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Marianne wanted to get out of Phoebe’s company as quickly as possible. She claimed there was a crisis with her father, and that it was time for his next bout of medication, and fled away to the garden wing. When she got to their own rooms, she found that her father was dressed – for the first time in a few weeks – and tidying up the laboratory. He held up a round-bottomed flask as she came in.
“What were you boiling in this?” he asked.
“I cannot remember. Was it not one of your experiments? What does it smell like?”
“Death and beetles.”
“Lovely. It is definitely not mine. Are you going out? Are you sure that you are quite well?”
“I have never been better,” he said. “Apart from my eyes. And the headaches. And the strange feelings that I am swimming in a choppy sea. And my sore neck. Oh, and the itching. I shan’t describe that. But yes, I am perfectly well. You, however, are not. You look as if you have found lice where there ought not to be lice.”
“Father, that’s awful.”
“Yes, lice in one’s bedclothes are horrible.”
“Oh. Yes, they are.” She trailed up and down the long benches and stared despondently at the random articles – a stack of galvanic plates, an earthenware jar that once housed leeches, a tangle of copper wire – and sighed heavily.
“Tell me what bothers you. I am your father, and I command it. Speak!”
“I think we are a little beyond such paternal demands,” Marianne said, but she slid onto a rickety stool and rested her elbows on the bench.
“It must be to do with Phoebe,” he said, and he took a seat opposite her, and knitted his knobbly fingers together. “Otherwise you would have spoken to her about it, and you would not be here looking like a well-slapped fish.”
“Thank you, father, for your astute comment and helpful, supportive advice.”
“I haven’t started on the advice yet. Tell me what is wrong, and I will tell you how to solve it. It is simple.”
His current period of lucidity was lasting longer than usual. His illness came in peaks and troughs. She was reminded of the brilliant scientist that he had once been, and felt a pang of loss for the man that had gone. But that man was back, at least for a little while, and she had to enjoy the relationship while she could. So she began to confide in him.
She told him about Jack Monahan. It was easier than trying to explain what was happening with Phoebe, Price and Anna, and she didn’t want to cause him concern about the possible loss of his home. She outlined everything about the strange man – what he claimed to be, what she knew he actually was, and what he wanted from her.
Her father was immediately suspicious.
“This man sounds like a chancer, a cad and a thoroughly untrustworthy sort. And Phoebe has really invited him to dinner?”
“She has. I felt obliged to him, as he helped me get back into the room to find evidence about how poor George Bartholomew died. But that evidence has done little good; I feel I am stuck, now. I must find a way of linking it to Edgar Bartholomew. Meanwhile I am plagued by this Monahan and I agreed to help him to make him stop following me. What else could I have done?”
“Shot him.”
“That was a consideration.” Marianne rubbed her temples. “Anyway, I changed my mind but it was too late. The invitations have gone out. So, he will be coming to dinner. That, then, should be an end of it. That was all he wanted.”
“To come to dinner here? Marianne, that is madness. What does he want to do?”
“He wants to speak to Mr Claverdon.”
“Why? He can speak to the fellow anywhere.”
“I don’t know.” She could not tell him her other suspicions. She did not want to drag Price Claverdon into this, for various reasons. She was not sure what he was up to, for one thing. And she was afraid that the threat of losing their home would unhinge her father’s mind once more. So she stayed quiet, and hoped that he would not notice.
Russell was too wrapped up in contemplation to spot her reticence. “We need to find out about this Monahan fellow.”
“I have tried, father. Phoebe has been making enquiries all over town. I’ve even asked Simeon.”
Russell snorted with pure derision, and slid off the stool to stand squarely on the floor. He was as straight as a rake, and he said, firmly, “No one can do what I can do. I am still known in this damned town. You will see.”
He turned and walked out of the room, stiff-backed and proud, and she would have laughed, if she had not been so concerned about what he was about to do.
***
THE PROBLEM OF EDGAR Bartholomew was weighing on her mind. Now that her father was unleashed onto the Jack Monahan issue, and she had warned Anna off from Price, she felt she only had one thing left to do.
She had to uncover the truth, one way or the other. She had to get proof that Edgar was the father of George – or proof that he was not. If he was not, then that opened up the problem of George’s death, and that was something she could then take to the police.
As to why he might be, or not be, the father was a different matter and not one that she was concerned with.
She only had to prove identity, produce it for Mr Harcourt, collect the rest of the money, and rest easy that she had done the right thing for a dead man. Evidence could go to the police for them to deal with as they saw fit.
It would be simple.
Then she could publicise her success, and drum up a little more business, though she had to admit it had been getting harder of late. There were fewer mediums on the circuit around London, and more stage magicians. The world was growing cynical, which warmed her logical scientific heart but did nothing for her bank balance.
She headed to see Simeon. His madness always made her feel like her own wild schemes were actually quite sane.
He opened the door cautiously but when he saw it was her, he flung it wide and hauled her inside. “Aha! I knew you would be back!”
It was at that point she remember that she had promised to call on him again, and help him with his own issue. She tried not to groan. She did not have time to run around after fantasy thieves. “Good day, Simeon, I wonder if ...”
“Let’s get a pot of tea going while we work out our plan,” he said happily, bouncing around the workshop. “Oh! I have made a new device that can hide a live bird in my sleeve. Do you want to see it?”
She threw herself into an easy chair. He had a little arrangement of comfortable furniture around the range at one end, where he was making the tea, and she settled into the soft cushions. “Let’s have tea first,” she said. “Simeon, what do you hope to achieve? Are you wanting to simply prove to yourself that someone has stolen your design, or do you want to make them stop, and if so, how will you do that?”
He had his back to her. He clattered the kettle against the china pot, and she saw his shoulders rise and fall, as if he had sighed heavily. “I just want to know,” he said.
“Don’t you know it already? Isn’t that the point?”
“I just want to know for sure. Yes, yes; look at me.” He turned around. He was the picture of dejection, and the opposite man completely to the one who had opened the door to her ten minutes before. “Of course I cannot confront them. The least they will do is laugh at me. I cannot threaten them or promise violence nor do I have any recourse to the law. I just want to know for sure.”
“And then what?” she pressed.
“I don’t know. I have not thought beyond that. It’s just that my thoughts run so fast and jump around my head, and I think it’s because I feel so persecuted, and if only I can know this one thing, for sure, it will help, won’t it?”
“Simeon, before this current obsession, you were convinced that the family in the upper rooms of the house next door were following some strange religion that involved chanting, and the overthrow of parliament.”
“I admit that I was mistaken, and my actions were not helpful.”
“No. I think that we can all agree that your night-time raid upon the poor family was ill-advised, and that the police were very generous to let you out of the cell the next day.”
“Well, they have moved away, anyway, and this situation is not the same.”
But it was, and she knew it. She wondered if he knew it too, somewhere, deep inside.
“Oh, Simeon.”
He sagged.
“Simeon, make the tea.”
He moved mechanically, and brought her a hot cup, and took the seat opposite to her. He stared at his drink. “So why did you come around, if not to help me?”
She felt like a cruel and selfish woman then, because she had to say, “Because I would like your help. If possible. Please.”
“Is this the Bartholomew matter? Or the Monahan one? Or a new problem entirely? And you say that I have obsessions! You are collecting them.”
“Does it look that way from the outside?”
“Yes.”
She sighed. “I can trust you, can’t I?”
“You do not even need to ask. I am insulted that you do.”
So she told him everything, absolutely everything, and all of her suspicions, and it was a huge weight being taken from her shoulders. And in turn, the light and the fire returned to his eyes. He had a new project, and finally decided to embrace it. She hoped that it would replace the fixation on thieves.
“I like how you are thinking about Edgar Bartholomew,” he said. “He could easily be Wade Walker in disguise, as both were close friends, and both were something of recluses. Especially as now, no word can be got of Wade Walker at all. One man is dark, one blond. Well, the easiest thing would be to see if the man you suspect to be fake is dyeing his hair.”
“Easy?” she said. “I don’t think so. What do you suggest we do – sneak into his house and watch him at his ablutions? He has no servants we can ask or bribe, or I should have done that at once.”
“Maybe we do not need to go to such lengths,” Simeon said. “That’s a pun.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Hair. Lengths. Do you get it?”
“No, for it does not work if you have to explain it.”
“You told me to add humour to my act. As you can see, it is not working. Listen,” Simeon said, leaning forward, “we simply need to obtain a length of his hair. Then you can do your science on it, and tell us if it is dyed!”
“Yes, but also no,” she replied. “I am not a chemist. Even so, I am sure that I can work out what tests to perform, yes, if we know what people actually use to dye their hair. I have no idea what people use. However, the main problem is: how do we obtain this lock of hair? Shall we set up shop as barbers and entice him in?”
“Oh no, it could be far simpler,” Simeon said. “He is a man who is visiting mediums, is he not? And you know the ways of the séance, and I know the ways of magic and artifice. I have some useful devices...”
“We will not need a sleeve-full of hidden birds,” she said. And she smiled. She had realised what he meant. “But yes. I think we can do this.”