Deadlier Than the Pen (10 page)

*Chapter Ten*
Ben signed the register at the Columbia House with a flourish: Mr. and Mrs. Damon Bathory. It gave him an odd feeling to do so, but he forced his qualms aside. She had agreed to let him take care of her. What did one more small deception matter?
"I need to purchase a few things," Diana murmured as the bellboy collected their luggage, almost all of it Ben's.
Reminded of the state of her wardrobe, he sent the bags on to their suite. The desk clerk provided the name of the best dress shop in the city.
"You need proper clothing if you don't want to be gossiped about," he insisted over Diana's protests as he hustled her into a cab.
"Far be it from me to create scandal," she agreed, "but a dressmaker needs time to sew clothing. I need a department store with ready-made fashions."
Reluctantly, he changed their driver's orders, surprised to find that he had been looking forward to ordering a new wardrobe for her.
At first she would not look at anything more than bare essentials. "Too expensive," she complained when he pointed out a gown that would go well with her complexion, "and unnecessarily dressy."
"Let me buy it for you. It's the least I can do."
"You are already doing too much. In fact, I insist on paying half the cost of the hotel."
"It is my fault you were on that train. My fault you're stranded here now."
She started to say something, then changed her mind. She fingered the fabric of the dress. "A loan, then. To be repaid as soon as I return to New York."
"Yes. Fine." He'd have agreed to a good deal more just to see her in that dark green silk.
"I will need an address, to send you the money."
"Try on the gown."
The look she sent him over her shoulder as she carried it and another off to a changing room sent what remained of his good sense out the window. He scribbled on a piece of paper and had it ready to hand to her when she returned. A fictitious street and number. In Buffalo.
To his disappointment, she did not model the silk, but did promise to wear it to supper in the hotel dining room that evening. She plucked the slip of paper from his hand, glanced at it, and tucked it into her bag, then was engaged by the sales clerk in a discussion of undergarments.
Diana's pleasure at having free rein in the ladies' department made Ben realize how much he was enjoying himself. He liked buying pretty things for her. While she tried on a serviceable wool dress, he picked out a cameo brooch. And when she would have selected a plain brown coat, he talked her into a fur-trimmed, dark green garment.
"It is your color, my dear. It makes the best of your hair."
"You will turn my head with such flattery, sir," she warned him.
"I hope so, madam." He had, after all, every intention of taking her to bed that night and seeing that glorious hair spread out on a white pillowcase. A pity he could not arrange for green silk on their bed as well.
By the time they reached their suite and Diana closed herself in one bedroom with a hotel maid to dress for supper, Ben could think of little else but making love to her. Unfortunately that urge was accompanied by an inconvenient desire to tell her everything about himself. He even wished he had not been so quick to give her that false address.
As he changed into his own evening attire he wondered when his feelings towards Diana had gone beyond simple lust. Dangerous waters lay ahead. No question about that.
He grinned at his reflection in the mirror. He'd always enjoyed taking a canoe through the rapids on the Kenduskeag in the spring. Giving his cravat a last pat, he went out to meet his fate.
She looked magnificent in the dark green silk, as he'd known she would. Her mahogany-colored hair had been twisted up in an elaborate knot. He looked forward to taking it down.
Ben removed the box with the cameo from his pocket, took out the brooch, and pinned it just at the center of Diana's modest neckline. She shivered as his fingers brushed her neck.
Then her stomach growled, and shared laughter took them out of the suite and down to the lobby.
"One stop on the way to the dining room," Diana begged. "I want to try again to send a telegram."
* * * *
The hotel housed its own branch office off the lobby, staffed by a Western Union telegrapher, a harried-looking young woman whose green eye shade was crooked.
"Still no direct contact with New York City," she informed Diana, pushing at the drooping elastic armbands that held her sleeves away from her wrists. The telegraph key at her elbow was silent, the only sound in the office the ticking of the clock on the far wall.
"Not surprising," Bathory said. "Shall we go in to supper?" He offered her his arm.
The waiter seated her, but when Bathory should have taken his chair, he sent her an apologetic look instead. "I meant to ask the telegrapher about incoming messages. Will you excuse me while I go back and check with her? I won't be long."
He returned within five minutes, giving Diana just time enough to decide what she wanted to eat. He smiled at her, but a line of worry creased his brow.
"Is something wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing that can't be fixed. But I should be asking you the same question. Is there some reason why you are so anxious to reach that editor of yours? Is there something ... personal between you and this Horatio Foxe?"
"He's my employer. And I have been wondering, naturally, what he's done about my daily columns since I've been gone. With this storm, he may not have been able to publish the newspaper at all."
"Is that _all_ there is to your relationship?"
It took her a moment to understand what he was hinting at and when she did she couldn't resist an enigmatic answer. "It is _now_."
"And before? Was he your lover?"
She couldn't hold back a smile. He sounded as if he were jealous. "When I first knew him, I looked on him as an older brother."
Bathory eased back in his chair, his manner more relaxed than it had been. "You seem to have a plentiful supply of those. Or do you regard Nathan Todd as a surrogate father?"
"More like a jolly old uncle."
That forced a wry laugh out of him. "No doubt that's why he took me aside this afternoon and warned me to behave like a gentleman around you. Just because you have friends who are actresses, he said, doesn't mean you can be treated like a woman with loose morals."
Diana gaped at him. "Toddy said that?"
"That and more. He explained that, as Evan Spaulding's widow, you were like family to his troupe, and that they looked out for their own."
At Bathory's urging, Diana shared some of her favorite anecdotes about Toddy and Jerusha during the meal. And one or two that involved Horatio Foxe and his sister Rowena. He talked about his recent travels.
Diana sent him a shy smile as she toyed with the last bite of the chocolate trifle she'd ordered for dessert. She found it easy to imagine sharing a lifetime of meals with him and never being bored.
Abruptly, Bathory pushed his chair away from the table and stood. "Shall we return to our suite?"
She readily agreed, although she did feel a bit nervous about being alone with him.
"You're favoring that ankle," he remarked as they left the dining room."
"It's a little tender."
"Let me take a look at it," he insisted when they reached the small sitting room between their bedrooms. Diana obediently sank into one of the chairs.
He went down on one knee on the floor in front of her and lifted her foot until it rested atop the other knee. With a tender touch, he began to remove her boot -- she'd refused the offer of dainty evening slippers to go with the gown. He took his time over the buttons.
She could always go back to asking questions, Diana thought a bit desperately. Conduct that interview. Had he not promised to cater to her every wish while they were in New Haven?
Then he swept away her stocking and touched her bare ankle and she felt the shock of that contact all the way to her womb.
All afternoon, all through their meal, he'd made her feel things she'd not experienced for a very long time.
_Sorcerer_, she thought. _Demon_.
She'd be a fool to let herself fall under his spell again ... but she could not seem to stop herself.
She'd followed him onto the train, not as a reporter but as a woman. She could admit that to herself now. She'd been so angry at him because he'd disappointed her.
She'd already been half in love with him.
She very much feared her fall was now complete.
* * * *
She awoke the next morning to find him gone, along with his luggage. Frantic, she dressed in as much haste as she could manage and hurried down to the lobby. He was just turning away from the Western Union window when she caught up with him.
"My train leaves in an hour." His face was the enigmatic mask she was coming to hate. Even that sardonic eyebrow would have been an improvement.
"Did you intend to say good-bye this time?" She tried to sound curious rather than hurt but wasn't sure she succeeded.
"Yes. I'd have come back upstairs to tell you the suite is paid for through the next two nights, if you need it."
She gaped at him. "Liar!"
"No. No more lies. I mean to tell you everything ... but not just yet."
"When?"
"When I return."
"Where from?"
"I can't tell you that." When she started to protest, he pressed one finger to her lips. "I swear, Diana, I will come back to you. Go home to Manhattan and wait for me."
She gazed at him, shaken by the terrifying knowledge that she'd fallen in love with a man who was going to break her heart.
"Take care of that ankle," he added. "You should avoid walking far for at least another day." With that, he left her standing by the hotel's Western Union office, fists clenched at her sides and tears pricking her eyelids.
The same telegrapher who had been on duty the previous evening was there again this morning. "Doesn't look like messages for Manhattan will get through anytime soon," she offered when she recognized Diana. "The whole city's at a standstill. Mountains of snow."
Just then a loud rattling demanded the young woman's attention. While she dealt with the steady clatter of incoming messages in Morse Code, Diana stared at the contents of her tiny office, welcoming any distraction. A line wire entered through the wall, connecting a telegraph pole outside to the telegrapher's key, which sat on a table next to a cut-off switch, a steel-pen-and-ink-bottle ensemble, and a supply of message blanks. On the wall between the operator and the half door that kept customers at a distance, were a series of hooks upon which message papers were filed after they'd been sent. The top one was close enough to read.
As the words leapt into focus, Diana's heart began to beat faster. This had to be the telegram Damon Bathory had just sent. She leaned closer, squinting to see the address. Belatedly, reading the destination, she was able to identify the trace of regional accent she'd heard, time and again, in his voice, confirming her conviction that he'd sent it. _Not_ Buffalo. She hadn't expected it would be.
The message, which said only that he was on his way home, was unsigned. That didn't trouble her. What did was the fact that it was addressed to a woman. Mrs. Abraham Northcote.
If Bathory was a pseudonym, as Diana had suspected all along, then his real name could well be Northcote. Abraham Northcote?
If he'd lied about his name and his address, he might also have lied about having a wife. In fact, he probably had. Evan had found it easy enough to deny her existence any time some nubile and star-struck farm girl had wanted to throw herself at him.
What a fool she was! Return to New York and wait? Oh, yes, and he'd take her to the circus, too! She'd had the right idea in the first place -- forget all about this strange, charismatic man who wrote horror stories. She should go back to that plan.
But in her heart, she knew it was already too late. If what she now suspected -- that he was married -- was true, then he deserved to have his real identity exposed just for deceiving her.
She drew in a deep breath, then another.
No matter what the truth was, she could not hope to put him out of her mind or her heart until she knew the whole story. Not for the newspaper, but for herself, she had to continue her pursuit of Damon Bathory.
"Good news, miss," the telegrapher said, interrupting Diana's thoughts. "My prediction was wrong. I can send to New York City now. Three dollars for ten words."
Diana seized a message blank, then paused, chewing thoughtfully on her lower lip. She needed authorization to relay telegrams through a press operator. Foxe would also have to send her a voucher for a cash disbursement. She intended to repay every cent "Damon Bathory" had spent on her.
It took more than ten words, and Diana was very glad of Jerusha's generosity when she paid for them. She used a little more of her friend's money to buy a carpetbag in which to pack her few possessions. She was tempted to throw away the things Bathory had bought for her, but she could not spare any of her clothes. The cameo brooch she buried deep. It hurt too much to remember how hopeful she'd felt when he'd pinned it to her gown.
When she consulted a train schedule, Diana learned that the earliest connection she could get would bring her to her destination at 5:45 in the morning. Better to wait a bit, she decided. Go later and arrive at a reasonable hour. But when she went back to the suite, intending to nap until it was time to depart, she found that memories of the previous night would not let her rest.
She paced.
And fretted.
And did not sleep.
When it was finally late enough to leave the hotel, she felt as if she'd been through a wringer. Jaw set, temper simmering, she limped up to the station master's window at the railroad depot.

"Where to, ma'am?" the agent asked.
"Bangor," she told him, reciting the city named in the telegram to Mrs. Abraham Northcote. "Bangor, Maine."

*Chapter Eleven*
Another telegram awaited Ben in Boston. He swore when he read it. The crisis was over. Aaron was no longer missing. There had been no need to rush home, no need to leave Diana so soon.
Better this way, he tried to tell himself. He would go back to New York for her when everything had been resolved. He needed to settle a few things before he could be completely honest with her.
First among his problems was Aaron, who had taken a very long time to get home. According to this latest telegram, he'd told their mother he hadn't been caught in the storm. But neither had he been able to recall much of what had happened to him since he'd left Manhattan a week ago. He'd remembered arriving in Stamford and then, much later, in Boston.
Could he have returned to New York in the interim?
Ben did not like the direction of his thoughts. Surely it was a coincidence that Aaron had been in Philadelphia when that woman had been killed. And even if he hadn't left New York after all, or had gotten off the train, or had returned from the first stop, he'd have had no reason to hurt Diana.
But Ben remembered his brother's concern in the park that they do something about being followed. By the time they'd met in the coffee shop and Ben had put Aaron on the train for home, Aaron had been acting as if he'd forgotten all about Diana. But with Aaron, one never knew.
_This is crazy_, Ben thought, not without irony. Aaron was no killer. And he certainly could not carry out a series of pre-mediated crimes. Besides, Aaron had never been to San Francisco, where that other woman had been murdered.
Bone-weary, he scraped a hand across his face and took a seat on a straight-backed wooden bench to wait for his train. Briefly, he considered finding a hotel and getting some sleep before he continued on to Bangor. There was no rush now, but neither was there any reason to delay going home.
The moment he rested his elbow on the iron arm rest, new doubts assailed him. His brother had seemed in perfect command of himself when they'd parted company. Ben had let his guard down. Aaron was smart enough to get himself home on his own, but he was also clever enough -- devious enough -- to have made new plans, especially if he'd believed he had a good reason to.
He'd had a strong reaction to Diana Spaulding. Ben wondered if she affected everyone that way. In spite of his concern about his brother's whereabouts he had himself been unable to get her out of his mind on the train journey from New Haven to Boston. If Aaron had been similarly obsessed, and beset by an irrational dislike of the woman, could he have felt driven to slip back into New York and attack her?
Ben rubbed his pounding temples. Aaron could have been the man in the alley last Saturday night, but he could not have been on the train with them. He could not have been responsible for Diana's fall.
_Had_ there been something sinister about Diana's near-fatal accident? He'd almost broached the subject with her before he left New Haven, almost asked if she thought someone might have struck her from behind. Or given her a push. But he hadn't wanted to spoil their time together.
On the surface, such an attack seemed unlikely, but he wished he hadn't been half asleep at the time. He hadn't even seen Diana leave the parlor car, let alone anyone following her. He hadn't known she was in danger until Jerusha screamed for help. If there _had_ been two attacks on her, Ben could only take consolation from the fact that Diana would soon be safely back in New York. Everyone else on the train -- including him -- was headed somewhere else.
When his thoughts circled back to Aaron again, Ben stood and began to pace. The sooner he got home, the better. He had a few pointed questions to ask his brother. What happened next would depend upon Aaron's answers.
* * * *
Diana arrived in Bangor, a city of some 17,000 souls, in late morning on the special Sunday "paper train." She was stiff and sore after sitting up all the way from New Haven. All the minor injuries she'd sustained over the last week throbbed in unison.
At the depot, a conveyance waited to pick up passengers for the Windsor Hotel. Since it sounded a respectable sort of place and the driver looked clean, she hobbled over and allowed him to assist her into a seat. Her meager baggage was hoisted into the back, landing with an audible thud. Diana scarcely noticed. She was too tired, and her ankle felt as if it had swollen to the size of a ripe melon.
After a few minutes, when it appeared that she was to be his only passenger, the driver mounted the box and clicked his tongue at the pair of bays in the traces. They set off through a goodly city Diana was in no shape to appreciate, although she did notice a few of the same signs of spring she'd seen in Manhattan before the blizzard. There was still some snow on the streets, but wheels had all but replaced runners on most of the horse-drawn vehicles and she caught sight of a robin on one brown and muddy lawn.
The driver noticed the direction of her gaze. "Bangor Tigers'll be back soon," he said enigmatically.
"I beg your pardon?"
"That's the true sign of the season. The first woodsmen come back to the city after the winter in the wilds. Best not to go out unescorted at night for the next few weeks, and stay away from Exchange Street and Peppermint Row. Those fellas are no great respecters of womankind, if you know what I mean."
Bemused, Diana thanked him for the warning.
The Windsor was a presentable place, bigger than she'd anticipated but relatively inexpensive at $1.50 a night. Grateful for small favors, Diana checked in, spending Jerusha's last fifteen cents to tip the porter. This ensured that he'd bring up kindling and a hodful of coal and light a fire for her. A few hours later, warm at last, Diana fell into an exhausted sleep that lasted well into the next day.
Much restored, although she was still limping a bit, she made her way to the Bangor office of the Western Union Telegraph Company. A scene of chaos and disarray met her. The clicking out of dots and dashes sounded like the buzz of angry bees.
"Moving," a harried-looking fellow told her. "We'll be in our new digs downstairs a week from today."
In the meantime, confusion reigned. Diana was obliged to wait while the young man consulted his supervisor, who in turn sought the guidance of the manager. Diana had plenty of time to fret.
If Foxe had not responded to the telegram she'd sent from New Haven, she would be in dire straits. She couldn't even afford to eat unless he wired money, having exhausted the funds Jerusha had lent her with this impetuous journey to Maine.
Diana knew of only one person who lived in Bangor and she could scarcely seek out the mysterious Mrs. Northcote and throw herself on her mercy, especially if it turned out that Damon Bathory was _Mr._ Northcote. She needed time to discover more about the situation here before she approached anyone.
To her immense relief, several communications from Horatio Foxe had arrived. He'd sent a voucher for a sizeable sum, which she collected on the spot. Further, he'd authorized her to send future dispatches through the press operator.
She waited to read the personal message he'd sent until she'd fortified herself with a substantial meal. The telegram was congratulatory. He approved of her decision to follow Damon Bathory and applauded her continued quest to discover his secrets, but he added an unexpected bit of information to the end of the communication.
Diana reread the brief words. Their meaning did not change. Foxe had learned more about Belinda MacKay and Lenora Cosgrove. He'd established another link between the two women, besides the fact that each had been stabbed to death in an alley in the theatrical district of her respective city.
The luncheon Diana had just consumed threatened to rebel. Her hands had turned to ice, to match the chill running down her spine.
Belinda MacKay had written a theatrical gossip column under the name Dolly Dare. Lenora Cosgrove, anonymously, had been a theater critic. Both women had attended one of Damon Bathory's lectures and then complained in print of the excessive violence and gore in his tales of terror.
"Is something wrong, miss?" the waiter asked.
"No. No, of course not." She hastily tucked the telegrams away and paid her bill.
Once outside in the cool, crisp air, her mind cleared. This news did not change anything. Not yet. It did, however, make the next task on her agenda all the more urgent to accomplish.
Horatio Foxe thought she'd come here in pursuit of a story. Now he expected her to find evidence that Bathory was guilty of murder. Diana's real purpose had been to find out if he'd lied to her. That was still her goal. She'd decide what to do about determining guilt or innocence once she found proof of his real identity.
After asking the way, she went to the offices of Bangor's morning paper, the _Daily Whig and Courier_. She had meant all along to discover as much as she could about the Northcote family before she approached any one of them. It had even occurred to her that she might have made a terrible mistake and jumped to an entirely erroneous conclusion. It was possible Mrs. Abraham Northcote had no connection to Damon Bathory at all, or was a housekeeper or a neighbor.
Looking for any mention of the name Northcote in back issues of the _Whig and Courier_, Diana soon found a reference to Mrs. Abraham. The woman to whom the telegram had been sent appeared to be a pillar of local society. She'd been an honored participant in festivities the previous Labor Day.
Working backwards, Diana found Mrs. Northcote's name on guest lists for various teas and charity events. Not until she'd encountered a half dozen references, however, did one mention that Mrs. Abraham Northcote was a widow.
_My mother has a cat she dotes upon._
Damon Bathory's casual remark took on new importance as Diana continued searching the newspaper archives. Determined to proceed in a logical, professional manner, she worked her way through several years' worth of old newspapers. Not once did she find the surname Bathory, but there were other mentions of Northcotes. One Aaron Northcote appeared to be an artist. Benjamin Northcote was a physician.
"Finding what you want, miss?" A newspaper employee peered anxiously at her over the tops of his wire-rimmed spectacles.
Diana hesitated, reluctant to reveal too much to a stranger. On the other hand, direct questions generally produced answers. "Do you know the Northcote family?"
A cautious nod answered her. He poked the glasses teetering near the tip of his long narrow nose back into place a half second before they could tumble to the hard plank floor.
"I only ask because I want to be sure I have the right family. Mrs. Abraham Northcote is, I gather, the matriarch?"
The clerk's suspicions seemed to ease a little. "That's right. She and her two unmarried sons live up in that big house on the west side of the city. The one with the gargoyles on the fence."
That seemed to fit!
"One of the sons just got back from a trip, I believe."
"Both of them were gone a spell, one longer than the other."
A hail from the front of the building, where a customer waited to place an ad, prevented Diana from asking anything else, but what he'd already said appeared to confirm the conclusion she'd come to as she'd skimmed through an account of a showing at a gallery maintained by the Bangor Art Association.
"Damon Bathory" had visited an art gallery in Manhattan, a gallery that displayed a landscape by one "A. N."
Aaron Northcote?
She had found the artwork disturbing -- in the same way Bathory's stories were unsettling.
Was it possible she'd been wrong about "Damon Bathory" being a physician? Perhaps he had simply observed one at close hand. Dislocated shoulders and turned ankles were both common injuries. An artist and writer with a doctor for a brother might know enough to feel confident treating either. The more Diana thought about it, the more logical it seemed to her that a painter might also be a writer and that he'd choose to publish his stories under a pseudonym in order to keep the two careers separate.
Satisfied she'd done enough background research, Diana collected copies of the Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Monday editions of Bangor newspapers to take back to her hotel room. After supper, she read every word of the _Whig and Courier_ and the evening _Daily Commercial_. She no longer searched for mentions of the Northcotes. Now she was after accounts of the storm in New York City.
She'd left home just before the entire island of Manhattan had been brought to a standstill by the blizzard. Hundreds of people were dead, and the chaos was unimaginable. Seeking news of friends, reassurance that no one she knew had died, Diana read every item she could find on the storm.
It was hard to believe that only a week earlier there had been the promise of an early spring in the air, especially when she read an account of a man lost in the snow in Union Square during the height of the blizzard. Diana tried to envision it. No lights. Drifts so deep he was stuck in one for twenty minutes. She could only shake her head in amazement.
Another story, reprinted from Friday's New York _World_, reported that some cab drivers were charging as much as fifty dollars to drive passengers through streets clogged with drifting snow. The _World_ had apparently organized snowshoe brigades to go out and gather news. That paper also reported that an ice bridge had formed across the East River, making it possible for people to walk from Manhattan to the opposite shore.

Diana wondered if the presence in the Bangor papers of excerpts from the _World_ meant that other Manhattan dailies had been able to continue publishing. If so, what had Horatio Foxe done about her column? The expose of Damon Bathory he'd promised readers should have run last Wednesday. He'd have been ecstatic had he known that she and Bathory were even then stranded together on a train in Connecticut. Diana supposed Foxe had made up some story, as he'd threatened to do. For all she knew, he might have penned a whole week's worth of columns using her name. Or perhaps he'd announced her disappearance to the world and made something scandalous out of that. She winced at the thought before a more likely possibility occurred to her -- given the storm, he'd no doubt suspended publication of "Today's Tidbits" in order to fill the paper with news of the blizzard.
In the Bangor papers, most of the copy was devoted to New England news. Only a few columns contained "Incidents of the Storm," but from those she gathered that hundreds of people all across Connecticut and Massachusetts had been stranded in isolated farmhouses, in train stations, and on the trains themselves, many without heat or food. For the first time, Diana realized just how extensive the blizzard had been and how much damage had been done by it. It gave her a queer feeling to read that the greatest number of trains had been stranded for the longest period of time in the area around New Haven.
In Bangor, although trains had stopped arriving from New York and Boston, local rail service had continued unabated. Indeed, Bangor had experienced only a light snowfall, the usual sort of winter precipitation. By early afternoon on that same Wednesday Diana had been snowbound in Connecticut, the sun had reappeared here, melting snow with such rapidity that people complained about sloppy walking conditions.
When she'd read all the newspapers she'd collected from beginning to end, Diana sat staring at them. What now? Damon Bathory was probably Aaron Northcote. He'd lied about his name and where he lived. Had he also lied when he swore he'd come back to her?
She buried her head in her hands.
Bathory -- she could not call him Aaron, not yet, and she'd always had difficulty thinking of him as Damon -- would not be pleased to discover she'd followed him again, but she could not leave Bangor without warning him. Foxe was more determined than ever to implicate him in the murders of those two women. Worse, Diana's editor now knew she was in Bangor. Even if she refused to reveal what she'd discovered here, he had enough to go on to uncover Bathory's real identity for himself. She had no choice. She had to arrange a meeting with Aaron Northcote. Whatever else the man was, she did not believe him to be a cold-blooded killer.
* * * *
At noon the next day, Diana waited, growing ever more anxious, at a table for two in the dining hall of the Bangor House, the city's largest hotel. She had sent a note to the Northcote home to suggest Aaron meet her for luncheon.
Initially, she paid no mind to a man approaching her table. He was not Damon Bathory. Only when he stopped next to her did she realize he seemed familiar.
Diana frowned. The stranger had eyes of an odd copper color and brown hair. Although he had a build similar to Damon Bathory's, he was less muscular, showing evidence of a sedentary life style. Beneath a fine mustache, even his beardless jowls were fleshy.
"I don't recognize your name," he said, "but your note intrigued me."
Diana blinked at him in surprise. "You're Aaron Northcote?"
He frowned, staring intently at her face. "I've seen you before."
"I don't think so. I've only just arrived here from New York."
This announcement seemed to alarm him. "You didn't warn me," he said.
"I beg your pardon."
"I'm not talking to you."
His strident tone made Diana nervous, and very aware that everyone else in the dining room was staring at them. "Mr. Northcote, I think there's been some mistake."
"I thought we'd seen the last of her." He muttered the comment to a point beyond her left ear, as if there were someone standing there. Then, without warning, he bolted, moving so suddenly and violently that he toppled the table and knocked Diana right off her chair on his way to the exit.
Unhurt -- but so surprised that for several moments she couldn't find words -- Diana sat on the floor of the restaurant and stared after the departing artist.
The _maitre d'_ rushed over to her, solicitous and concerned. "Are you all right, madam? Shall I send for a doctor?"
"No, of course not. I'm perfectly fine." She started to get to her feet, hampered by her bustle and heavy skirts.
A hand wearing a ring with a familiar family crest appeared in front of her, offering assistance.
"What luck," the _maitre d_' exclaimed. "Here's Dr. Northcote. I had not realized you were back in town, doctor. Welcome home."
Diana's heart began to race as she rose to her feet, lifting her head to meet the brooding gaze of the man she'd last seen in New Haven. "I had the wrong brother," she whispered.
* * * *
She looked, Ben thought, as confused and astonished as he'd felt when he'd found the note she'd sent Aaron. Diana here. He could hardly credit it.
"We need to talk," he said, careful to conceal any hint of the tumultuous emotions coursing through him.
He held her chair, then seated himself opposite her and signaled to the waiter. They were still the center of attention. Behaving as if their meeting was an everyday occurrence seemed the wisest course. And until he knew why Diana had turned up here, he dared not let her know how his heart had leapt at the sight of her.
Even beset by doubts, he felt a sense of relief wash over him. Her arrival made one decision easy. He had no other choice now. He must tell her the whole truth about Damon Bathory.
"Your name is Benjamin," she said. It was not quite an accusation, but close enough.
"Ben."
"Ben," she repeated, sounding a bit breathless. She offered him a tentative smile.
"I meant what I said. I'd have come to you."
"I thought you'd be angry that I followed you again."
"Should I be?" Alerted by the odd note in her voice, he narrowed his eyes. His hand froze in the act of lifting a water glass to his lips.
She was prevented from answering by the appearance of the waiter. After they'd ordered, he reached across the table and took her hand in both of his.
"Why didn't you return to New York, Diana? And how did you know I would be here?"
"I saw the telegram you sent to your mother," she blurted. "I thought she was your wife."
She'd been jealous? Uncertain whether to be encouraged or wary, Ben said nothing. He didn't want to risk betraying how deeply his own feelings ran.
Uncertainty made conversation stilted. So did the proximity of other diners. With painful awkwardness, they made small talk until the arrival of their meal. For a few minutes after that, they ate in silence. Ben had no idea what he put in his mouth. It all tasted like sawdust.
"How's the ankle?" he asked.
"Better," she said without looking at him.
He felt his eyebrow shoot up. "I doubt that."
"Still sore," she amended.
"When did you arrive in Bangor?"
"Late Sunday morning."
"I should have known I couldn't get rid of you so easily." It took a concerted effort to sound more amused than irritated but she seemed to take his tone of voice as an encouraging sign. Watching her as closely as he was, he saw her shoulders relax and some of the tension go out of her neck.
"I thought I'd solved the mystery," she told him, and recounted the steps that had led her to fix on Aaron as Damon Bathory.
Her explanation answered more questions than she realized. "So you did go back to that gallery in New York. I thought you might have."
"Yes. Your brother is a talented artist."
"He comes by it honestly."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll find out soon enough. And you'll have a story for your Mr. Foxe, as well, if you still want it."
Her face blanched.
"What's wrong?" He put down his fork and took her hand once more. It trembled in his grasp.
"I might have considered going quietly back to New York to wait for you, once I knew you weren't Abraham Northcote," she confessed in a voice so soft he had to strain to make out her words, "but something else came to light in Horatio Foxe's pursuit of scandal."
Taking a deep breath, she related her editor's latest discoveries about the two murdered women. Ben's consternation grew with each word she uttered. If Foxe combined these speculations with the Northcote name in print, the story had the potential to tear Ben's family apart.
"You're certain he isn't making this up? You did say he wasn't averse to inventing scandal, and it seems odd this information didn't come out when he first sent his queries to those two newspapers."
"I imagine only a few people knew those women were journalists. My byline doesn't appear on 'Today's Tidbits,' and female reporters often use pseudonyms. You don't think Nellie Bly is _her_ real name, do you? She borrowed it from the Stephen Foster song."
"But surely their own newspapers -- "
"Perhaps they didn't write for the papers Foxe queried, but for their rivals. In any case, I need your help if I'm to convince my editor to abandon this story."
Ben did not reply. A flicker of memory came to him. Frowning, he murmured. "I met Dolly Dare."
At the startled sound she made, he smiled reassuringly. "No, I did not kill her. But you already know she came to one of my lectures, and that reporters were always trying to interview me."
"Did you seduce her?"
His ill-advised attempt to frighten Diana in his hotel room in New York came back to him. "Was she the woman near the start of the tour who seemed ... affected by my reading? No. That was someone else."
Diana frowned at him, obviously wondering if he'd admit it to her if he had taken Dolly Dare to bed. "How is it you remember her, then?"
"I remember the name. I clipped reviews out of newspapers in every city I visited and sent them home for my mother to paste in her scrapbooks. For that matter, I recall the unsigned review from San Francisco, too." He grimaced. "Vicious criticism does tend to stick in one's mind. As I recall, that anonymous critic accused Damon Bathory of being responsible for the corruption of a whole generation of young people. Said they couldn't help but turn violent if they were brought up on a diet of Bathory's tales."
"I am sure you were not the only one of whom these women did not approve. And it is still entirely possible that there is no connection but coincidence between the two murders, even if the victims were both journalists. As a motive, killing someone over a difference of opinion seems very weak."
"Strong enough when it's your creation that's been torn apart in a public forum."
Diana sighed. "I do not believe I will go back to writing scathing reviews of plays or books. They cause too much harm."
"It would not be sufficient motive for me," he assured her.
"But your stories were savaged by the press. He can argue that -- "
"No," Ben said.
"You won't help me convince Foxe of your innocence?"
"You misunderstand me, Diana. Finished?" He gestured at her plate.
She looked surprised to see she'd eaten most of the meal. "Apparently I am."
The smile she provoked quickly vanished. What he meant to propose was deadly serious. He plunged ahead. "I had already decided to tell you the truth, Diana, but there are reasons why the details must not be published just yet. There are people who need to be warned before any revelations are made."
"I am not the one you must convince," she said. "It's Horatio Foxe who threatens you."
"Do you trust me, Diana?"
"Yes." The reply came without hesitation, gladdening his heart.
"Enough to collect your things from the hotel and come home with me?" The invitation was a risk, but not as great a one as leaving her to her own devices. "I want you to meet Mother."
She hesitated, then gave a tentative nod.
* * * *
Diana had already realized that the Northcotes were well-to-do, but she was unprepared for her first glimpse of the estate. Wrought-iron gates decorated with fearsome-looking gargoyles were opened by an aged servant to reveal a steep, curving drive leading to a mansion with a Mansard roof and a square tower at the front, the latter topped by a widow's walk. Beyond the main house were several outbuildings, including a stable and a carriage house.
The old manservant closed the gate behind them ... and locked it.
"Do you see patients at home?" Diana asked. There was certainly room enough for an office with waiting and examining rooms in this huge house.
"No, but I do have a laboratory in the basement where I compound medicines and ... well, it has several uses." He seemed to withdraw a little as he brought the horse to a stop in the ivy-covered _porte-cochere_.
Laboratory? Diana did not like the sound of that. She associated the word with a place where experiments were conducted. Suddenly all the thoughts she'd been trying to suppress surged to the fore. Despite his charm, Ben Northcote was still Damon Bathory, the man whose mind had conceived horrifying images and chilling scenarios. And he was also Dr. Northcote, a scientist with an intense interest in madmen and their treatment. As he handed her down from the buggy, Diana wondered if she had made a terrible mistake in coming here.
Inside the Northcote house, Diana barely had time to note the overall luxury of the decor before a sturdily-built woman of medium height swooped down on her. Her dress was an expanse of black velvet broken only by jet beads at the wrists and hem, and by a heavy gold brooch at her throat.