Death at Bishop's Keep (19 page)

The man puffed out his cheeks. “I do, my dear. Yes, of course I do. I certainly do. And I am prepared at any moment to defend—”

“Thank you.” Mrs. Farnsworth smiled lightly, but there was a shadow in her eyes. “And where are the papers in question?”

A slight frown crossed the gentleman's florid face. “The papers? They were left with the other historical documents.”

Mrs. Farnsworth's remarkably mobile face darkened into a frown. “Is that not ... dangerous?”

The man made a harrumphing sound. “I hardly think so. Their significance is not apparent to—”

“You are quite right,” Mrs. Farnsworth said, half to herself. “Their significance would only be apparent under the most expert examination, and that they will not receive.” She reached up to touch his cheek with the tip of one finger. It was the lightest touch and hardly indiscreet, but it revealed a long-standing intimacy. The man impulsively caught her hand and kissed it.

“Thank you, my dear,” he said fervently. “You have ever been the genius of my better self.”

“Yes,” she said. The man moved away into the crowd, leaving Mrs. Farnsworth standing alone, lost in thought. After a moment she seemed to recollect herself and stepped to the other side of the table, where she smilingly engaged in conversation with Vicar Barfield Talbot, whom Kate had been expecting to see. The vicar, too, was wearing a cluster of blue feathers. Kate waited her chance to slip unobserved out from behind the palm, only to bump immediately into Aunt Sabrina.

“Ah, here you are, Kathryn,” Aunt Sabrina said. She looked around at the table, heavily laden with silver trays of olives ranked like fish scales, radishes arranged like the rays of the sun, and anchovies interlaced, basket-style, in an elaborate display. There were fine plates piled with meringues, jellies, and crystallized fruits, and the whole was centered with an elegant trifle. “Is this not a fine repast?” She picked up a small plate and began to help herself. “Oh, look—mushrooms, stuffed! I never miss a chance to eat mushrooms in any form.”

At that moment, the vicar said an affectionate farewell to Mrs. Farnsworth and came toward them. “Good afternoon, my dear Miss Ardleigh,” he said to Aunt Sabrina.

“My dear Vicar,” Aunt Sabrina said warmly. She looped her arm through his and drew him closer. “And of course you know our proposed Neophyte, my niece Kathryn.”

“Ah, Miss Ardleigh,” the old man said. His bow was gallant. “I am glad to learn that you wish to join our Order, my dear. I applauded your aunt's wish to be reunited with you and to use your skills to our advantage, but I admit to feeling much more comfortable that the Order's historical material is in the hands of members. The Golden Dawn is an esoteric society, and its rituals must be guarded from the eyes of the world.”

“Of course,” Kate murmured, although she hadn't happened upon anything so far that the eyes of the world couldn't see. She wondered whether the Order's much-vaunted secrecy might be a smoke screen that concealed its lack of substance.

“Do you have any questions I might answer, my dear?” the vicar inquired.

“Yes,” Kate said promptly. “Please tell me about the blue feathers you and the others are wearing. What is their significance?”

“Ah, yes, the feathers,” the vicar said, touching his own feather cluster with a finger. “Our new temple has adopted the peacock as an emblem.”

Of course! Kate had never seen a peacock feather, but she had read of the bird.

“For centuries,” the vicar was saying, “the bird has represented immortality. The eyes depicted on its splendid tail feathers suggest the supernatural ability to see deeply into the spirit. And, of course, that is what we of the Golden Dawn are about. Seeing deeply into our hearts, in search of our souls.”

“I see,” Kate said thoughtfully, wondering to herself whether she should convey this information to Sir Charles or keep it to herself.

Aunt Sabrina put her arm around Kate's shoulders. “You must come and be introduced, Kathryn. Annie Horniman wants to meet you, and Rachel Cracknell. And of course, our dear Dr. Westcott, the founder of our Order, for whom we all have such deep affection and respect.” She smiled at the vicar. “If you will excuse us, Barfield.”

“By all means,” the vicar said, bowing. His eyes held a special warmth as he looked at Aunt Sabrina. “It is always good to see you once again, Sabrina. Soon, perhaps?”

“Indeed,” Aunt Sabrina murmured, and took Kate's elbow.

After several other introductions and polite social conversation, Aunt Sabrina steered Kate toward a corner. “Dr. Westcott,” she whispered in Kate's ear.

To Kate's surprise, Dr. Westcott proved to be the same man who had spoken so heatedly with Mrs. Farnsworth. But the mottled red had faded from his cheeks, and he smiled graciously when Aunt Sabrina introduced them.

“Welcome to our Order, Miss Ardleigh.” His words were resonant, his sentences fully rounded.

“Kathryn is assisting me with our history,” Aunt Sabrina put in. “She has an interest in ritual magic.”

Dr. Westcott's look became stern. “You understand, I trust, that our magical practices are not parlor amusements. They are handed down from the ancients through a long line of individuals—priests—who communicate the sacred teaching to those who are willing to accept its esoteric discipline.” He lifted his hand, as if in blessing, and his voice took on an even richer timbre. “This sacred work enables us to raise ourselves to an understanding of our inner truth, our unerring and divine genius.”

Kate inclined her head, feeling almost obliged to say “Amen.” She couldn't help wondering how Dr. Westcott's unerring and divine genius had allowed him to be misled by the miscreant Mathers.

And what, if anything, the Order's emblem had to do with the broken blue feather she had found in the carriage that had borne a man to his death.

“ ‘And yet you've gay gauntlets and blue feathers three!—' ‘Yes: that's what we wear when we're ruined,' said he.”

—AFTER THOMAS HARDY, The Ruined Maid

 

 

 

G
iven the inspector's chilly reception of his first two pieces of evidence, the feather and the fingerprint, Charles had not thought it helpful to mention the third: the name of the street for which Monsieur Armand had been bound. And since it did not seem likely that Wainwright would release either Sergeant Battle or PC Trabb to make inquiry in Queen Street, he decided to do it himself. On Monday morning he borrowed Bradford's saddle horse and rode to Colchester through a chilly gray drizzle. He left his horse at Taylor's Livery Stable and asked directions of a vendor of hot pies. Having purchased a fragrant, crusty pork pie, he ate it with relish as he walked.

Queen Street proved to be a residential street a stone's throw from the old castle. Chimney pots poured sooty smoke over roofs of gray slate that rose steeply above the narrow three- and four-story houses, closely spaced to conserve land. Charles noted with disapproval that here, as in the new suburbs of London, the roof lines of the ill-proportioned brick houses were interrupted at irregular intervals by gables, turrets, battlements, and dormers, so many and so varied that they confused the eye. The houses fronted directly on the street, so that there was not even the relief of a square of grass fenced by a few sprigs of privet.

Having arrived at his destination, Charles opened his portfolio and took out a photograph of the dead man. He looked once over his shoulder to ascertain that Miss Ardleigh was not following after him; then he climbed the first stoop and rang the bell. His summons was answered by a stiff-backed parlor maid with a long face, a trace of dark mustache over her upper lip, and the saddest eyes he had ever seen.

“Good day, miss,” Charles said, raising his brown felt hat. “I am making inquiries for the police about—”

“Tradesman's entrance round back,” the maid said. She gave his canvas coat a scornful glance and shut the door.

Charles frowned with irritation. His hand was poised to ring again, but he thought better of it. He would return later, and trust that a more receptive person might answer his knock. He went back down the stoop, out to the sidewalk, and up the stairs of the next house. This door was opened by a butler with a brilliant red nose. Taking no chances, Charles swiftly inserted his foot in the opening.

“I represent the police,” he said, “in an inquiry of great importance.” He held up the photograph. “This man is said to have visited a house on this street. Have you seen him?”

The butler sniffed. “I have not,” he said with grave dignity. “Are you the police?”

“No,” Charles said, “I merely—”

“Pray remove your foot, sir.”

Charles held his ground. “I would like to inquire of other members of your household. Perhaps your mistress—”

The butler's right arm disappeared behind the door and reappeared again with a silver-tipped cane. “Your foot, sir,” the butler said, and stabbed Charles's toe smartly.

The third door, which Charles approached with trepidation and a slight limp, was not answered at all. The fourth, however, was opened by a middle-aged man whom Charles took by his dress and manner to be the gentleman of the house. He was apparently on his way out, for he wore a velvet-collared chesterfield and held one end of a leather leash, the other end of which was attached to a fluffy white poodle about the size of a lady's muff, furiously yapping. When he saw Charles, he looked alarmed.

“If it's the money you're after,” he said over the dog's din, “I have already—”

“I am not a bill collector,” Charles said with dignity.

“Good,” the man said. He looked down, obviously flustered. “Be quiet, Precious.” The poodle ducked behind the man's ankle and glowered at Charles, continuing to bark. From somewhere within the house, a woman's voice fretfully commanded, “Take that dog out of here, Frank, before my brain explodes.”

“Yes, Irene,” Frank replied nervously, over his shoulder. “Precious and I are just leaving.” He looked out at the gray drizzle. “Is it raining?” he asked Charles.

Charles held up his photo. “Have you seen this man?”

“Can't say that I have,” Frank said, giving the photograph barely a look. He reached behind the door and Charles stepped back quickly. But when his hand reappeared again, it held only a gray bowler and an umbrella.

“Are you sure?” Charles persisted. “It is a matter of some importance. The police—”

“Frank!” The female voice was loudly petulant. “Can't you manage to do even one simple thing? Get that dog out of—”

“Yes, my dear,” Frank replied, putting his hat on his head. Precious launched a swift sortie at Charles's trouser leg. He retired to the top step. Frank yanked the dog back, stepped out of the door, and closed it behind him. “Never saw the fellow,” he muttered, pushing past Charles. “I say, old chap, I really must be off.”

Charles stared at him. A jaunty trio of peacock feathers was inserted into the band of trim that encircled Frank's bowler. He couldn't be sure, but it looked as if one were broken. He was seized by a sudden excitement. “Pardon me,” he said, gesturing at the hat, “but I wonder if you would permit me to have a look at those feathers.”

Frank frowned. “Feathers? I don't know about any—” He apparently recollected them, for he reddened and, still holding the leash, snatched off his hat and pulled out the cockade of feathers. Precious took advantage of Frank's inattentiveness to lunge at Charles's shoe.

“Do the feathers have a special significance?” Charles asked. “Perhaps—”

“I tell you,” Frank said loudly, “there are
no
feathers!” He stuffed them into his pocket, jammed his bowler back on his head, and put up his umbrella. He walked smartly away, dragging Precious with him. As he did so, a gentleman wearing a caped Inverness came toward him. The two were apparently acquainted, for as they passed on the sidewalk, Frank tipped his gray bowler and the other inclined his head. As the man in the Inverness drew nearer, Charles saw that in his lapel was fixed a cluster of peacock feathers.

“It's worse than wicked, my dear, it's vulgar.”

—Punch

 

 

 

C
harles was fully soaked by the time he retrieved Bradford's horse from Taylor's Livery Stable, but the rain stopped as he rode back to Marsden Manor, his portfolio under his arm. He was able to contemplate the outcome of the morning's inquiry in the pale light of an afternoon sun, as he rode under trees that scattered raindrops with every breeze.

But there was regrettably little to contemplate. His efforts on Queen Street had come to nothing—well, almost. There was still the matter of Frank's feathers to be looked into, and those of the man in the Inverness. Surely some significance lay in those odd lapel decorations. For the moment, he couldn't imagine what it was, and although Charles was resourceful, he had been pulled up short. Hunting a single peacock feather was hard enough. Hunting one peacock feather in a blizzard of peacock feathers was much harder. Still, he was confident. Something would come to him.

Something did, but not quite in the way he might have imagined. To Charles's surprise, the Marsden stable yard was crowded. The indoor and outdoor servants were standing in a circle, talking and gesturing excitedly. As he dismounted and turned his horse over to a groom, he saw that everyone was looking at a motorcar, a Panhard-Levassor with a forward-mounted vertical engine, tiller steering, and a red parasol canopy. An elegant machine.