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“So you have discovered nothing?” Phoebe said to Marianne, later that evening. Price was dining at his club in the city, and there were no visitors expected to Woodfurlong. Marianne was already dressed for dinner, and she was in Phoebe’s own rooms, watching Phoebe’s maid Emilia attend to her cousin’s hair.
“No, nothing so far. I admit I am feeling unsettled by the whole thing. A natural reaction, you must agree, to that dreadful man Monahan. He was most bullying. And you have found out nothing about him from your gossips and contacts?”
“Well, there are a few whispers,” said Phoebe. She stayed perfectly still as the talented fingers of Emilia worked through her hair, pinning and curling and twisting. “There is actually a link between him and Lord Hazelstone – you know, the member of the House of Lords – I’ve never met him.”
“I know the name. He is involved in trade and so on. Does your husband not know him?”
“Lord Hazelstone? Perhaps. I shall ask him. But as for this Monahan, well, he might have been in his employment once, but no longer.”
“So whom does he work for now?”
“He seems to be quite placeless. He is a low sort with high airs that are not quite finished. Some of the ladies tittered at his name. They like to be charmed by him but would not dream of letting him anywhere near their daughters. He sounds the perfect cad. Emilia, does the name mean anything to you?”
Emilia de Souza was the bright daughter of an impoverished gentle family who were sunk too low to even be able to afford commissions in the army for the sons. One was working as a humble clerk and the other had taken to the church and ended up in a living so remote that Emilia sent him food parcels when she could. She was a good-natured soul who lacked any bitterness as to her reduced situation. She sprayed a little perfume over Phoebe’s hair, shading her mistress’s face with her free hand. “Jack Monahan ... no, my lady, I don’t recollect having heard it. I can ask around. Are you expecting him to be known among the staff?”
“I don’t know – Marianne, what do you think?”
“He is placeless, as you said. I recognise that in him. Perhaps he was once an officer. He carries himself with the confidence of a gentleman and he had, of course, gained admittance to Mrs Silver’s salon. I should go and ask her how she knew him but I fear she’d slam the door in my face.”
“Ah, then here is a job for me.” Phoebe sat forward and Emilia tutted. “Hush, girl, listen. I will go and talk to Mrs Silver. She can hardly close the door to me. Do you know when she receives calls?”
“I have her card. But you have no introduction.”
“I will obtain one. I know enough ladies in London to be able to tease out a thread of connection to this woman. And, while I am at it, I shall put out more feelers for this other mystery of ours – Edgar Bartholomew.”
“He seems to be a recluse.”
“Luckily, I am not. And I need another project if I am not to have a rose garden. Let me mobilise my forces.”
“You sound as if you are on campaign.”
“Indeed I am!” Phoebe said. “I shall hunt this man down through the drawing rooms of London.”
“I suspect he does not frequent many. We are more likely to find him in clubs and private dining rooms, surely?” Marianne said in frustration. “We need a man. I would ask Simeon but he would be next to useless, and cannot get to the high places anyway. I need someone who can move in all circles and... dash it all, I am describing Jack Monahan.”
“Try Simeon. You never know. He has a good reputation, for what it is worth. As for this Monahan, could we use him, do you think? Use him, as he is intending to use you?”
“I do not know what he really wants from me, but it cannot be good. I think he lies out of fun, half the time. I have the dreadful feeling that none of this would have happened if I had not refused him at the start. Now I am a project to him. He only really seems to want to get me alone. He wants to come here.”
Phoebe nodded. “We need to know more about him before we allow that. What am I saying? We can never allow that!”
Marianne sat up straight as something occurred to her. “No man is without a past. Not Monahan, and not Bartholomew. He must have attended school, and a good one, I think. Perhaps there is still some old master who remembers him.”
“How old is this man?”
“He must be in his mid-fifties, perhaps less. His son is around thirty.”
“It is unlikely that you will find a master who taught him. But I suppose that it is worth a look. Well, then. Tonight shall be the last night I dine soberly at home, Marianne: tomorrow I, too, begin the hunt!”
***
IT WAS A HUNT FROM which Marianne was largely excluded, partly from her own nature – she knew she would be useless at polite conversation in elegant dining rooms and more of a liability to her cousin than a help. Though they had shared something of the same upbringing, they had known from early childhood that their futures would be very different. Phoebe had been schooled into society and loved it; Marianne had chafed under any instruction that tried to make her into an acceptable lady. But as she had no fortune to inherit, and a sad inclination to speak her mind, Marianne had abandoned any attempts at fitting into polite society and had embraced the more radical and shocking groups that accepted her into their circles. Bluestockings, liberals, and suffragists.
She left the comfortable drawing rooms to Phoebe without a murmur, and concentrated on exploring other avenues. While Phoebe flitted from fine house to fine house, charming everyone she met into gossip and revelations, Marianne moved among the middle circles of society, and those on the edges – often, well-bred folk with dangerous ideas. She spoke to old graduates that she still knew at the University Club for Ladies, and tradesfolk she had dealt with at Woodfurlong, and governesses and merchants’ wives and schoolteachers and, in a few cases, old colleagues of her father who still remembered him fondly and would indulge his wayward daughter. She had a list of the very best public schools, and sent letters to them all, enquiring as to former pupils and naming Edgar Bartholomew.
Marianne did not see Phoebe for three days, so intent was she on her task. While Marianne moved around town, she kept her eyes very open to any sign of Monahan, but if he was watching her as he had threatened, he was subtle about it. Nor did she hear from Mr George Bartholomew.
Yet all the while she had the prickling of unease at the back of her neck. Jack Monahan had promised to come after her, and soon he would, she was sure of it.
She even went into the police stationhouse on Bow Street, when she was passing, and spoke to a dismissive sergeant behind the desk. “There is no crime in walking about and looking at people,” he told her. “I do it all the time. Indeed, it is my job.”
Unless she had been physically harmed, then they might act – though her father would be more likely to be heard than she herself. If he brought a complaint that his daughter had been harassed, all of the Metropolitan police force would spring into action. She reminded the police that their own house had been broken into, as it was common knowledge that the penalties for house-breaking were harsher than for leg-breaking, but still he was unmoved.
She had suspected that the police would be of no help to her.
But on the evening of the third day, she had a stroke of luck. She received a reply to one of her letters, and it merely confirmed that there had once been a pupil called Edgar Bartholomew at the Westminster School. She was on the first train to London the very next day. She bought a newspaper to read in the ladies’ waiting room and for the journey itself.
A civil war still raged in Chile, she read. That did not interest her as much as an article about the now-ancient Reverend William Stainton Moses who was still proclaiming his skills at automatic writing as a revelation from God. She felt sorry for the old man, now, though his books still influenced the young and foolish and impressionable, and that made her angry. His ridiculous Ghost Club was an embarrassment.
She sought any mention of Harry Vane but he was absent this time. She had not yet found where he might be lecturing publicly and decided she needed to call at the Egyptian Hall to find out; also, Simeon might know. Or he might instead tell her all about how he intended to levitate a piano down Pall Mall.
She skimmed the trade section, out of a kind of respect to Price and how he made his money. He had lived in Prussia in his youth, for many years, and still used his experience to guide policy. The recent shift in power had unsettled things but as she read the article, her eyes unfocussed and she drifted, instead, to thinking of other things, especially how she was to persuade Phoebe that an electric corset was a terrible idea.
The train arrived. She left the paper on the seat for the next passenger to find and enjoy.
She walked along the side of the Thames and approached along Great College Street, passing the famed college garden on her right. It was said that it was the oldest cultivated garden in England. It was a shame that she couldn’t see any of it, with the tall grey wall keeping everyone out. She ignored the various doors along the wall, and headed for an archway at the far end. It was a school of high, but problematic reputation and the dispute over the future of the ownership of one building, Ashburnham House, was dragging on in the courts – it had been going on for twenty-two years now. She persuaded a porter to allow her into the main yard by using her very best upper-class accent as borrowed from Phoebe, and she was led up some steps and into a chilly, cavernous corridor. There the porter dithered, not sure if he could leave her alone while he went to fetch someone with more authority to tell her to leave.
Luckily a black-robed master came flapping along like a bat, and he took charge, drawing Marianne into a cluttered side room that smelled of dust. “My dear, are you looking for a particular boy?”
She was initially confused and wondered what kind of underhand and shady market they were running until she realised he had taken her to be the mother of a student. “No – my apologies!” She quickly explained about the positive reply to her letter, and asked if they had any master old enough who would possibly remember a pupil from almost thirty years previously.
“Oh my goodness, there is a tall order. It is true we tend to wear ourselves out here and simply die as we teach, and they do say that one Latin master expired during a lesson and his unfortunate state was not realised for three days. The boys simply filed in and out as usual, and assumed he was sleeping – such was the status quo. However, thirty years is a very long time. We would surely notice a cadaver in that length of time.” The master mused, his hands behind his back, staring at a blank bit of wall. “So, hmm, old masters, still present and hopefully still breathing. Luckshaw? Maybe. He smells particularly dusty. Collins? Oh, no, no, he came from Eton, didn’t he, though he probably started there in the last century. Oh! I have it. Wait here.”
She had no intention of going anywhere until she had her answers. She smiled and perched against a pile of boxes, and the master swished away.
He was gone for some time.
It was a strange and lonely place to be, in a windowless store room, while all the noise and clatter of a boys’ school went on outside.
Finally, the man returned, and he wasn’t accompanied by another gown-wearing teacher. Instead, the man by his side was tiny, ancient, and dressed as a gardener. She remembered her old childhood mentor, and felt a rush of warmth for the man. She was already disposed to like him just through simple association. He coughed with a creak like a rusty door.
He was probably as old as the college garden itself.
“Bert has been here since Waterloo, haven’t you, eh, Bert?” The master clapped him on the back and disappeared.
Bert scowled at the door, which was left half-open, and then flashed Marianne a toothy and genuine smile. He touched one finger to his forehead, and said, “What may I do for you, madam? An old boy, was it?”
“Edgar Bartholomew.” She furnished him with as many dates and details as she could. She doubted that the man could possibly remember any pupil at all, even from so long ago, and she was right. He was not a teacher, after all.
He shook his head. “I have a remarkable memory,” he told her, in a voice as strong as a twenty-year-old man’s. “I can tell you everything I know from decades ago. I cannot tell you what I had for breakfast, alas.”
“It is often the way, in ...”
“Us ancient decrepit folk, yes. Oh, don’t worry. If I cannot admit I am old, what can I say? No, there is no Edgar Bartholomew coming to my mind. Was there anyone else?”
“Perhaps you might remember a certain Wade Walker?”
And his face lit up, to her delight. “A singular name for a singular boy. Ah yes! The pair of them – I see them now, one so dark and one so pale – yes! Both good lads, good students, and inseparable. Quiet, and respectful in manner.”
“Do you know what they went on to do in life?”
He shook his head. “No, no. I only know them as they passed through my gardens. I know all the good boys, who walk the paths and appreciate the flowers, and I know the bad ones, who scuff the gravel and pull up the plants. But that is all I know, I’m afraid.”
“Thank you.” She got up to leave, and brushed the dust from her skirts. “One last thing. Which one was blond, and which was the brunette?”
“Walker was as a pale as a ghost, with hair like sun, that a maiden would kill to have. Bartholomew was like a pirate who had spent his whole life at sea. Dark eyes that the ladies would soon swoon for, swarthy as anything you ever did see.”
She trudged out into the suddenly-bright streets, and felt despondent. For the Edgar Bartholomew she was investigating was also dark of hair.
***
WHEN SHE GOT BACK, Marianne found Phoebe waiting for her in the hallway. “I am glad to see you are dressed for a trip to town,” she was told. “Let us take lunch somewhere secluded.”
“It is a little late now for lunch.”
“A mid-afternoon tea then. I have a fancy for cakes. Price said I looked peaky this morning, and that I should treat myself. I must obey my husband! It is written in the scriptures, after all. Come along!”
By half past two they were back in London, in a pretty little teashop down a cobbled side-street. It was a favourite haunt of ladies who wished to have a break from a day of shopping. They could hardly stray into the raucous coffee houses which were full of men and politics, but tea rooms like this were springing up all over the place. They ordered a few light sandwiches and pastry delights, and a large pot of tea.
“Now, I have news,” Phoebe said. “Do you? Shall we toss a coin for who speaks first?”
“You may as well, for I have little,” Marianne said morosely. “I have been paid for nothing, you know. We are chasing shadows.”
“Not so. Listen! I did not discover much more about Jack Monahan. I cannot discover why he was dismissed from his employment with Lord Hazelstone – yes! He was dismissed. He did not leave of his own accord. So that is even more reason to avoid the man. Now, there was also Mrs Silver, and I managed to meet with her at another friend’s afternoon salon. Alas, Mrs Silver was unhelpful. She had no good words to say about you, by the way. I pretended that we were not linked in any significant way. She told me that Monahan had insisted that he attend a séance with her, and did so by claiming some affinity with me! Because he dropped my name, she allowed him to be present.”
Marianne scowled. “The snake.”
“I know! And as neither he nor Mrs Silver herself had ever met me, I feel most doubly used. How many others use my name as a way to open doors?”
“I wouldn’t think it is widespread. Such deception always gets found out.”
“True,” Phoebe said. “Anyway, he is said to be a charming man when in company, according to all accounts, just as I said before. I also discovered that he is definitely a bachelor and his family is unknown. He has no name. Beyond that, no one could say much at all about him. Some women turned to laughing and blushing, so he must be an attractive man. Is he?”
“I could hardly say.”
Phoebe twitched her nose. “Indeed. I am sure we can trust you not to have your head turned by such frivolity. A little of it would do you good – but not now, not with this man. Now, as to Edgar Bartholomew, there is more to say. He is known as a quiet and sober man of business, generally. His wife’s departure all those years ago, and her tragic death last year, has made him an object of pity and sympathy. He has not taken advantage of his marital freedom, and in fact has been praised as a man of narrow morals and good standing.”
“So far, so good.”
“He does not dine out. He does not hold dinners and he does not receive callers. He does not attend invitations. He has been a recluse for these past ten years or more.”
“Where?”
“He has mostly been living in a small suite of rooms in London, close to his very small and exclusive club, and it is a place I do not think even my own dear Price could simply walk into. Most of the people I spoke to say they were surprised to see him suddenly emerge into the streets again.”
“When did he suddenly emerge?” Marianne asked. “No – I can guess. Three weeks ago?”
“Yes. But he still refuses dinners and parties. He has moved back to his country house on the edge of town, they say, and given up his rooms, but he comes into London almost every day.”
“And does what?”
Phoebe grinned in triumph. “Here is where it does involve you, and I can understand why his son thinks that you are the best person to help. He is closeted up with all the different mediums and magicians in London.”
“His son said as much. But I wonder why?”
“No one could say. So, what do we do now?”
“Eat all the cake here, and then go out and find him, and follow him.”
“How thrilling.”
***
IT TURNED OUT TO BE rather hard to find an individual in London. They had a wasted and pointless day, as they trailed from one place to another. Sometimes it felt as if the whole world lived in London. They hung around the houses of the better-known mediums, and spoke with neighbours and servants and got nowhere. Sometimes they were told, tantalisingly, of Mr Edgar Bartholomew being spotted – “he came yesterday, madam, miss, you’ve missed him” – but they did not see him. Even fewer words could be got about Wade Walker. People simply said, “Ask Edgar Bartholomew. They are always together, or so it is said.”
They had one tiny piece of luck as they trudged on their way back towards the nearest railway station. Phoebe had wanted to ride in a cab, but Marianne knew of a “spiritualist” woman who had lately arrived in London, purporting to hail from India though Marianne had spotted her at a gathering and felt that her skin tone was more of a dark Celt, and her accent likewise tinged with the Welsh valleys. They passed by the tall narrow house where the woman had set up her rooms, and Marianne spied a maid throwing water out of the door.
One small coin and a hurried conversation later, and they knew that Bartholomew had been visiting “Madame Dipali” regularly and was booked to attend a small, private sitting the very next day.
“Say nothing to anyone,” Marianne said to the maid, whose eyes remained hard until Phoebe revealed another coin for her.
“Well, wasn’t that a stroke of luck!” Phoebe said as they turned away and linked arms. The streets were busy and they did not want to get separated. They had their bags on their inner arms, sandwiched between their bodies and well out of the reach of most pickpockets. People buffeted them from all sides.
“I am pleased,” Marianne replied. “I wonder if there is any way of getting into this séance, or perhaps sneaking into a room adjacent to it, and hearing what Mr Bartholomew has to say.” She kept her voice low, but something caught the ears of a man who was walking a little way ahead of them, and he half-turned his head in surprise.
Marianne faltered. It was too late to hide. There he was – the man that they had been seeking – heading towards the same railway terminus. As he had been known to visit the medium, it was not too strange to see him on the same street. But for him, it was an uncommon surprise. He spun around and blinked. “I know you,” he said. “Oh! I saw you at my house. You were talking about me? I heard my name.”
It was a bizarre and terse stream of short sentences. He looked ill at ease, and stepped forward with a looming air over them that Marianne could not help but interpret as threatening.
“Oh, no, sir,” Phoebe said, “I doubt that we were talking about you... Bartholomew? It is not such an unusual name.”
“Indeed it is not, but coming from this woman, I am suspicious. Why have I seen you now, twice, in two days? What has my son been saying?”
“About what?”
Edgar Bartholomew pressed his lips together as if he were trying to stop himself shouting in exasperation. He nodded to the side of the pavement. “Step this way. There is something that you must know about my son.”
They moved out of the way of the busy pedestrians and into a little alcove formed by the jutting edge of a building and some stone steps. Peeling notices and advertisements hung in strands from the flaking walls. It smelled unclean, as street corners tended to do. Edgar Bartholomew glowered at them. “My son has been abroad,” he said. “He has been away from home for many years, and as you can imagine, this has unsettled him. Even, if I can go so far as to suggest such a thing, it has unhinged his mind slightly. The air in foreign climes can make a strong man ill, given enough time. We are not suited to it. I have read Mr Darwin and I find his arguments compelling, and so it is with my son; he was born to live here, not there, and it has made him ... well, it has made him mad.”
That is not how it works at all, Marianne thought. Yet she could also believe the man’s final argument, even if she didn’t agree with his logic to get there – the son’s ideas about his father, that he was an impersonator, could easily be seen as delusional.
Phoebe was attempting to turn on her society-lady charm. She smiled sweetly and said, “We quite understand, sir, and if my cousin has done or said anything that might be offensive to you, please know that it has only been done from a place of concern.”
“Concern? What about? What exactly has he said to you? How did you meet, and why were you at my house?”
Marianne was feeling like she was drowning. She should have had a nice, pat cover story ready to trot out. She felt her face flush. She gabbled, “Ah, nothing. Oh! Yes, we met at a dinner. He works with my cousin-in-law, Mr Claverdon, and he came to dine. Isn’t that right, Phoebe?” Her truthful words came out in a rush and sounded fake to her own ears because of her panicked breathlessness.
And he clearly didn’t believe what she was saying, either. “Oh really? I think you might look into his employment a little more. Works! And why did you come to my house? I do not receive callers.”
“He invited me. He wished only to talk,” she added hastily.
Phoebe began to squeeze Marianne’s arm. “We should go,” she murmured, saying then to Mr Bartholomew, “Once again, I apologise for our intrusion. We have to catch a train.”
“The train can go without you. They run frequently enough, and I mean to have this out,” he said. “Come now. What is your name? I asked it before but did not care to remember the answer. Now, I find I must look to my business. So who are you?”
In spite of all the reports of him in town as being of a quiet and sober-minded man, he presented a rough and bullying manner. It seemed to surprise Phoebe, but Marianne remember his bluntness from before. She said, “I am Miss Marianne Starr, and this is Mrs Phoebe Claverdon.”
Phoebe tugged Marianne’s arm. But he was blocking their way now, standing between them and the street. “And what did my son want to talk about?”
“It is a personal matter,” Phoebe said, as Marianne struggled for words. “Come along.” She pushed past Mr Bartholomew, unashamedly knocking him with her elbow, and dragged Marianne into the flow of people heading towards the station. “Good day, sir.”
“If I see either of you again, I shall alert the authorities!” he bellowed after them.
Everyone turned to stare at the pair of them. Marianne could see that Phoebe’s face was now aflame, and they heard muttered speculation as to their occupations – people were assuming that they were well-dressed whores.
Neither spoke until they were safely in a first class carriage, and quite alone, and then Phoebe began to giggle as the shock wore off, and Marianne frowned and stared out of the window.
She wondered if Simeon had a way to get her into the private séance that was to be held the following day.