. Some time had passed since the loss of her husband and she was no longer in mourning; her pale green dress was loose and flowing with a pre-Raphaelite simplicity, but she did not, Charles thought, have the pre-Raphaelite aura of untouched innocence and wondering naivete. She wore instead the look of a weary Bohemian.
“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Farnsworth,” Charles said, bowing over her hand. “I come at the recommendation of Mrs. Murdstone, who suggests that you can provide me an introduction to the Order of the Golden Dawn.”
“Ah, yes, Mrs. Murdstone,” Mrs. Farnsworth murmured. She waved at a gold velvet settee. “Please, sit down, Sir Charles. Your interest in such matters is—?”
“—is of long standing, ma’am,” Charles said deftly. He parted his coattails and sat down. “As a child I early discovered a great fascination for things beyond the realm of ordinary human knowledge.”
He paused. That was true, although his interest in the unknown lay largely in the sciences of the natural, rather than the supernatural. But the temperament of persons attracted to the occult had long held a scientific interest for him. What was there about the supernatural that fascinated certain people? What sort of people were they? Mrs. Farnsworth, for instance, seemed a woman of the world and not one to be taken in by charlatans. What was the source of her interest? Was it the experience of the occult—some satisfaction she gained in the practice of magical ritual? Or was it the power the practice gave her? Looking at the strong line of her jaw and a certain arrogance in the lift of her chin, he could believe that it was the lure of power that had brought her to the Order. Perhaps the founding of the Colchester temple lent her a certain authority, a certain prestige. Or perhaps the drama of ritual magic had replaced the stage dramas of her acting career.
“You were saying—” Mrs. Farnsworth remarked. Her voice was casual, but her probing glance made Charles feel that he was the object of her critical assessment.
Charles shifted. “Forgive me. I do not want to take up your time with talk about myself. You established the temple here, I believe?”
Mrs. Farnsworth took the light bamboo chair beside the settee. “I did,” she said with simple authority. She leaned back, arranging her arm so that one hand hung gracefully from the arm of the chair, and fixed him with a direct gaze. “But you must understand that I can speak of it only in gene
ral terms. It is, after all, a secret order. One does not expect a Freemason to divulge the sacred rituals of his lodge.”
“Quite so,” Charles said. He paused. “I wonder, though ... Is membership in your Order confined to Colchester?”
Mrs. Farnsworth’s laugh was throaty, amused. “My dear man, how is it that you do not know already of the Golden Dawn? The Order has temples in London, Edinburgh, Bradford, Paris. It is the foremost organization of its kind in the world.”
“Indeed,” Charles said with interest. “In Paris?”
“Mr. MacGregor Mathers has established the Ahathoor Temple there, as well as a school of occult sciences.” A smile softened Mrs. Farnsworth’s lips and she raised her hand in a studiedly playful gesture. “Our little temple in Colchester is but one star in a distinguished galaxy.”
“I do indeed see,” Charles said, “and I am much impressed. Perhaps—”
He left the sentence hanging, placed his portfolio on his knees, and opened it. He might ordinarily have had some compunction about showing the photograph of a dead man to a woman of delicate sensibilities, although he had cropped this one so that it did not reveal the fatal wound. But Mrs. Farnsworth had been an actress, and actresses were women of the world. Such a thing should not shock. He took it out and handed it to her.
“This is a photograph of a man who, I believe, may have been associated with your Order. I wonder what you can tell me about him. The name I know him by,” he added, watching her closely, “is Monsieur Armand. That may not be his real name.”
Mrs. Farnsworth took the photograph and studied it for a few moments, her face revealing nothing. When she handed it back, her glance was casual, her tone devoid of any significance or feeling. “I fear I cannot help you,” she said. “The gentleman is a stranger to me.” She arched expressive brows. “If you are in doubt as to his identity, why not simply ask him?”
“Because,” Charles said, “the man is dead.”
Mrs. Farnsworth shook her head. “A pity,” she murmured. “His death was untimely?”
“He was murdered,” Charles said.
She looked startled. “Why on earth do you bring the photograph of a murdered man to me?”
“Because,” Charles replied carefully, “I understand that he visited a member of your Order.”
Mrs. Farnsworth frowned. “My dear Sir Charles,” she said, “our temple is quite large. Surely you cannot imagine that I am acquainted with the private business dealings of individual members?”
Charles felt rebuked. “Well, I—”
She rose from her chair. “Am I to take it, then,” she said with evident distaste, “that your interest in the Order is connected with your interest in this dead person?”
Charles rose also. “That is correct, ma’am,” he said. “It is of urgent importance that I discover where he spent the last day of his—”
“Then I very much fear that you have wasted your time inquiring here.” She gathered her skirt and turned toward the door. “And now if you will excuse me, I have pressing matters to attend to.” She swept out of the room, leaving behind her the lingering scent of roses and a host of puzzling questions.
29
“It is no use telling me there are good aunts and bad aunts. At the core, they are all alike. Sooner or later, out pops the cloven hoof.”
—P. G. WODEHOUSE The Code of the Woosters
While Charles was on his way to Colchester, Kate was on her way to the library. She had almost finished copying out the cipher manuscript and its transcription for Mr. Yeats. It had been tedious labor, for the crabbed glyphs were written in faded sepia ink and were hard to decipher. The paper on which they were written bore a watermark of 1809—or, rather, some of the sheets did. Others bore no mark at all; curiously, they appeared to be much newer, although the script and ink were the same. And there was a further curiosity: the name and address of the German woman to whom Dr. Westcott had written for authorization of the Order of the Golden Dawn were in the same hand that had produced the cipher. Odd, Kate thought, since the woman had died only recently. Kate mentioned these puzzling facts to Aunt Sabrina, but she seemed unable to shed any light on the matter.
Aunt Sabrina, meanwhile, had been copying out her tarot deck. The precious cards had been designed by MacGregor Mathers in consultation (it was said) with his spirit guide, and hand-drawn by his wife, Moina Mathers. This original deck was loaned to each member in turn, so that a personal copy could be made. The member was required to keep the deck closely guarded and pass it on when he or she had finished copying it.
But Kate was thinking neither about the cipher document nor the Golden Dawn tarot. After what Mrs. Pratt had told her last night, she was filled with a firm determination. She would have a frank talk with Aunt Sabrina. It was too late to help Jenny, but something had to be done to restrain Aunt Jaggers, and Aunt Sabrina was the only person who could do it.
But when Kate came into the library, Aunt Sabrina was not alone. Aunt Jaggers, dressed in her customary rusty black, stood in front of the fire, while Aunt Sabrina, wearing a pale blue morning gown, was sitting at her desk, where she had been copying the cards. From their strained faces and tense postures, it was clear that the two were quarreling.
Sensing that she had stepped into a private and perhaps embarrassing exchange, Kate turned to leave. But Aunt Jaggers caught sight of her.
“What do you think you’re doing, miss?” she cried violently, stamping her foot. “Eavesdropping, like the other servants?”
“Calm yourself, Bernice,” Aunt Sabrina said, rising. “Kathryn was merely—”
“Don’t tell me what she was doing,” Aunt Jaggers snapped, shoulders squared, face wrenched into angry ugliness. “I’ve seen how this girl toadies to you and your foolish sorcery. Before she came, there was at least peace in this household.” She pulled herself up. “Clearly, your experiment is not working. She must go.”
Kate gasped as if a bucket of cold well water had been splashed over her. Go?
“You aren’t serious, Bernice,” Aunt Sabrina said quietly.
“I am very serious,” Aunt Jaggers replied with a lofty look. “We did agree, did we not, that if this person”—she glanced coldly at Kate—“did not suit, she would be returned to America.”
Aunt Sabrina’s voice was low, controlled. “But she does suit. She suits very well. Her work is exemplary, her manner cooperative, her ”
“She does not suit me,” Aunt Jaggers said flatly. “But you needn’t worry about the details. I have already written to the steamship agent in London to arrange return passage for her. As soon as possible.” Her triumphant look at Kate said, How do you like that, miss? as plainly as if she had spoken the words.
“You are challenging me in this way,” Aunt Sabrina said, “because you know how I feel about what you did yesterday. After that disgraceful business with Jenny, I told you that your power to discipline the servants did not extend to physical punishment or discharge. What happened with Nettie sickens me, Bernice. I intend to—”
“Be careful what you intend, sister.” Aunt Jaggers’s voice was flintlike, her words barbed. “Remember what I know.”
Aunt Sabrina seemed to flinch and turn away, and Kate was startled to see something very like fear come into her eyes—fear and hatred. What could Aunt Jaggers possibly know that could make Aunt Sabrina afraid? What secret could be so compromising that it would force her to submit to her sister’s tyranny? Kate was stunned. Aunt Jaggers was a blackmailer! No wonder Aunt Sabrina hated her.
Aunt Sabrina’s face was white, without expression. When she spoke, her voice was so low that Kate had to strain to hear the words. “You may use your ill-gotten knowledge once too often for your own welfare, sister.”
“Perhaps I have not used it often enough,” Aunt Jaggers retorted, “for my own welfare.” She felt she had the upper hand; Kate could see it in the confident lift of her head and the aggressive line of her jaw. “Perhaps I should use it with your dear friend the v
icar as well. Perhaps he would be willing to—”
Aunt Sabrina’s hand moved so fast that Kate almost didn’t see the slap. But she went cold inside as she heard the smart smack of flesh against flesh, and heard Aunt Jaggers’s shriek.
“You struck me!” she cried furiously, her hand going to her cheek.
Aunt Sabrina’s shoulders slumped suddenly, all the rigidity gone out of her, and a look of self-disgust crossed her face. It was as if having stooped to physical violence, she had lost the high ground of her moral position. “I am ... sorry,” she said, struggling for control. “Forgive me, Bernice. I did not intend—”
But Aunt Jaggers’s eye had fallen on the Golden Dawn tarot deck. “Fortunetelling cards,” she shrilled. “Oh, Sabrina, how low you have fallen!” Her nostrils flared at the painted figure on the card. “I see the mark of the cloven hoof in your forehead!” She was shouting now, fixing all her inflamed morality, her burning hatred, upon the pieces of cardboard.
Aunt Sabrina took a step forward. “Don’t touch those cards, Bernice,” she said. “They are not mine. They belong to—”
“The Devil!” Aunt Jaggers shrieked. And with one wild gesture, she swept up the cards and hurled them onto the blazing fire. As Kate stared in paralyzed horror, the thin paste-board cards flared brightly in the flames, curled into ash, and were gone.
“Bernice!” Aunt Sabrina whispered, horrified. “What have you done?”
Aunt Jaggers seemed to have taken strength from her action. “I have done what I should have done weeks ago. I have taken a stand against evil.” She raised her hand in a commanding gesture, her eyes like silver coins. “Mark me, sister. I have burned your cards. And unless you banish the rest of this deviltry, I promise you I will burn it, as well!” She stepped smartly to Kate’s alcove and shoved Kate’s box of letters onto the floor.
Aunt Sabrina straightened her shoulders. She seemed to be grappling within herself. “If you don’t get out, Bernice,” she said between clenched teeth, “I will ... I will—”