The Willing Game

by Issy Brooke

  “I think so.”

  “If it is this, we would need to steep it in nitric acid. What else?” He turned to the box of Tinctura Pompeiana and peered at the writing. Most of the text was a hyperbolic stream of claims as to its effectiveness and there was no strictly factual information – nothing useful like a list of exact contents and their proportions – but it did claim to include “litharge, lime and harmless chalk”. She noted they didn’t claim the overall preparation itself was without risk. The directions were somewhat intimidating. “Apply to wet hair and allow to permeate for four hours, keeping moist the whole time, and then allow to dry. A dilute solution of acetic acid next applied and finally rub the whole head with the yolk of an egg.”

  “Marvellous,” Russell said. “Nitric acid is our friend again here. Let us get to work!”

  THEY SPLIT THE SAMPLE of hair into four, each batch consisting of around two dozen strands of hair. Then it was over to Russell. Marianne sat at the bench and watched her father work, and it felt like old times, with an added veneer of pain and regret.

  Regret was pointless. He could not be cured and would not live out his allotted span of days. He would descend into madness and pain over the coming years as the bacteria continued its assault on his brain. He bent his head over the flask in which he was steeping a lock of hair in nitric acid, and she had one brief and vain flash of thanks that the syphilis had not taken his now-rugged good looks. He had not fallen prey to the gummas, the large spongey growths that would make monsters out of men.

  But she knew that his balance was getting worse, and his headaches were increasing and his tolerance to light was poor. His moods, likewise, swung this way and that. Partly it was the disease, and partly from the effects of the medication he experimented with.

  They had never spoken of what should happen when he became unmanageable. But they both knew that he would.

  “Aha, see!” Russell said, his cheery shout at odds with her gloomy thoughts. She pushed a smile onto her cheeks and went to peer at the flask.

  “Do you see those bubbles?” he said.

  “I do ... let me think,” she replied, knowing that he was going to challenge her. “That is chalk, effervescing?”

  “Yes, exactly so. Good girl. And what is the white substance at the bottom of the flask?”

  “Um. Lead?” she hazarded.

  “Possibly. We shall test it. Fetch me the ferrous sulphate and the bottle of sulphuric acid.”

  With those things assembled, she was directed – as she had the steadier hand – to spoon out a little of the white stuff from the flask. As she dumped it into a fat glass sample tube that was resting in a clamp, her father casually added, “Of course, if it is lead nitrate, it is highly toxic.”

  She retreated and let him do the experiment. He added liquid to the tube to make the white stuff into a solution and then the lead sulphate. Marianne was ordered to return to perform the final part of the test – adding the acid, slowly, drop by drop.

  Russell stared like a hawk.

  “Yes!” he exclaimed. “The brown ring!”

  “You sound happier than you have done for months.”

  “Naturally. Look – do you see that brown line between the acid and the solution? This proves the hair was indeed dyed with a substance similar to the dye in the packet.”

  The acid had slipped below the aqueous solution and in between, there was a distinctive brown line.

  “It is one step closer to showing that Edgar Bartholomew is not who he says he is,” she said.

  “No, you have that the wrong way around. The man claiming to be Edgar Bartholomew is not him. Logic, girl. Be strict and be accurate. Now your question is, who is he?”

  “I do not have to prove that. All I need to do is take the results of this experiment to the solicitor, and he will pay me the rest of the money.”

  “We shall have a merry few months then. Let us buy better coffee.”

  She opened and closed her mouth. The money was going to be loaned to Price, not frittered away on eggs benedict and new smoking jackets. She began to clear up, and as she bustled around the laboratory, she asked if he had discovered anything about Jack Monahan.

  “You said you had ways and means, father. I hope you have not got into trouble with it.”

  He sighed heavily and grunted as he sat down to watch her tidy the room. He had done the brain work – it was her place to do the domestic side of things. “Ah yes. He is a slippery fish to catch hold of. My usual place seemed to have no word of the fellow at first.”

  “But...?”

  “Well, I was not such a fine upstanding gentleman in my youth, and I knew of a few other places I might try. Lower sorts of clubs. Still gentleman all, I might add, but those who care less for reputation and more for ... entertainment.”

  “Oh, the Four In Hand Club, those sort of things?”

  “They are nothing more than loud young men who eat a lot and drive fast. No. I did get a whiff of the man at Cobden’s but they are all free trade nuts and would not admit me. I had most of my information from a butler at a shady drinking dive where rich men go to pretend to be poor. And there, among the reprobates and gamblers, whoremongers and thieves, they spoke of him with admiration.”

  “What? Well. Well, well.”

  “The reason that men of good taste and quality would not speak of him, in public, was that he was in employment to Lord Hazelstone but dismissed in disgrace. But you knew that already. However, this Monahan is apparently desperate to get back into Hazelstone’s good books. He was involved in some investigation into fraud, but did something – I do not know what – which if revealed would have brought Hazelstone into disgrace. Now he is, in the words of my informants, something of a loose cannon and unpredictable. They gave me warnings not to cross the man. He is well-placed but in secretive ways.”

  “Perhaps we ought to speak to Lord Hazelstone.”

  “I think mentioning Monahan to Hazelstone would provoke the man to rage. I have met him. I would rather lick a toad than meet him again. Marianne, I forbid you to have anything further to do with Monahan.”

  “This is going to be awkward, father. For he dines with us tomorrow night.”

  Nineteen

  Marianne went straight back to the police station the next morning. She had asked her father to write out his suspicions and the results of the tests. She saw the same balding old desk officer as before, and demanded to see Sergeant Giles. Or, she added, anyone of authority.

  He looked at her, and sighed before going slowly to the door at the back of the office and calling out. In a few moments, she was being led into a private room with Sergeant Giles. He was a pleasant-mannered man of middle age, who had a heavily domed forehead covered in lank black strands of hair, and a yellow-toothed smile. He offered her tea, which she refused.

  “I hope you are recovered from the awful shock you sustained when you found the body,” he said.

  “Yes, thank you. I am here on that very matter. May I ask, has an autopsy been performed, and a cause of death established?”

  “I believe the coroner has noted it as accidental poisoning. Did you not mention oysters?”

  “Only that he had eaten some – but he was not killed by oysters, sir! You must examine the body again. I have already informed your man out there on the front desk. It was white phosphorus! Did he not pass the message on?”

  “Oh, Meeps? I am sure that he did. But it was not deemed necessary to follow up. And anyway, the body is buried now. Poisoning is poisoning; it was a tragic accident.”

  “No one accidentally dies from white phosphorus. It was deliberate.”

  Giles’s face took on a patient form. He wove his fingers together and inclined his head, to give her the impression that he was listening very hard. Delicately, he said, “And do you have anyone in mind who might have done this?”

  She knew when she was being patronised. She replied with studied politeness. “The man who claims that he is his father – Edgar Bar
tholomew – is an imposter and we have evidence.”

  “Which is?”

  “Here.” She pushed her father’s note across the table. “He dyes his hair.”

  “Vain and silly, but not a crime.”

  “George’s father was dark haired naturally. Why is this man, who says he is the father, dyeing his hair to be dark?”

  “Perhaps he has gone grey, and wishes to disguise it.”

  She opened her mouth to lay out all the other suspicions, and then closed her mouth again. She had not even considered the fact that he could have gone grey. She felt monumentally silly.

  And the look on Sergeant Giles’s face was one of pity and sympathy. He stood up and she followed, mechanically. She knew that there was no point in going any further.

  PHOEBE HAD SPENT THE whole day preparing for the dinner party, which was to be “merely a small, private and intimate affair.” There was no need, then, for twelve courses nor for the centrepiece to consist of an arrangement of ferns around a pineapple, but that was only Marianne’s opinion and apparently “you are just a woman of science and what do you know of meringues?”

  “I know that they taste nice, and that I should like to still have room in my belly to enjoy them. Are pigeons entirely necessary?” Marianne had said, before being chased out of the room.

  But paying attention to such details was Phoebe’s particular interest. She had invited the Jenkins, as usual, and also Marianne’s father.

  To everyone’s horror, this time Russell accepted the invitation. Phoebe did not know that he had done such an unusual thing until five that afternoon, just an hour before the guests were to arrive.

  It sent the whole ritual out of kilter.

  Marianne found Phoebe in her room, being dressed by Emilia, and broke the news to her with trepidation. Phoebe was naturally furious.

  “He has just decided?”

  “He has. He said yesterday that the fumes from the experiments we had undertaken had upset his system, and he had retired to bed. But he sprang up an hour ago and demanded to know where his invitation was. I said that he was welcome, as always, to join us, and he said that he would.”

  “But he can’t! We only invite him because we know he will say no. It upsets all the balance at the table! Monahan will escort you in, Price will escort me, and the Jenkins make up the six. If your father attends, he will be a spare!”

  “I told him that. But you know what he is like.”

  Phoebe rolled her eyes and blew out her cheeks, and Emilia tutted. “Hold still, my lady. Your curls...”

  AND IT ONLY GOT WORSE.

  Russell, being the most distinguished guest, held out his arm to Phoebe and took her into the dining room. He had dressed very smartly, and was quite the fashionable figure – if it were still 1860, which it was not. Still, he was at least clean and he walked with confidence. Price brought Marianne in, and Mr Jenkins had Mrs Jenkins on his arm. Jack Monahan preceded them but looked quite out of place. They took their seats. His hands flapped, as he had no lady to attend to. Marianne almost felt sorry for him.

  And then she remembered that this whole affair was simply done to please him, and she quashed her softer feelings. Let him be awkward. This was all his fault.

  The sweetbreads and beef olives came around first, and then a clear soup that cleansed the palate. The talk was kept as light and gentle as the soup, and everyone behaved impeccably. Marianne was not sure who she ought to worry about most – her father, who could lapse into brain-fever at any moment, or Jack Monahan, the unknown entity with unclear motives. She laughed lightly at everyone’s comments, sometimes without any reason to laugh at all, and tried to watch both men both constantly and surreptitiously. She wasn’t sure what she’d do in the event of her father or Monahan behaving badly. Possibly she could faint to cause a diversion.

  It was clear, from the questions around the table, that Price really did not know Monahan at all, and he was somewhat confused as to how and why Monahan was even present. Price kept glancing at his wife with a quizzical look on his face. Price and Monahan had clearly never been involved in business together, Marianne thought, as Price pressed Monahan on his daily activities. Monahan, in contrast, asked Price questions about Harker and Bow without needing to be told what Price’s role was. Monahan knew a lot. The information was decidedly one-way. She was starting to build her ideas as to why Monahan wanted to be here.

  It was nothing to do with her or with séances.

  The liar. She had known that all along.

  The fish course was mercifully light, just a lemon sole, artfully done with herbs. Mrs Cogwell was a genius in the kitchen, and to get the fish all the way from the kitchen to the dining room, still warm and flaky, was a much underrated and underappreciated success. The servants moved like swift and silent automatons, bringing and removing each course in practised succession.

  There was a simple joint of beef for the main course, with a gravy of rich sauce and a boozy hint of sherry, and some chicken croquettes in mustardy breadcrumbs, fried and dressed with parsley. The vegetables were varied and cooked to perfection – clearly not left to one of the maids this time. Even Marianne had to admit that Mrs Cogwell had outdone herself.

  On and on the meal ran, with various wines, a steamed pudding, lighter sorbets and finally a cheeseboard of the most rank-smelling and delightful blue cheese that anyone could remember eating.

  Phoebe, Marianne and Mrs Jenkins retired to the drawing room. Marianne stood stiffly by the fire and stared into the flames, replaying Monahan’s conversations in her head. She had brought him here. Now he had spoken with Price. Was that it? Was everything over?

  Phoebe came up to her side. “Why do you look as if you want to stab things with the poker?”

  “So astute. It is because I do want to stab things. What is Monahan up to? Did you hear him talking?”

  “I did and he behaved perfectly well. He seems that he simply needed an introduction to Price. I am expecting him to ask for a job.”

  “I doubt it,” Marianne said. “My father says he wants his old job back. Now he is in there, drinking with my father and your husband. I do not like it. And my father knows other things about him; and he does not like what he knows. You can guess, I am sure.”

  “Yet they all behaved so very well at dinner. They spoke of general things, and I was very impressed. Monahan gave not a hint of suspicious behaviour, and this time, your father did not shriek at the crackers and try to sing that terrible song about lobster.”

  “No, for Mrs Crouch and I have dosed him very well before he came down to dine, and it is only a matter of time before he passes out,” Marianne said.

  “Does he know?”

  “Of course not. And he never will.”

  “Splendidly done. I do hope he doesn’t fall face first into the brandy. Try not to fret about Monahan. Your obligation to him is discharged.”

  “It feels unresolved still, as if I am missing something.”

  “You will never tie it all up to your satisfaction,” Phoebe told her. “Life is not like a household receipt book that can be added up and made to balance in perfection. Shall we have more wine? You will care less about the little things then.”

  Mrs Jenkins came up to them and gazed at the fire. “Mr Monahan is a singular character,” she remarked. “Who is he? I fancy he never did say who his family was.”

  “No,” Marianne and Phoebe said in unison.

  “He has some mystery but he is decidedly well-bred,” Phoebe added. “I believe it to be a mark of his good character that he is not gossiped about in every drawing room in town, and retains a level of privacy that some people would do well to emulate. Not yourself, of course – you are a paragon of reticence.”

  Marianne had to turn away in case she had gone puce at Phoebe’s bare lies.

  Mrs Jenkins did not take offence. “And how did you come to know this gentleman?”

  “I, er...” Phoebe stuttered and nudged Marianne. “We, I should say, he..
.”

  Marianne shrugged. Phoebe said, in a rush of confidence, “He is a friend of Price’s, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  Their extended and, to Marianne’s overwrought mind, awkward silence was broken by the arrival of the men, who had clearly drunk a lot of alcohol very quickly. They smelled of cigars and pipe-smoke, and bowled into the room laughing as if they had been sharing the best joke.

  Price and Monahan might have been strangers at the start of the party but now they behaved like long lost friends. Well, he had achieved what he came for, she thought. Let us hope that his drunkenness does not destroy his aims.

  Marianne looked to her father, who was red in the face, and stumbling towards a wing-backed chair. He collapsed into it, but sighed happily. When she turned back to study Monahan, she realised that he was looking just as intently at her.

  His eyes were clear.

  He was not actually drunk at all.

  Oh, he is a good actor, she thought in admiration, as he winked at her, and then returned to his conversation with Mr Jenkins and Price, talking just a little too loudly, like an inebriated man would.

  After a few rounds of cards, with much cheating and laughter, Monahan excused himself. Marianne assumed he was attending to a call of nature. Her father had disappeared and returned three times so far, and was now asleep in the chair by the fire. Everyone was finding the alcohol and food pressing heavily upon them.

  But Monahan did not return as quickly as Russell had done.

  Marianne had been watering her wine very severely, making it almost a drink fit for children. She glanced at the carriage clock on the ornate mantelpiece above the fire, and after five minutes, decided that she ought to go and find him. He could be lost although Woodfurlong wasn’t an extensive house. Perhaps he was more drunk than she’d thought. As she excused herself, her father stirred.