Maelstrom (16 page)

On the slim chance someone might have
pertinent information, I visited a few of my old contacts in the
more questionable parts of town. I’d come away with no answers,
although two of them hinted that an unusual number of strangers had
come into Widdershins as of late. The disreputable boarding houses
and hotels near the docks were crowded with men who seemed intent
on staying for longer than the usual few days.

What it meant, I didn’t know, but the
implications worried me. When I arrived home, I found even more
reason to fear: a note from Tilton, asking me to come to the
station to interview the suspect involved in the attempted murder
at the Ladysmith.

He’d given no more details. If something
terrible had happened, why hadn’t Ival contacted me himself? Had he
been shot? Tilton surely would have said, but...

I didn’t clearly recall steering the motor
car from our house to the museum, although the lack of dints
suggested I’d done so successfully. The work day had ended, and I
spotted Ival coming down the stairs almost as soon as I pulled up
to the curb. If not for the presence of so many of his colleagues,
I’d have flung my arms around him in relief.

“I’m sorry,” he said, once we were underway
and I had the opportunity to express my displeasure at not hearing
from him sooner. “The director cornered me. I’m in a bit of
trouble.”

He explained Durfree’s odd behavior and the
theft of the codex as I drove. “I don’t think it was a
coincidence,” he finished as I stopped in front of the police
station.

“No,” I agreed. “Neither do I.”

Mr. Durfree sat in the same cell Lambert had
died in. He cradled his head in his hands, body slumped, the very
picture of despair. As with Lambert, no trace of anything magical
lingered about him.

“Mr. Durfree?” Whyborne asked
tentatively.

Durfree’s head snapped up. “Dr. Whyborne?”
He rose to his feet. “Have you come to tell them I didn’t do
it?”

“Er.” Whyborne looked desperately
uncomfortable. “Not precisely.”

“Dr. Whyborne witnessed your rampage,”
Tilton said.

Durfree sagged back. “But I...how? I don’t
understand.” His eyes sought Whyborne’s desperately. “You’re here
to make a statement against me?”

“They’re here to interview you,” Tilton
said. “I suggest you answer all their questions as honestly as
possible.”

Durfree looked even more confused.
“Interview me? But I’ve already told you everything I know,
detective.”

I stepped forward, extending my hand between
the bars. “Permit me to introduce myself, Mr. Durfree. I’m Griffin
Flaherty.”

He roused enough to shake my hand. “Yes,
I’ve seen you about the museum, haven’t I? Dr. Whyborne’s brother
shot you.”

Well, it had been my most dramatic moment,
at least so far as the museum staff were concerned. “Indeed.
Detective Tilton contacted me because I recently had a client whose
circumstances were similar to your own.”

Durfree glanced again at Whyborne, as if
seeking comfort in the familiar. “Similar? How?”

“I don’t wish to prejudice your account by
planting any suggestions,” I said. “Just tell Dr. Whyborne and I
what you remember of events.”

Durfree hesitated. I nudged Whyborne. “Er,
yes,” he said. “Tell us what you remember. Any detail might be
important.”

“Very well.” Durfree took a deep breath. “I
spent the morning overseeing the restoration work on one of our
newer acquisitions.” He held up a bandaged finger. “I assisted with
a frame and sliced myself. Afterward Anthony—Mr. Farr—and I lunched
together, as we often do.”

“Did you quarrel?” I asked.

“Well, yes.” Durfree wrung his hands
desperately. “He disagreed with my selection of paintings to be
lent to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for their exhibition on
Colonial portraiture. But it was nothing serious! We often
disagree.”

Tilton pounced. “In fact, you have a
reputation for it.”

“No, we...” Durfree blanched. “We do,
but...I hold Mr. Farr in the highest regard. I’d never threaten his
life.”

I had the distinct feeling their
relationship was far more complicated than most might assume. Of
course I couldn’t ask questions of an intimate nature with Tilton
listening in, so instead I said, “Please, continue with your
account.”

“I returned to my office.” Durfree bit his
lip. “And then...suddenly I was in a dark place. I couldn’t move. I
struggled and tried to cry out, but I couldn’t.” He shook his head.
“I’ve never been so frightened. I didn’t know what had happened,
how I had gone from my office to wherever I was. Then I was
standing in the gallery, and my hand hurt. And someone had shot the
portrait of Theron Blackbyrne!” Durfree buried his face in his
hands, and his shoulders heaved. “They’re telling me I was going to
kill Anthony, but I never would! I’d never...”

God. I let out a long sigh. “I believe
you.”

“As do I,” Whyborne said quickly. “Set your
mind at ease, Mr. Durfree.”

“Gentlemen, if we may speak privately a
moment,” Tilton said, indicating the way we’d come.

We left Durfree behind, retreating just far
enough that he wouldn’t hear our words. “What do you think happened
to the fellow?” Tilton asked in a low voice. “Some sort of—of
hypnosis, perhaps?”

Clearly he was grasping for any explanation
he might safely put into a report. “Something like that,” I said
neutrally. “Whoever compelled Mr. Lambert surely did the same with
Mr. Durfree.”

“And Lambert died in custody.” Tilton
scowled. “I don’t want another body in my jail. Is he in
danger?”

Whyborne glanced back at
the cells. His expression probably seemed calm to Tilton, but I
noted the tiny muscle tightening in his jaw, the way his eyes
narrowed a fraction. “I suspect he is. The, ah,
hypnotist
doesn’t seem eager to leave
alive anyone who might lead police in his direction.”

It wasn’t the precise truth, but close
enough for Tilton. The detective considered, then nodded. “I’m sure
the judge will be amenable if you wish to stand for the bail, Dr.
Whyborne.”

Just as Addison Somerby had stood for me,
once. At least we wanted to keep Durfree alive. “I think that for
the best.”

“Of course,” Whyborne said. “Do I need to
speak with the judge, or...?”

“I think we can suspend procedure in this
case.” Tilton must want Durfree out of his jail. For a moment, I
almost felt sorry for the detective. Policing Widdershins must be
something of a hopeless job even under ordinary circumstances.
“I’ll see he’s released.”

We returned to the main office. A rather
distraught looking gentleman sat near the front desk, springing to
his feet upon spying us. “Dr. Whyborne! What are you doing
here?”

“Mr. Farr?” Whyborne seemed equally
surprised. “That is, I came to speak with Mr. Durfree.”

“They won’t let me see him.” Farr wrung his
hands together miserably. “But I have to know why! Why would he do
such a thing?”

Tilton had already left us, no doubt to set
the wheels in motion for Durfree’s release. Lowering my voice, I
said, “Mr. Farr, did you notice anything odd about Mr. Durfree?
Besides him trying to kill you, that is.”

Farr started to shake his head, then
stopped. “There was nothing earlier. We had lunch together. But
then...when I saw him with the gun...he seemed so strange. Not
himself. The way he spoke to me about our little debates, as though
they were far more serious than they actually are. As if we’d
never...” He caught himself.

Poor fellow. “We have reason to believe Mr.
Durfree wasn’t acting under his own volition,” I said gently. “He’s
not the first person to have experienced something similar.
Detective Tilton is putting it down to some kind of hypnosis,
although the precise mechanism isn’t known.”

Farr frowned, but a spark of hope livened
his eyes. “Not acting under his own volition? Hypnosis? Then—then
he didn’t want to kill me?”

“I’ve interviewed a great many murderers in
my career,” I assured him. “Mr. Durfree didn’t strike me as one.
Rather, I’d say he’s just as horrified as you are by this turn of
events. I encourage you to look upon him as a victim, if you can
find it in your heart to do so.”

“Of course.” A panicked look slowly crossed
Farr’s face. “But are you saying someone wants to kill me?”

“Er, I don’t think so,” Whyborne said
sheepishly. “The entire episode may have been a diversion
for...something else. And either Mr. Durfree is a truly horrible
shot, or whoever controlled him wasn’t actually seeking your
death.”

Farr’s eyes widened. “Or he couldn’t bring
himself to harm me, even under some sort of terrible
mesmerism?”

“Yes,” I said firmly, before Whyborne
corrected him. There was no harm in Farr believing it, and much
potential good. “It’s said no amount of mesmerism can force a man
to do what isn’t in his nature. I’m certain his affection for you
held him back.”

Whyborne cast me a puzzled look, but Mr.
Farr put a hand to his chest. “Of course. I should have known.”

“As Dr. Whyborne said, I don’t believe you
were truly the target of some unknown enemy,” I went on. “Mr.
Durfree, however, may be in danger. I wouldn’t ordinarily suggest a
man under suspicion of attempted murder leave Widdershins, but in
this case I feel a short vacation elsewhere would do him a great
deal of good. Leave tonight, if at all possible.”

“Anthony?” Durfree called tremulously. He
stood at the other end of the room, a rather lost expression on his
face.

Farr’s lips parted. Then he drew himself up
and nodded to me. “Thank you, Mr. Flaherty, Dr. Whyborne. Now, if
you’ll excuse me.” Striding toward Durfree, he exclaimed, “Blast
it, man, you put a hole in the only know portrait of Theron
Blackbyrne! I know you disagreed with my placement of it, but there
are better ways to express your opinion.”

“I don’t understand,” Whyborne said,
watching them.

“Neither did whoever used mind control on
poor Mr. Durfree.” I touched his arm. “Come.”

Christine and Iskander waited on the
sidewalk outside. Or rather, Iskander waited while Christine fumed.
“Damn it, Whyborne!” she exclaimed when she spotted us. “I take one
afternoon off away from you, and you get into a gun fight with Mr.
Durfree?”

“You’re just angry you missed it,” he
replied. “And it isn’t as though you bring your rifle into the
museum.”

“That doesn’t mean I don’t have a pistol in
my purse.”

“Later, Christine,” Iskander said. “Do you
have news, gentlemen?”

I nodded. “Yes. And a great deal to talk
about. Would you care to meet us at home? I’m afraid the motor car
only has room for two.”

“Christine can ride with you,” Whyborne said
hastily. “Iskander and I will take the trolley.”

How kind of him to allow Christine a turn.
“Very well then. We’ll await you at home.”

Griffin

“So the whole thing was just a ruse to get
to the codex,” Christine said. Whyborne and I had prepared a quick
dinner of sandwiches, eaten at the kitchen table and followed by
coffee. Saul sprawled on the tile floor, his fluffy tail twitching
idly.

Iskander shook his head. “And they were
willing to destroy poor Mr. Durfree’s career, possibly his life,
for nothing more than a distraction.”

“Considering they’ve murdered several people
already, Mr. Durfree has gotten off lucky.” I stirred sugar into my
coffee. “Assuming they don’t try to silence him as they did
Lambert.”

“Which is why you wanted him to leave
Widdershins.” Whyborne rose to his feet and began to clear away our
dishes. “What I don’t understand is why you told all this to Mr.
Farr.”

“Quite,” Christine said with a frown. “You
don’t know their rivalry, Griffin, but I suspect Farr told him to
remain in Widdershins no matter what, and is even now gleefully
contemplating his death.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Although I’m
certain whoever was behind this believed as you do.”

Whyborne turned on the tap at the sink.
“When I said I didn’t understand, you said the sorcerer responsible
didn’t either. What did you mean?”

I took a sip of my coffee. “That they’re
lovers.”

There came a crash as Whyborne dropped a cup
into the sink. “What?”

“Good gad, man, you can’t be serious!”
Christine exclaimed. “Their rivalry is legendary! Half the staff
have bets as to when they’ll kill one another.”

“Aside from the need for discretion, some
people prefer their affairs more...tumultuous.” I leaned back in my
chair. “Despite the heat of their disagreements, it’s clear to me
they care for one another deeply. Perhaps I’m wrong about the
physical component of the relationship, but my instinct says
otherwise.”

“I suppose you have more experience in these
matters than the rest of us,” Christine said, although she sounded
rather doubtful.

Whyborne removed his coat and hung it up
neatly on the back of his chair, before unbuttoning his cuffs and
rolling up his sleeves. “My entire view of the world has changed,”
he muttered as he went to the sink and began to scrub at the
plates. “Sorcery, entities from the Outside, fish-men in my family
tree, I can accept. Mr. Farr and Mr. Durfree as lovers crosses the
line.”

Iskander cleared his throat. “I believe you
are both missing Griffin’s point.”

“Which is?” Christine asked with an arched
brow.

“That whoever is behind all of this is
familiar with the inner workings of the museum.”

Silence fell; even Whyborne stopped
splashing in the sink. “Blast,” he said quietly.

“Indeed,” I said. “The witch hunter’s dagger
was suspicious, but hardly proof. But this seems the sort of thing
no outsider would know about. One of these Fideles, as Scarrow
called them, must be on the museum staff.”