by John Harwood
Someone had made up the fire in my room, and as soon as I had bolted the door behind Edwin, I lit the two dusty candles on the mantelpiece, dragged the camp-bed as close as I dared to the hearth and lay down fully clothed, with the lantern on a chair beside me. The smell of oil and hot metal was vaguely comforting, as was the knowledge that Edwin would be in the room next door, between me and the landing.
As the warmth crept back into my veins, I realised that what had so dispirited me, aside from Vernon Raphael's tone, was the fear that he might be right about Nell: he had, after all, deduced from what I had shown him that Magnus had murdered—or at least set out to murder—his uncle. I had never considered the possibility, yet it all made perfect sense; whereas his account of the Mystery, on all but a few points, had merely echoed the coroner's findings.
But if I had shown him the rest of the papers, they would only have reinforced his conviction of Nell's guilt.
Yet there was something he had said—something that had struck a faint chord, even as it poured cold water upon my own theory—yes; that if Nell had been willing to surrender Clara to an accomplice, why bring her here in the first place?
And why, of all the rooms she might have chosen, had she put Clara in that dark, airless closet?
Because, with the door closed, no one could tell whether there was a child in it or not.
I took up Nell's journal and John Montague's account of the inquest and skimmed the pages by the light of the lantern.
There was no record of anyone else having seen Clara at the Hall.
I turned back to the first page of the journal, the journal she said she had not dared begin in London, for fear Magnus would find it. And which she had left open on the writing table.
She had meant him to find it. I had been deceived; the journal was a fiction, and nothing in it could be trusted.
No; not exactly. Everything about the failure of their marriage; her loathing of him; Mrs. Bryant: everything that Magnus knew or could check; all of that would have been true, and meant to wound, to strike him on the raw, so that he would not doubt the rest.
Clara had never been at the Hall. Someone—the maid Lucy?—had borne her off to safety, whilst Nell came on to the Hall alone. That would have been the most dangerous part, getting the "child"—a doll bundled in swaddling clothes, perhaps—from the carriage to the room. No wonder she had insisted upon doing everything herself!
But why? What was the point of the deception?
To make it appear that the curse of Wraxford Hall had struck again; that she and Clara had been carried off by the powers of darkness. She had invented the final visitation to "foretell" their fate.
But the deception had not succeeded. Magnus had looked through the journal and immediately ordered a search.
Had Nell assumed that, for all his professed scepticism, he was a believer? Or that others would believe it, even if he did not? Or had Mrs. Bryant's death disrupted her own plan?
And how had she meant to escape? Without Clara, she could have got away on foot. And since the journal had been left for Magnus to find, she had every reason to escape as soon as it was light enough to see her way through Monks' Wood.
What was it Vernon Raphael had said about Magnus? "A genius for improvisation."
Nell had been so intent on creating her own illusion that she had never realised how the journal might be used against her. Magnus's letter—the one John Montague had found, addressed to Mr. Veitch—that, too, had been false, like the fragment of Nell's dress caught in the armour. Nell had never returned to the Hall, and Magnus had not died here.
Then whose were the ashes in the armour?
Not Nell's, at least; the doctor at the inquest had said they were the remains of a man of about Magnus's age and height.
To stage a convincing séance, every medium needed an accomplice. Magnus had said that Bolton was going to work the influence machine, but the machine was a mere prop. And Magnus was surely far too astute to have trusted Bolton.
No; the accomplice had been someone else entirely, a man nobody had seen, smuggled into the house at night, and hidden somewhere in the maze of rooms on the upper floor, where no one had been allowed to go. Paid handsomely, perhaps, without even knowing what was at stake—and destined never to leave the Hall alive.
There was something John Montague had mentioned ... yes, the lightning people in Chalford thought they had seen from Monks' Wood on the Sunday night ... Magnus had burned the body in the armour, and then discharged the "lightning," just as Vernon Raphael had done tonight.
Or else I was wrong about the accomplice, and Magnus had brought the ashes with him; he was a doctor, after all. But in that case—in either case—he had already planned his disappearance.
I looked back through Nell's journal, at all the references to his being away from home for days or weeks at a time. Magnus had been living a double life all along!
And Nell must have known, as soon as the news of John Montague's grisly discovery had broken, that if she were caught, Magnus might well be amongst the spectators who came to see her hanged for murdering him.
My mind had been leaping from one conclusion to the next with such rapidity that I had not realised how far I had come. Because Nell had insisted that there was nothing of Magnus in Clara, I had been able to push the thought aside, imagining Nell as my true mother in a world of half belief, where ordinary relations did not apply. Now I was seized with a sudden vertiginous terror that I might be Clara Wraxford. Despite the two candles and the glow of the fire, the shadows behind the furniture—two musty armchairs, a wooden settle, various other chairs and cabinets—were very dark indeed. I shone the lantern around the room, striking more shadows from the peeling paper, and over the cracked, sagging ceiling, which seemed to bulge downward as the light passed over it. And how long would the oil last?
Reluctantly, I rose and extinguished the two candles. I have only to endure the hours until daylight, I told myself, and by tomorrow evening I shall be safely back in St. John's Wood.
And then what? Supposing Magnus was still alive? Did I not have a duty to inform the police? But they would not listen to me, any more than Vernon Raphael, who would only twist everything around until all of the evidence pointed to Nell. The only certain way to prove Nell's innocence—at least, the only way that I could see—was to find Magnus Wraxford. Who had presumably taken the diamonds abroad to sell them—which of course was why he had bought them in the first place. Like so much else in his scheme, they had served a double purpose: to assist in his disappearance, and to sharpen the jaws of the trap he had laid for Nell, long before Bolton had seen her with John Montague.
Which was why, it came to me, Nell's description of that encounter had been so perfunctory. Knowing that Magnus would read the journal, she had not wanted to make trouble—any more than could be helped—for John Montague. But by anyone else it would be taken—as perhaps Magnus himself had taken it—to mean that she was concealing a guilty liaison.
Magnus had woven his net so cunningly that every scrap of evidence turned out to be Janus-faced. Edwin, at least, would hear me out, and keep silent about Nell's journal if I asked him to; but even he, I feared, would not believe me without some tangible indication that Magnus had not died in the armour.
There was one other possibility. For me to trace Magnus was plainly hopeless; but if I could draw him into tracing me ... if, for example, I let it be known that I possessed proof of his guilt, discovered here at the Hall ... especially if rumour said also that I was Clara Wraxford. But this was madness, and to dwell upon it here would drive me out of my wits. I turned the lantern down as low as I could bear and lay awake for hours, as it seemed, with fear crawling through my veins, until I sank into an exhausted sleep, and woke half-frozen in the grey light of dawn.
Two carriages were due to return at eleven—the coachmen had, I gathered, refused to remain at the Hall overnight—to take us back to Woodbridge. I made my primitive ablutions in icy water, and kept
to my room as long as possible, even though there was nothing to do there, once I had packed my things, but brood and shiver. Though I had done my best to make myself presentable, I felt grimy and bedraggled, and the tarnished glass above the mantelpiece did nothing to lift my spirits.
Hunger and cold drove me out at last onto the gloom of the landing, and around to the library, where the rest of the party were breakfasting on tea and toast, prepared over the library fire. Feeling acutely self-conscious, I assured everyone that I was entirely recovered from my faint, and had slept quite well, and allowed myself to be settled by the fireside and waited upon by Edwin and Vernon Raphael, between whom I sensed—at least on Edwin's side—a certain antagonism.
"I wonder, Miss Langton," said Vernon Raphael, after I had declined anything further, "what you thought of my exposition last night. I was left with the impression that you did not find it altogether persuasive."
"I—I found what you said about Cornelius Wraxford very convincing," I replied, hoping he would ask no further.
"But ...?" he prompted. Edwin gave him an angry look, and I was aware of the other men awaiting my reply.
If I cannot be true to Nell here, I thought, I shall never be brave enough to defend her.
"I believe that Eleanor Wraxford was innocent," I said. "I think that all of the appearances against her were contrived by Magnus Wraxford—including the ashes in the armour. I do not believe he is dead." A ripple of shock ran through the room. "No doubt you will dismiss this as a woman's idle fancy..."
"Perhaps I might have done," said Vernon Raphael, "if you had not allowed me to see those passages from John Montague's narrative. What further evidence have you?"
"I cannot tell you that," I replied, wishing my voice did not sound so tremulous. "I am—pledged to secrecy."
"But Miss Langton, if you possess evidence to prove what you say, is it not your duty to set it before the public?"
"It is not yet enough to persuade a court; or any man already convinced of Eleanor Wraxford's guilt," I said, with the sensation of sliding toward the edge of a precipice.
"But it has persuaded you, Miss Langton," he persisted. "Can you not tell us why?"
"I can answer no more questions, Mr. Raphael, except to say my greatest desire is to see Eleanor Wraxford proven innocent."
There was a moment's embarrassed silence, and then, as if at an unspoken signal, all of the men rose and began gathering up their possessions.
I retreated once more to my room, intending to stay there until the coaches arrived, but found the confinement intolerable. After a few minutes' restless pacing I decided to take a last look at the room where Nell had stayed. As I came onto the landing, I saw, in the shadows on the far side of the stairwell, the study door open and a tall figure—Dr. Davenant—emerge. He glanced in the direction of the library, as if to assure himself that no one was following, strode confidently across the landing and disappeared into the corridor which led to the bedrooms. By the time I reached the entrance, the sound of his footsteps had ceased.
Pausing to listen at every turn of the corridor, I followed as quietly as I could, until I came within sight of Nell's room. Pale light spilled from the doorway, wavering over the dusty floor of the passage, and as I watched a shadow passed across it. Superstitious dread possessed me; I turned to flee, but my foot slipped on some fallen plaster, and a board creaked loudly. The shadow darkened and seemed to rise up the opposite wall, and Dr. Davenant appeared before me.
"Ah, Miss Langton. Forgive me if I startled you—and for taking the liberty of exploring your house. This was, I gather, the room occupied by Eleanor Wraxford?"
He was not wearing his tinted spectacles, and his eyes gleamed faintly in the light from the doorway.
"Yes, sir, it was."
He gestured toward the doorway, as if inviting me to examine something, stepping back as he did so to make room for me to enter. Politeness compelled me to obey against my instinct, and a moment later I was standing by Nell's writing table, with Dr. Davenant between me and the door.
"What was it you wanted to show me, sir?" I asked, unable to suppress the tremor of fear in my voice. His expression was all but concealed by his beard and moustache, but it seemed to me that there was a glint of amusement in his eyes, which were so dark that the irises, as well as the pupils, seemed almost black. I wondered if this was an effect of the injury he had suffered.
"I found your remarks a few moments ago most stimulating," he said, blandly ignoring my question. His voice sounded deeper and more resonant than I remembered. "You said, I think, that you possess evidence that Magnus—rather than Eleanor Wraxford—was the guilty party, and yet you are constrained by a pledge of secrecy .... I could not help speculating as to whom that pledge might have been given."
"I cannot tell you that, sir."
"Quite so, Miss Langton. Only it did strike me that if you had managed to trace Eleanor Wraxford, secrecy would be eminently justified, since she still faces a capital charge." His tone was courteous, even casual, but with an edge of mockery. Framed in the doorway, he seemed to tower above me.
"You are quite mistaken, sir." I was afraid to ask him to let me pass, in case he would not.
"I see." His gaze shifted from me to the cot in its cheerless alcove. "And what do you suppose became of the child?"
My heart lurched, and for a moment I was tongue-tied.
"I cannot—sir, you must not press me. Now, please—"
"Miss Langton, hear me out. Your desire to prove Eleanor Wraxford innocent is altogether laudable, but supposing you are wrong? A woman capable of murdering her child is capable of anything."
"But she did not—"
"You seem very certain of that. I put it to you, Miss Langton, that by withholding information, you are placing yourself in serious danger. If you are right, and Magnus Wraxford is still at large, he has a direct interest in silencing you. The same applies if Eleanor Wraxford committed these crimes. Ask yourself, Miss Langton, how the Whitechapel murderer has managed to evade detection with every man in London on the lookout for him—if not because the murderer is, in fact, a woman?"
"You surely do not mean, sir"—I shrank away from him—"that Eleanor Wraxford—"
"I do not say that, Miss Langton; only that a woman, once she has killed, can be as ruthless as any man—and far more adept at deceiving those around her. Which is why I urge you to confide in someone—myself, for example—expert in the appraisal of evidence in criminal cases. Anything you say to me I shall treat, of course, in the strictest confidence; indeed I would be happy to make the approach to Scotland Yard on your behalf; that way, your name need never appear in the matter. In the interests of justice, Miss Langton, and of your own safety, I beg you to trust me."
His voice had softened, and his dark gaze, as he spoke, was fixed upon mine. Confiding in him seemed, for a moment, the only rational thing to do. But even wrapped in my travelling cloak, I had begun to shiver again; and he was still between me and the door.
"I thank you, sir, but you must excuse me now; I shall—consider what you have said."
"Of course, Miss Langton."
He bowed, stepped back into the corridor, and allowed me to pass.
Troubled by this encounter, I went in search of Edwin, whom I found in the gallery, standing disconsolately at the far end of the room, contemplating the entrance to the priest's hole.
"Why could you not confide in me?" he asked as I came up. "Did you think I too would not believe you?"
"No," I said, "it came to me only last night."
"And you cannot tell me any more?"
I hesitated.
"Perhaps," I said, "but not where others may hear. What are you doing?"
"There's something wrong about this," he said. "The space within is no larger than a coffin stood on end; you could not endure more than a few hours in such confinement, whereas most of these hiding places were built to conceal a man for days, or even weeks at a time. If only I had time ... but th
e coaches will be here at any minute."
I was wondering whether to suggest that he and I might remain a little longer, when matters were taken out of our hands by St. John Vine, who appeared with the news that only one of the coaches had arrived; a shaft had broken on the other when it was about halfway from Woodbridge. We followed him down the stairs and out onto the weed-strewn forecourt, where Dr. Davenant, his eyes once more concealed by tinted lenses, was conversing with Vernon Raphael. Even the nearest trees were wreathed in mist; the air was still, but so bitterly cold that breathing felt like inhaling splinters of ice. Of course they wanted me to take one of the four available seats, but I declined, on the excuse that I had promised to look for some family papers for Mr. Craik.
"Mr. Rhys has kindly offered to remain with me," I said, uncomfortably aware of Vernon Raphael's sardonic expression. "You may tell the coach to return for us at three o'clock." My heart sank as I realised that one of the others would have to stay behind as well, until Dr. Davenant resolved the difficulty by announcing that he would walk. "I need the exercise," he said, "and will probably reach Woodbridge long before the rest of you."
No one tried to dissuade him, and half an hour later, Edwin Rhys and I were alone in Wraxford Hall.
I had already resolved to tell Edwin everything—except for my belief that I might be Clara Wraxford—and as soon as I had secured his promise of secrecy, I brought out the other papers and sat with him by the library fire, wondering if I should ever feel warm again. With the rest of the party gone, the stillness of the Hall was so oppressive that I found it hard to raise my voice above a whisper. Edwin asked many questions as he read, and seemed to warm toward my theory as we talked.
"You must forgive me if I still doubt," he said, as we made an impromptu luncheon of bread and cheese and potted meat. "There is so much that I had never even considered. But supposing you are right, and Magnus was responsible for all of the deaths, including Mrs. Bryant's: how did he come and go? There must be some secret way into the gallery; it is the heart of all the devilry that has been done here. That bolt-hole that Raphael uncovered may be the entrance to it."