The Willing Game

by Issy Brooke

  “Thank you.” She got up to leave, and brushed the dust from her skirts. “One last thing. Which one was blond, and which was the brunette?”

  “Walker was as a pale as a ghost, with hair like sun, that a maiden would kill to have. Bartholomew was like a pirate who had spent his whole life at sea. Dark eyes that the ladies would soon swoon for, swarthy as anything you ever did see.”

  She trudged out into the suddenly-bright streets, and felt despondent. For the Edgar Bartholomew she was investigating was also dark of hair.

  WHEN SHE GOT BACK, Marianne found Phoebe waiting for her in the hallway. “I am glad to see you are dressed for a trip to town,” she was told. “Let us take lunch somewhere secluded.”

  “It is a little late now for lunch.”

  “A mid-afternoon tea then. I have a fancy for cakes. Price said I looked peaky this morning, and that I should treat myself. I must obey my husband! It is written in the scriptures, after all. Come along!”

  By half past two they were back in London, in a pretty little teashop down a cobbled side-street. It was a favourite haunt of ladies who wished to have a break from a day of shopping. They could hardly stray into the raucous coffee houses which were full of men and politics, but tea rooms like this were springing up all over the place. They ordered a few light sandwiches and pastry delights, and a large pot of tea.

  “Now, I have news,” Phoebe said. “Do you? Shall we toss a coin for who speaks first?”

  “You may as well, for I have little,” Marianne said morosely. “I have been paid for nothing, you know. We are chasing shadows.”

  “Not so. Listen! I did not discover much more about Jack Monahan. I cannot discover why he was dismissed from his employment with Lord Hazelstone – yes! He was dismissed. He did not leave of his own accord. So that is even more reason to avoid the man. Now, there was also Mrs Silver, and I managed to meet with her at another friend’s afternoon salon. Alas, Mrs Silver was unhelpful. She had no good words to say about you, by the way. I pretended that we were not linked in any significant way. She told me that Monahan had insisted that he attend a séance with her, and did so by claiming some affinity with me! Because he dropped my name, she allowed him to be present.”

  Marianne scowled. “The snake.”

  “I know! And as neither he nor Mrs Silver herself had ever met me, I feel most doubly used. How many others use my name as a way to open doors?”

  “I wouldn’t think it is widespread. Such deception always gets found out.”

  “True,” Phoebe said. “Anyway, he is said to be a charming man when in company, according to all accounts, just as I said before. I also discovered that he is definitely a bachelor and his family is unknown. He has no name. Beyond that, no one could say much at all about him. Some women turned to laughing and blushing, so he must be an attractive man. Is he?”

  “I could hardly say.”

  Phoebe twitched her nose. “Indeed. I am sure we can trust you not to have your head turned by such frivolity. A little of it would do you good – but not now, not with this man. Now, as to Edgar Bartholomew, there is more to say. He is known as a quiet and sober man of business, generally. His wife’s departure all those years ago, and her tragic death last year, has made him an object of pity and sympathy. He has not taken advantage of his marital freedom, and in fact has been praised as a man of narrow morals and good standing.”

  “So far, so good.”

  “He does not dine out. He does not hold dinners and he does not receive callers. He does not attend invitations. He has been a recluse for these past ten years or more.”

  “Where?”

  “He has mostly been living in a small suite of rooms in London, close to his very small and exclusive club, and it is a place I do not think even my own dear Price could simply walk into. Most of the people I spoke to say they were surprised to see him suddenly emerge into the streets again.”

  “When did he suddenly emerge?” Marianne asked. “No – I can guess. Three weeks ago?”

  “Yes. But he still refuses dinners and parties. He has moved back to his country house on the edge of town, they say, and given up his rooms, but he comes into London almost every day.”

  “And does what?”

  Phoebe grinned in triumph. “Here is where it does involve you, and I can understand why his son thinks that you are the best person to help. He is closeted up with all the different mediums and magicians in London.”

  “His son said as much. But I wonder why?”

  “No one could say. So, what do we do now?”

  “Eat all the cake here, and then go out and find him, and follow him.”

  “How thrilling.”

  IT TURNED OUT TO BE rather hard to find an individual in London. They had a wasted and pointless day, as they trailed from one place to another. Sometimes it felt as if the whole world lived in London. They hung around the houses of the better-known mediums, and spoke with neighbours and servants and got nowhere. Sometimes they were told, tantalisingly, of Mr Edgar Bartholomew being spotted – “he came yesterday, madam, miss, you’ve missed him” – but they did not see him. Even fewer words could be got about Wade Walker. People simply said, “Ask Edgar Bartholomew. They are always together, or so it is said.”

  They had one tiny piece of luck as they trudged on their way back towards the nearest railway station. Phoebe had wanted to ride in a cab, but Marianne knew of a “spiritualist” woman who had lately arrived in London, purporting to hail from India though Marianne had spotted her at a gathering and felt that her skin tone was more of a dark Celt, and her accent likewise tinged with the Welsh valleys. They passed by the tall narrow house where the woman had set up her rooms, and Marianne spied a maid throwing water out of the door.

  One small coin and a hurried conversation later, and they knew that Bartholomew had been visiting “Madame Dipali” regularly and was booked to attend a small, private sitting the very next day.

  “Say nothing to anyone,” Marianne said to the maid, whose eyes remained hard until Phoebe revealed another coin for her.

  “Well, wasn’t that a stroke of luck!” Phoebe said as they turned away and linked arms. The streets were busy and they did not want to get separated. They had their bags on their inner arms, sandwiched between their bodies and well out of the reach of most pickpockets. People buffeted them from all sides.

  “I am pleased,” Marianne replied. “I wonder if there is any way of getting into this séance, or perhaps sneaking into a room adjacent to it, and hearing what Mr Bartholomew has to say.” She kept her voice low, but something caught the ears of a man who was walking a little way ahead of them, and he half-turned his head in surprise.

  Marianne faltered. It was too late to hide. There he was – the man that they had been seeking – heading towards the same railway terminus. As he had been known to visit the medium, it was not too strange to see him on the same street. But for him, it was an uncommon surprise. He spun around and blinked. “I know you,” he said. “Oh! I saw you at my house. You were talking about me? I heard my name.”

  It was a bizarre and terse stream of short sentences. He looked ill at ease, and stepped forward with a looming air over them that Marianne could not help but interpret as threatening.

  “Oh, no, sir,” Phoebe said, “I doubt that we were talking about you... Bartholomew? It is not such an unusual name.”

  “Indeed it is not, but coming from this woman, I am suspicious. Why have I seen you now, twice, in two days? What has my son been saying?”

  “About what?”

  Edgar Bartholomew pressed his lips together as if he were trying to stop himself shouting in exasperation. He nodded to the side of the pavement. “Step this way. There is something that you must know about my son.”

  They moved out of the way of the busy pedestrians and into a little alcove formed by the jutting edge of a building and some stone steps. Peeling notices and advertisements hung in strands from the flaking walls. It smelled unclean, as str
eet corners tended to do. Edgar Bartholomew glowered at them. “My son has been abroad,” he said. “He has been away from home for many years, and as you can imagine, this has unsettled him. Even, if I can go so far as to suggest such a thing, it has unhinged his mind slightly. The air in foreign climes can make a strong man ill, given enough time. We are not suited to it. I have read Mr Darwin and I find his arguments compelling, and so it is with my son; he was born to live here, not there, and it has made him ... well, it has made him mad.”

  That is not how it works at all, Marianne thought. Yet she could also believe the man’s final argument, even if she didn’t agree with his logic to get there – the son’s ideas about his father, that he was an impersonator, could easily be seen as delusional.

  Phoebe was attempting to turn on her society-lady charm. She smiled sweetly and said, “We quite understand, sir, and if my cousin has done or said anything that might be offensive to you, please know that it has only been done from a place of concern.”

  “Concern? What about? What exactly has he said to you? How did you meet, and why were you at my house?”

  Marianne was feeling like she was drowning. She should have had a nice, pat cover story ready to trot out. She felt her face flush. She gabbled, “Ah, nothing. Oh! Yes, we met at a dinner. He works with my cousin-in-law, Mr Claverdon, and he came to dine. Isn’t that right, Phoebe?” Her truthful words came out in a rush and sounded fake to her own ears because of her panicked breathlessness.

  And he clearly didn’t believe what she was saying, either. “Oh really? I think you might look into his employment a little more. Works! And why did you come to my house? I do not receive callers.”

  “He invited me. He wished only to talk,” she added hastily.

  Phoebe began to squeeze Marianne’s arm. “We should go,” she murmured, saying then to Mr Bartholomew, “Once again, I apologise for our intrusion. We have to catch a train.”

  “The train can go without you. They run frequently enough, and I mean to have this out,” he said. “Come now. What is your name? I asked it before but did not care to remember the answer. Now, I find I must look to my business. So who are you?”

  In spite of all the reports of him in town as being of a quiet and sober-minded man, he presented a rough and bullying manner. It seemed to surprise Phoebe, but Marianne remember his bluntness from before. She said, “I am Miss Marianne Starr, and this is Mrs Phoebe Claverdon.”

  Phoebe tugged Marianne’s arm. But he was blocking their way now, standing between them and the street. “And what did my son want to talk about?”

  “It is a personal matter,” Phoebe said, as Marianne struggled for words. “Come along.” She pushed past Mr Bartholomew, unashamedly knocking him with her elbow, and dragged Marianne into the flow of people heading towards the station. “Good day, sir.”

  “If I see either of you again, I shall alert the authorities!” he bellowed after them.

  Everyone turned to stare at the pair of them. Marianne could see that Phoebe’s face was now aflame, and they heard muttered speculation as to their occupations – people were assuming that they were well-dressed whores.

  Neither spoke until they were safely in a first class carriage, and quite alone, and then Phoebe began to giggle as the shock wore off, and Marianne frowned and stared out of the window.

  She wondered if Simeon had a way to get her into the private séance that was to be held the following day.

  Nine

  They knew that the private sitting between Edgar Bartholomew and Madam Dipali was due to be held in the afternoon. Unfortunately in the morning, Phoebe woke up unable to see. She suffered attacks of hemicranias or migraine opthalmique, and would be confined to a darkened room for many hours. Various doctors had prescribed an array of remedies, from a few grains of aconitine in alcohol to triphenin in water, but nothing worked so well as a day and a night of silence and darkness. Marianne went to check on her, and whispered that no amount of electricity – administered by headband or by corset – could possibly help. Phoebe had moaned and burrowed into the pillow.

  So Marianne checked on the governess, the cook, the housekeeper, her own father, her father’s nurse, the children, and Emilia, and set everything to rights before leaving the house just before midday in a fearful rush, hoping to get to see Simeon and conjure up a plan of action before the scheduled séance.

  Simeon laughed at her. “Of course I can do what you ask,” he said. “But not within a week. Ideally, longer. I need to know the layout of the room. Where are the entrances and exits? What materials have been used in the walls? It is a ground floor room? Who else will be there? What tricks are planned?”

  “All I want to do is to spy on him!” Marianne wailed in frustration. “Is that so hard? You can make invisible tigers appear, and handkerchiefs dance in the air. You can surely do this, simply with the objects that you have lying around in here!”

  Simeon ran his fingers through his hair. “You are clever – how would you do it?”

  “I am no magician.”

  “What do you hope to achieve?”

  “I want to know why he is visiting mediums. I simply want to overhear what is happening.”

  “Why does anyone visit a medium?” Simeon said. He threw himself into a chair and pulled one ankle to rest on his opposite knee. “You tell me.”

  “To ...”

  “To be duped?”

  “No,” she said. “They want to make contact with people they’ve lost, to find reassurance, to ... well, to be entertained, too, but as this is a private meeting, that means really he is trying to ... talk to someone who has died. He must truly believe in the possibility.”

  Simeon said, “Well done! You are thinking at last.”

  “Stop that. If I could listen in to what is happening, I could find out who he is trying to contact. Maybe it’s his wife!”

  “Is she definitely dead?”

  “Yes, she is definitely dead. But the main problem with that hypothesis is,” Marianne went on, “they were estranged, and for an awfully long time, so why would he want to speak to her now?”

  “Maybe she had the last word and he resents it.”

  Marianne picked up a small stuffed mouse and threw it at Simeon’s head but he caught it with his lightning reflexes. “Careful. This one bites.”

  “It’s dead.”

  “It was never alive, and that still doesn’t mean it can’t harm you.” He tucked it into his breast pocket, letting the head peep out. “I can understand what you want to do. He’s a regular at this medium’s house, is that right? So I can plan something if you really want me to, but you need to be able to get next door, and report back to me.”

  “I shall do so.”

  “How?”

  “I have no idea.” Already the initial rush of enthusiasm for the idea was waning. She was in danger of becoming like Phoebe, hurtling from one idea to another without planning and thought. She was a woman of science, she reminded herself. Method, analysis, reason and rationality.

  Simeon pulled the mouse free from his pocket and threw it back at her.

  MARIANNE WALKED. WALKING cleared her head. Phoebe, when she came to town alone, was not really alone; if her maid Emilia did not accompany her, then Price’s valet Mr Fry would. She could ride in a carriage and have men carry her boxes. She did not see the city as Marianne did.

  Marianne gloried in the freedoms afforded to her middling status. She ambled through the more respectable streets of shops and businesses, though as everywhere in London, the lower classes pressed in from all sides, in a jumble of noise and vision. People called out – begging, selling, preaching, warning.

  Huge advertising hoardings screamed out their wares, and posters were pasted upon posters. Beggars wheeled or crawled, some with their life story chalked on the ground or scribbled on board that was propped at their feet, if they had feet. Street sellers offered her everything from ribbons to pies. Dogs barked, boys fought, and cabs trundled through the roads
doing battle with delivery carts and horse-drawn omnibuses.

  She walked and she thought – if Edgar Bartholomew was someone else, pretending to be him, then how would he do it? He would have to know the original man well enough to know he could fake it. He would have to be similar. And if he was not similar, he would have to change his appearance.

  How did one change one’s appearance? You couldn’t grow taller, and while you could get fatter or thinner, it was not so easy. You could change your hair, but not your eyes.

  Edgar Bartholomew’s eyes had been pale, though his hair had been dark.

  Something skirted around the edge of her memory. Someone had said something. Was it about hair, or eyes?

  If anyone was going to impersonate Bartholomew, would it not be his closest friend, Wade Walker – of whom no one could speak? She only knew he existed based on the testimony of a few scant people.

  It was the most tenuous of suspicions. But it was all she had.

  She could not even imagine why he might be doing such a thing.

  She knew that she would need help for her next move. With Phoebe out of action, she decided to head back to the Bartholomews’ country house, and ask for George Bartholomew’s assistance.

  When she reached the lane at the bottom of the driveway to the Bartholomew place, she stopped. If the older Bartholomew was at home, she was going to walk right into a world of trouble. She couldn’t risk that.

  Instead she knocked on the door of the lodge and it was answered by a pleasant man with deeply lined cheeks and a ready smile. “Can I help you, miss?”

  “I hope so. I was hoping to call upon Mr George Bartholomew but I am aware that his father is not always amenable to visitors. I have no wish to cause trouble. I was wondering if you might be able to convey a message to the gentleman, the son, asking him to meet me down here?”