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They knew that the private sitting between Edgar Bartholomew and Madam Dipali was due to be held in the afternoon. Unfortunately in the morning, Phoebe woke up unable to see. She suffered attacks of hemicranias or migraine opthalmique, and would be confined to a darkened room for many hours. Various doctors had prescribed an array of remedies, from a few grains of aconitine in alcohol to triphenin in water, but nothing worked so well as a day and a night of silence and darkness. Marianne went to check on her, and whispered that no amount of electricity – administered by headband or by corset – could possibly help. Phoebe had moaned and burrowed into the pillow.
So Marianne checked on the governess, the cook, the housekeeper, her own father, her father’s nurse, the children, and Emilia, and set everything to rights before leaving the house just before midday in a fearful rush, hoping to get to see Simeon and conjure up a plan of action before the scheduled séance.
Simeon laughed at her. “Of course I can do what you ask,” he said. “But not within a week. Ideally, longer. I need to know the layout of the room. Where are the entrances and exits? What materials have been used in the walls? It is a ground floor room? Who else will be there? What tricks are planned?”
“All I want to do is to spy on him!” Marianne wailed in frustration. “Is that so hard? You can make invisible tigers appear, and handkerchiefs dance in the air. You can surely do this, simply with the objects that you have lying around in here!”
Simeon ran his fingers through his hair. “You are clever – how would you do it?”
“I am no magician.”
“What do you hope to achieve?”
“I want to know why he is visiting mediums. I simply want to overhear what is happening.”
“Why does anyone visit a medium?” Simeon said. He threw himself into a chair and pulled one ankle to rest on his opposite knee. “You tell me.”
“To ...”
“To be duped?”
“No,” she said. “They want to make contact with people they’ve lost, to find reassurance, to ... well, to be entertained, too, but as this is a private meeting, that means really he is trying to ... talk to someone who has died. He must truly believe in the possibility.”
Simeon said, “Well done! You are thinking at last.”
“Stop that. If I could listen in to what is happening, I could find out who he is trying to contact. Maybe it’s his wife!”
“Is she definitely dead?”
“Yes, she is definitely dead. But the main problem with that hypothesis is,” Marianne went on, “they were estranged, and for an awfully long time, so why would he want to speak to her now?”
“Maybe she had the last word and he resents it.”
Marianne picked up a small stuffed mouse and threw it at Simeon’s head but he caught it with his lightning reflexes. “Careful. This one bites.”
“It’s dead.”
“It was never alive, and that still doesn’t mean it can’t harm you.” He tucked it into his breast pocket, letting the head peep out. “I can understand what you want to do. He’s a regular at this medium’s house, is that right? So I can plan something if you really want me to, but you need to be able to get next door, and report back to me.”
“I shall do so.”
“How?”
“I have no idea.” Already the initial rush of enthusiasm for the idea was waning. She was in danger of becoming like Phoebe, hurtling from one idea to another without planning and thought. She was a woman of science, she reminded herself. Method, analysis, reason and rationality.
Simeon pulled the mouse free from his pocket and threw it back at her.
***
MARIANNE WALKED. WALKING cleared her head. Phoebe, when she came to town alone, was not really alone; if her maid Emilia did not accompany her, then Price’s valet Mr Fry would. She could ride in a carriage and have men carry her boxes. She did not see the city as Marianne did.
Marianne gloried in the freedoms afforded to her middling status. She ambled through the more respectable streets of shops and businesses, though as everywhere in London, the lower classes pressed in from all sides, in a jumble of noise and vision. People called out – begging, selling, preaching, warning.
Huge advertising hoardings screamed out their wares, and posters were pasted upon posters. Beggars wheeled or crawled, some with their life story chalked on the ground or scribbled on board that was propped at their feet, if they had feet. Street sellers offered her everything from ribbons to pies. Dogs barked, boys fought, and cabs trundled through the roads doing battle with delivery carts and horse-drawn omnibuses.
She walked and she thought – if Edgar Bartholomew was someone else, pretending to be him, then how would he do it? He would have to know the original man well enough to know he could fake it. He would have to be similar. And if he was not similar, he would have to change his appearance.
How did one change one’s appearance? You couldn’t grow taller, and while you could get fatter or thinner, it was not so easy. You could change your hair, but not your eyes.
Edgar Bartholomew’s eyes had been pale, though his hair had been dark.
Something skirted around the edge of her memory. Someone had said something. Was it about hair, or eyes?
If anyone was going to impersonate Bartholomew, would it not be his closest friend, Wade Walker – of whom no one could speak? She only knew he existed based on the testimony of a few scant people.
It was the most tenuous of suspicions. But it was all she had.
She could not even imagine why he might be doing such a thing.
She knew that she would need help for her next move. With Phoebe out of action, she decided to head back to the Bartholomews’ country house, and ask for George Bartholomew’s assistance.
When she reached the lane at the bottom of the driveway to the Bartholomew place, she stopped. If the older Bartholomew was at home, she was going to walk right into a world of trouble. She couldn’t risk that.
Instead she knocked on the door of the lodge and it was answered by a pleasant man with deeply lined cheeks and a ready smile. “Can I help you, miss?”
“I hope so. I was hoping to call upon Mr George Bartholomew but I am aware that his father is not always amenable to visitors. I have no wish to cause trouble. I was wondering if you might be able to convey a message to the gentleman, the son, asking him to meet me down here?”
“As to that, I should love to help you, miss, but it is not possible.”
“Has Mr Edgar Bartholomew banned all visitors then?” she asked in dismay. “Even to his own son?”
“Oh no, it is not that – though you are correct in that he does discourage them. No. Mr George is no longer here.”
“When did he leave?” she asked. She was amazed at this news.
“I wouldn’t call it leaving. I am sorry to say that he was ejected.”
“By his father?”
“Exactly so. There was some manner of argument, I believe, and then he was gone. He walked to the station, I understand, with not much more than a bag and the clothes on his back.”
“And where did he go from there?”
The gatekeeper flicked his eyes over her shoulder, and said, “London, I should imagine. He does not know any soul there, though. Perhaps he will obtain a place to live through his company.”
“Perhaps,” she said. “Thank you.” She gave him a coin, which he tried to refuse, but she insisted. As she turned to go, she thought of something else.
“Why did Mr Bartholomew come back to this house? When was it, three weeks ago?”
“Aye, nearer four now. I have no idea. I have not seen him above ten years or more. Back then I was not gatekeeper – I worked in the village. I only took this position on four years ago, when the old man here previous to me died, sudden-like. Mr Bartholomew took me on.”
“So you saw him four years ago?”
“No, miss, it was all done by correspondence. I can read tolerably well,” he added proudly. “My lad has been up the school for a few winters and he taught me.”
“And you have no idea why Mr Edgar Bartholomew came back alone?” she asked again. This man did not know Edgar, so could not vouch for the son’s accusations.
“No idea at all, but he did not return alone, miss.”
“His son arrived a week later, yes.”
“Yes, he did,” the gatekeeper said. “But when Mr Bartholomew came back that month ago, he came in a carriage here with another man.”
“Who?” she asked as her heart beat faster. “Was it Wade Walker?”
“I do not know. He stayed for three days and then he was gone, but I did not see him leave.”
She turned around to look up the driveway, all unkempt and mossy, and hedged around with uncut conifers and yew trees. “He could still be there.”
“There could be a troupe of circus performers there, miss, and none of us would know.”
Her spine tingled.
***
SHE CAUGHT THE VERY next train back to London. The man in the ticket office, recognising her as having alighted from the previous train, gave her a curious look but she held her head high and ignored it. It was now early evening and if she were being sensible, she would head home to Woodfurlong.
But the chase was on. She felt that they had wasted time hunting around London to try and follow the older Bartholomew man. She went directly to the main offices of Harker and Bow, and hoped that she was not going to bump into Price Claverdon. Since he had confessed the blackmail to her, she had done absolutely nothing on his behalf, as she had been so caught up in the other matter. Not that he had requested her help, of course – he just wanted money as a loan. She wondered if she would ever see that money again, and was sad. What of her plans? One day she had to secure her future.
Price had seemed tense and quiet at mealtimes, and was spending more and more time in London and away from the house. She assumed that he was at his offices.
Sometimes she caught him looking at her intently. But they could never speak of the issue in the presence of Phoebe. So she would quickly look away, and hope that the sudden movement did not raise any unfortunate suspicions in Phoebe’s mind.
She had passed on the money she had obtained from George Bartholomew, and Price had been awkwardly grateful. She promised him more, if she were able, and he stuttered and thanked her. He wanted to refuse – but he could not.
It was a situation with no good ending, she could see that. Not for him, nor even for herself. Was she only delaying the inevitable? She wanted to hide Phoebe from this pain for as long as she possibly could.
Her uncomfortable ponderings had to be put to one side as she reached the magnificent portico that surrounded the main entrance of the offices of the import and trade company, Harker and Bow. Clerks hurried in and out. They would work late, she knew, even until ten o’clock or later, though the more senior staff had greater freedom. It seemed as busy now as it did at any point during the day. A young man dashed past her from behind, and he was clouded by the aroma of hot pies. She took a step to the side – directly into his path, deliberately so – and he stumbled. He lost his grip on his paper-wrapped parcels and they tumbled to the ground.
She gasped, in a convincingly coquettish manner she hoped, and helped him to gather up his precious cargo as she offered a stream of apologies. She let her gloved hand brush his as they reached for the same packet, and he reddened and coughed. He was as innocent as he was young then – that was good, and had been by no means a given.
She could make use of his blushing manner. As they stood up, she reached out and brushed some invisible specks from his lapels. “I am so sorry!” she said, trying to lighten her voice. “I am so clumsy! I do hope that nothing is damaged. How awful of me!”
“My pies are fine, miss, thank you. Ah. Yes. Oh.”
“I did not mean your pies,” she said, looking at him from under her lashes, and thinking, what would Phoebe do in this situation. “I mean, I hope that you are not damaged!”
“Yes, no, I mean, no, thank you.” He tried to get away but she closed her hand over his wrist and he froze in absolute terror at her bold touch. She was being positively shocking. He couldn’t pull away. What, that he should appear to push a lady? He simply couldn’t do it.
“Please, perhaps you can help me. I am supposed to go inside and ask but ... well, it is a large and scary place for a mere woman, as I am sure you understand. I fear that I have not the courage for such a thing.”
He gulped.
She pressed on. “I am trying to discover where a certain George Bartholomew is staying. He is an employee of this company. He has had to leave his father’s house quite suddenly.”
“I am sorry – I am only an office clerk. I do not know him.”
“But perhaps you might go inside and enquire on my behalf? And if he is at work today, here, would you ask him to step outside?”
He seized the chance to escape from her, nodded furiously, and ran up the steps.
She moved to one side and fiddled with her bag, trying to look like she was there by chance, until he returned. He had a slip of yellow paper in his hand and an address was scrawled across it. “This is where they sent him, miss,” he said, thrusting it at her without making eye contact. “He is not at work at present. He is on some sort of leave and could not say when he might return. They made faces at me and I did not know what they meant. He might be in trouble but they would not tell me. I am of no consequence,” he added helplessly.
She thanked him – well, she thanked his rigid back as he shot away from her. It didn’t matter. She had what she needed. She had no idea where the street was, but she hailed a cab and spent twenty minutes sitting in almost stationary traffic to reach a place that she could have walked to in less than five minutes.
The building was a respectable-looking one down a narrow street. They were on the edge of the trading district and these rows of houses were all residential. From the mish-mash of curtains and coloured paint, she could tell that the houses were all sub-divided into flats and apartments or single rented rooms. But the front steps were scrubbed and the windows mostly glass rather than board, and there was an air of industry about the place.
She knocked on a blue door and it was answered promptly by a small and ancient woman in layers of black. She peered at Marianne, thrusting her face forward so that she was only a few inches from Marianne’s chest. Her eyes were milky and almost opaque. “Hello?”
“Good day, madam. Is this a lodging house for employees of Harker and Bow?”
“Indeed it is. We take many of the clerks here. Are you from the offices? Come in, come in, dear, out of the cold.”
It was not remotely cold, in spite of the evening sun now dipping behind the roofs, but Marianne accepted and stepped into the long dark hallway. “I’m looking for Mr George Bartholomew,” she said. “I was told he arrived here yesterday.”
“Oh yes! Poor man. I’m afraid the only spare room was up in the eaves, hardly fit for any soul, but he took it readily enough. I’ve not seen him stir since.”
“Oh – is he here now?”
“He is, I think, unless he sneaked past me, but I don’t miss a thing, no I don’t. I have the ears of a snake.”
Marianne had no idea how good a snake’s hearing was. She smiled, even though the woman probably couldn’t see it – no doubt she could hear Marianne’s smile in her voice. “Might I go up and see him?” she asked.
The woman frowned. “And you are from the company, are you? Who exactly are you?”
“No. I am a family member of one of his colleagues, Mr Claverdon.”
The woman lost her frown and began to beam. “I know all the big managers,” she said. “I know him! Mr Price Claverdon! Oh, he has been a company man for years. Well, well, off you go. Up as many stairs as you can, and then it’s the door on the left.”
Marianne ran up the stairs, and paused for a minute to get her breath back before she rapped on the door.
But he did not answer when she knocked.
She tried again, and then stood still and silent on the uncarpeted landing and pondered the situation. He could easily be out. He wasn’t at the offices, if the young clerk could be believed, but he could have slipped past the blind housekeeper and gone out into London in spite of her claim to reptilian hearing.
Then she heard a cough from within the room.
She knocked once more, and called through the wood, “Mr Bartholomew? It is Marianne Starr.” She tried the knob and it opened, but she only let it go a few inches, enough for her to talk through the gap. She hardly wanted to burst in on the poor man.
“Miss Starr? Come in – oh. Please excuse me. I find that I am somewhat unfortunately indisposed.”
She had opened the door as he said come in, and stopped as he got to the end of his sentence. She didn’t know where to look. Mr Bartholomew was lying in a narrow bed, low to the floor, at the far end of the room, where the sloping ceiling came down almost to the wooden floorboards. There was a window above him that was letting in light but no air. Luckily ventilation was provided by a slim gap where some of the plaster had fallen away from the lath on the walls, revealing the greying sky beyond. She sniffed. There was the distinctive odour of garlic in the room, and sickness.
There was a wooden chest on the floor, standing closed and draped with clothes, and a bag to the side of it. She examined everything in the room in depth, because she didn’t want to look at the man in the bed.
He appeared to be fully clothed, right down to his suit jacket, and she assumed – hoped – that he wore trousers underneath the blankets. But even so, the fact remained that he was in bed. The only other man she’d seen in such a personal place was her father, and he resented it every time that his illness brought his dignity so low.
“Forgive me,” he said weakly. “This is hardly the attitude that you expect.” He struggled to sit upright.
Her compassion finally overruled her morals. “You’re ill. Have you called a doctor?”
“No, no. But please, can you bring me the water? I knocked over my glass...”
She went into her efficient and capable self, and set about the task. The glass was rolling under the bed in a pool of water, and there was a half-full brown earthenware jug not far away on the floor. Also under the bed was a bowl and a chamber pot, and neither seemed fit for her to examine. She left them well alone. She passed him the refilled glass, and stood awkwardly. He invited her to sit on the bed, but that was a move too far. She could manhandle a clerk’s wrist but she would not sit on this man’s bed. She remained standing, but she looked at his face at last, and was very concerned with what she could see.
“You need to see a doctor. What has happened? Why are you here? I apologise for the questions but...”
He waved away her concerns. “I understand. It is your job. Why, I am paying you to ask questions!”
“And it will help my job if you can answer them.”
He nodded, and then grimaced and clutched at his stomach. “Ah – ah! It comes in waves, the pain. I must have eaten something that was past its best. I took oysters from a street seller last night.”
“Were you ill at your father’s house?”
“No. This came on in the middle of night, quite suddenly, and has been worsening all morning. But I have been ill before and I am strong. It is a hazard of the traveller and we learn to bear up. These things never last above a day. I am not concerned.”
“You must keep drinking water. So, why are you here, in this room, and not at your father’s house?”
“I think you could tell me that.”
“What?”
He smiled weakly. “My father has thrown me out, and he mentioned your name. He came home yesterday in a fearful temper, and found me exploring the unused and empty rooms of the place. He dragged me out of them – literally dragged me, as if I were a dog! – and demanded to know why I had been talking to you.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said that you were my colleague’s cousin-in-law and that I had met you at a dinner party. He believed me, but he was still furious. And when I challenged him on his movements and his secrecy, he ejected me from the house, quite forcibly. He had kept hold of the revolver that I had placed on the stairs – do you remember? Well, he had that, and he waved it at me. I did not think that he would use it, but...”
“Oh my. What did he do? Is this the cause of your illness? Are you shot?”
He laughed while clutching his stomach. “And you a woman of science! A bullet would not cause nausea like this. No, he fired to one side of me, and ruined the wall. I do not know if he meant to miss me, but thank heavens that he did.”
“How awful.”
“And so I am here, and I am impressed that you have found me.”
“Speaking of finding, have you any word of your mother’s grave?”
“I have heard nothing.”
“Do you think your father has killed her and now uses these mediums to find her, and speak to her beyond the grave?”
“It is possible. Yes, I have often thought that. Perhaps all my idea that he is not my father was just a way of preventing myself seeing the truth – that he is a murderer! Don’t we all lie to ourselves about something? We try to force the world to be as we would wish it to be, rather than seeing it as it is.”
“Like a vast version of the willing-game.”
“And maybe the world is more full of tricks and deceit than we can ever know.”
As the conversation took its gloomy turn, he sagged back against the wall, and drew the blanket higher. He knocked his head back and closed his eyes, and his cheeks stiffened. She recognised all the signs of a man trying to hide his pain. “Might I go and fetch some food for you?”
He shuddered. “No, thank you. I fear I am about to be most unpleasantly indisposed again. I am so sorry, Miss Starr. I tend to ... erupt. Please could I ask you to leave me?”
“I am worried.”
“Call upon me tomorrow. Perhaps some bread. Oh. Miss Starr. Do go. I think. Before I humiliate myself and shock you. Oh.” He spoke in bursts through gritted teeth, and his fingers gripped the edge of the blanket tightly.
She retreated to the door, unwilling to leave him in such a poor state.
He opened his eyes. They were red now. “No doctor, no point. Remember my solicitor. And do not let that man win. You know. You know who. Please go.”
She closed the door quietly behind her and heard him explode instantly into paroxysms of unpleasantness. Feeling nauseous herself, she went down the stairs and left her contact details with the old woman.
“If he gets worse, send word immediately. And here is payment in advance,” she said.
The old woman tasted the coin, and smiled. Marianne caught a glimpse of her tongue and was disappointed to see that it was not forked.