Deadlier Than the Pen (12 page)

*Chapter Thirteen*
"He's already left for the day," Ben's mother told Diana when she came downstairs the next morning. The older woman was dressed in a frothy concoction of laces and bows that Diana took to be some sort of night wear. It was eccentric, but in a charming way.
"He has a separate house in town for his office," she continued as Diana helped herself to a selection of foodstuffs from a well-stocked sideboard in the breakfast room. "When he bought out another doctor's practice, he took over both the patients and the building."
"I understand he has a laboratory here."
"Oh, yes. In the cellar. Would you like to see it? I'm fairly certain there are no cadavers there, though."
Diana choked on a bite of toast. "Cadavers?"
"Oh, yes. Ben did a lovely dissection just before he left on tour."
Forcing herself to chew and swallow, Diana digested this information. "Is Ben, by chance, the local coroner?"
"How clever you are." Mrs. Northcote calmly buttered a roll. "A hunter found the body in the woods near here. Ben did an autopsy in the hope of discovering what killed him. And when. There wasn't much to work with by then."
Apparently relishing every word, Mrs. Northcote provided far more detail than Diana ever wanted to hear again. When she could stand no more, she abruptly stood. "I believe I will go into town."
"In this downpour?" Mrs. Northcote gestured towards the windows. As it had all through the night, rain fell in sheets, obscuring the view. "As your hostess, I must insist you stay close to the house today."
Had the gates been locked behind Ben after he left? To keep her in? Or to confine someone else?
Diana told herself she was being fanciful. Mrs. Northcote was ... unusual, but certainly not that fictional stereotype, the madwoman in the attic.
"Do I make you nervous?" Ben's mother asked.
"No, of course not," Diana lied.
"Then you will not mind meeting me in the parlor in an hour. I've a yen for your ... company."
When Mrs. Northcote had gone back to her room to dress, Diana finished her breakfast, then amused herself by wandering through the other rooms on the first floor of the house. She found stairs leading to the basement but did not go down. Neither did she venture into the kitchen.
"He's a queer duck and no mistake," said a woman's voice just as Diana was about to open that door.
It belonged to one of the other female servants Annie had mentioned, or so Diana assumed. Eudora or Cora Belle. Diana had not yet decided to make her presence known when the unseen woman spoke again.
"Half the time he seems to be lost in his own little world, not noticing anyone around him. Then, so sudden it makes a body gasp, he's paying more attention than is proper, staring at places on a woman that a well-brought-up gentleman ain't supposed to let on he notices. You stay away from him, Annie. And if he asks to paint you, you say no."
"I'm a good girl," the maid protested. "And I know the sort of woman he has pose for him."
"Scandalous, that's what I say."
Diana turned away, reluctant to thrust herself into the middle of what was obviously a private conversation. Remembering the painting she'd seen in New York, she could understand why Annie was being warned off. The women in the seascape had not been wearing much. Diana thought they were intended to be mermaids.
* * * *
At the appointed time, Diana ventured into the parlor. Ben's mother was already there, once again all in black. She posed by the piano, waiting.
"Virgins are so difficult to come by these days," she said as she ran idle fingers over the keys. The sound was jarring, since the instrument was badly out of tune.
"Why do you need one?" Diana asked.
She beckoned Diana closer. "Look at my face. How old do you think I am? I have the skin of a woman fifteen years my junior. Do you know why? I keep my youthful appearance by bathing in the blood of virgins. It is an old family tradition."
"I see. Then you must be related to the Bathorys." Diana hoped she sounded nonchalant. The excessive glee in the other woman's voice seemed more than just eccentricity.
Mrs. Northcote fingered her brooch, looking disappointed that she'd failed to shock Diana. The same crest that had been on the ring Ben had worn in New York graced this piece of jewelry, confirming Diana's guess.
"I was born Magda Bathory," Mrs. Northcote admitted.
Diana swallowed hard. When Ben had said Bathory was a real name, he'd meant it. And if it wasn't his precisely, it did belong to his ancestors. Bathory blood ran in his mother's veins ... and in his.
"Elizabeth Bathory was a sixteenth-century Hungarian countess." Mrs. Northcote's expression softened into a fond smile. "She literally drained the blood of her victims, keeping it in great vats until she required it for her baths. Dear Elizabeth killed hundreds of young girls before she was finally caught and tried and sentenced to be sealed up forever in a room in her own castle."
An involuntary shudder wracked Diana's slender frame. It took all her fortitude not to turn and flee. The horrible thought that Ben had been visiting insane asylums because his own mother was going mad had already occurred to her. Had all those troubling stories come, as she'd first suspected, from a disturbed mind?
"You should see the expression on your face, my dear. It is really quite gratifying."
"Mrs. Northcote -- "
"Maggie, dear. Call me Maggie."
And with that, "Maggie" began to chatter about everyday things, including her work schedule. When she'd explained that mornings were her most creative time, she excused herself to go off and write, but she paused in the frame of the pocket doors.
"Ben won't be home until late. Today's the quarterly meeting of the trustees of the Maine Insane Hospital." Before Diana could respond to that, Maggie surprised her yet again. "I don't want you to be bored. I know. I'll give you my new manuscript to read. You can tell me what you think of it over dinner."
She sent Old Ernest to deliver the pages to Diana's room. He had a face like a prune and a surly demeanor, seeming to resent the presence of someone in the house who was not a family member. When Diana tried to talk to him, he replied only in grunts. She soon abandoned the effort.
Maggie's work in progress, a novel, was the tale of a woman trapped in a castle complete with dungeon. The story quickly captured Diana's interest. If nothing else, she could relate to the heroine.
She was still reading when, late in the afternoon, a note arrived from Ben. "Mrs. Palermo is in labor," he wrote. "There are problems. I may not be home at all tonight." He added no personal message, but Diana consoled herself with the thought that he'd been pressed for time.
To Diana's relief, Maggie did not make any further attempts to frighten her. She did not want to discuss her manuscript either. Instead she chatted about Bangor, and the weather, and persuaded Diana to tell her about life in New York City. Ben's name was not mentioned -- nor was Aaron's.
* * * *
The next morning, Ben had still not returned, although he had sent word that Mrs. Palermo had been safely delivered of healthy twin boys. Once again, Diana and Maggie had the breakfast room to themselves, but this time Maggie was already fully dressed in the black that seemed to be her uniform. She said little, but as Diana ate she could feel the other woman staring at her. Being watched that way was a singularly unnerving experience.
Diana glanced towards the window. No rain or snow. Only overcast.
"I believe I will go out for a breath of fresh air," she announced, abruptly abandoning the breakfast she'd barely touched.
"Watch your step," Maggie warned.
Pausing only long enough to don the coat Ben had bought for her in New Haven, Diana fled. Cautiously, she descended a set of broad stone steps that led to the dooryard. The way _was_ treacherous underfoot. The previous day's rain had frozen in icy patches, but someone had sprinkled sand along the driveway and Diana was able to walk as far as the ornate gate at its foot without undue difficulty.
The gate was locked.
The gargoyles cleverly worked into the wrought iron leered at her, as if mocking her attempt at escape, and Diana's sense of being imprisoned increased when she peered through decorative but sturdy bars at the bleak and empty road beyond. She hadn't realized the terrain was so rugged and hilly or how far away the nearest neighbor was. There was no other house in sight, although she could make out the smoke from a chimney in the distance.
Trees obscured what must surely be a panoramic view of Bangor from the top of the next hill. She knew she could walk into the center of the city ... if she could only get past this locked gate.
She rattled the padlock, but it was secure. She could not open it without a key. If Ben Northcote's intention in bringing her home with him had been to keep her from contacting Horatio Foxe, or anyone else, he'd succeeded admirably.
It was an uncharitable thought, most likely untrue, but as long as she was locked in, she could not entirely dismiss it. With an ever deepening sense of foreboding, Diana turned to look back at the Northcote house. There was one way to find out. She could march right up to Old Ernest and demand to be taken into town.
Just as Diana reached the front door, Maggie emerged wearing a voluminous black cloak that reminded Diana of the one Ben had worn on stage. "Ah, there you are, Diana. Come along."
"I was just on my way into Bangor," Diana protested.
"You can visit Ben's office some other time. Right now I want you to meet the rest of the family."
With decidedly mixed feelings, Diana allowed Maggie to pull her towards the back of the mansion. She _was_ curious about Aaron.
Maggie sailed right past the entrance to the studio above the carriage house. She had a tight grip on Diana's arm and almost dragged her along. Diana wondered what other relatives lived on the estate. This was the first time anyone had mentioned them to her.
They passed a garden. Although it was difficult to tell much at this time of year, the area appeared to be used to grow shrubs, flowers, and herbs as well as vegetables. In spite of recent rains, snow still covered the beds.
Beyond, the path became uneven underfoot. Patches of mud were interspersed with puddles, making it difficult to navigate, and in shady spots there was ice. Diana had to concentrate just to stay upright but Maggie was sure-footed as she wove her way through a profusion of immense trees, mostly beech, elm, and maple. At the center of a stand of ash stood a small stone building. Until the last moment, even without their foliage, the trees had concealed its presence.
"Come along," Maggie insisted, giving Diana's arm a tug when she hesitated. "They won't hurt you," she added, grinning. "They're quite dead."
She let go to draw an oversized bolt and open a heavy wooden door. It swung back with a loud creak to reveal a short flight of stone steps leading downward.
Reluctantly, not at all reassured by Maggie's cheerful disclaimer, Diana followed her through the arched opening and into the crypt.
Like the house, the Northcote family vault was of fairly recent construction and sturdily built. With solemn ceremony, Maggie produced a tinderbox and lit several of the lanterns stored in niches along the walls.
Although the crypt was below ground level, the flagged floor was dry. No rainwater or melting snow had seeped in. The air was close but did not smell stale or unpleasant. More reassuring still, the current residents of the Northcote family crypt had chosen to be sealed in stone. There were no coffins stacked like cordwood in sight.
"You'll want to read the inscriptions," Maggie said, handing Diana one of the lanterns.
It seemed easier to go along with the plan than to argue. Diana had just gotten close enough to a wall of brass plaques to pick out the name Abraham Northcote when she heard Maggie's scurrying footsteps on the stairs.
"Enjoy your visit!" she called as she dashed outside. An instant later, the door thudded closed with ominous finality.
Too stunned to do more than stare at the blocked exit, Diana grappled with the horrifying fact that Maggie had imprisoned her in the family crypt.
A shudder raced through her. Then, with a strangled cry, she ran up the steps and flung herself against the barrier. "Maggie!" she shouted. "Come back here and let me out!"
There was no answer.
She could hear nothing from the outside.
Diana called for help. She used every trick she'd learned in the theater to project her voice, only to have it bounce back at her off the solid walls of the vault. With a sense of growing horror, Diana realized the place was probably soundproof. She was on the verge of full-scale panic, certain she was going to die in this terrible place, when the door swung open.
Aaron Northcote stood on the other side.
Diana didn't know whether to be relieved or more frightened than before, but she managed to put up a brave front. "Thank heavens you heard me calling."
"Oh, but I didn't. The walls are far too thick. But I did see Mother lead you down the garden path. When she passed by again alone, I decided to look for you."
"Thank you, Mr. Northcote."
He stepped back, a bemused expression on his face. "It must be the full moon," he said.
"But the moon is not at the full," Diana murmured, still unable to believe that Ben's mother had deliberately imprisoned her. She looked back as she emerged from her underground prison and shuddered.
"You must forgive Mother," Aaron said. "She has an odd sense of humor."
Diana did not find anything to laugh about in what had just been done to her. This was not the action of a sane person. Her earlier suspicion that Ben had been visiting madhouses for Maggie's sake seemed confirmed. What if Aaron hadn't come? How long would she have been trapped? The crypt was isolated from the rest of the buildings. It might have been days before anyone thought to look for her there.

"Come along, Mrs. Spaulding," Aaron said in a bracing voice. "You look as if you could do with a nip of brandy. I have some in the carriage house."
She followed him meekly. A few minutes later, she stood in his studio, holding a brandy snifter in one hand. At a loss for sensible conversation, she said the first thing that came into her mind. "I thought Maine was a dry state."
Aaron laughed. Too heartily, Diana thought. She supposed he felt as awkward as she did.
"The law is more often honored in the breach than in the practice," he told her. "Here in Bangor, groggeries openly operate all along what's called Peppermint Row and in the Devil's Half Acre on the other side of Kenduskeag Stream. Never any trouble getting beer or rum, which they call White Eye. That's what the tigers drink."
"The woodsmen?"
He nodded and sipped his own drink, comfortably sprawled in the studio's one overstuffed chair. "When a man's been far from civilization all winter long, it isn't wise to deny him anything. In some ways we're a frontier town here, for all that we're located on the civilized east coast."
Like Denver, Diana thought, or Leadville. But for all their gamblers and whores, neither of those cities tolerated lunatics. Or sorcerers.
Into which category, she wondered, did Aaron Northcote fit?
The contents of his studio provided no answer to that question but they did distract Diana from pondering it further. The smells associated with a working artist filled the air -- linseed oil and turpentine and drying paint. A small pedestal stood in the very center of the large room, upon it a bentwood chair, unoccupied at present. The work-in-progress visible on a nearby easel showed Diana a woman straddling that same chair, her hands folded under her chin and her elbows propped on the curved back. Although only stocking-clad ankles peeped out from beneath the hem of her long skirt, the pose was undeniably risque, and when Diana looked more closely, she saw that the bodice of the dress was nearly transparent, all but baring the model's bosom.
Glass clinked against crystal as Aaron refilled his snifter with brandy. "Go ahead, Mrs. Spaulding," he urged her. "Look around."
Against the darkness of the day, the gas in the studio had been turned up, filling the room with a curious blend of light and shadow. Diana moved slowly from canvas to canvas. There were stacks of them, some freshly stretched and blank, others completely covered in Aaron's own brand of art. Most contained scantily-clad females. More than one was represented as a mermaid.
"Be my guest," he invited when she stopped in front of the largest of the oils. "Review it."
"I do not presume to judge painters. Only writers and actors."
"I've been accused of being obscene."
"Obscenity, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. I saw one of your paintings in New York."
"I know."
"Did Ben tell you?"
When she got no answer, she turned to look at her host. Aaron was slouched in his chair, staring bleakly at the amber liquid in his snifter. No one seeing Aaron and Ben together would ever doubt they were related, but there was a certain vitality to Ben that was missing in the younger man.
"You have an ... unusual style." She glanced at the huge canvas again, searching her mind for a more positive word to use. "It has an unearthly beauty." It was also strangely disturbing.
"My paintings sold well in New York."
"I'm glad."
"Still, I could have handled my own business. There was no need for Ben to collect the bank draft."
So that was what he'd been doing in the gallery. "Since he was going to be there on other business, he could save you the long trip."
"Oh, I went anyway. That put big brother's nose out of joint." Aaron laughed and downed the rest of his brandy in one gulp.
Diana faced him fully, wondering when he had been in New York. And where else had he been?
"We have something in common, Mrs. Spaulding," Aaron said. "Mother doesn't like either of us."
"Why do you say that, Mr. Northcote?"
"She hovered after Ben left." He sounded petulant, like a small boy. "Gave me no peace. I couldn't stand it. Sometimes I felt she was bearing down on me like a hound in pursuit of a fox and I'd have to burrow into the ground to get away from her."
He poured more brandy and downed half of it without coming up for air.
Diana began to edge towards the door, uncomfortably aware that Aaron might well be as "eccentric" as Maggie. Being alone with him suddenly made her very nervous.
With an abrupt movement and a grunt, he sat up straight, staring glassy-eyed into the middle distance. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, of course."
"Aaron? Are you all right?"
"I will be." His gaze fixed on her, sharp and intense. "You must be my model, Diana. I don't know why I didn't realize before."
"I don't think so, Aaron." She was poised for a rapid retreat when he spoke again but his words froze her in place.
"I misunderstood when I saw you in New York."
The lump in her throat made it difficult for Diana to speak. He'd seen _her_? In New York? She managed only one word. "Where?"
"At the hall where Ben spoke. I followed you home." A wicked grin flashed across Aaron's features at her start of surprise. "You never even noticed me. I thought you were a threat, but I was wrong. I see that now."
Appalled, Diana tried to sift through all the unexpected revelations he'd thrown at her. "Were you the man Ben accosted in Union Square Park?"
"Heard about that, did you? Big brother read me the riot act for being there. Then he gave me train fare home."
As fast as one mystery was solved, more questions cropped up. Retreat forgotten, Diana approached the overstuffed chair. "Aaron, _did_ you leave New York after Ben gave you money?"
Before he could answer, even supposing he intended to, the door of the studio opened and Ben strode through it. In one glance, he absorbed Diana's presence, the nearly empty bottle, and the equally empty glass in his brother's lax hand.
"You know brandy aggravates your gout," he said.
"Always the physician, Leave me be, Brother. I am attempting to commune with my muse."
"Go back to the house, Diana."
"No. You can't have her. I understand now. She's perfect."
Diana resisted Ben's effort to take her arm, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the carbolic he'd washed with after seeing his last patient.
"She must pose for me, Brother." Aaron sounded buoyantly cheerful.
"Over my dead body," Ben declared, and tried again to tow Diana away. She resisted.
In spite of the fact that she'd longed to be rescued only moments earlier, it galled her to be treated like some recalcitrant child. Ben Northcote had no right to dictate to her. Besides, the fact that he hadn't bothered to mention his brother's presence in Manhattan left her out of charity with him.
Diana's tone was just as forceful as the one he'd used to his brother. "I am capable of making my own decisions."
"Take a good look at these paintings, Diana."
"They are extraordinary."
"Are you saying you're willing to take your clothes off for him?"
"I never -- "
"What did you think you'd be wearing? He doesn't make a habit of painting women in more than their skin."
"You're making a great deal of fuss over nothing." She glared at him but in spite of her irritation, she found this show of temper enlightening. He would never make such a fuss if he didn't care about her.
"Shall we discuss this in private?" He indicated Aaron, grinning at them from his chair. "I did intend that we talk."
"There are a number of things I have to say to you, too, Ben Northcote." She didn't budge. "To start with, I want to know why you lied to me."
"About what?"
"You didn't tell me Aaron was in New York. You never mentioned that Maggie is -- " She broke off, uncertain how to tell a man she thought his mother was mad. If she was wrong.... She drew in a deep breath and started again, her words clipped. "Aaron rescued me after Maggie locked me in your family vault."
"Mother is a tad eccentric." He sounded more amused than apologetic and not at all surprised.
Eccentric? Diana was beginning to dislike that word. Where, she wondered, did Ben draw the line between eccentric and insane?
"I believe," she said aloud, "that I deserve a better explanation than that for what she did."
"All right." His tension was less obvious now but he kept glancing at his brother, obviously wishing Diana would agree to leave Aaron's studio.
She gave Ben's hand, still clamped around her upper arm, a pointed look. After a long, fulminating stare of his own, he released her. Ostentatiously rubbing what she expected was going to be a spectacular bruise, she turned away from Ben to address his brother.
"I'm flattered, Aaron. No one's ever wanted to paint me before. But surely a professional would be better."
"Oh, yes. Plenty of them around. They're all whores, unfortunately. But there's something special about you, Diana.... "Under the intensity of his brother's scowl, Aaron's voice trailed off. His mouth shaped itself into a pout.
Diana had never before seen a grown man sulk, but there was no other word for Aaron's attitude.
"Oh, go away," he muttered. "Both of you."
Before his brother could change his mind, Ben whisked Diana out of the studio.
"Where are we going?" Digging her heels into the mud didn't slow him down in the least.
"Back to the house."
"I'd rather go back to the hotel. I don't feel ... safe here." And she was heartily sick of being dragged hither and yon by members of the Northcote family.
Ben came to an abrupt halt in the shade of the _porte-cochere_. "There are perfectly logical explanations for everything," he said.
"For keeping the gate locked? Am I a prisoner here?"
"You can leave any time you want, but I'd hoped you'd want to stay."
It was difficult to resist that look, that tone of voice, but Diana made the effort. "Ben, your mother locked me in a crypt." she couldn't help wondering if Maggie was mad, and Aaron, too. And if they were insane, then what about Ben? A Dr. Jekyll, after all?
She wasn't certain how many of her thoughts he read in her expression, but what she saw in the depths of his dark brown eyes was tenderness. And love? She dared hope that was what it was.
With a gentle touch, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She hadn't even realized it had come loose. "You've had a difficult morning," he murmured.
She longed to throw herself into his arms and accept the comfort of his embrace. She backed away instead. "Why are the gates kept locked?"
"Aaron," he said simply. "He wouldn't harm anyone, but he has ... spells. He goes off on his own if he isn't watched. It's for his protection that we don't leave the gates open."
"He was in New York."
"Yes. He's perfectly capable of taking a train by himself. But he doesn't always behave rationally. It's worse when he's among strangers. And when he's been drinking. I'm afraid his luck will run out one of these days and he'll be arrested and confined in an institution. It happens, you know."
Diana nodded. That was how Nellie Bly had gotten her sensational story. It had been frighteningly easy to end up committed to a madhouse.
"Did he reach Bangor before the blizzard?" she asked.
Ben gave her a sharp look, as if he guessed what she might really be asking, but neither of them voiced the possibility that Aaron could have been the one who'd attacked her in that alley.
"No. And the telegram I got in New Haven advised me of that fact. That's why I couldn't stay longer, and why I didn't invite you to come with me. I expected to have to track him down. There's a place in Boston he goes sometimes. I meant to try there first."
"Ben -- "
"He's harmless, Diana. I swear it." He managed a self-deprecating smile. "But I still don't want you posing for him."
"And your mother? Is she harmless?"
"Ah, well. Mother. She's an entirely different case. I think that, rather than speculate, we'd better discuss what happened today with her."
A few minutes later, Ben ushered Diana into Maggie Northcote's inner sanctum, a sumptuous boudoir decorated in the Oriental style. Diana's jaw dropped at the sight of Moorish banners hanging from the ceiling and walls covered with lattice-work screens, all except the one filled with Moorish cabinets loaded down with bric-a-brac. A divan, broad, low, and deeply cushioned, was draped with a heavy rug and heaped with fluffy pillows. Several larger pillows created a "cozy corner" on the floor.
"Oh, you're free," Maggie said, sounding surprised but not particularly disappointed. "Come in and have a seat." She indicated the divan. "The trick is to curl one foot underneath yourself, lean back, then build a wall of cushions at shoulder-level. Wonderfully relaxing after hours sitting upright in a hard chair."
Diana surveyed the obstacle course between the door and the divan. The entire area was littered with inlaid Damascus tables and Cairene folding stands which held assorted statuary and delicate porcelain vases.
"I don't dare move. I'm afraid I'll knock something over."
"Perhaps you'd be more comfortable in here."
Grinning, Maggie opened a narrow door at a right angle to the hall entrance, revealing a room no bigger than a built-in closet. The small cell was furnished with only two pieces of furniture -- a library table and a lattice-back chair.
"Here I write," Maggie said. "The outer room is for dreaming."
"Why did you lock Diana in the crypt?" Ben asked, cutting short the tour.
"Research."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You remind me of my current heroine," Maggie informed Diana. "It was very helpful to me to see how you took various statements I made to you earlier. That's when I conceived the idea of locking you in the vault to find out how you'd deal with being shut up with all those dead bodies. I would have released you after a few hours."