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Treherne was waiting in a small coffee room that was otherwise empty. The man who turned to meet us at the sound of our approaching footsteps was a far cry from the one I had seen on the previous two occasions: the angry man of business who scented a scam, on the one hand, and the genial host and triumphant suitor, on the other.
This Treherne was as rumpled as though he had slept in his clothes, unshaven, pale, and wild eyed. For the first time he actually looked like someone unhinged enough to kill, and when Roderick took my arm and drew me close I knew that similar thoughts must be passing through his mind as well.
But Treherne’s first words shattered that thought.
“Thank heaven you’re all right,” he said to me, striding over and seizing my hand, though I had not offered it. “I didn’t hear what had happened until this morning. I haven’t left Narcissa’s bedside except to come to see you. You’re in no danger, I trust? You’ve consulted a doctor?”
“A multitude of them,” Roderick said, somewhat warily. “There seems to be no immediate danger aside from Sybil’s having lost her voice.”
Treherne didn’t seem to find that reassuring. “When did you find that your voice had gone, Miss Ingram?”
Roderick, of course, had to answer for me. “The morning after the reception.”
Releasing my hand, Treherne dragged his fingers through his hair. “I’ve been half out of my mind with worry. The doctors can’t agree on whether Narcissa’s voice will return or not. When I think of what I may have cost her—how much danger I put everyone in—”
“You put everyone in?” Roderick demanded. “How so?”
From the way my husband’s voice had sharpened, I knew that he was wondering if we were going to hear a confession. I squeezed his hand, feeling the pulse beat in my throat.
Treherne dropped onto a wicker divan. The delicate furnishings and luxuriant potted palms of the little room made a peculiar background for discussions of poisoning and murder.
“It must have been the champagne,” he said, sitting with his elbows on his knees, his head hanging down. “I can’t think of anything else that would have affected you both in this fashion, and so close together.”
“Do you mean you didn’t know?”
“About the wine? Good God, man, how can you think I would have put everyone at such a risk if I had known?”
I stared at him significantly and raised my eyebrows, and he groaned as my meaning made itself felt.
“Of course,” he said dully. “You think I killed Atherton. If I had, I suppose I’d not have hesitated to pass around tainted champagne, though to what purpose—”
“To eliminate witnesses,” Roderick said, though less coldly than before. “Sybil and I thought that she must pose some threat to the killer, so we supposed...”
That made Treherne sit up and stare at us. “That’s what you’ve been thinking? I had no idea that you believed I could stoop so low.”
“The fact is, we don’t know you,” Roderick said, not unkindly. “We know very little about you except that you argued with Atherton about money on the night that he was killed, and that the police had sufficient reason to charge you with his murder. From there to poisoning witnesses isn’t such a great step.”
Treherne put up a hand to stop him. “Yes, I see. From your perspective I suppose nothing must have seemed beyond me.” He stood, moving as if his bones ached. “All I can do is reassure you that I have never knowingly done violence to anyone. Now that I’m forced to consider that the wine may have been tainted with some corrosive, I’ll do my utmost to trace it to its source.”
“If you determine the cause,” Roderick said, “be good enough to inform us, so that we can tell Sybil’s doctor. That might be of great help in determining a course of treatment.”
“Yes, I can see that. And of course that will be true of Narcissa as well.”
He seemed on the point of departing, and I reached out to detain him before remembering that I couldn’t ask him the question that had sprung into my mind. I had forgotten to bring pencil and paper, and Roderick realized this at the same moment I did.
“I’ll get you something to write with,” he began, then paused. I touched the whistle, which I was wearing around my neck, to reassure him that I could signal for help in the unlikely case that Treherne tried to attack me in a busy hotel in the middle of the morning. Reassured, he gave a nod of understanding and left the room.
Treherne sighed. I resumed my seat, since he looked bone weary, and he seated himself again with a thankful air. “I feel as though this entire business has aged me twenty years,” he said “First Atherton, and now this...it’s my own fault, of course.”
My interest sharpened. What might he be about to confess?
“I know I’m too indulgent with Narcissa.” He sounded almost as if he were speaking to himself. “Even partnering with that poor fool Atherton was her idea. If I didn’t love her so much I could have taken a stronger line with her, refused to follow all of her whims.”
He glanced at me, and I tried to make my expression sympathetic and encouraging. I did not want to do anything to jar him out of this unexpected tendency to confide in me. To my delight, he continued.
“But everywhere we go, there are men like No-Relation, men nearer to her own age, who have every advantage that youth and good looks can confer. Not to mention breeding.” He grimaced. “My father was a laborer. Narcissa comes of finer stock, and she never hesitates to remind me of that when she feels I am embarrassing her. My constant fear is that I shall lose her.”
I sat motionless, afraid of breaking the spell. I was learning so much—and without having to lift a finger! Had I been wrong all these years to pride myself on being outspoken? It seemed that a silent woman was more likely to learn things.
“And now, if my own carelessness has cost her her career—” Breaking off, he stared bleakly into space. “It’s too horrifying to think about. One must be optimistic. It’s been less than forty-eight hours, after all.” His voice was scarcely audible now. He might have forgotten my presence altogether. “But she’ll never forgive me if we learn that she will never act again.”
A faint sound behind me made me turn my head. Roderick had returned, and he stood in the doorway holding writing materials.
Treherne noticed him at almost the same moment and rose. “I fear I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he said. “Thank you both for your indulgence.”
I scribbled a quick note and gave it to Roderick to read aloud, since my handwriting was untidy and might be illegible to Treherne.
“Will tonight’s performance be canceled?” he read.
Treherne shook his head. “I’ve already been to speak to a young actress Narcissa suggested. Thank God she’s able to step in on such short notice.”
Again I wrote something for Roderick to convey.
“Sybil asks me to tell you to give Narcissa her best wishes,” he reported. “It would be tragic if England’s second best actress should never act again.”
Second best? I had written no such thing.
Under my quizzical stare and Treherne’s perplexed one, Roderick relented. “Your pardon, I misread,” he said in his most disarming manner. “Sybil just says that she hopes Miss Holm will recover quickly and completely.”
Treherne, though still clearly confused, was courteous in reply. “I hope the same for you, Miss Ingram. Good day to you both.”
I waited until he had left the room, at a rapid gait that suggested he was anxious to return to Narcissa. Then I placed myself in Roderick’s line of vision and mouthed, Second best?
He grinned. “It’s what we were both thinking. Her only chance of becoming the best is if you retire.”
Now, there was a motive I still hadn’t even considered for dosing my champagne. I doubted very much that Narcissa considered me a threat to her career, but if she did, ruining my voice would be a good way to remove that threat. Could she be fooling Treherne... and her doctor? From what I had observed, fooling most doctors wouldn’t be difficult. But her manager and lover, who presumably knew her better than anyone, might be more difficult to deceive.
Unless he was part of the deception. But was he a good enough actor to have been dissembling during this entire conversation? On the whole I doubted it. But I was in no hurry to spend more time with him or Narcissa until I could be certain neither of them wanted to silence me—one way or another.
* * *
MARTIN’S REPLY TO OUR note was not encouraging. “So busy with séances that I’m afraid I must decline the pleasure of your company.” But we refused to take no for an answer. Learning that his last sitting was at six o’clock, we stationed ourselves in a hansom near his door starting at that time, and when the last customers departed shortly after seven, Roderick and I made our way inside, despite the housekeeper’s attempt to shoo us away.
We counted on her not forcing the matter, and our strategy was rewarded when, instead of summoning assistance to eject us, she went to Martin himself to report our presence.
His demeanor, understandably, was less than welcoming, but Roderick put on enough affability for all three of us.
“So sorry to burst in on you, my dear fellow,” he said jovially. “The fact is, we’ve had a brilliant idea of how to solve the murder of Gerhardt Atherton, and we felt we simply must share it with you.”
Martin’s expression did not appreciably change, so it was impossible to tell whether he shared Roderick’s enthusiasm. But he dismissed his housekeeper and showed us into his study.
“I won’t beat about the bush,” Roderick said as we seated ourselves. “Sybil thinks that she may be able to contact Atherton’s spirit and find out from him who killed him.”
Martin’s eyebrows rose. “Have you sensed his spirit lingering?” he asked me.
I had to shake my head, but by this point I had been able to acquire a slate and chalk. With these aids, which made me feel a bit like a schoolgirl, I wrote, Need to visit scene of crime.
Roderick took it upon himself to expand on this. “What if the three of us were to visit the site of the murder—the dinosaur island? Sybil has told me that she hasn’t sensed Atherton at their theater, his favorite place in life, or even at the home he shared with his wife. So it seems to us that if his soul is tethered to our sphere, it will be at the place where he met with his violent death.”
“That’s possible,” Martin allowed. “But I was little enough help in your last encounter with a restless spirit.”
“That was an unusual case,” said Roderick magnanimously. “And you didn’t know Sybil’s father in life, but you did know Atherton, and that may help.”
After mulling it over briefly, Martin said, “I don’t think so. If Atherton’s spirit isn’t present at the theater, I doubt you’ll find him anywhere else.”
Roderick took the news with unflappable good spirits. “Sorry to hear that. The police seem to be stymied. I suppose you already told them all you could about that night?”
“What is there to tell? I saw nothing suspicious—apart from your striking Atherton in the face.”
Perhaps it was the slight barb in the words that prompted Roderick to depart from our script. “Sybil said you wouldn’t have noticed anything amiss,” he said. “She hasn’t a very high opinion of your powers of observation, I’m afraid.”
I stared at him in consternation. I’d never said such a thing.
He continued, “She wasn’t in favor of our coming here, either. ‘Martin’s an old dear,’ she said, ‘but it’s simply embarrassing to see how out of his depth he is. Working with the credulous public all these years must have sapped his intellect.’”
He seemed to be possessed by some spirit of mischief. Horrified, I looked from him to Martin. I never said that! I mouthed, shaking my head.
Martin said neutrally, “I hope I haven’t proven to be so useless as all that.”
“I wouldn’t give it another thought,” Roderick said with a wave of his hand. “Sybil simply hasn’t much use for men who rely on their charisma instead of their talent.” Then he leaned toward Martin with a conspiratorial air. “She also said you would benefit from using breath pastilles.”
That was too much. I pointed at the door, glaring at Roderick as though I could burn a hole through him. Get out, I mouthed.
His eyes were alight with wickedness. “Come now, sweetheart, it’s no use denying it. I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve said how exhausting it is trying to pretend that our friend here is as fascinating as he believes himself to be.”
OUT. Bolting up from my seat, I stabbed my finger into the air and stamped my foot for emphasis. NOW.
Finally Roderick seemed to realize that I was serious. He shook his head and sent a rueful smile toward our host, who sat bemused. “One must humor Sybil when she gets in these moods,” Roderick said as if I weren’t even present. “Women can’t help it, bless them. They aren’t as intellectually developed as we fellows are. All right, all right!” he added as I advanced on him, putting up his hands as if to fend me off. Hastily he rose from his seat and started for the door. “I shall take a cab home and give you some time to restore your composure.”
The door closed behind him. I took my seat again and reached for chalk and slate, fuming.
I must apologize, I scrawled. He can be so juvenile at times. I said none of those things.
I passed Martin the slate, and he nodded as he read my words. “It must be a challenge,” he said, still sounding wary, “living with someone whose sense of humor is so... lively.”
My lips tightening, I gave a short nod.
He smiled for the first time. “Are you still interested in my assistance in trying to contact Atherton? Perhaps without your husband’s irreverent presence we would find more success.”
Eagerly I nodded. Tonight?
“Most certainly. In fact, if you’ll join me for a bite of supper, we can leave directly the sun goes down. Unless,” he added as an afterthought, “your husband would object to your staying. I can see why he would.”
Making a dismissive gesture, I shrugged.
That made him chuckle. “Indeed, were I you, I should be ill disposed to cater to his wishes right now. Does he often put words in your mouth in that way?”
I gave a martyred look. Now that I have no voice he does, I wrote.
It was full dark by the time we reached the Crystal Palace and were admitted into the grounds. I had made sure to procure tickets earlier, so we met no impediment as we made our way to the island of the dinosaurs.
Martin carried a dark lantern. There was a three-quarter moon, and torchieres were placed at intervals, but far fewer than on our previous visits; evidently Mr. Richmond was following my suggestion of economizing by cutting back on illumination. The lantern’s light was a great help as we made our way past the cricket ground. Neither of us spoke. I, of course, could not, and Martin was probably focusing his thoughts on Atherton and our errand.
Martin ushered me ahead of him as we passed a shuttered boathouse and reached the narrow footbridge leading to the island that was our destination. The two great Iguanodons, one reclining, one standing, loomed over us. As Martin placed the lantern on the ground and adjusted the slide so that its illumination was confined to the standing Iguanodon, the one beneath which Roderick and I had found Atherton’s body, I approached the creature and placed my hand on its neck. In the steady light of the lantern there was no illusion of life.
Closing my eyes, the better to concentrate, I tried to open myself to voices from beyond. I pictured Atherton, remembered the sound of his voice.
I felt no sense of his presence, only a slight stirring of the air that warned me to open my eyes. I was just in time to see Martin’s fist coming toward my face.
I flinched, but too late to evade him altogether. He struck my cheek a glancing blow, and I staggered backward, struggling to keep my balance on the slight rise.
Immediately he was after me, shoving me back so that I fell sickeningly back into space. The breath was knocked out of me when I hit the ground, and momentum carried me down the little hill until I rolled into the edge of the lake.
My astonishment was just as disorienting as my fall. Why on earth would Martin wish to do me violence? I had imagined he knew something about Atherton’s death that he hadn’t told me, but I never dreamed the knowledge would be worth my life.
“Meddlesome witch,” he grated. He was advancing, his face grim with intent.
Fumbling for the ribbon at my neck, I pulled out the whistle and put it to my lips. But I scarcely had time to make more than one feeble blow before Martin seized me by the throat and plunged my head beneath the water.
It was scarcely a foot deep, but instantly sight and sound were swallowed up. Every panicked instinct urged me to scream, but I kept my lips pressed tight shut. Struggling to pry his fingers from my throat, I groped around with my other hand and encountered a rock.
I seized it. With my sight blurred I couldn’t see him looming over me, but I swung toward where I thought his head would be, and I felt the blow connect.
The painful grip around my neck loosened, and I rolled away from him and staggered out of the water, coughing and gasping for air. He knelt with one hand at his temple, and I felt a fierce surge of satisfaction that I had managed to wound him.
My eyes darted around. There was no sign of another soul. The ribbon around my neck had come unfastened in the struggle; when I felt for the whistle I realized it was gone. I tried to scream. All that emerged was a hoarse gasp.
Then Martin began to get to his feet, and I knew I could not wait for help from anyone. I snatched up the lantern and ran for the footbridge, thinking furiously as I crossed back to the park grounds.
If I kept straight ahead I would reach the Sydenham gate, where we had entered. The only other place I might escape was the railway station, which was too far away. If I could just reach the gate and catch the attention of the ticket taker there—
But I could hear Martin behind me, the thud of his footsteps on turf nearing too quickly. Then a sound halted me.
“Sybil! Where are you?”
It was Roderick’s voice, though it sounded terribly far away. I turned, but the only man I saw was Martin. Roderick’s call had halted him too. The blow on the head must have slowed him, but he was still closer than I had expected.
With no way to signal my presence to Roderick, I couldn’t afford to count on his help. I flung the lantern away from me with all my might, and I saw Martin turn his head to follow the light, just as I had hoped he would. Seizing that moment of distraction, I set out at a run once more.
But now I was running away from the entrance and deeper into the grounds. The realization struck me like a blow to the stomach.
That couldn’t be helped now. I would have to think of something else. Where else could I find assistance—especially when I could make no sound to summon it?
I skirted the massive basin of the near fountain. The light of the palace glowed ahead of me like a mighty beacon, and my heart lifted. Though I couldn’t be heard, I could make myself seen.
I panted for breath as I continued up the sloping ground. My dress, soaked with lake water, weighed me down like lead. I thought I could hear footfalls behind me once more.
Anxiety began to shade into panic. I was only, perhaps, halfway to the palace. My route would take me farther uphill, and then there were the terrace stairs to surmount, two sets of them.
My lungs were already heaving. It was all too likely that Martin would catch up to me before I could get close enough to be seen by someone inside the palace.
I had to find a hiding place on level ground. Ahead and to my right, a stand of trees offered the closest cover, and I made for them.
Blessedly, I reached their shelter unmolested. At once I caught sight of the circular hedge maze just on the other side. Martin was unfamiliar with it, I recalled in relief. I had only visited it once, but that still gave me an advantage. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness here beyond the torchieres’ light, I found the wrought-iron entrance gate and opened it carefully.
Despite my caution, it creaked. I slipped through it and crept down the first path I found.
The high hedges blotted out much of the moonlight, and I couldn’t see where I was walking. I had to trust that I wouldn’t tread on anything that would make a noise.
I tried to slow my breathing and listen.
There was no sound of footsteps, but the gate gave a rusty creak. Then, softly, there came a voice.
“I know you’re in here, Sybil.”
The words sent a shiver up the back of my neck. I was as confused as I was frightened. If Martin wanted to silence me, he must have killed Atherton—but why on earth would he have done it? Until Macbeth, they hadn’t laid eyes on each other for fifteen years. As great a booby as my old mentor could be, he could hardly have done something so appalling that evening to warrant murder at Martin’s hands. And Martin hadn’t even been present on the night that I’d been poisoned.
But right now my priority was to stay alive. I had not heard Roderick’s voice calling out for me after that first time. Either he had been unable to find our trail—a terrifying possibility—or he had fallen silent, the better to catch Martin unawares. I prayed it was the latter. But I knew I could not rely on him to save me. I must find a way to escape Martin on my own.
Being in the maze was almost as bad as being in a cave because there was so little light. My pursuer had gone silent again, no doubt realizing that I could locate him from the direction from which his voice came.
My best chance of escape lay in feeling my way toward one of the little escape gates built into the maze as shortcuts to permit impatient visitors to exit without following the maze route. But I wasn’t certain where the gates were in relation to where I was—or whether I could reach one without being observed. The prospect of blundering into Martin’s hands nearly paralyzed me, but at the same time it seemed unbearable to simply sit cowering in hiding.
Think, Sybil. What strategy was he likely to use? Was he hiding near the entrance gate in hopes that I would double back to get out that way? Was he making a systematic search, slowly walking every inch of the maze until he found me?
Or was he too crazed with emotion to think in such terms? Perhaps he was simply plunging through the maze unthinkingly in his desire to kill me, without any design or plan.
In that case I would probably hear his movements, however. And the maze was eerily silent.
My eyes had adjusted somewhat to the gloom, and by now I was nearly certain I knew where the nearest escape gate was. The thing that worried me was whether I could reach it without encountering Martin.
Softly, softly I crept forward. I kept my feet close to the ground so as to push any twigs aside instead of making noise by stepping on them. I still heard no sign of Martin. When I came to a turning I stopped for a moment and took a deep breath before peeping ever so slowly around the hedge for signs of danger.
The stretch of maze that lay ahead was empty. Encouraged, I moved forward and caught the gleam of moonlight on metal. The escape gate.
It was so short a distance away that I wanted to run right toward it, but I knew that Martin could be lurking around the next turn, watching and waiting. I needed to take a moment to listen and observe before doing anything rash.
I decided that I would count to ten and make a run for it. I only hoped the gate wasn’t locked. Or so rusty that its creaking would bring Martin at a run from wherever he was now concealed. But no other options presented themselves to me.
I counted silently in my head. I had reached seven when the rusty creak of the entrance gate sounded.
I heard a shout of triumph from Martin, a rush of footfalls on the ground, and then a scuffle, grunting—and blows.
And then, bringing a rush of gladness, Roderick’s voice.
“You may as well give up, Maudsley,” he said. “I’m bigger than you—and a great deal more dangerous.”