Upon entering the breakfast room, Philidor was pleased that Marie’s diminutive form, dressed in black, was already seated at the table. He sat down with a grunt and put the playbills beside his plate. ‘Good morning.’ He unfolded his napkin and laid it across his lap. It would be of no use to give way to the anger that boiled in his chest about the theft; he needed to be strategic about introducing the subject.
‘Good morning, monsieur. And how was your trip?’
‘Bumpy. Those confounded roads need to be sealed properly before someone has an accident.’
She said nothing but nibbled at her roll. This habit of hers was fast becoming more than annoying.
‘I have the playbills here,’ he said, and beckoned to the valet, who had just entered the room with a serve of bacon.
The valet placed the tray down and took up the playbills, depositing them into Marie’s hand; she did not acknowledge his presence.
She laid one before her and looked it over. ‘It is good,’ she said finally. ‘I am pleased.’
‘I thought you would be. So I ordered one hundred to be put up around London this very day.’
‘You have already organised this?’
‘I had to,’ he said stiffly. ‘If we want a full house in five nights time, the playbills have to go up now, and the personal invitations must be sent out. I followed your specifications, so I knew you would be happy. And I have been proven right.’
‘Personal invitations? Do you mean to Druce?’
He felt the colour rise to his face. ‘Don’t be vulgar. We don’t need her anymore.’
‘And is that what you do to people, to women you feign affection for and then tire of – you simply cut them off?’
‘It is none of your concern whom I feign affection for. Know your place, madame, and hold your tongue. No love was lost between you and Druce anyway.’
A long silence. He was prepared for a sharp retort. None came. She met his gaze but said nothing, only bit down harder on the bread.
‘I have been to my bedchamber just now,’ he said. ‘And I find it has been disturbed.’
She continued chewing, swallowed then reached for her coffee. ‘I do not understand.’
‘It is disturbed.’
‘You need to explain yourself further.’
‘An item has disappeared.’ He stressed the word as if she were a simpleton. ‘You have not admitted any visitors, I assume?’ Philidor looked pointedly at the valet, who was refilling Marie’s coffee.
The valet shook his head.
‘You are certain no one has been allowed entry?’
‘Forgive my impertinence, sir,’ said the valet, ‘but it’s all my job is worth to ensure no unexpected visitors are permitted to the manor. No one steps foot on these grounds without my knowledge.’
‘Well then,’ said Philidor, looking back at Marie. ‘Given it is just you and I, and the valet and the maid in residence, the suspicion falls upon you all.’
Marie stood up quickly, catching the tablecloth by accident. The china cup and saucer knocked together with a clang – finally, a proper outburst in front of a witness. He knew if he kept pushing she would show signs of hysterics.
‘You are suggesting I behaved like a common thief,’ she said. ‘I will not stand for such accusations.’
‘My gold tobacco box is missing. It contains a valuable piece of jewellery. There have been no visitors. That leaves the maid, the valet and the ground staff, whom I for one have hardly even glimpsed and are not likely to have stolen up into the house and then… you. You have had, by the mere fact of living in the same wing, the means and opportunity to do so. No more than that.’
‘I have no need of your pathetic tobacco box.’ She tossed her hair. ‘It stinks. Besides, I do not have to resort to thievery to get what I want.’
He steadily served himself a heap of bacon with the silver tongs. The valet stood by the doorway, hands behind his back, and stared straight ahead.
‘Perhaps one of your … “voices” told you to take it,’ Philidor said quietly.
‘What did you say, monsieur?’
‘You heard me, madame.’
‘All I heard was the snort of a pig who is squealing with anger at his own stupidity while trying to blame someone else for it.’ She pointed her finger at him. ‘And you stoop so low as to accuse me in front of a servant. I will not forgive this impertinence, monsieur, nor your inferences about my state of mind and my character.’
Philidor began slicing his meat but shot a glance at Marie as she threw her napkin on her chair and brushed past the valet. That outburst had just sealed her fate.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
His Grace William Cavendish,
5th Duke of Portland
FIVE NIGHTS LATER and the carriages were coming up the drive in a long, slow procession of blinking lights. He watched from the window, estimating the number of people inside each one as they veered away from the house and towards the tunnel entrance. It was a pretty sight, like that of ships bobbing off the horizon as the night swept in – except that they were docking in his estate for the evening. So many of them, stinking with perspiration and darting eyes and pink forked tongues.
‘I can’t do anything about it, my love,’ he said, addressing the woman who sat in the armchair, her hand fluttering a fan while she stared somewhere past his shoulder. ‘It’s opening night. They must be allowed to come, it was part of the agreement.’ He let the curtain fall back but remained where he was, watching through the thin veil of lace. ‘Even so, their presence makes me itch. It’s a slight on my name, to have my grounds let out to these people, you know – people who I’m sure are slovenly and lewd. Perhaps I was too quick to strike a bargain, my dear, in my haste to see you again.’
The woman continued to fan herself in silence.
‘I was too eager – I fear I have brought ruin on us. The two of them were tolerable, just. They kept to themselves and obeyed the rules … but now this, this stream of people descending upon us and snaking down into the bowels of my home, and who knows what sort of destruction they could do there? What if there’s a riot? Or a stampede. That damn Constable Trickett would need to be called. Perhaps the house would be barricaded. What if they approach? What if they want to take over?’
He turned from the window and sat opposite her, his left hand clenching and unclenching as his right wiped the perspiration forming on his creased brow.
‘They will not be content with seeing the show. No, they will want to speculate, meet the owner, or even break in to steal the silver. And what use is one valet against them? No, it isn’t right, my dear, as you say. It isn’t safe. But what to do?’
William leant over and touched a fingertip to the lady’s right hand, then sat back. Her head swivelled to face him, her eyes drawing level with his.
‘I will pay them off,’ he said, and caressed her hand. ‘That’s what I’ll do. I’ll open the coffers and pay them off. I’ll give them three times what they would make from their shows and offer to transport all their goods and contraptions to their next residence. But they must go. Oh, they must go before they kill me with their breathing. I can smell them from here, even though the chicken has been roasting since this morning.’
A small click, then the lady’s hand stopped fluttering and sank into her lap, while her eyes remained fixed on his face.
‘Your brooch looks beautiful, Elanor. I was going to give it to you that night but … but …’ He cleared his throat. ‘You do know what tonight is, my dear? The longest night of the year, the summer solstice, just as it was sixteen years ago. And now you can finally wear it.’ He studied the clear glass oval that held a leaf, dead long ago, from the oak tree in his forest. Where had the past sixteen years gone? Rumbling around in these old rooms, up and down the stairs, up and down the tunnels, up and down from London to Welbeck. Living in the shadows.
An odour caught his attention and broke his reverie. ‘There are more of them arriving – it’s getting worse.
What to do? I must be more than generous with my offer to get rid of these two villains and their show. After tonight, they must find another rich man’s cellar in which to stage their performance. We must be alone again.’
He was speaking to her directly, not seeming to care that she did not reply. Impassive and beautiful, she was present. And that was enough.
‘I will dress and go myself to see this abomination. I need to inform them immediately.’
He tried to stand but the trembling started at his fingertips; he knew a hallucination would soon be upon him, the gates opened by his strained nerves. He lay back in his chair but kept his eyes open, hoping this would keep the images at bay. But the soldiers, the English boys, materialised and brought the bang, bang, bang of gunfire, and the short yelps and cries as bullets bit into flesh. They crumpled to the floor, fell over the furniture to land on the rugs. Then came the crimson, or even bright red; it was strange how their blood was so many different shades, blooming and leaking like a macabre watercolour through their shirts.
William braced himself then stood up to push the vision away, doused the fire and shifted Elanor’s seat so she sat closer to the mantelpiece, her feet brushing against the wooden figures on the panels.
‘The fire’s out now so you won’t overheat. But I won’t have you cold, either.’ He faltered. His tongue felt unnatural in his mouth. ‘I won’t let it possess me,’ he said, speaking loudly to conquer the blood pounding in his temples. ‘Not now that you are here. I have to look after you. I …’
He stood rigid as the hallucination fell upon him completely, the boy soldiers upright again, their swords and rifles raised and the glitter of death in their eyes. He went cold. Attack. Defend. Elanor. The estate. His family name. He was trapped, though. No weapons.
Above the mantelpiece. The sword!
He snatched it down and raised it into the air. ‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘I will chase all you demons from hell out of my house.’
A slight sound. He blinked and looked down upon Elanor, and his eyes cleared for a moment. He touched her hand and felt under her fingertips. She nodded, rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes. Sword still in hand, he went to his bedchamber, dressed in his topper and two overcoats, and pulled up his white collar. He would take the secret tunnel. The fiends would be too busy to notice him sneaking up from the shadows; he would ambush the lot of them and drive them from his grounds.
The doorway was hidden within his cupboard and slid open to reveal a stone-lined darkness. In one hand he held the sword, the other his lamp. ‘Like rats, they need to be slain,’ he mumbled, and carefully began the descent.
There were over fifteen miles of tunnels on the estate, all of which he had carved in his memory. His old valet had known of some but not all; even he was not to be fully trusted. But the son who served William now – well, he had proven himself trustworthy and would soon be shown all the tunnels. A more understanding and subservient fellow William had never met, and he would ensure that the valet was rewarded handsomely for his service. But where was the young man now? William had rung the bell at least ten times but no one had come. He would have to face these invaders alone.
The air cooled as he neared the base of the tunnel, saw the door ahead and pulled on the handle. It creaked, not having been used in some time. But there was no risk of it being overheard: the door led into another sealed room that remained locked, and he alone possessed the key. He stepped through it, pushed open the tapestry that hid the door, and walked into the billiards room, sensing the heaviness of the table and the walls hung with portraits he could not tolerate in the main house. Averting his eyes, he clumsily unlocked the next door and found himself in the main artery leading to the ballroom.
He could smell the general public. Heavens, what a stench!
Immediate nausea. One hand upon the wall to steady himself.
Over the years he had gradually built up his exposure to large crowds, enabling him occasionally to occupy his house in Cavendish Square and to interact with sellers through the Baker Street Bazaar whenever he assumed the identity of Thomas Charles. Still, the image of a seated audience of ghostly boy soldiers, all focused on the stage, made him twitchy. A damned nuisance they were. And they had to be dispelled – immediately.
As he passed through a wide space full of props, he could see the growing light. Then he saw Antoinette seated, waiting to play her part. Why wasn’t she moving? Or rehearsing her actions? There was no noise, no music. But why would there be music? It was a trench, wasn’t it, or a forest? No, this wasn’t a trap, a battlefield or Hegau: it was his home. His tunnels. That’s right, the Phantasmagoria had to be stopped. Had the show not begun yet? Where were they all? Perhaps hiding from him. It must be a trap. He would go a little further then stand back in the shadows to watch.
But hold on, which wall was this? And that door hadn’t been there before, had it?
He drew a hand over his brow, the glint of the sword’s blade close to his eyes. Those cursed renovations Philidor had undertaken – he had destroyed the layout.
Oh, perhaps it was a foolish thing to walk straight into the lair of the enemy without further preparation. He should have brought his pistol, at least.
Should he have waited for the valet? Two of them would stand a chance. But really, he couldn’t rest while all these people trampled over his grounds. The stupid contract. What a fool he was, blinded by guilt that had followed him around like a black dog for the past fifteen years.
What was he doing here again? Invaders? Soldiers? A show? He blundered ahead, his lamp knocking against the wall, his forehead wet and the tips of his collar like daggers against his cheeks. His fingers lost their grip on the handle of his lamp. With a crash it fell to the floor, the glass shattering and the light extinguished.
He righted himself and forged ahead, arms outstretched either side, sure he would soon come upon the next cavern, wide and cool – but no, what was this? Fabric? A curtain? Where was the stage? What had they done with his beautiful ballroom? Tearing the fabric away he stepped forward, sword raised in front of him.
He was exposed on centre stage in front of an audience of hundreds.
‘It’s him! Thomas Charles again! Now what’s he doing here?’ a familiar voice screeched from the front row. Surely not Druce. Oh, devil be damned. Druce and Elanor at his home together. His worlds colliding. Disaster. Then he knew no more.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Philidor
SNORTS FROM AN impatient horse, a jingle of reins, the crunch of gravel and carriage doors shutting signalled the audience’s arrival at the tunnel mouth. They spilled out to commence the walk in small knots of family and friends. Their footsteps combined with nervous laughter and murmurs into a cacophony of noise that ricocheted off the walls and returned distorted into devilish glee. The light from the lamps cast shadows upon the walls, providing ample cover for the costumed village men Philidor had paid to hide around corners and jump out at each group as it passed. He’d also had the attendants hang, with invisible thread from the ceiling, silhouettes of skulls and spectres so that it appeared the audience members were being welcomed into hell. By the time the paying public washed up in the ballroom, their senses were stimulated enough to make them receptive. Then, the show could begin.
He waited backstage behind the black curtain, running his forefinger over the bridge of his nose as his attendants ushered people to their seats. He gave the signal for the glass armonica to begin, which created the sounds of wind and thunder, throbbing through the room so that the talking ceased, and the audience sat, enchanted, under the spell of Philidor and his Phantasmagoria.
A single candle was lit upon a small table centre stage, and with a sweep of his cape Philidor appeared before them. It was his voice that pulled them so terribly deep under his spell: his rich, melodic voice that spoke of death, the afterlife, the mystery of the unknown. And as the gas jets were turned down, so his voice rose; all the while, the
glass armonica softly echoed the thunder and wind as if even the elements fell under his enchantment.
The audience was in a stupor, all lights now extinguished. He stood alone on the stage. The attendants lined up along each wall, the smoke from the braziers attached to their chests began to fill the room. The Phantasmagoria box on wheels, operated by Marie, went to work using the Argand lamp to shine through her glass slides, upon which were paintings more hideous than any he’d previously seen. Philidor had perfected the recipe for the smoke: sulphuric acid, nitric acid and two cups of blood (preferably of a cow) that made the texture thicker and whiter, and the images upon them more realistic than ever before. The glass armonica swelled in volume, its crashing and rumbling turned into high whining as the audience shrieked and gasped in turns, the apparitions writhing above their heads while the dull glow from the braziers swept over their faces and illuminated their horrified delight.
The final slide was that of the girl who looked remarkably like Elanor. Yes, he thought, the similarity was uncanny.
‘It’s her,’ a woman cried, as he had hoped someone would. ‘It’s Elanor. It’s her!’ And the voice abruptly ceased.
There was a rustle of movement along one side of the ballroom.
A gentleman called, ‘She’s fainted. Get her out, quickly.’
Damn it. Another hysterical woman who wanted attention; this would slow the show down. But he smiled benignly and watched his attendants carry the girl away. She didn’t look like a guest – in fact, she was surely the housemaid. He would deal with her later.
The apparitions vanished and the lights were snuffed, plunging the audience into blackness that hopefully made their eyes smart.
Philidor heard Marie talking to Antoinette under her breath from the side of the stage. The automaton had been rebuilt to perfection, and apparently the new wax would endure considerably more friction and higher temperatures than the previous form – well, Marie had better be right about that.
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