Should he do the same with her? No! The horror of seeing Elanor’s parts cleaved from her body – oh, heavens above, it was unthinkable. It would be murder! But perhaps her murder was necessary for his survival. Money brought with it many pleasures, but it could not give him peace of mind.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Marie
SHE READ THE letter that had been so helpfully slipped under her door earlier that evening while the valet visited. It read:
Your Grace,
I ask for a moment of your time in order to set before you a series of events that concern you in the most intimate manner.
I have recently taken lodgings at a house on Baker Street, run by a woman named Druce. She also owns the property next door, which is let to a man who calls himself Thomas Charles and operates the Baker Street Bazaar. It is this person that I wish to speak of.
Pray be patient while I recall the conversation I had with Druce yesterday:
Late afternoon as I descended the stairs, I deliberately put my weight heavily on the one that creaked. Druce flung her door open. ‘There you are! I wondered when you’d rise.’
‘Oh, Mrs Druce. Always so concerned about your tenant’s welfare. What would I do without you? And you look like you’ve been out already, judging by the dress? A funeral?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and she patted the bottom of the baby in her arms. ‘I just got the notice yesterday. Mighty quick it all was. A funeral indeed. Although most peculiar if I do say so.’
‘Yes?’
‘My lodger – well, former lodger he was. Thomas Charles. Always kept to himself mind, had the rooms next to yours above, ran the Baker Street Bazaar? Did you know it?’
‘I didn’t,’ said I. ‘My condolences, however, I have a pressing app—’
‘The funeral was odd, I must say. No one there but me and the boy – and a closed coffin.’
‘A closed coffin?’ I repeated.
‘Yes! And most definite about it, the minister was. All pinched face and tight-lipped. Said it was his wishes. Strange fellow, Thomas Charles. Kept odd hours and liked his privacy – although he liked my company well enough, if you know what I mean.’ She patted the baby’s bottom again and directed me a meaningful look.
‘Mrs Druce, unfortunately I have to —’
‘The other thing is,’ she continued, ‘I saw him last week. At that performance at Welbeck, you know, with that magician fellow Philidor?’
‘Philidor, you say?’
‘Yes, I saved up me coins to go, worth every penny it was. I seen Thomas Charles at the first one here in town, and wouldn’t you know it, he was at that one as well! And damned if he didn’t clamber on the stage with a sword and faint clean away.’
‘How interesting,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you tell me all about him?’
Naturally, that is exactly what she did. Which is why my next course of action was to visit the portrait gallery at the House of Lords today, where I found a painting only just hung, of a certain His Grace William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Portland, a peer of the realm, which fits the description of Thomas Charles most peculiarly – in fact, in every respect. Another source then identified the gentleman whom Druce had seen onstage as being yourself, the duke.
I allege you have carefully crafted two identities and wish to keep them separate and secret. Now that I am in possession of information that could ruin you, I suspect you are feeling nervous about what may transpire. Never fear! I will convey to you the solution, although it pains me to be so coarse. Unfortunately, I am not in a favourable financial position. My funds are dwindling, but I have plans for imminent travel to France. If you were so inclined to contribute a generous sum, I could perhaps be persuaded from sharing my knowledge.
Please call on me at my Baker Street lodgings with the sum of 100 pounds at half past midnight Wednesday, that is tomorrow night. Discretion is assured. However, if you do not see fit to accept this invitation, I plan to call upon an acquaintance of mine at the Morning Post who is always eager to print the latest sensation.
Sincerely,
Pinetti
Pinetti! Her lover had revealed himself with finality. She had had misgivings about his real identity the first time she saw his hands with those white indentations where rings were normally worn. The sight triggered her remembrance of Philidor’s derisive comment about Pinetti’s hands being made clumsy with his ridiculous rings.
Regington was Pinetti. The 5th Duke of Portland was Thomas Charles. Philidor was Phillipstal. And she had hidden the birthname of her father. A game of dual identities.
Pinetti had forced her hand with this letter, wanting to benefit from the knowledge he thought he alone possessed. It was clear what she meant to him and while she was not surprised at the revelation, perhaps, she could admit this to herself, she was a little piqued at how easily he had thought to discard her. Had he underestimated her power, her intellect, her abilities? And more privately, had he ever really desired her? But, she supposed, it was of no significance now, her emotions or his. There were more important elements to consider.
Marie tapped the letter against her lips. Now what exactly could she do with this?
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Philidor
WEDNESDAY EVENING PHILIDOR was in the ballroom practising his new tricks, imagining again the eyes upon him as the audience marvelled at his power over the supernatural. Unable to sleep, he’d come down earlier with a bottle of wine and his lamp, the light of which bounced off the chandeliers above and fell upon him like raindrops. He was imagining his act now, with Antoinette and Elanor. Perhaps he would arrange them as if they were taking tea: Antoinette fluttering her fan while Elanor nodded, then inviting an audience member to sit with them as cake and teacups were passed around. Or something more … interactive. Have Elanor walk through the crowd, allow people to touch her. Or even arrange private appointments where they could hold her hand in private. So many options, so many ideas but – Cavendish. According to Marie he didn’t want Elanor anymore, but would he give her up easily, for the right price?
And Marie. Philidor could send for Gribble and his attendants to collect her as soon as tomorrow.
Footsteps pattered down the tunnel. A voice from out of the darkness.
‘Philidor?’ Marie called. ‘Are you there?’
‘I’m here,’ he said, and lifted his lamp.
‘You have to come back to the house. She’s gone. I went to see her, and she’s gone.’
‘Who?’
‘Elanor!’
She walked quickly down the aisle, hair dishevelled, as he jumped from the stage to meet her in the middle. ‘What do you mean, gone?’
‘Gone as in gone. Vanished. She was moved to the tower. I have a key, the valet has the other, and the room is empty.’
‘She’s gone out with the valet then, or Cavendish.’
‘Pah. Cavendish loathes her, as does the valet. No, it looks as if there’s been a struggle – I’m certain she’s been taken.’
‘By whom? Who even knows she exists?’
‘Only you, me, the valet, the duke and …’
‘And who? Who else did you tell?’
‘No one, monsieur. She was a secret. But what if it’s that man I told you about, whom I have seen in the grounds?’
Philidor cursed. Could this man be real after all? Or was it the Collector? No, out of the question now. He had no motive. This had been done by someone strategic. Cunning. Vindictive. Who wanted to ruin him.
‘Pinetti,’ he said. ‘He’s found me. No one else would attempt something this audacious. I stole his plans for the peacock automaton, so he steals my human automaton.’
‘But how?’
‘He could have bribed the valet, waited for just the right time then pounced.’
Marie sank heavily into one of the chairs and pushed her fingers over her eyes. ‘I cannot believe he would do this. This girl, she was everything. Antoinette was something, but Elanor – walking, thinking – she is
valuable beyond price. We are ruined.’
‘Let’s go back to the house. I assume you checked the room thoroughly?’
‘You may see for yourself,’ said Marie.
The door to the tower was still open. Philidor took in the disordered bedcovers, a small table upturned, and the cupboard doors gaping with hangers discarded on the floor. But something was sitting in the middle of the bed.
He picked up his gold tobacco box, opened the lid. No ring inside but a message instead.
I have taken the girl. A shame you were so careless with your greatest trick, but then again I was always smarter than you. I have a proposal that will be mutually beneficial. If you come to my new lodgings at Baker Street, which I understand are your previous lodgings, at half past midnight, we will discuss it in person. No tricks, Philidor – I do not think you want to jeopardise your wellbeing or that of your creation.
‘What does it say?’ Marie cried. ‘Where is she?’
‘She’s safe for now, with Pinetti as I thought. He wants to meet at Baker Street – in our old lodgings, which is uncanny but then so very like him. He traced me here, with Druce probably telling him everything. What time is it?’
‘Ten, but what will you do?’
‘I will go and bring Elanor back.’
‘Oh, but you can’t. It’s too dangerous, monsieur. We have to call the Constable – he will notify the authorities in London and they can deal with Pinetti properly.’
‘That is the one thing we will not do,’ said Philidor. ‘Too much attention, too many questions. I don’t want a scandal. I will deal with him myself.’
He stormed out the door, Marie trailing him to his bedchamber. ‘What are you going to do? Please, please, you cannot go. You will get yourself killed, and then what?’
‘I do not intend on dying.’ He pulled out his drawer and retrieved his pistol, then sat on the bed and began polishing it. ‘But I do intend on causing a death.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
His Grace William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Portland
ASHRIEKING FROM BEHIND his bedchamber door. ‘Your Grace! Your Grace!’
What was this? Where was he? What time was it? A woman’s voice – the maid? No, a French accent – the Tussaud woman.
The bed curtains were closed; he fumbled in the dark to sit up.
‘Are you awake, Your Grace? Can you hear me?’ came the voice from out in the hallway.
He was speechless, although he knew he had to reply, had to say something to stop the infernal noise. Where was the valet?
‘Wake up! Your Grace, you have to get up. She’s gone. Kidnapped.’
William cleared his throat and pushed the covers back. His nightshirt gathered at his hips as he gingerly put one leg after the other over the side of the bed. He stood, wavered, then pushed the curtain roughly aside. Feeble moonlight, just enough to see by through the uncovered window.
He hobbled to the door, his hands feeling the vibrations of the woman’s fist on the other side of the wood.
‘I know you’re in there. You have to wake up. She’s been stolen – can’t you hear me?’
Stolen. She’s been stolen. Tussaud must mean Elanor. No, it couldn’t be.
He cleared his throat again, and the noise stopped.
‘You do not make sense,’ he mumbled.
There was a pause, then Marie replied, this time in a whisper, ‘Elanor’s been stolen. A man has taken her. He’s broken into the tower. I don’t know how, but I suspect your valet may have helped him. He left a message that says he is keeping her in lodgings at Baker Street and will surrender her upon payment of a hundred pounds.’
William rested his forehead against the wood. This was unbearable. He’d thought he had killed off his life at Baker Street; he had stopped short of killing off the thing in the tower; he’d believed he had a servant who could be relied upon. But now it was all a mess. The risk of public scandal was again banging on his door like this mad Frenchwoman.
‘What time is it?’ he asked her.
‘Half past ten Wednesday evening, monsieur.’
‘Where is my valet?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t seen him.’
He must have fled, or he would have been there attending to William. He must be guilty, as she said. But surely he could not betray William after so long; his old valet would have stuck by him.
The knowledge that he was alone, being forced to talk to this woman and to make quick decisions – to act, even – fell upon him, and he sank to the floor.
‘Monsieur, I know about Elanor. I know that she lives and breathes, I have seen it for myself. I share your secret about her, while the valet has lied to you, humoured you for the sake of his position. And now he has betrayed you at the final hour by orchestrating her removal.’
‘Why would he do this horrible thing to me?’
‘He wants the money for himself. And he is not educated like you, his mind has not been enlarged by books and ideas, so he clings to superstitions, calls Elanor evil and a demon when she is one of God’s wonders. We both know it.’
‘But I cannot do it,’ he whispered.
‘I know you are afraid, and I know going out beyond these walls is most trying for you, but she’s in danger from men who will use her, defile her and experiment upon her. No one else can save her but you.’
He looked across the room to the window, as if seeing the gates already opening before him as he rode out on a noble steed to her rescue.
No, he couldn’t confront a kidnapper. It was ridiculous. He would send for Trickett and then – and then what? Try to explain that through a mixture of lightning, wax, mechanics and a magical mantelpiece, a clockwork doll had come to life and was being held hostage? William would be declared mad, and his position as a peer would be in jeopardy along with his family honour.
‘You have to go,’ whispered Madame Tussaud through the door, as if reading his thoughts. ‘You have to go to her with the money and bring her back. When you return, I will help you. I will look after her, and you can go back to your rooms, your routines, your life as if it had never happened.’
‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’
‘But you have to. You have to make amends for your mistake. You killed her once, didn’t you?’
William blinked, and his hands found the floor either side of him. ‘I killed her, yes, but it was an accident.’ There. He had said it aloud. To another human. And he couldn’t see her face. Couldn’t see her revulsion. Her judgement. He found that now he had begun talking, he couldn’t stop. ‘It was an accident. I was meant to meet her that night, at our tree, but I was too late. He’d already shot her.’
‘Who had shot her?’ asked Tussaud.
‘My father,’ said William. ‘He was mad, suffered delusions. Thought she was an intruder coming to steal the silver. And we covered it up. The family name had to be maintained, you see. Only the old valet, my father and I ever knew the truth.’
‘It was an accident,’ breathed Tussaud.
‘An accident.’ Tears ran down his face.
‘Monsieur, you can save this Elanor now. And, in doing so, finally free yourself.’
The words of hope echoed through his muddled mind.
‘Call for the carriage,’ he said, clearing his throat and standing up. ‘I’m going out.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Marie
WEDNESDAY MORNING AFTER reading the letter from Regington to Cavendish that Harriet had slipped under her door the night before, Marie sat down at her desk to write the three letters designed to put in motion her plan.
My Dearest,
You need to come quickly. Elanor is being moved into the tower and locked up. I fear that the duke in his madness is going to destroy her completely, ruining my plans for my own success. He has a secret, which I now must tell you. I made her, Elanor, according to his drawings, his specifications. But what I didn’t tell you, couldn’t tell you until now, is that I feel sure he murdered her,
the original living girl. He has been consumed with guilt the remainder of his life, which is why I mistakenly thought he wanted me to create a new girl, to make amends for the life he took. But it appears this is not true. I fear he has become consumed with wicked intent on the second as he did the first. He is possessed by a delirium of the brain or perhaps even something demonic. In order for us to enact our plan of me breaking with Philidor and having my own show, we must act at once. You must come, tonight, at nine with the carriage. I will let you in and take you up the tower to get Elanor.
Then I will join you soon after you return to Baker Street. Leave the door unlocked for me – but love, you must be punctual to the minute.
Marie.
Dear Mrs Druce,
You have been most grievously deceived about the death of your previous lodger. Be on the lookout this evening at your window from midnight. If you do as I say, an opportunity will present itself for you to benefit financially if you use what you see in a clever manner. Leave the street door unlocked but do not open your own door until you are certain the rooms above yours are completely empty.
Lastly, Marie took the gold tobacco box from its hiding place under her bed and set it before her.
I have taken the girl. A shame you were so careless with your greatest trick, but then again I was always smarter than you. I have a proposal that will be mutually beneficial. If you come to my new lodgings at Baker Street, which I understand are your previous lodgings, at half past midnight, we will discuss it in person. No tricks, Philidor – I do not think you want to jeopardise your wellbeing or that of your creation.
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