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MRS. FEATHERSTONE WALKED downstairs to the main dining room of the Tremont House at promptly eight o’clock in the morning. In opulence, the lodgings equaled the grandeur of the Palmer House. The Tremont stood at the intersection of Dearborn and Lake Streets, only a few blocks from its rival establishment. Along with the Palmer House, the Grand Pacific, and the Sherman House, it was considered one of the finest hotels in the city. Mrs. Featherstone breathed a sigh of relief that, for once, the Arkana had managed to find decent accommodations for its agents in this hinterland of civilization.
The room in which guests took their meals duplicated the cavernous dimensions of a cathedral though not the austerity of one. Its two-story frescoed ceiling was supported by polished travertine columns that ran the length of the room. Its depths were lit by ornate crystal chandeliers suspended at ten-foot intervals. Though only half full, the room was noisy at this time of the morning. Aside from the conversations of two hundred guests, the sound of footsteps, the rumbling of food service carts, the clatter of china, and the clink of cutlery all reverberated off the paneled walls and marble floors.
Mrs. Featherstone walked up to the maître d’hotel’s podium. “I’d like a table, please.”
The maître d’ looked uncomfortable. “I’m very sorry, madame, but we don’t seat ladies unaccompanied by gentlemen.”
“I am well aware of your absurd policy,” the Arkana agent replied frostily. “You already know that I am a guest at this hotel since you have seen me on numerous occasions over the past few weeks in the company of my nephew. He is tardy this morning, and I would prefer to wait for him in the dining room.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience, madame,” the maître d’ answered contritely, “but I must abide by the rules of the house. If you don’t care to wait, you are always welcome to eat in the Ladies’ Ordinary upstairs.”
“Young man, if I wished to be segregated by gender while taking my meals, I would have joined a convent!”
The maître d’ cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Then perhaps you would prefer to have a seat off to the side. I will be happy to admit you once your nephew arrives.”
“I do not prefer to have a seat off to the side, but you leave me no alternative.” Mrs. Featherstone glared at him before stalking off to claim a chair against the wall.
Five minutes later, Merriweather rushed up to the dining room entrance, looking flustered and out of breath. He glanced around anxiously until he spied his companion.
She stood and advanced to meet him. “You’re late,” she admonished.
“Very sorry. I received a last-minute telegram. Shall we go in, Aunt Sophia?” He gave a slight smile as he offered his arm.
The lady pursed her lips but took the proffered support without a word.
The maître d’ was the portrait of unctuous courtesy as he escorted the pair to a table next to an immense plate-glass window overlooking the street.
“Of all the benighted customs of this rustic country,” Mrs. Featherstone huffed. “As if it weren’t bad enough that we must pretend to be related to avoid suspicion of an illicit relationship! Now I am told that an unaccompanied woman isn’t even allowed in the dining room.”
“Yes, that is rather a strange prejudice peculiar to North America.”
Barely hearing him, Mrs. Featherstone forged ahead in her diatribe. “They have a small dining area on the second floor reserved for females traveling alone or in company with other women. How ridiculous!”
“I confess that I don’t understand the concept,” Merriweather said.
“I’ve heard that they fear moral depravity in these big metropolitan hotels. A woman dining alone might be doing so to invite the attentions of men.” She gazed at her companion fixedly. “Do I look like the sort of woman who makes it a habit to solicit the attentions of men?”
“Certainly not,” the gentleman objected gravely. “Your forbidding demeanor generally solicits their absence.”
Not registering his remark, she continued. “There are those who have put forth the reverse argument for sequestered dining. They say that hotels only do this to protect ladies from the rude attentions of men.”
“There may be something in that,” Merriweather agreed. “The men in this country are much addicted to expectoration, whether a cuspidor is near at hand or not. I have concluded that spitting and shooting are the principal pastimes of the American male.”
“I grant you that their personal habits are appalling, but why should any man take it into his head that every unescorted female that he sees is interested in a romantic assignation? I ask you?” Mrs. Featherstone flapped her napkin briskly before placing it on her lap. “Does every traveling salesman in America think it his right to break his marriage vows with any unattended female who crosses his path?”
“The concept does seem rather ludicrous.” By this time, Merriweather was only half listening as he scanned the breakfast menu card.
“It isn’t the ladies who need to be hidden away.” Mrs. Merriweather waggled a finger at her companion. “It’s the men who need to be taught self-restraint. Learning to control their baser impulses ought to be a fundamental part of their upbringing!”
Mrs. Featherstone stared pointedly at a solitary man sitting at the next table who was calmly reading the morning paper as he ate his breakfast alone. He happened to glance up and caught the lady’s eyes ferociously boring into him. He gulped down a mouthful of food and immediately raised his newspaper in front of his face to fend off further attack.
“By all means, let the men enjoy a solitary breakfast in a splendid dining room while the ladies are banished to a dry crust of bread and a tin cup of water in the attic!” she snapped. “It’s simply an occidental form of purdah!”
Apparently used to such fulminations on the subject of female inequality, Merriweather said calmly, “Surely, you realize that we of the Arkana enjoy a more enlightened perspective on gender relations in antiquity because of our advanced knowledge of history. Our views, however accurate, would be considered radical by the general population. Most ladies wouldn’t find the seating arrangement in this hotel offensive at all.”
“The greater fools they!” Mrs. Featherstone turned her ire on her associate. “It’s all well and good for you to take a philosophical approach to the problem. As a male, you have never been the victim of this lopsided arrangement.”
“Very true,” Merriweather agreed mildly. “Audiatur et altera pars.”
“Quite so.” Mrs. Featherstone unruffled herself by degrees. Her oration concluded, she finally lapsed into silence as she focused her attention on perusing the menu.
A waiter arrived to take their orders. He had apparently been hovering out of the line of fire until Mrs. Featherstone finished venting her feelings.
After giving their breakfast orders and being supplied with a pot of tea, the two agents settled into a discussion of matters more relevant to their lines of inquiry.
“Have your contacts discovered anything about a black-market transaction involving the Egyptian statue?” Merriweather asked as he buttered a piece of toast.
Mrs. Featherstone stirred cream into her tea and scowled. “Yes, they have. It involves a certain Prussian count of our acquaintance.”
“Not him again!” the gentleman exclaimed.
“The very one. As you know, the count has spent the better part of his life collecting Egyptian antiquities. It amounts to a mania with him, and he will use fair means or foul to obtain whatever he desires. Lately, he has been boasting to rival collectors that he is about to acquire the find of the century.”
“That can only mean the statue of Hatshepsut,” Merriweather said.
“I agree. Our people have been able to determine that the count is obtaining a rare object through a mysterious broker whose identity is unknown.”
Merriweather put down his toast and stopped chewing. “The Spider!”
At that moment, the waiter arrived with their food. An omelet for the lady and poached eggs and bacon for the gentleman.
Barely noting the meal on her plate, Mrs. Featherstone continued. “The speed at which this transaction is progressing distresses me. It seems that the count has already dispatched a courier accompanied by a bodyguard to collect the item. One can only assume a bodyguard is necessary because of the amount of cash the courier will be carrying and the value of the merchandise being transported back to Europe. They are due to make the crossing to New York on the RMS Etruria in a few days.”
Merriweather raised his eyebrows. “The Etruria is one of the fastest ships in the Cunard fleet. It’s won the Blue Riband multiple times.” He did a quick calculation in his head. “It is capable of making the crossing in just over six days.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Featherstone agreed solemnly. “If you add twenty-four hours for an express train from New York to Chicago, that leaves us very little time to locate the rendezvous point.” She took a bite of omelet, chewing thoughtfully. “I will wire our contacts for an updated report. I seriously doubt that the Spider will come out into the open at any stage of the transaction. She prefers to use middlemen, but we may be able to intercept the statue before it falls into the hands of the count’s courier.”
“With the aid of our new allies,” Merriweather added.
“Certainly,” his associate agreed. “Aside from the information I’ve been able to collect about the artifact, have you made any progress regarding the Vangilder marriage? I know our American friends are quite concerned about the young lady.”
The gentleman nodded. “As well they should be. The telegram I received this morning confirmed our worst fears.” He sighed before forking a piece of bacon into his mouth. “The Duke of Bournmoor has a most unsavory reputation. He ran through his inheritance while still in his twenties. After that, he married two wives and spent down their fortunes with equal rapidity. Drink and gambling are his two greatest vices.”
“Two wives?” Mrs. Featherstone echoed suspiciously, pouring herself a second cup of tea. “Not concurrently, I hope.”
“He is not a bigamist.” Merriweather gave a mirthless laugh. “But he may be a murderer.”
“What?” The lady looked up from her cup.
“Nothing can be proved against him, of course. His first wife took a tumble down the grand staircase at their estate and broke her neck. I have it on good authority that her body contained multiple bruises that could not be attributed to the fall alone.”
“Good heavens!”
“His second wife died as a result of a climbing accident while the couple was vacationing in the Alps. Bournmoor, who never previously demonstrated the least interest in outdoor activities, insisted on hiking in the mountains with the duchess. She plunged down a mountainside. Given the number of bruises on her body, it would have been impossible for a medical examiner to determine how she came by them all.”
Merriweather sighed. “To ferret out more details about these unfortunate ladies, one of our agents passed himself off as a day laborer on the Bournmoor estate. He was able to ingratiate himself with a housemaid, who told him that the duke has a vile temper. Not only did he beat his servants, he was known to beat his wives when too deep in his cups.”
“How dreadful,” Mrs. Featherstone murmured half to herself. “Miss Vangilder must break off this dangerous engagement at once.”
“I doubt it would do any good for her to protest,” Merriweather demurred. He motioned the waiter to bring a fresh pot of tea. “I spoke to Simpson over the telephone yesterday. He says that the match was entirely Mrs. Vangilder’s idea. Although the mother arranged the union, the daughter shows no inclination to become a duchess.”
Mrs. Featherstone gazed through the window, lost in thought. “While most rich American mothers seem keen to have their daughters marry a title, I am sure that Mrs. Vangilder’s fascination with the duke as a prospective son-in-law has another motive. If she is related through marriage to anyone in the peerage, it is unlikely that the law would inquire too closely into her affairs.”
“It’s yet another indication that she may be our unknown Spider,” Merriweather remarked. “No policeman would risk his career by initiating a criminal investigation into the family of a peer of the realm.”
“Wretched woman!” Mrs. Featherstone exclaimed. “Has she no maternal feeling at all? She makes her own daughter a sacrificial lamb by promoting this alliance. All in an attempt to further her own ends.”
“We must share this information with our American allies immediately.” Merriweather’s face contained an expression of somber concern. “Perhaps they can do something to prevent the match before it is too late.”
“Let us hope so, sir.” Mrs. Featherstone shook her head. “Though it may already be too late to avert such a catastrophe.”