“Sarah!” Sarasate cried warningly, as the wall that had protected them all collapsed, and the six spirits collapsed with it, still present, but faded to mere sketches of mist. But Sarah remained upright and unafraid as the struggle continued before her.
Then she raised her hands above her head and sketched a sort of arch in the air with them, stepping back once she had finished.
Blimey! I know what that is! But—
A very faint haze filled the archway, and Sarah spread her arms wide, as Nan sensed energy passing between Sarah and the door she had formed, keeping it open.
And the moment that the door appeared—the golden swirl began to edge toward it.
And Magdalena began to scream from the heart of it. No words this time, no music, no power; just mindless panic.
The closer the whirlwind came to the door, the higher and more desperate Magdalena’s screams became. And then, just on the threshold, the whirlwind stopped.
Nan began chanting again, and the birds joined her, but neither the chanting nor the Dance Macabre made any difference. The whirlwind seemed . . . stuck. Nan sensed Johanna was trying with all her might to carry herself and Magdalena through that door, but Magdalena was holding them back, right on the brink.
That was when the spirit in front of Nan, one of the burning nuns, drew itself upright and rushed at them, joining her force to Johanna’s. Then the second nun joined, then the priest, until all but one, the stout man in knee breeches, was all that remained. He hesitated. He looked imploringly at Sarasate.
Sarasate slowly shook his head.
With a shrug of resignation, the spirit slowly moved across the circle and added his force to the rest.
Magdalena’s shrieks rose to an ear-shattering level as the whirlwind edged its way through the door under the combined powers of all six spirits and the golden light that was Johanna.
Without warning, the door erupted in a soundless explosion of light—soundless, but by no means without force, as an unseen blow struck Nan in the chest, lifting her off her feet, throwing her backward and knocking her to the ground. The door, the lines on the ground, the wall of power, all vanished in the same moment, leaving them in darkness and silence, a darkness and silence so profound that Nan wondered for a moment in a flash of panic if she had gone blind and deaf.
“Well,” came a calm, accented voice out of the darkness to her left. “That was quite the finale.”
“Indeed,” said Holmes, to her right. “I don’t suppose you can put your hands on your lantern?”
“Si, provided it has not gone out—” A moment later, and Sarasate lifted the lantern over his head, shining the weak light over them all. “Most undignified,” he continued, since all of them were sprawled in various ungainly positions. “Is everyone well?”
“I seem to be in the embrace of a rose vine,” Holmes said, sounding rather put out. “I hope I have not damaged the instrument you loaned me . . .” He struck a match of his own and looked around himself. “Ah, here it is. It seems intact.” The match went out. “Give me a moment to extricate myself.”
“I am still blinking dazzle away from my eyes, but I am otherwise fine,” said John Watson. “Mary?”
“Attempting to get up without embarrassing everyone, including myself,” Mary replied with a laugh. “I landed with my skirts clean over my head.”
Neville quorked from somewhere behind Nan, then added, “Bloody ’ell!”
“Sarah? Grey?” Nan asked, fear rising up in her.
“We’re here!” Grey replied.
“We are,” said Sarah. “But so is someone else. Pablo, we need your lantern.”
Sarasate made haste to get up and widened the aperture on the dark lantern to its fullest. He made his way to where Sarah was still crouched where she had fallen, Grey on the ground beside her.
Crumpled in a heap on the conservatory path, was Magdalena.
Oh no—don’t tell me we went through all of that for nothing! Nan thought in dismay, and unconsciously grasped the shovel with both hands as Neville landed clumsily on her shoulder.
They all gathered around, Sarasate with his bow and violin held in one hand, lantern in the other, Holmes with bow and instrument as well, John feeling the back of his head, Mary shaking bark out of her skirt, and Nan holding the shovel—though she couldn’t think what she was to do with it if Magdalena used her powers against them all—
Finally the crumpled figure on the gravel stirred, and raised her face to Sarasate.
But there was something—odd—about it.
She had Magdalena’s features, yes, but there was a softness to her, and a slightly bewildered look in her eyes. She raised one hand to her cheek and felt it, as if she could not believe there was flesh beneath her fingers. Then she looked down at herself, and up at Sarasate again.
“M-m-maestro?” she faltered.
That’s—not Magdalena’s voice—
There was none of the power in that voice that Nan was used to hearing, none of the sensuality, none of the calculation. It sounded like the voice of a younger woman, a much less experienced woman. And the German accent was much more pronounced.
Surely Magdalena is not that good of an actress! And yet, she had fooled so many for so long, it was within the realm of possibility that she was feigning something.
Sarasate got down on one knee beside the woman, and peered into her eyes. “Johanna?” he gasped, incredulously.
“Jawohl,” she replied, and laughed, shakily. “My sister stole my life. Lieber Gott has given it back to me, it seems, though in her person.”
“Maestro, does this make sense to you?” John asked urgently, saying what the rest of them were all probably thinking. “Could this be a ruse?”
Sarasate shook his head, slowly. “It is no ruse. I would know.” He looked up at all of them. “Magdalena has gone. This is Johanna. But how this came about—I do not know. It was none of my doing!”
• • •
Although Nan was loath to leave her alone with Johanna—because she still suspected a trick—Sarah insisted on taking the woman back to her rooms alone. After the third time Nan asked her if she wanted someone else—meaning herself—along, Sarah finally smiled and replied, “Nan, I have Grey. And I know that the Maestro is right. This is Johanna. We’ll be fine.”
With that, Nan was forced to let her have her own way and trust nothing bad would happen, even though every bit of her revolted against doing so. “I would invite you to my room,” said Sarasate, watching them go, Sarah helping Johanna (if Johanna it really was) make her way slowly to the suite they shared. “But that would mean attempting to smuggle all of you past other guests and many servants.”
“The stable it is, then,” John replied. “Nan should get out of that maid’s uniform anyway, or someone is likely to order her to bring them a late-night brandy.”
Wordlessly, Sarasate handed John the lantern, and he led the way back to the stable.
Once there, Nan closed them all out of her room while she changed, then they gathered again in the light of much brighter lamps. Mary brought out their hamper of current provisions, and John rummaged behind the bed and emerged with bottled beer for all of them. Although Nan normally did not care for beer, at the moment, she felt strongly in need of a drink of some kind, and from the way the rest were behaving, so did they all. Mary passed around rough-cut chunks of bread and cheese and sausage, and they all took their usual places; Mary and Nan on the bed, the rest in chairs or on the chest at the foot of the bed.
“Assuming that it really is true that Johanna replaced Magdalena in Magdalena’s body, Maestro,” said John, as they settled into chairs and on the bed. “In God’s name, how?”
Sarasate took a moment to examine his violin minutely before replacing it in its case—although he left the bow out. “It is nothing that I caused,” he said, accepting a beer. �
��But it is something that is known to occur. Usually, the spirit that was wronged displaces one that is—weak. I have personally known the spirit of a man to displace the spirit of another who was ravaged by addiction to drink and drug, though I myself only intervened enough to suggest that the thing was possible. I have heard of other such cases, although that is the only one I know of, personally. But for such a strong spirit to have been replaced—” He shook his head. “It is a circumstance that, I think, is not likely to happen again in my lifetime.”
For once, Holmes seemed to have lost every bit of his skepticism. “There was the—portal—that Miss Sarah created. There was Johanna herself, and all the power that all of us put behind her. And then there was the intervention of the other six spirits. I suspect it was that last which turned the trick, so to speak.”
“You saw that, Holmes?” John Watson gaped at his friend. “And you actually admit to seeing it?”
Holmes frowned a little. “Do not press me, John. I am open-minded enough to accept the evidence of my own eyes. I still think your magic is mostly imagination, air, and shadow.”
Watson knew when to leave well enough alone, evidently, for he said nothing more on the subject.
Nan put her head back against the wall behind her and ate, slowly. She was starving, but feeling so exhausted that if the others had not been there, she probably would have gone to bed hungry.
“But what is Johanna to do now, Maestro?” Mary asked anxiously, as an owl called from the trees surrounding the stable block, and another answered from farther away. “And you are utterly sure it is Johanna, and not Magdalena somehow feigning?”
Nan took another bite of bread and cheese, wanting very much to hear the answer to that question herself.
For answer, Sarasate held up the bow with which he had played the violin. “This tells me. I made it from the bone and hair of Johanna’s—”
“Good Lord!” Holmes exclaimed, going white as a sheet. “That explains the mangled arm! The morgue attendant drew my attention to that; the explanation given was that her right arm had been bitten by sharks, but that didn’t explain the removal of a single bone without taking off the entire arm. I don’t know whether to admire you for your audaciousness, or denounce you as a necromancer!”
“It was with Johanna’s permission and guidance,” Sarasate replied, calmly. “It was the channel through which I strengthened her and kept her sane. When one dies—as Sarah will likely tell you, if you ask her—unless one travels to the fate which one has earned, the spirit that clings to earth grows weaker and loses more of itself and its memories the longer time passes. This is why only those spirits who have very powerful, emotional reasons to remain retain even a fraction of their former selves. Johanna came to me, asking for help to bring her sister to justice. I explained what I needed to keep her from dissolution. She gave me permission to take it.”
“Bone and—good God,” John Watson said, suddenly. “It was you? You, out there on the mud of the Thames at midnight?”
Sarasate smiled slightly. “I thought I might have been seen; I had the sense that someone was watching me, so I took care to cover my tracks on retreating. But nothing ever came of it. Was it one of the Irregulars?”
“Tommy Grimes,” John said, absently, staring at Sarasate. “You terrified the boy. By the time he got around to telling me about it—he flatly refused to tell you, Holmes—it was weeks later, and I couldn’t even find the girl in the morgues. And here I have been waiting for the emergence of either a murderer who takes trophies, or a real necromancer, and all the time it was you!”
“Sometimes I am required to do terrible things in the name of justice,” Sarasate said, simply.
Watson shuddered. “Better you than me, old man.”
Sarasate shrugged. “One becomes accustomed.” He turned to Holmes and extended the white bow—which now Nan would not have touched for any amount of money, knowing it had been made of a dead girl’s bone and hair. “Under most circumstances, I would destroy this . . . but I do not know if doing so would have any effect on Johanna.”
“Then I think we should wait,” replied John.
“I think we should wait as well,” said Holmes, who took a long drink of his beer. “I think we should wait and see if in the morning she is still Johanna.” He raised one eyebrow. “After all, it’s never wise to throw away a weapon unless you are absolutely certain you will not ever need it again.”
• • •
Nan expected to wake at the crack of dawn; she had scarcely been able to get to sleep, worrying about Sarah, worrying that they’d all been gammoned by Magdalena, worrying that when they all woke up in the morning they would discover Magdalena and Sarah gone.
But when she finally did fall asleep, every bit of her exhaustion caught up with her and kept her sleeping, and she didn’t wake up until Mary Watson shook her awake. She floundered up out of darkness with a start, staring at Mary with her hair in her eyes, confused for a moment about where she was and why Mary was shaking her shoulder.
Mary let go of her as she sat up. “Get dressed. Sherlock wants us at the manor; he sent one of the hall boys down here to the stables to deliver a note to John and one to you and I. John has already gone.”
Nan shook her head hard to chase the cobwebs out. “Just give me a moment. And let me see the note.”
She scrambled into her clothing, silently grateful that she had thought to pack one shirtwaist and skirt that would pass cursory muster up there at the manor, and read the note while she swiftly did up her hair.
Come to the manor immediately; we are on the steps of the front entrance. Things have been moving apace this morning. Allegedly, I arrived last night to tell “Magdalena” of the tragic death of her sister. Johanna has informed the Marquess, and now is persuading the Marquess that the affair is over in the kindest way. I believe the Maestro was right. I cannot imagine Magdalena letting the Marquess out of her clutches under any circumstances, so it seems that Johanna has triumphed and evicted her murderous sister for good.
“Is John already there?” she called, sticking the last pin in her hair.
“Yes.” Mary poked her head—crowned with an extremely fashionable little boater—in the door. “You look splendid. Let’s go back him up.”
They hurried over to the manor and found the little group actually standing on the front steps. Willie was in boating flannels—evidently there was a boating expedition planned, and he had been interrupted by “Magdalena” coming to him. He seemed very distressed, although whether that was for “Magdalena’s” sake or his own, it was impossible to tell.
Johanna—and the young woman’s very posture was unlike Magdalena’s had been—was all in mourning black, despite the fact that she had “only been told” about the discovery of Johanna’s body last night. Nan blinked to see that. Had Magdalena literally packed an outfit for every occasion, including a death?
Johanna stood a little apart from the Marquess and made no attempt to touch him. “Willie, you must see, with this terrible news that Herr Holmes has brought me, I must go home. My parents are alone now—and I must be the one to tell them what has happened to my sister.” She clasped her hands together and looked at him pleadingly, moving slightly out of reach when he tried to touch her arm.
“But you can come back,” replied the Marquess forlornly. “Surely—”
“Ah,” said Holmes, “Here are the fine wife of my colleague and little Sarah’s companion. Miss Killian, Mrs. Watson!”
“Mr. Holmes,” said Nan, agreeably. “Mr. Holmes brought us, since he felt that Fraulein von Dietersdorf would wish to leave immediately, and would be relieved to have Sarah taken care of for her. And you are, sir—?” She looked at the Marquess enquiringly.
“Willie,” the Marquess said, miserably. He turned back to Johanna. “I—understand how you must go but—”
“Willie,” Johanna interrup
ted. “You will soon cheer up. You will have a splendid summer. You have so many friends here, and I am sure you have even more you could bring to help you when I am over the Channel. But my parents have only me, now.”
She reached out and took both his hands in hers—which had the (intended, Nan was sure) effect of forcing him to stay at arm’s length. Finally, he sighed dolefully, and nodded.
“You’re right. I’ll send for Hammond. Never mind going by train, take my traveling carriage and go in comfort.” He bent and kissed the backs of both her hands, since it was obvious she wasn’t going to let him come any closer, and went back into the house, presumably to order his servants to get things in motion for Johanna’s departure.
“Where’s Sarah?” Nan asked bluntly.
“Packing,” Johanna told her. “Alicia has been packing since dawn. I told Alicia last night that Mr. Holmes had intercepted me after dinner and informed me of my sister’s death, to account for how we looked when we came in. And I told her that we were leaving immediately last night, then sent her to bed. Sarah was helping Alicia, but I sent her off to take care of her own things. Now that Willie’s gone, and we are out of earshot of any servants—Herr Holmes, what are we going to do?”
Holmes looked at her curiously. “About what?”
“The time the body was found, and the time Johanna allegedly ran away do not . . . precisely . . . correspond. . . .” She bit her lip and looked at him worriedly.
“Ah, that.” Holmes waved it away. “I take it you wish to take Johanna’s body back to Germany?”
“I think it would be wise. And kind. I cannot imagine that my parents would accept her resting anywhere but the family plot. It would be dreadful for my parents to make the sad trip back here to fetch it, would it not?” she asked.
Holmes nodded. “It would, indeed. Well, if that is what you plan, then that solves the problem. They will never learn that the dates are . . . contradictory. I’ll arrange the disinterment for you. As for the date discrepancy, you’ll give the probable date of death as, oh, say, the day after she allegedly ran off with the Canadian. And since . . . Johanna’s disappearance was never a matter for the police, there are no official records to amend, and no one will be the wiser about the discrepancy.”
A Study in Sable Page 33