The stretch of maze that lay ahead was empty. Encouraged, I moved forward and caught the gleam of moonlight on metal. The escape gate.
It was so short a distance away that I wanted to run right toward it, but I knew that Martin could be lurking around the next turn, watching and waiting. I needed to take a moment to listen and observe before doing anything rash.
I decided that I would count to ten and make a run for it. I only hoped the gate wasn’t locked. Or so rusty that its creaking would bring Martin at a run from wherever he was now concealed. But no other options presented themselves to me.
I counted silently in my head. I had reached seven when the rusty creak of the entrance gate sounded.
I heard a shout of triumph from Martin, a rush of footfalls on the ground, and then a scuffle, grunting—and blows.
And then, bringing a rush of gladness, Roderick’s voice.
“You may as well give up, Maudsley,” he said. “I’m bigger than you—and a great deal more dangerous.”
Chapter Seventeen
With a gasp of relief I retraced my steps to the entrance gate, where I found Roderick holding my pursuer immobilized in a complicated grasp that looked as though it could cut off his breathing with little trouble. When Roderick saw me, his ferocious expression melted into relief.
“I was afraid I’d lost you,” he exclaimed. “I couldn’t see or hear a thing from that dinosaur’s belly, and when I climbed out, the two of you had disappeared and I saw your whistle on the ground. Until then I swear I’d no idea he would do you any harm.”
I shook my head helplessly. Neither of us had foreseen it. Our aim had been only to draw information out of Martin. After Treherne had been moved to confide in me, Roderick and I had hatched this plan to see if my silent sympathy would have the same effect on Martin. Our little argument had been staged so that Martin wouldn’t think it peculiar for my husband to leave us alone together. Meanwhile Roderick went ahead to the Crystal Palace to conceal himself where he would be a witness to whatever Martin might have been moved to disclose to me.
We had supposed that he would be more likely to confide in an old friend and fellow medium without my husband present, but it was horrifying to realize how much more he had to hide than we had imagined.
Now he hung disheveled and ignominious in Roderick’s grasp. “It was an accident,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to kill Atherton.”
“No,” Roderick said coldly, “but you meant to kill Sybil.”
Martin did not deny it. When he raised his head, his eyes met mine with a stare so empty, so removed from human feeling that it unnerved me more than anything that had gone before.
“It’s all her fault,” he said.
RODERICK HAULED HIS captive to the palace, where one attendant helped us stand guard over him while another summoned the police. I dissuaded Roderick from sending for a doctor for me, but I didn’t refuse when he stripped off his coat and wrapped it around me.
We awaited the police in the Egyptian gallery, where the ancient artifacts lent an air of unreality to the proceedings. Roderick tried to question him, but Martin refused to speak another word. It was a tremendous relief to me when the police arrived and took him into custody. That accusation of his had shaken me.
When the police had left, Roderick took me in his arms. My hair and dress were still soaked with lake water, so it was a damp embrace, but he did not seem to mind.
“Are you truly all right?” he asked.
I nodded and managed to give him a reassuring smile. He took a closer look at my throat, and from the tightening of his jaw I gathered that signs of Martin’s attack were visible. But he said only, “Let’s get you back home and into a hot bath.”
The idea of washing away the physical reminders of this frightening evening was wonderfully appealing. If I had had a voice, I would have suggested that he join me in the bath, the better to help me recover my spirits.
Fortunately, however, he demonstrated once more his intuitive understanding of me. By the time we reached the safety of our suite, the idea had occurred to him independently.
THE NEXT MORNING MY strength and resolve were renewed, and I was determined to get to the bottom of things. Roderick and I set out for the police station without waiting for Inspector Strack to summon us.
After we had related to the inspector all that we knew—in my case, through a great deal of writing—he was good enough to let Roderick and me have a few moments with Martin. He took the precaution of remaining present himself and also having a constable at hand in case the prisoner became violent, although considering Roderick’s feelings toward the man who had tried to kill me, it was equally likely that Rodrick would need restraining.
Martin was brought in with his wrists shackled. He was still wearing his suit from the night before, which looked as though it had been slept in, and there was a raised red welt on one temple where I had struck him with the rock. When he was deposited in a chair, he sat hunched over, not looking at us.
Inspector Strack made a point of clearing his throat loudly. “Now, Maudsley,” he said. “Miss Ingram and her husband have come to visit you out of the goodness of their hearts to try to understand why you acted as you did. If I were them, I wouldn’t bother trying to seek extenuating circumstances—I’d not trouble to see you again until I was giving testimony in court. It seems to me that you owe them some explanations.”
Martin gave no sign of hearing. How frustrating it was to still not have a voice! There were so many questions I wanted to pose to him. Fortunately Roderick was better situated to ask them.
“Why did you blame Sybil last night?” he asked. “You can’t really have the gall to say it’s her fault that you killed Atherton, surely?”
Martin looked up. His eyes were just as dead as last night, and when he fixed them on me there was no emotion there.
“It was Sybil’s idea that I should accompany you to the play,” he said quietly. “Were it not for that, I’d wouldn’t have spoken to Atherton—or learned how he had ruined my life. It was his fault that Aurelia was killed, but I never would have known it if not for that meeting.”
Roderick and I exchanged confused glances. “I understood that Aurelia’s husband murdered her,” Roderick said.
“Who is this Aurelia, now?” Strack inquired, no doubt envisioning this case expanding far beyond its present confines.
Martin said tonelessly, “She was the woman I loved. Fifteen years ago she sent a message to me at the theater. She said that her husband had learned about our trysts and was threatening to kill her. But I didn’t receive that message in time to go to her.”
A cold tide washed through me as I recalled my conversation with Atherton’s wife and her story of Atherton’s withholding a message from an actor until after his performance ended.
Martin’s next words confirmed the terrible suspicion that had just formed in my mind. “I was performing that night, so Atherton intercepted the note. He made certain I didn’t receive it until after the final curtain. By then it was too late.”
I could picture it all too clearly. Cerberus, our stage door keeper, would have received the note. If he suspected it was urgent, he would have taken it to the wings and tried to catch Martin’s attention. But Atherton, observing this, would have stepped in.
“And all these years I didn’t know,” Martin said. “Even Aurelia herself never knew what happened to her message. But at the reception, after that scene with Sybil, Atherton had begun to drink heavily. He grew maudlin and began pestering everyone. It was embarrassing to watch, so I suggested we go for a walk so that he could shake off the effects of the drink.”
“Did he recognize you?” the inspector asked.
“Not at once. But when I reminded him, I soon found that intoxication had given him the desire to unburden himself.” A wry, unpleasant smile touched his lips. “I thought I’d already learned the worst of him earlier that evening. I never dreamed I’d learn that he was the cause of Aurelia’s deat
h.”
“Here, now,” Strack objected. “That’s hardly fair, any more than it’s fair to blame Miss Ingram for what you did to Atherton.” He gestured to the constable, who belatedly began to take notes. “So you decided to kill him out of a desire for revenge.”
Martin didn’t appear to hear him. He was staring into space. “I was so consumed with rage that I hardly knew what I was doing,” he said, his voice dull. “I remember we were walking among the dinosaur statues when he finished his horrible story. He was eager to impress upon me that he was unaware of the note’s contents and didn’t read it until Aurelia’s body was found and the police came to question me. Then he actually patted me on the back and said something fatuous like ‘Let’s let bygones be bygones.’”
I flinched. That lack of sensitivity on Atherton’s part must have been almost as lacerating in itself as learning of his interference all those years ago.
“Without even meaning to,” Martin continued, “I found myself seizing him by the throat. It took him by surprise and threw him off balance, so he staggered back with all my weight bearing down on him. His head struck the sculpture, and then he went limp.”
I swallowed hard. My heart ached for Martin, learning so horribly that his sweetheart’s death might not have happened as it did were it not for Atherton’s selfishness. But Atherton hadn’t deserved to die at his hands. He had had no idea his actions all those years ago might contribute to a woman’s death. And it was impossible to say whether Martin could have saved her even if her plea for help had reached him.
Roderick’s hand closed about mine, warm and strong and reassuring. When I looked up I found his eyes resting gravely on me, and I squeezed his hand to let him know that I was in no danger of breaking down.
Inspector Strack was stroking his chin thoughtfully. “You mean us to believe that you didn’t intend to kill him.”
Martin’s shrug was defeated. “I acted without thinking. I didn’t have murder in mind. If he hadn’t struck his head, I probably would have come to my senses and stopped before strangling him to death.”
“But you can’t be certain,” said Strack, unimpressed by this protestation. “And neither, of course, can we. You certainly seemed to show calculation when you dragged the body beneath the dinosaur in an effort to hide it.”
“And you deliberately set out to murder Sybil,” Roderick said, his voice rumbling ominously. “First with poison, then by drowning. How did you manage to have the toxin placed in her drink? Did you have a confederate?”
A shadow of perplexity passed over Martin’s eyes. “I never poisoned anyone.”
“Well, somebody tried to,” Strack observed. “At the opening night reception.”
Martin shook his head, then flinched as if the movement was painful. “I wasn’t even there. It never crossed my mind to go after Sybil until she put herself into my hands last night. Once I was alone with her, or so I thought, the anger just... I couldn’t see anything else but hatred.” He started to raise a hand to his bruised temple, but the manacles halted the gesture. He regarded them with a puzzled air, as though he had forgotten about them.
Strack leaned forward and tapped the table to get his attention. “That is what makes no sense to me. Why try to kill Miss Ingram at all? What injury had she done you? Reuniting you with your former employer hardly seems to warrant such violence.”
At first I thought Martin had no further answer. Then he said, “Aurelia is gone.”
Strack gave a bark of laughter. “Is there anyone you don’t hold accountable for this woman’s death?” he demanded with a derision that made me wince. “Come, man, you can’t blame Miss Ingram and Mr. Atherton and the husband all three! Whom shall you accuse next? The prime minister?”
But I thought I knew what Martin meant. I picked up my slate and wrote, She has left you.
Roderick read the words aloud in a puzzled tone. Then he exclaimed, “Her ghost.”
Shutting his eyes, Martin sank back in his chair. “As soon as Atherton was dead, I felt the presence of Aurelia disappear. I thought she would return in her own time, as she has done so many times over the past fifteen years, but as the days passed I finally realized she was gone for good.”
“Eh?” said Strack, but Martin continued without paying him any heed.
“I never really knew why she attached herself to me in the first place. Sometimes I thought she meant to torture me for failing her. Sometimes I thought she simply wanted to be with me in death, as she was unable to be in life. Now I wonder if it was simply unfinished business—the loose end that needed to be tied up.”
Any one of those theories would have made sense. I had seen—and I knew he had seen—instances of spirits who remained in our sphere for any and all of those reasons.
“For whatever reason,” he said finally, “she was freed somehow by Atherton’s death, and she left me.” He gave me a look that would haunt me for a long time to come. “I’ll never forgive you for that,” he said.
Roderick made to rise from his chair, but Strack put a restraining hand on his shoulder and shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t allow you to beat the prisoner, Mr. Brooke,” he said. “If it’s any consolation, Maudsley is pretty certain to swing for what he’s done.”
I winced. Martin’s death could bring me no satisfaction, even if a judge felt it to be an apt punishment. Looking at him now, as he sat staring at nothing once more, I knew that without the presence of his ghostly companion he was already enduring a kind of living death. He truly had nothing now—nothing and no one.
When Martin had been taken back to his cell, Roderick turned to me. “I hope you didn’t take any of that lunatic’s words to heart,” he said. “None of this was your fault. Don’t let him make you believe otherwise, even for a moment.”
I tried to smile to reassure him, but Martin’s accusation was not so easy to dismiss, nor was the desolate emptiness of his eyes. Even though the tragedy that had unfolded was not of my direct doing, I had played a pivotal role in reuniting two of the main players.
Of course, even if I had not invited Martin to the Macbeth rehearsal that night, he and Atherton might have encountered each other at another time and in another fashion. London was not so very big a place, after all, and if Atherton had learned that the man to whom he owed an explanation and apology was close at hand, he might well have sought Martin out himself.
Still...
Inspector Strack’s voice startled me out of my unhappy thoughts. “Your husband is right, Miss Ingram,” he said, in gentler tones than I had yet heard from him. “In my years on the force, I’ve learned a thing or two about the criminal temperament, and I can tell you that men like Martin will always try to fob off responsibility for their actions onto someone else—anyone else. I guarantee that if you weren’t at hand, he’d be blaming his landlady or the cab driver or William Shakespeare himself. The vital thing to remember is that you aren’t the one who placed his hands around Mr. Atherton's throat.”
I gave the inspector a look of gratitude. I could not entirely absolve myself—not just yet—but his words did make a difference. As he said, he knew a great deal about cases like this one.
“Now then,” he said in a return to his brisk manner, “tell me how the three of you ended up in this merry chase around the grounds of the Crystal Palace.”
Roderick explained our plan and the reasoning behind it, going on to explain how he had been delayed in coming to my aid because he had been unable to keep track of my movements from the belly of the Iguanodon. He had even briefly become stuck when he decided to climb out.
“I think it’s probably a better hiding place for a child,” he said ruefully. “Or for an acrobat.”
Or for someone less magnificently broad-chested. But I didn’t want Inspector Strack to read such a sentiment, so all I wrote on my slate was With any luck, you won’t need to hide in a dinosaur ever again.
“The prospect seems remote,” said Strack as he read my words. “At any rate, the i
mportant thing is that Miss Ingram is safe.”
“Yes,” Roderick said, taking my hand and holding it to his face. “That’s the important thing.”
I hated to spoil the sweet gesture, but I had to reclaim my hand so that I could write a response.
And also that we found Atherton’s killer, I wrote.
“Indeed,” said Strack. “Now, who else might have had cause to slip something nasty into Miss Ingram’s drink?”
“And Narcissa Holm’s,” Roderick reminded him. He told him our various theories about motives, though those were thrown into uncertainty now that it looked as though the person who had contaminated the champagne wasn’t Martin.
Strack heard Roderick out, but his interest in the subject had waned, which was only to be expected. Now that it looked as though Martin wasn’t the culprit, it seemed unlikely that the poisoner had meant to kill either me or Narcissa. Strack said he would inform us of any developments in that area, but I was fairly certain he had no intention of pursuing the matter.
Thus we left the station no wiser about that subject. It was not, in fact, until early that afternoon that anyone was able to shed light on it.
Roderick and I were relaxing in the sitting room. He was moving back and forth between piano and violin as he worked at his concerto. I had curled up in a comfortable armchair with a novel, but Cometh Up as a Flower was failing to keep my mind from dwelling fretfully on my still-absent voice. What if I never speak again? What if... what if...
A brisk knocking startled me out of this gloomy train of thought, and Roderick looked up from scribbling on staff paper. “Expecting anyone?” he asked, but I shook my head.
To our surprise, it was not a hotel employee at the door but Narcissa Holm and Polly. It took me a moment to see Polly, for she was hiding behind Narcissa, doing her best to be invisible.
“I beg your pardon for arriving without notice.” Narcissa’s voice was startlingly hoarse, but she must have been on the road to recovery to be able to make herself audible at all. “Polly has something to confess to you that cannot wait.”
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