Deadlier Than the Pen (11 page)

"Who is this, Ben? Who have you brought me?" She made it sound as if Diana might be the evening's entertainment.
"This is Diana Spaulding, Mother, the columnist I told you about. Diana, this is my mother, Maggie Northcote."
Graying hair framed a surprisingly youthful face. Mrs. Northcote's eyes, alight with curiosity, were the same curious copper color as her other son's.
"Today's Tidbits?" Abruptly, the eyes narrowed.
"That's right." Diana's wariness increased.
"You have a way with words, my dear," Mrs. Northcote said.
Ben helped Diana remove her coat and shrugged out of his own, then escorted both women into the parlor. "The time has come to tell Mrs. Spaulding the truth," he said when he'd installed Diana on a loveseat.
With exaggerated nonchalance, Mrs. Northcote arranged herself on a rococo sofa. She took care that the light from the chandelier fell on her in the most flattering way possible. The elaborate scroll work on the back of the piece of furniture created the illusion that she sat upon a throne.
The woman's eyes, Diana realized, reminded her of a cat's.
Ben remained standing, one shoulder negligently resting against the window frame. "With your permission, Mother?"
Mrs. Northcote gave a regal nod.
"I am not the Northcote who wrote those horror stories," Ben said.
"Aaron?" she guessed.
"No." Nodding his head towards his mother he said, "Allow me to present the real Damon Bathory."

*Chapter Twelve*
A _woman_ had written those tales? Caught off guard by Ben's announcement, Diana murmured "Oh, my" in a faint voice while her thoughts whirled. It had never crossed her mind that the imagination of one of her own sex could wax so vivid, so violent.
At the same time, she felt a rush of relief. Ben Northcote was not Damon Bathory. He was a physician. A care giver. He was ... normal.
Benjamin Northcote. A doctor. A blessedly ordinary man. Well, not ordinary, exactly. In some ways he was quite extraordinary, but he was not some Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde as she'd once feared. Nor was he a self-centered, vanity-driven performer.
He was not another Evan.
The comparison struck her forcibly. Was that what she'd thought? What she'd feared as much as anything when she'd believed Ben was the author of those stories? Had she been afraid she was about to repeat the greatest mistake of her past by falling in love with another creative, tormented soul?
Mrs. Northcote cleared her throat. "Of course, now that you know the truth about Damon Bathory, we'll have to kill you."
Diana gasped, unsure what to make of such a preposterous statement.
"Behave yourself, Mother." Ben's voice contained only mild reproof. "She's harmless," he added, directing the remark to Diana.
"You never let me have any fun," Mrs. Northcote complained, and Diana was not entirely sure she was joking. There was something ... odd about her.
"She's teasing you, Diana," Ben reassured her.
When he crossed to the loveseat and sat beside her, she slowly began to relax. With him there to look after her, surely she had nothing to fear.
"Mother had already agreed to reveal Damon Bathory's true identity to the world. Now that you're here, you may as well be the one to break the story."
This was what she'd been after, Diana told herself. Horatio Foxe would have his expose. She would keep her job without being obliged to invent a thing. Best of all, the fact that Mrs. Northcote had written the stories shattered Foxe's theory that "he" had murdered reviewers who'd panned them.
"Why delay?" she asked. "The sooner this is made public, the better."
"I need to inform my publisher of the decision," Mrs. Northcote said, "and break the news to a few close friends. Most of my acquaintances already consider me an eccentric, but they have no notion just how unconventional my behavior has been."
"How long?" Diana felt uneasy again, in spite of Ben's comforting touch.
"Time enough to discuss that later," he said before his mother could reply. Taking Diana's elbow, he propelled her to her feet. "I'm sure you want to rest a bit and settle in before supper."
* * * *
A few minutes later, Ben showed Diana into a large, richly furnished bedroom. A glance was enough to show her that her belongings were already there and had been unpacked by a servant.
"I know we need to talk," Ben said, already leaving, "but right now I should get back to Mother."
"Ben! Wait. I do understand. I think. Why you didn't tell me sooner."
He turned back to her, his shoulders filling the doorway. "Please believe that I didn't care for all the secrecy, not even in the beginning." He sent a rueful look in her direction. "With the wisdom of hindsight, I know I should never have agreed to go on tour. But four months ago I had my own agenda. I decided to indulge myself. The decision bore bitter fruit. Even before I met you, I longed to return to my own life, but I'd made a promise. I was committed to fulfill Damon Bathory's obligations."
He took his promises seriously. She did know that much about him.
"I wanted to tell you the truth in New Haven, Diana." He dragged his fingers through his hair as he looked away from her to stare out the window at the lowering sky. "I wanted to tell you even before that night. But I'd sworn to Mother and to Damon Bathory's publisher that I'd keep her identity secret. I must have been mad to agree to that."
"Eventually someone would have found out."
"So I reasoned for myself. Far better to volunteer the information. But in New York, and in New Haven, I was still bound to honor my pledge. I was not the one who'd have to face dire consequences if the truth came out too soon."
"You had your own reasons for going on tour," Diana reminded him.
"Yes. I told you about my visits to the hospitals. I have a ... patient who concerns me. Someone who displays many of the symptoms of a hysteric."
The idea of madmen loose in society made Diana uneasy, but she remembered how passionate he had been on the subject when they'd supped together in New York. She was not sure what question would have come out next, but before she could open her mouth to ask Ben anything, he bent towards her.
"I need a few minutes with Mother before we dine," he said, and kissed her lightly on the end of the nose. With that, he went out, closing the door behind him.
Diana did not move until Ben's footsteps had faded away down the hall. Then she went straight to the wash basin to slosh cold water onto her face in a desperate bid to bring order to the jumbled thoughts whirling in her brain.
Dripping, she gripped the sides of the oak commode and stared at her reflection in the mirror affixed to the high back. Her eyes looked haunted. What had she done? She fumbled at the built-in towel rack, then buried her face in the soft cloth.
She'd trusted Damon Bath -- No. She'd decided to trust Ben Northcote. She loved Ben Northcote.
But she did not know anything about him, except that, whatever his name, he'd cast a spell over her.
She knew still less about his family and his life here. She fingered the fabric clutched in her hands. A life of luxury. She folded the towel and returned it to the rack, then slowly turned to assess her surroundings.
All the furniture was oak, all of it heavy and most ornately carved. But instead of roses or some other flower, the usual decoration on such pieces, these furnishings sported scarab beetles, intricately detailed. And spiders and scorpions and serpents. Diana moved from piece to piece, pausing to run her fingertips over the glossy surface of a bureau. It had been polished with lemon-scented wax.
_Perfectly normal_, she thought. Unfortunately, she didn't believe it.
Last of all, she studied the bed, a massive affair with four posters and a canopy. Diana stepped closer, braced for more carved insects, then stopped abruptly and bit back a cry of alarm.
Curled up, dead center on the counterpane, was a huge, long-haired black cat. It regarded her with unblinking eyes -- copper-colored eyes that bore an eerie resemblance to Mrs. Northcote's.
"I suppose you're her pet," Diana said to the feline. Appropriate, she thought, that Damon Bathory should have a black cat as a familiar. "I wish you could talk," she added after a moment. "You probably have all the answers I need."
The enormous beast blinked at her but made no other response.
Sinking onto the end of the bed, Diana cautiously extended a hand. The cat sniffed, then licked her fingers. Encouraged, Diana stroked the soft fur. When it didn't protest that either, she lifted it -- him -- onto her lap. What was one more risk?
She sat there, petting the Northcotes' cat, until she felt calm enough to face a disquieting truth: there were still secrets in this house. Something more than Mrs. Northcote's _nom de plume_ had her exchanging guarded glances with her son. Diana's feeling of wrongness was strong, almost strong enough to make her flee back to the safety of the hotel.
She realized she had taken an extraordinary risk, made an impulsive, perhaps foolish decision, because of how she felt about Ben Northcote. When first they'd met, she'd tried to protect herself by remembering the emotional turmoil that was inevitable when one came to care for a creative, artistic person, but it had done no good. Even before she'd found out that Ben was not Damon Bathory, she'd known she could not control her feelings where he was concerned. It was as if, at last, she'd found the other half of herself.
A gentle rapping sound broke in on Diana's thoughts. The door opened a moment later to reveal a slender young woman in a black dress and white apron. She carried Diana's green silk gown, freshly pressed.
The cat hissed and kicked Diana with his back feet until she released him. The maid stepped prudently to one side as the animal streaked past her, then bobbed a curtsey.
"Beggin' your pardon, mum, but Mrs. Northcote wonders will you be needin' any help with your dressin'?"
Diana started to refuse, then realized that Ben and his mother weren't the only ones in this house who could satisfy her curiosity. It would be wasteful to overlook a source of information when it was dropped into her lap. She told the young woman to come in.
"What is your name?" Diana asked.
"Annie, mum."
"Well, Annie, I am Mrs. Spaulding and I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Tell me, does the cat have a name?"
"Cedric, mum. At least that's what Mrs. Northcote calls him."
Diana smiled at her. "And is there some other name that _you_ use for Cedric?"
"Not me, mum, but the cook, she calls him the devil's spawn."
When she'd hung the gown in the armoire, Annie spoke again. "I'm very good at fixing hair, mum."
"Excellent."
Diana had wondered how she was going to keep the girl with her long enough for an interrogation. Diana did not really need help to change her clothing. Even if she'd brought her entire wardrobe with her, she'd have been hard put to offer Annie much employment. Unaccustomed to having a servant, Diana always took care to select garments she could get into and out of on her own.
Diana encouraged Annie to chat about herself as she worked and soon learned the girl was one of eight children. "The first to get a job when we all come to America from Ireland," she told Diana proudly.
"Do any of the others work here?" Diana asked.
"Oh, no, mum. There was just the one post open."
"I've not met the rest of the staff, except for the gatekeeper. A taciturn fellow." Her mind's eye provided a picture of an elderly man with a big key.
"That's Old Ernest. He calls himself the _grounds_keeper. And sometimes he drives Mrs. Northcote in her carriage. Then there's Cora Belle, the cook. And Eudora, the housekeeper, and I'm the maid of all work."
"That's four. Are there others?"
Diana watched with interest as color blossomed in Annie's cheeks. "There's Joseph, mum."
Although Annie was vague about his precise duties, Diana gathered that Joseph was young and strong and spent most of his time in the carriage house.
"Why the carriage house?" she asked. A stable would have made more sense if his job was to care for the horses. The only things most people kept in carriage houses were their buggies and wagons.
"He has his room there. And Mr. Aaron's studio is on the upper floor."
"He works for Mr. Aaron Northcote, then?" Diana studied the girl's reflection in the mirror.
Momentary confusion made Annie's brow wrinkle as she tucked a wayward curl into the stylish coiffure she was constructing for Diana. "He works for Mr. Ben," Annie said after a moment. "We all do, except Ernest. Mrs. Northcote pays him."
When she didn't volunteer anything further, Diana tried a new ploy. "I saw one of Aaron Northcote's paintings in New York. He is a very talented artist."
"I wouldn't know, mum. He doesn't let me clean in his studio." There was a new primness in her voice and her lips pursed in disapproval.
"Surely Joseph has taken a peek," Diana teased her. "Didn't he tell you what he saw?"
Annie hesitated, then lowered her voice and leaned close to Diana's ear. "He saw scandalous things," she confided. "And heard them, too. Mr. Aaron, he has women up there at all hours of the day and night, and more than one of them has come away sobbing after he's done with her."
* * * *
At the appointed hour for supper, Diana descended the elaborate cherrywood staircase. She paused at the foot, disconcerted by the way the oval mirror above a Louis Quinze _bombe_ bureau reflected the ornately carved griffin on the newel post.
Such things were fashionable, she told herself. But she wished now that she had not devoured so many of the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe and her imitators when she was a girl at school. Squaring her shoulders, Diana marched down a long, dimly-lit main hallway, its highly polished cherrywood floor partially covered by thick Oriental carpets. The dining room was at the far end, its entrance guarded by two huge gargoyles positioned on either side of a cherrywood arch.
Ben came to meet her and showed her to one of the three places set at an enormous oval dining table. "My brother will not be joining us," he said before she could ask. "He's something of a recluse. Shy. Especially when women are around."
"He was willing to meet me at the restaurant when I thought he was you."
Ben shrugged. "He was curious."
Diana might have pursued the subject of Aaron, but to prevent it Ben turned to his mother, who was seated on his other side. "I believe Mrs. Palermo is going to have twins," he told her.
Annie served the soup.
Mrs. Northcote and her son discussed the Palermo family in excruciating detail, then went on to speak of other local matters. Diana ate in silence, feeling more ill at ease by the moment. A vivid imagination, she decided, could be a distinct disadvantage. Her sense of a wrongness about this place, a wrongness about Mrs. Northcote and, perhaps, about her other son, the one who was shy ... and appeared to talk to people who weren't there ... grew stronger.
"You're looking much too somber, Diana," Ben said abruptly.
She stammered an apology. "My thoughts wandered."

"There's a penalty for that," he said in a teasing tone of voice. "I insist you tell Mother that story you related to me in New York -- the one about the camel."
She had shared the tale with him, Diana remembered, because she'd been trying to avoid talking about anything more personal. Was that his motivation now?
"Yes, do tell." Mrs. Northcote's insistence left her houseguest no choice but to oblige.
"It happened in January," Diana began. "A camel, an elephant, and a donkey were all featured in the Kirafly Brothers' spectacular at the Academy of Music. Bolossy and Imre Kirafly," she added for Mrs. Northcote's benefit, "are Hungarian-born performers turned theatrical producers. They have been Manhattan's principal purveyors of spectacle for the last dozen years. Nightly after the show, the animals are taken in charge by keepers and driven to a stable on Prince Street."
She paused for breath, taking a sip from her water goblet. Ben smiled encouragingly. Mrs. Northcote's face wore a bland expression.
"On this particular evening, the camel led the procession, which went by way of 14th Street to Broadway, then turned south. Just as they reached 12th Street, the camel broke free."
She leaned forward, determined to engage her hostess's interest.
"A camel running wild is a frightful novelty, Mrs. Northcote, even to jaded New Yorkers. Horses and humans alike dove for cover to give the marauding beast room. Portly gentlemen and stout ladies strolling along the sidewalk suddenly displayed the agility of acrobats in order to escape danger. The rabble soon scented fun and joined in the chase with an ear-splitting chorus of yells. The noise further maddened the poor camel."
"Where was the animal's keeper?" she asked.
"In pursuit, but the beast ran in a zigzag pattern. The poor fellow was hard put to keep up. And distracted by the elephant. For quite some time, friend camel ran down Broadway unmolested."
"You mustn't leave loose ends. The keeper's role is important."
"Er, yes. Well, to continue, the noise and lights confused the runaway beast and he vented his fury in roars and kicks, and that in turn caused horses pulling carriages to rear and plunge. The driver of an express wagon had just left his conveyance in front of the St. Denis Hotel, in order to deliver a trunk, when he heard the racket up the street. He dropped the trunk to dive for the reins and was barely in time to keep his team from making a rapid-transit trip through the hotel cafe."
Diana expected a chuckle at this point, if not an outright laugh, but she got no response at all from her audience. Determined to inject a little more verve into her storytelling, although she was already gesturing with both hands while she spoke, she cleared her throat and continued.
"Grace Church is opposite the St. Denis." She glanced at Ben, remembering that she'd followed him to services there. "It boasts an iron fence. When the camel left the express wagon, it bolted across the street. A woman passing by on the sidewalk saw it coming, screamed, and tried to run, but one foot slipped on an icy cake and down she fell, plump in the camel's path. It was a critical moment, but just as those watching braced themselves to witness a terrible collision, the camel sprang over her prostrate form like a hurdle racer and fetched up against the iron fence of the church. He struck it with such violence that the concussion knocked him flat."
Mrs. Northcote made a tsking noise.
Ben chuckled. "A knock-down blow."
"But not sufficient to lay Mr. Camel low for long. Even as the woman scrambled to her feet and fled, the, er, hunchback terror started off for another stretch down Broadway."
She thought that a rather good turn of phrase, but neither of her listeners seemed impressed.
"The camel seemed to sense that his stable was somewhere in that direction and he was bent on getting there at a pneumatic clip, but as he approached the Sinclair House, another hotel, a private carriage containing a gentleman, his wife, and their baby, wheeled into view going up Broadway. The driver's eyes went wide and his horses had an attack of St. Vitus dance as they realized that the camel was making a bee-line for the carriage. His bowed head was in close proximity to one of the glass doors when, at the last possible minute, two men sprang to the rescue. They seized the camel by the nostrils, one on each side, kicked him in the forelegs, and threw the beast, holding him firmly until help arrived."
"The approved technique for subduing a camel," Ben told his mother, _sotto voce_.
"In a little while," Diana finished, "the keeper appeared on the scene and that was the end of Mr. Camel's adventure."
"How did those two men know what to do?" Mrs. Northcote asked.
Ben grinned. Since he'd heard the story before, he answered before Diana could. "They told reporters on the scene that they'd both had previous experience wrangling camels."
"Coincidence," Mrs. Northcote scoffed. "It never works well in fiction."
"But this is all true," Diana protested.
"Do you think people will believe preposterous things _just_ because they really happened?" Mrs. Northcote asked. "On the other hand, with a little work, this might make a good story."
"I thought it _was_ a good story." Diana felt more confused than ever.
"I mean if it were written down. As fiction. Not just as you told it, of course. It wants tinkering. You must turn the basic chase into something more. Explain away the two men who just happened to know what to do. Perhaps the entire incident was a sinister plot to ruin the Kirafly Brothers. Arranged by a theatrical rival."
"More likely a publicity stunt," Diana muttered, disconcerted by Mrs. Northcote's comments. In New York, Ben had told her the tale was humorous, and suggested that she might write that sort of thing instead of gossip columns.
"That could work," Mrs. Northcote said in a thoughtful voice. "Keep asking yourself 'what if?' until you've found exactly the right combination of details. Then slap a snappy title on the whole and you've got yourself a nice little package to sell to a magazine."
"Is that how _you_ do it?" Diana -- her pique forgotten -- asked because she was genuinely curious to know.
"Most of the time." Mrs. Northcote waited, plainly expecting more questions.
Diana did not want to disappoint her. "Why did you choose a male pseudonym?"
Damon Bathory's alter ego blinked solemnly at her. "Because some people have an irrational prejudice against women in any occupation men dominate. Aside from Mary Shelley, I know of no other woman who has ever written stories like mine. Oh, a few females pen novels containing dark secrets, mysterious villains, ghosts and ghouls and things that go bump in the night, with virginal heroines, of course, but those tales do not come close to exposing the evil underbelly of human depravity, or the torments of the misaligned mind."
"Do you risk censure, then, by revealing all at this juncture?" Diana could well believe it. She'd not considered that aspect of the situation before and the thought sobered her.
"I always wanted to be honest with my readers." Mrs. Northcote's expression was deadly serious. "My editor dissuaded me. First he insisted no one would believe that a respectable matron could write so convincingly about murder and mayhem. Then he said they'd be horrified if they did believe it."
Diana thought of Horatio Foxe and was forced to agree. Men could be very small-minded.
"A company in Boston publishes my books," Mrs. Northcote continued. "They were the ones who insisted I pretend to be a man. Six months ago, they suggested that I find someone to impersonate me and embark on a lecture tour. I persuaded Ben to do it. Knowing he had his own reasons for wanting to visit several of the cities on the proposed route, I seized upon what seemed an admirable compromise."
He'd wanted to visit insane asylums. Remembering that, Diana sent a questioning glance his way. His expression enigmatic, he ignored it.
"Since his return, he has persuaded me that subterfuge is unnecessary, that my sales figures are high enough to overcome any qualms on the part of my publisher. Since he will not stand in for me again, I am inclined to do as he wishes. I do not know what the result will be." She heaved a theatrical sigh. "They may decline to accept any more stories from me. My writing will come to an ignominious end."
"Not likely," Ben muttered. "The publicity will undoubtedly cause sales to soar. Your publisher will profit and so will you."
Diana had more questions, but Ben deftly deflected them. The rest of the evening passed without further discussion of his mother's unorthodox career or the news story Diana was to write about it.
Not until she was in her room once more, trying to ignore the storm raging outside her windows as she prepared to go to bed, did Diana realize how easily Ben had distracted her. All he'd had to do was smile.
She resolved to be more sensible in the future. She'd focus on getting answers to her questions. And she would not let her imagination run away with her. If the wind had not howled just then, producing an involuntary shiver, she might have had more faith in her ability to keep that second vow.
Hurriedly, without help, she undressed and put on her nightgown. In the morning, she'd insist on interviewing Mrs. Northcote. Then she'd write her article. After that....
At this point, Diana's optimism failed her once more. She still felt Ben was keeping something from her. Worse, he had given her no real indication of what he had planned for them. Did they have a future together?
_You are not some impressionable young virgin_, she lectured herself. She'd married Evan without enough forethought. She hoped she had sense enough not to repeat that particular mistake.
Not that Ben had _asked_ her to marry him.
All he'd said was that he had intended to keep his promise to return to New York. He'd intended to tell her the truth about Damon Bathory.
She climbed into the huge bed, snuffed the candle, and tried not to think about the bugs carved into the headboard. She'd be fit for one of Ben's madhouses if she didn't get a good night's sleep.
Resolutely, she closed her eyes. Everything, she told herself firmly, would sort itself out in the morning.