The Labyrinth of Death

by James Lovegrove

  Naturally I consented. I may even have bobbed a little curtsey to him, to show that I was as beguiled by him as any of the other Elysians present. They, for their part, regarded me with envy and even a touch of resentment, for I was taking their idol away from them. Polly in particular looked hurt, as though by being singled out by Fairbrother I had betrayed her.

  Soon enough, he and I were outdoors and perambulating. I shall spare you the verbal overtures he made towards me – they were alternately unctuous and banal, and all delivered with a rakish glint in his eye and a winsome cocking of his head, and sometimes also with a gentle touch on my arm, his hand resting there for several seconds as though both to reassure me and to claim me. On any other woman this treatment would surely have broken down her innermost barriers, and I must say I found it hard to resist. Yet I remained firm of purpose. I was not there to be seduced by Fairbrother. I was there to harvest information from him. I was there to plumb his depths, or rather his shallows, and see what sunken treasure I might dredge up.

  Through subtle manipulation of the conversation I turned his focus away from me and onto himself.

  Fairbrother, I learned, functions as a kind of roving ambassador for Sir Philip, to whom he is distantly related on his mother’s side and whom he addresses as Uncle Philip. A well-connected socialite, he haunts dinner parties, literary salons, gentlemen’s clubs and other such sophisticated venues, on the lookout for potential Elysians. He casts his line, hooks a likely candidate, then patiently and painstakingly reels the “fish” in.

  The criteria for recruitment are, he told me, broad and ill-defined. Sir Philip has charged him with seeking out those who are of good stock and blessed with prospects, an enquiring mind and a patriotic bent. Fairbrother, however, is entitled to interpret these guidelines as he wishes.

  “Often,” he said, “it is simply a case of getting a ‘feeling’ about someone. If a person looks to me as though there is something lacking in his or her life, an emptiness requiring to be filled, then I will act upon that. The Elysian way – well, I am not much of a one for these Classical shenanigans myself. I barely paid attention at school during Greek and Latin, or any other lessons for that matter. Ha ha! But I can nonetheless see that the Elysian way might offer a compass bearing to the lost, to give them heading and direction. Equally, those who already have a clear sense of where they are going will find their voyages accelerated, as though they were becalmed and a fair wind has billowed their sails.”

  Here was the opening I had been hoping for, and I took it.

  “I understand we have a mutual acquaintance,” I said. “Sophia Tompkins. Which, in your view, was she? One of the lost, or somebody with a sense of where she was going?”

  “Sophia…” For the first time, Fairbrother faltered. There was a ruffle in his smoothness. His expression, just momentarily, lost its blithe self-confidence. “How do you know her?”

  “We are friends. It was she who told me about Charfrome. Her endorsement of the place led me here. And I am glad of that.”

  Now I laid a hand upon his arm, as if to imply that but for Sophia I might never have had the honour of the company of the wondrous Edwin Fairbrother.

  The gesture served to restore his equilibrium. “Sophia – such a sparky, cheery little thing. Yes, I knew as soon as I clapped eyes on her that she would be an adornment to Charfrome, something to liven up the place. And so she proved.”

  “I am told she graduated.”

  “As so many do. On average, a couple of dozen per year. Not all, though. Some adherents leave of their own accord after two or three months. There is a fairly rapid turnover.”

  “What is strange is that I have had no communication with her in weeks.”

  “Perhaps she is busy with other things,” Fairbrother said. “Those who pass through Charfrome’s portals emerge with a renewed zest for life and an eagerness to get on. It so happens that, in the process, they are apt to shed aspects of their past that have come to seem redundant. This, I am afraid, can include friends.” He looked at me closely. “Tell me, just how well do you and Sophia know each other?”

  “Well enough. Why do you ask?”

  “Simply because during my association with her, she never once mentioned your name, Miss Holbrook.”

  My heart had begun to beat fast, and not in the manner that Fairbrother commonly induced in the opposite sex. “Were you and she intimates?” I said, batting the ball as dexterously as I could back into his court.

  “I might not put it like that, but we were certainly on good terms. She did talk of another friend, a Hannah someone-or-other, an old school chum of hers. She and this Hannah had a disagreement. It was around Christmas time. She had reason to curse the woman’s name more than once in my presence.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. I myself am unaware of any Hannah. She sounds a reprehensible sort, if she upset dear sweet Sophia.”

  You cannot imagine how hard it was to keep my features impassive at this point. I am not in your league, Mr Holmes, when it comes to acting. I was terrified I might somehow give myself away.

  “But enough about her,” Fairbrother said. He fixed me with a gaze that was calculated to melt resistance and arouse passion, and doubtless achieved that goal far more often than it did not. “Tell me more about you.”

  I was desperate to keep Sophia as our topic but, my real name having come up, I felt that I had veered close to a precipice once and narrowly escaped falling in. It would be tempting fate to try again.

  Just as I was about to furnish Fairbrother with some entrancing and entirely fictitious details about myself, a voice called out his name.

  “Edwin. There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

  Bustling towards us from the direction of the house came Sir Philip.

  “You are late for our meeting,” he added in a tone that, though genial, carried an undercurrent of peremptoriness.

  “My apologies, Uncle Philip,” said Fairbrother, shooting a glance at me. “I was distracted.”

  “Yes, well, enough of your dallying. Miss Holbrook, would you excuse us?”

  “Of course, Sir Philip. Mr Fairbrother? I have enjoyed our chat. Perhaps we might pick it up again at a later date.”

  “I cannot think of anything I would desire more, Miss Holbrook. But please, call me Edwin.”

  “Of course… Edwin.”

  There the episode might have concluded, but for the fact that Sir Philip took Fairbrother by the elbow and steered him, not back to the house, but further away from it. Neither man looked back, and there was nobody else about. I saw that I had a chance to follow them and eavesdrop upon their colloquy. I could not pass it up.

  “Oh dear Lord,” I said. “Hannah’s foolhardiness knows no bounds. It is as though she is inviting disaster upon herself.”

  “Yet disaster cannot have struck, otherwise she would not be writing the letter that is now in our hands,” said Holmes. “Sometimes, Watson, you are of an altogether too sensitive and illogical disposition. You must compose yourself and think dispassionately.”

  “Would that I were a reasoning machine like you, Holmes, instead of a mere man. Life would be so much easier.”

  “Come, come. No need for that. Now, let us read on.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A FASCINATION FOR DARK THINGS

  Holmes returned his attention to the letter, continuing to hand across each sheet of paper to me when he was done with it. That, I suppose, is a metaphor for the pair of us: him, ever a page ahead.

  The estate, as you know, is surrounded by woodland. I betook myself into the cover of the trees and, as Sir Philip and Fairbrother strode briskly side by side across the lawns, shadowed them. I darted from trunk to trunk, keeping out of view. There was one occasion when Sir Philip happened to glance over his shoulder and I feared I had been spotted. However, he continued onward, unperturbed, and I after a moment’s hesitation continued onward too.

  My targets – if I may describe them so �
�� ended up at a shrine far to the south of the house and well away from sight of it. The shrine plays host to a statue of Daedalus, who is represented with a pair of compasses in one hand and a feather in the other, the former to symbolise his trade, the latter the loss of his son Icarus. The legendary Grecian inventor and craftsman is, it transpires, a particular hero of Sir Philip’s. I have that on the authority of Dr Pentecost, whom I have, as instructed, been cultivating. Dr Pentecost and I, indeed, are now quite thick. More on him anon.

  Sir Philip and Fairbrother sat down on a bench beside the pedestal upon which Daedalus is erected, and they began to talk in earnest. It was a still day and their voices carried, but not to the extent that I could hear them with any clarity, at least not while I remained within the woods. I had no alternative but to steal closer to the shrine. There was a small shrubbery some fifteen yards from it and much the same distance from the treeline. I crept low across the grass towards it, the two men so deep in conversation that they seemed oblivious to anything else. Crouching there, I was able to make out distinctly what they were saying. It was apparent that Fairbrother had incurred Sir Philip’s wrath, although what his misdemeanour had been was unclear.

  “I have sufficient demands upon my time and energy without you adding to them,” Sir Philip said testily. “You have one simple task: to find new Elysians for me. I pay you handsomely to do that. Through me, and only through me, do you enjoy the lavish lifestyle you seem to feel is your due. Your father has cut you off without a penny as a wastrel and a rogue. I, at the urging of your mother, for whom I retain a tremendous fondness, agreed to give you gainful employment and have found you a role tailor-made for your talents, such as they are.”

  “Do not think me ungrateful, Uncle Philip,” said Fairbrother.

  “And yet I find I must deal, thanks to you, with a most unfortunate set of circumstances.”

  “It was not my fault,” Fairbrother protested.

  “Not wholly, I will allow.”

  “Not even half. Much of the responsibility lies with you, if not the greater portion.”

  “True, I misled others, Edwin. I went against my better judgement, my every instinct. I did so as a favour to you – and not a moment goes by when I do not rue that decision.”

  “What happened was, yes, unfortunate,” said Fairbrother. “But, Uncle Philip, it is not the first time it has happened, is it now? Simms and Kinsella? Remember? It was scarcely a year ago.”

  “How could I forget?” Sir Philip bowed his head as though all at once it weighed heavily upon his neck. “At least, with those two, my intentions were sincere. That mitigates things to some extent. In this particular instance, by contrast, I made a mistake. I listened to you when I should not have.”

  “I am not responsible for the choice you made. All I did was proffer a suggestion. You could have said no.”

  The architect’s eyes flashed with anger. “I should have said no! But you wheedled, you cajoled…”

  “I did no such thing. I merely asked you, as a relative and, I hope, a friend, for help.”

  “Which I gave.”

  “Charitably, as is your wont. In that sense, I feel that neither of us has anything to reproach himself for.”

  “Do you?”

  “I do.” Fairbrother held Sir Philip’s gaze. Even from my vantage point behind the shrubbery, peering through the leaves, I could sense the charisma radiating from him. It was like the rays of the sun. “We are both victims here. We are both reeling from the effects of this misadventure.”

  “Perhaps so. Yes, perhaps,” said Sir Philip, nodding, beginning to be swayed. It was remarkable how Fairbrother was managing to turn the tables on the older man. What had started out as a scolding was becoming, through his careful orchestration, a kind of mutual exculpation.

  “Besides, there was another who may be considered at least partially blameworthy.”

  “You mean Nithercott.”

  “The very same. Had he but tried harder…”

  “But is he not just another victim? Have you forgotten how he ended up?”

  “Nithercott was clearly not made of stern enough stuff. At least he took what he knew to the grave with him.”

  “There is that, I suppose.”

  “How come all this emotion has been stirred up in you, Uncle?” Fairbrother enquired. “I had thought the matter settled. A line had been drawn under it and we had agreed never to discuss it again.”

  “You know that we were recently graced with the presence of Sherlock Holmes?”

  “I heard. The much-hallowed London specialist.”

  “That event alone alarmed me, even though it turned out he was drawn to Charfrome tangentially, on a matter unconnected with our activities. Then, however, there is the girl.”

  “Which girl?”

  “You were just with her. Miss Holbrook.”

  Only by dint of pressing knuckles to mouth was I able to withhold a gasp.

  “She,” Sir Philip continued, “is a marvellous thing. Her potential is enormous. Her inclusion in our ranks, however, brings complications.”

  “I am sure that—”

  What should occur at that precise moment but a sudden flurry of activity in the woods directly behind me. There were volleys of loud croaking and chattering and the whir of multiple wings. It seemed that a dispute had broken out between a flock of jackdaws and a lone magpie. The magpie must have strayed onto the jackdaws’ territory and they were expelling it with all the vehemence they could muster.

  Sir Philip and Fairbrother, startled by the furore, snapped their heads round to look.

  It was not until then that I was conscious just how paltry a covering the shrubbery afforded. The countless gaps between the leaves meant it was as penetrable by the eye as any confessional screen. I knelt there on all fours, stock still, scarcely daring to breathe. The slightest movement might give away my presence. I was able to see Sir Philip and Fairbrother; might they just as easily be able to see me?

  The avian squabble died down. Sir Philip turned away, but Fairbrother continued to stare fixedly, brow furrowed. Perhaps, being the younger of the two by far, his eyesight was that much keener. He could descry what Sir Philip could not: the interloper skulking behind the trimmed clumps of daphne and camellia.

  Eventually he too turned away, and I let out a trembling sigh of relief. I felt I had pushed my luck as far as I dared, and so I beat a hasty retreat back to the woods. The better part of valour, and all that.

  “A wise move, Hannah,” I said.

  “She cannot hear you, you know,” said Holmes drolly.

  “Would that she could,” I muttered under my breath.

  My other escapade – the second visit to Tartarus – occurred only last night. I prevailed upon Dr Pentecost to accompany me, largely because of his adroitness in slipping past the Hoplite patrols, but also for moral support. He took some persuading, albeit not much.

  “You are an inquisitive sort, my girl,” he said. “Whence stems this zeal for re-entering that place of death?”

  “If something fascinates me, I cannot resist its call.”

  “The fascination that cavern exerts is a dark one.”

  “Are dark things not the most fascinating of all? I chafe against convention. I am drawn towards the grotesque. The cavern presents those unusual and outré features which are as dear to me as I think they are to you.”

  “She is paraphrasing you, Holmes,” I said.

  “Or you, Watson,” said he.

  “I am, I will allow, excited by that which the vast majority shun,” Dr Pentecost said. “The mundane depresses me. ‘Odi profanum vulgus et arceo,’ to quote Horace. Very well. You have won me over, Miss Holbrook. It is refreshing to come across one as spirited and wayward as yourself. You remind me of me in my younger days. I am pleased you chose to befriend me.”

  We traversed the grounds, equipped with a pair of lanterns, which Dr Pentecost did not light until we were well inside the grotto. We passed along the tunne
l to the frescoed cavern, whereupon I began – according to your suggestion, Mr Holmes – to search for a secret door. I will admit to being sceptical. How could the murals conceal such a thing? More to the point, why? For what reason would it be there? Where might it lead?

  I disguised the action as scrutiny. I held my lantern close to each fresco and studied the illustration as intently as a short-sighted art historian with his nose to a canvas. Dr Pentecost, ever the teacher, kept up a constant commentary, furnishing yet further detail about the punishments depicted and the recipients’ crimes.

  At last we came to a fresco that showed a number of young women fetching water from a river.

  “They are the Danaides,” Dr Pentecost said, “the daughters of Danaus. There were actually fifty of them, rather than the dozen or so represented here, and all but one of them killed their husbands simultaneously on their wedding night. For that offence they were doomed to spend eternity carrying ewers of water from a river to a bath, where they might wash themselves clean of their sins.”

  “But the ewers look more like sieves.”

  “Quite. The water would run out through the perforations before the Danaides ever reached the bath, and they would have to trudge back to the river to fetch a refill, and so on ad infinitum.”

  I noticed that the sound of rushing water that I had discerned on my previous visit was, although audible throughout the cavern, at its loudest when I stood before the image of the Danaides. While I continued my study of the fresco, Dr Pentecost moved on to the subject of demigods who had journeyed to Hades and returned.

  “It is a recurrent motif in Classical myth,” he said. “Odysseus, Aeneas, Heracles, all travel to the realm of the dead and emerge again alive. It is a mark of their exceptional status as heroes, as a fusion of god and man – they symbolically transcend mortality. It is also narratively satisfying that the descent of each, katabasis, is followed by a concomitant ascent, anabasis. It provides a poetic balance. The anabasis is not always wholly successful, however. Think of Orpheus. Think of Proserpina…”