Death at Bishop's Keep (22 page)

“As I said yesterday,” Charles said, taking the photograph out of his portfolio, “I am attempting to identify this man.”

Murdstone stood up, glanced briefly at the photograph Charles handed him, and shrugged. “Can't help you, I'm afraid.”

“Do you mind taking one more look?” Charles prodded, watching Murdstone's face. The fire cast flickering shadows across his cheeks, highlighting the dome of his forehead.

Murdstone took a pair of gold-rimmed glasses out of his pocket, hooked them over his ears, and peered through them at the photograph. His eyes widened slightly. “Dead man, is he?”

“Murdered.”

Murdstone shook his head firmly. “Never saw the chap.” He handed the photo back and took off his glasses. “If you don't mind my asking, why are you inquiring, and not the police?”

“It is a matter of interest to me,” Charles said vaguely. At this point he was not entirely sure why he was pursuing the matter. The police had given it up as a bad job and offered absolutely no encouragement. Perhaps he was led by his feeling that the dead ought to inspire at least some interest among the living; perhaps it was merely his enjoyment of the labyrinthian process of puzzle solving. “One more question, Mr. Murdstone. Yesterday when we met, you were wearing a cockade of peacock feathers in your hat. The gentleman you greeted on the street was also wearing peacock feathers. Is there some special significance to that fact?”

There was a moment's silence. The coals shifted in the grate. Murdstone pulled at his lower lip and turned so that his face could not be seen. “I don't see what a few silly feathers have to do with anything,” he said.

Charles persisted. “Is it the insignia of a secret society?”

Murdstone turned around to face Charles. “If you must know,” he said pettishly, “it's one of my wife's silly involvements.” There was a shadow of something in his face—resentment, or deceit? Was he hiding something? “Wouldn't have gone, myself, but she insisted. And when Irene insists—”

Charles heard a flurry of yaps in the hallway, and a sharp female voice. “Frank, it is time for Precious to have her walk.”

Murdstone's resentment—for that's what Charles thought it was—darkened in his face. “Coming, m‘dear,” he said. He pulled off his jacket and reached for his coat, hanging on the back of a chair. “The chap you saw on the street. He's one of 'em. Freemason. Obsessed by magic. Dotes on abracadabra, passwords, all that rot.” He shrugged his arms into his coat.

“This society,” Charles pressed, fearing that he was about to lose his informant to the custody of a poodle. “Can you tell me its name?”

Murdstone moved to the mantel mirror to straighten his tie. “Order of the Golden Dawn,” he muttered. “Lot of foolishness, 'f you ask me. Mumbo jumbo, cards, astrology, séances. Sheer flummery. But Mrs. Murdstone—”

“Frank!” The door was flung open and an overly stout matron in a gray dress came into the room, leaning on a silver-headed stick. She held a red leather leash in her hand, the poodle dancing at the other end. “Are you going to dither all—” She stopped when she saw Charles.

Murdstone turned around. “Sir Charles Sheridan,” he said, with a careless wave of his hand. “Mrs. Murdstone. Sir Charles is inquiring about the affair last week, m‘dear. Over at Florence-what's-her-namevs—”

“Florence Farnsworth,” Mrs. Murdstone said peevishly. She had at least three chins, receding one after the other like foothills into her mountainous bosom. “Why you can't manage a simple name—” The poodle made a quick sally in Charles's direction and was pulled back. She retreated sulkily behind her mistress's full skirts.

“Ah, yes, Farnsworth,” Murdstone said, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Farns-worth,” he repeated to himself, as if trying to memorize it.

Charles frowned slightly, remembering that Miss Ardleigh had also directed him to Mrs. Farnsworth, and his suspicion of yesterday that there was some connection between her and the dead man. What did she know? How did she come by her information? She had appeared to recognize something about Monsieur Armand's photograph—how was that possible? Had she seen him, spoken to him, perhaps in London, before she came down to Bishop's Keep? If that were true, Miss Ardleigh was almost certainly other than she seemed.

But those questions, however compellingly they were beginning to prod him, had to be postponed for the moment. “I would like to learn more about the Order,” Charles said.

Mrs. Murdstone turned to Charles and her manner changed. “Are you interested in becoming a member, Sir Charles?” she inquired ingratiatingly.

Charles bowed slightly. “One does not wish to commit oneself on a matter of such importance without some previous intelligence of the group. What can you tell me of it?”

Mrs. Murdstone's plump face took on a mysterious look and she lowered her voice. “Only that if you are interested in the occult, sir, I daresay you will find it a most fascinating group. I cannot speak further without revealing important secrets, you understand—”

Mr. Murdstone shaped “flummery” with his lips, but did not speak the word.

“Of course,” Charles murmured. “I would not for the world ask you to violate a sacred trust.”

“The Society's charter was obtained from a very ancient Society in Germany,” Mrs. Murdstone continued. “Unlike the sham societies one sees so much of these days, it enjoys an entirely legitimate lineage, with roots going back to the Rosicrucians and even to the magicians of Egypt. Its authority is transmitted through our respected chief, Dr. William Westcott, whom all the world knows as a man to be admired and trusted. Our temple is named the—” But here she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Forgive me, sir, I go too far,” she said coyly, through pudgy fingers, heavily ringed. “It is permitted to speak the name of our temple only to initiates.”

“To be sure,” Charles said. “Mrs. Famsworth—would the lady live in Keenan Street?”

“Indeed,” Mrs. Murdstone said helpfully, “Number Seven. Some two years ago, she left a distinguished career on the London stage to marry Mr. Farnsworth, a gentleman who made his fortune in railroads. Unfortunately, she was left a widow shortly after their wedding, and has now taken on the task of establishing and organizing our temple—a rather difficult task, if I may say, requiring a great investment of her time and personal attention.” She paused and gave Charles a benevolent glance. “If you require introduction, you may say that Mrs. Murdstone recommends you to her as a Seeker after Truth.”

“I most certainly shall,” Charles said, bowing low. “Thank you for your help, Mrs. Murdstone.” He inclined his head toward her husband. “And yours, Mr. Murdstone.”

“Glad t‘oblige, sir, glad t'oblige,” Murdstone said heartily, and Charles took his leave. As he retrieved his hat from the maid at the front door, he could hear Precious's yapping bark and Mrs. Murdstone, scolding sharply. The smell of onions followed him out of the house.

The houses in Keenan Street were as undistinguished as those in Queen, built of brick, high, with only a modest frontage. Charles raised an eyebrow. Was it possible that Prodger had misunderstood his customer's accented English? Had Monsieur Armand been in search of
Keenan
Street, not Queen? Again, a compelling question, but not capable of answer, since the seeker was unfortunately dead.

The stoop of Number Seven, like those of its neighbors, descended directly to the sidewalk without the amenity of hedge or grass. To the right of the stoop was the bow window of the parlor hung with lace curtains and filled with a small forest of fern. There was no evidence of Mr. Famsworth's railroad fortune, for the door was answered by a maid-of-all-work with a mop in her hand and a churlish frown on her narrow face. She hung Charles's wet coat and hat on a wooden coat tree, and showed him into the small parlor.

The room was cheaply furnished, but a few exotic touches gave it something of distinction. A plaster statuette of the Egyptian god Seth stood on a pedestal in the corner; several unframed hieroglyphic tomb paintings were prominently placed; and the floor was spread with Turkish carpets of purple and blue, much worn. The furnishings were of Japanese design, and a painted Japanese screen was angled beside the fireplace. Peacock feathers were artfully arranged on the walls. The only evidences of Mrs. Farnsworth's acting career were the framed playbills that Charles had seen in the entry hallway, where the name Florence Faber was prominently featured.

“Sir Charles Sheridan?”

The woman who came toward him was small and slight, but her features were sharply defined, with a classical balance and a jaw that hinted at a firm will. Charles would not have called her beautiful, but some, no doubt, would have. A gold net bound her softly waved brown hair away from a face that was dominated by large, luminous eyes and a mobile, mercurial mouth. Some time had passed since the loss of her husband and she was no longer in mourning; her pale green dress was loose and flowing with a pre-Raphaelite simplicity, but she did not, Charles thought, have the pre-Raphaelite aura of untouched innocence and wondering naivete. She wore instead the look of a weary Bohemian.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Farnsworth,” Charles said, bowing over her hand. “I come at the recommendation of Mrs. Murdstone, who suggests that you can provide me an introduction to the Order of the Golden Dawn.”

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Murdstone,” Mrs. Farnsworth murmured. She waved at a gold velvet settee. “Please, sit down, Sir Charles. Your interest in such matters is—?”

“—is of long standing, ma'am,” Charles said deftly. He parted his coattails and sat down. “As a child I early discovered a great fascination for things beyond the realm of ordinary human knowledge.”

He paused. That was true, although his interest in the unknown lay largely in the sciences of the natural, rather than the supernatural. But the temperament of persons attracted to the occult had long held a scientific interest for him. What was there about the supernatural that fascinated certain people? What sort of people were they? Mrs. Farnsworth, for instance, seemed a woman of the world and not one to be taken in by charlatans. What was the source of
her
interest? Was it the experience of the occult—some satisfaction she gained in the practice of magical ritual? Or was it the power the practice gave her? Looking at the strong line of her jaw and a certain arrogance in the lift of her chin, he could believe that it was the lure of power that had brought her to the Order. Perhaps the founding of the Colchester temple lent her a certain authority, a certain prestige. Or perhaps the drama of ritual magic had replaced the stage dramas of her acting career.

“You were saying—” Mrs. Farnsworth remarked. Her voice was casual, but her probing glance made Charles feel that he was the object of her critical assessment.

Charles shifted. “Forgive me. I do not want to take up your time with talk about myself. You established the temple here, I believe?”

Mrs. Farnsworth took the light bamboo chair beside the settee. “I did,” she said with simple authority. She leaned back, arranging her arm so that one hand hung gracefully from the arm of the chair, and fixed him with a direct gaze. “But you must understand that I can speak of it only in general terms. It is, after all, a secret order. One does not expect a Freemason to divulge the sacred rituals of his lodge.”

“Quite so,” Charles said. He paused. “I wonder, though ... Is membership in your Order confined to Colchester?”

Mrs. Farnsworth's laugh was throaty, amused. “My dear man, how is it that you do not know already of the Golden Dawn? The Order has temples in London, Edinburgh, Bradford, Paris. It is the foremost organization of its kind in the world.”

“Indeed,” Charles said with interest. “In Paris?”

“Mr. MacGregor Mathers has established the Ahathoor Temple there, as well as a school of occult sciences.” A smile softened Mrs. Farnsworth's lips and she raised her hand in a studiedly playful gesture. “Our little temple in Colchester is but one star in a distinguished galaxy.”

“I do indeed see,” Charles said, “and I am much impressed. Perhaps—”

He left the sentence hanging, placed his portfolio on his knees, and opened it. He might ordinarily have had some compunction about showing the photograph of a dead man to a woman of delicate sensibilities, although he had cropped this one so that it did not reveal the fatal wound. But Mrs. Farnsworth had been an actress, and actresses were women of the world. Such a thing should not shock. He took it out and handed it to her.

“This is a photograph of a man who, I believe, may have been associated with your Order. I wonder what you can tell me about him. The name I know him by,” he added, watching her closely, “is Monsieur Armand. That may not be his real name.”

Mrs. Farnsworth took the photograph and studied it for a few moments, her face revealing nothing. When she handed it back, her glance was casual, her tone devoid of any significance or feeling. “I fear I cannot help you,” she said. “The gentleman is a stranger to me.” She arched expressive brows. “If you are in doubt as to his identity, why not simply ask him?”

“Because,” Charles said, “the man is dead.”

Mrs. Farnsworth shook her head. “A pity,” she murmured. “His death was untimely?”

“He was murdered,” Charles said.

She looked startled. “Why on earth do you bring the photograph of a murdered man to me?”

“Because,” Charles replied carefully, “I understand that he visited a member of your Order.”

Mrs. Farnsworth frowned. “My dear Sir Charles,” she said, “our temple is quite large. Surely you cannot imagine that I am acquainted with the private business dealings of individual members?”