by Amanda Quick
“Thank you, sir.” She planted her large, work-worn hands on her hips and surveyed the narrow bed. Then she switched her gaze to Gabriel, giving him an appraising, head-to-toe examination. “I was afraid of this.”
“Afraid of what, Mrs. Trench?”
“That bed is much too small for you, sir. You won’t be at all comfortable on it.”
“It’ll do for now, Mrs. Trench.”
She heaved a disgruntled sigh. “I expect the former tenants put the governess in this room. Not right to lodge the head of the household up here.”
“I like this room.” Edward went to the window and waved a hand to indicate the array of rooftops visible through the glass. “From here you can see all the way to the park. On windy days there are lots of kites in the air, and sometimes there are fireworks at night.”
Gabriel spread his hands and smiled at Mrs. Trench. “There you have it on the best authority, Mrs. Trench. This is clearly the finest bedroom in the entire house.”
Mrs. Trench shook her head. “It’s not at all suitable, but as there’s nothing to be done about it, we’ll let the matter drop for the time being. Now then, breakfast is usually served sharply at eight so that Mrs. Jones can get an early start at the gallery. Mrs. Jones likes the morning light for her work. In the evening we dine at seven, so that Master Edward can join the family. Does that schedule suit you, sir?”
“That will be fine, Mrs. Trench.” He did not care to contemplate Venetia’s reaction if he were to change something so basic to the household routine as the time of meals.
“Very well.” Mrs. Trench headed for the door. “Let me know if there’s anything you need.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Trench.”
The housekeeper departed, leaving Gabriel alone with Edward.
When the door closed, Edward said quietly, “I know you’re not really my brother-in-law, sir. Venetia explained everything to me.”
“Did she?”
Edward nodded quickly. “She says that we are going to play a game of pretend while you are here.”
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Edward said. “It will be fun to have you here for real.”
“For real?”
“Yes. I helped Venetia get rid of you, you see. Now that you are actually here, it is as if you have become real.”
“I think I’ve got the gist of it.” Gabriel crouched to unlock the trunk. “What parts of my history did you invent?”
“I made up the bit about you tumbling off the cliff in the Wild West and getting swept away by a raging river,” Edward said, shoulders straightening with pride. “Did you like it?”
“Very clever.”
“Thank you. Venetia wanted to say that you were shot dead by a gang of outlaws during the course of a train robbery.”
“Charming. Tell me, did I die a true hero of the Wild West, fighting on until my gun was empty of bullets?”
Edward frowned. “I don’t recall that you had a gun.”
“She intended to send me off to face the outlaws unarmed?” Gabriel opened the trunk. “She must have wanted to be quite certain that I did not survive.”
“I thought it was an excellent story but Aunt Beatrice told her it was much too grisly for polite company. Then Venetia came up with the idea that you had been trampled by a herd of wild horses.”
“That sounds exceedingly unpleasant. What saved me from that fate?” Gabriel asked.
“Amelia said that since you and Venetia were supposed to be on your honeymoon, you should die in a more romantic fashion.”
“That is when you invented the notion of having me fall off the cliff?”
“Yes. I’m very glad you like it.”
“It was quite brilliant.” Gabriel reached into the trunk to remove the leather kit that contained his shaving things. “If I’d been shot dead by outlaws or trampled by wild horses it would have been somewhat more difficult to explain my presence in the household now.”
Edward hurried across the small room to examine the contents of the trunk. “I expect that we would have thought of something. We always do.”
Gabriel rose and set the shaving kit on the washstand. He turned to contemplate Edward. It could not have been easy for a boy, no matter how intelligent, to maintain the fiction that his older sister was a widow.
“You seem to be quite expert at playing games of pretend,” Gabriel said.
“I am.”
“Perhaps you can give me some tips on how to go about it.”
“Certainly, sir.” Edward looked up from his perusal of the interior of the trunk. “It’s hard sometimes, though. You have to be very careful when there are other people around, especially Mrs. Trench. She’s not supposed to know our secrets.”
In his experience, Gabriel thought, it was usually impossible to prevent the servants from learning a family’s secrets. It was astonishing that Venetia and the others had managed the feat for the three months they had been living in London. He doubted they would be able to maintain the fiction indefinitely.
“I will be very careful,” he promised.
He reached into the trunk again and took out a stack of neatly folded shirts. Ducking to avoid the low, sloping ceiling, he placed the shirts in the old, battered wardrobe.
Edward watched his every move, fascinated. “Perhaps someday when you are not too busy we could go to the park and fly a kite.”
Gabriel looked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“That is what a boy and his brother-in-law might do, isn’t it?” Edward was starting to look anxious.
Gabriel braced one hand against the sloped ceiling. “When was the last time you went to the park?”
“I go there sometimes with Aunt Beatrice or Venetia or Amelia but I have never flown a kite. Once some of the other boys asked if I would like to play a game with them but Aunt Beatrice said I mustn’t.”
“Why not?”
“I am not to talk to people very much, especially other children.” Edward made a face. “They are all afraid that I might forget and tell someone our secrets.”
Every time Edward used the word secret, he employed the plural. How many confidences was the boy keeping?
“It must have been difficult pretending that your sister was a widow for the past few months,” Gabriel said.
“Master Edward?” Mrs. Trench’s voice sounded from the foot of the attic stairs. “Your aunt sent me to tell you that you are not to bother Mr. Jones. Come down to the kitchen. I’ll cut you a slice of plum tart.”
Edward rolled his eyes but he went obediently, if reluctantly, toward the door. When he reached it he paused and looked back at Gabriel.
“Actually, it hasn’t been very hard pretending that Venetia is a widow,” he said. “She wears black every day, you see.”
Gabriel nodded. “I can understand how her attire would constitute a daily clue.”
“I think it is the other secret that they all worry about the most,” Edward explained. “The one about Papa.”
He turned and vanished through the doorway.
Gabriel stood for a while, neckties in hand, and listened to the sound of Edward’s footsteps on the stairs.
This is, indeed, a house of secrets, he thought. But then, what house didn’t have a few?
11
TWO MORE FISH had died.
They floated just beneath the surface, pale bellies gleaming a dull silvery color in the light of the gas lamp.
The new aquarium was massive compared to the previous tanks. The size and depth of three bathtubs placed side by side, it was fashioned of wood and glass supported by a sturdy metal frame. The front of the tank was made of glass. An underwater jungle of aquatic plants had been installed to provide nutrients and natural concealment for prey and predator alike.
The killer picked up a net and scooped out the dead fish. An examination of the bodies would be necessary to rule out illness or some other natural cause but from the looks of things, the new species of plants were evidentl
y not producing enough oxygen. Half the fish in the tank had died in the past two days.
Reproducing a Darwinian world in miniature was proving to be far more complicated than one would have thought. The laws of nature seemed so dazzlingly clear and straightforward when one considered them in the abstract but in practice there were so many variables. Temperature, weather, disease, the food supply, even coincidence and chance came into play when one was dealing with the real world.
But regardless of the variables, the laws were immutable. And overarching all others was the greatest law of all: Only the fittest survived.
The killer took particular satisfaction in the obvious corollary: Only the fittest deserved to survive and prosper.
Nature had, of course, taken care to make certain that prey enjoyed some protections. It was necessary to maintain a balance, after all. Where would all the predators be if there was no prey?
But there could be no doubt whatsoever about which group had been designed and refined by the relentless, implacable forces of natural selection to rule.
The knowledge that nature had ordained that there be predators and prey was vastly pleasing. It was self-evident that the strong had every right—indeed, a responsibility, a destiny— to dominate and control the weak. To show compassion or mercy was to deny the natural order.
The fittest also had a duty to pass on the strong traits with which they had been endowed. Finding a suitable mate, a healthy female who also possessed superior characteristics, was an imperative.
His first choice of mates had proven to be a disappointment, the killer reflected. But he was now quite certain that there was another, more appropriate selection available: a woman who was in all likelihood endowed with the unique talents he wanted in the mother of his offspring.
The long-standing traditions of the Arcane Society were well known within the society. He knew that Gabriel Jones would not have chosen an unimportant female like the photographer—a woman with no money or social connections—unless she possessed strong psychical powers of her own.
The killer placed the dead fish on the examination table and reached for a knife.
Eyes that gleamed with a nerveless, inhuman lack of emotion watched him from inside the fern-choked, glass-fronted Wardian cases that lined one wall of the room.
The insect, reptilian and aquatic worlds provided the ultimate examples of the great forces of natural selection in their purest form, the killer thought. There was no sentiment, no emotion, no family bonds, no passion or politics in those spheres. Life was reduced to its most basic elements. Kill or be killed.
He went to work on the fish. Failed experiments were always disturbing but they were not without some interest.
12
CHRISTOPHER FARLEY IS no doubt greatly indebted to you this evening, Mr. Jones.” Adam Harrow swirled the champagne in his glass with a lazy movement of one gloved hand. “Mind you, I’m certain there would have been an excellent turnout even without your presence on account of the excellence of your wife’s photographs. Nevertheless, I strongly suspect that the news of your astonishing return did much to enhance the size of the crowd.”
Gabriel turned his attention away from the framed photograph he had been examining and surveyed the thin, languidly graceful young man who had come up beside him.
Venetia had introduced him to Harrow shortly after their arrival at the exhibition hall. She had then been swept up by a throng of individuals who appeared to be evenly divided between colleagues, admirers and the just plain curious. She was now holding court on the other side of the room. Gabriel had soon discovered that he would be on his own tonight. The exhibition was a social affair on the surface but beneath the earnest conversations about the art of photography and the latest gossip, his wife had business to conduct.
Fortunately Harrow had proved to be an interesting companion. His voice was low and cultured. He projected the cool, amused air that marked him as a gentleman accustomed to the best in everything, from clubs and mistresses to art and wine. His trousers and wing-collared shirt were in the latest style. His light brown hair was brushed straight back from his forehead and gleamed with a judicious application of pomade.
Harrow’s features were finely, almost delicately, molded. They put Gabriel in mind of one of the ethereally handsome knights in a Burne-Jones painting. Recalling the name of the painter made Gabriel realize yet again just how common the name Jones was. No wonder Venetia had concluded that no one would notice one more Jones in London.
“I take it that Farley is the person responsible for staging this exhibition?” Gabriel asked.
“Yes.” Harrow took a sip of champagne and lowered the glass. “He is a gentleman of means who has become something of a patron to the photographic community. He is known to be generous to those who are starting out in the profession. He even maintains a well-stocked darkroom here on the premises for photographers who cannot afford their own equipment and chemicals.”
“I see.”
“Farley has contributed greatly to the notion that photography deserves to be considered a true art.” Harrow arched a delicate brow. “Unfortunately, that view is still quite controversial in some circles.”
“One wouldn’t know it by the crowd here tonight,” Gabriel said.
The brightly lit exhibition hall was crammed with well-dressed visitors. The guests promenaded around the room, glasses of champagne or lemonade in hand, and made a great show of scrutinizing the photographs that hung on the walls.
The pictures in the exhibition were the work of a number of different photographers and had been arranged by competition categories: Pastoral Views, Portraits, Architecture, Monuments of London, and Artistic Themes. Venetia had entered photographs in both the Portraits and the Monuments divisions.
It occurred to Gabriel that Harrow could be a useful source of information. If the thief was moving in Venetia’s business circles, he might be here tonight.
“I would appreciate it if you would enlighten me as to the identities of some of those present tonight,” Gabriel said. “My wife appears to be mingling with a rather elevated lot.”
Harrow gave him a speculative glance and then shrugged. “My pleasure. I don’t know everyone, of course, but I can point out some of the highfliers.” He angled his chin toward a distinguished, middle-aged couple. “Lord and Lady Netherhampton. They consider themselves connoisseurs of art. The fact that they are here tonight gives this exhibition considerable cachet.”
“I see,” Gabriel said.
Harrow smiled fleetingly. “I am told that years ago Lady Netherhampton was an actress. Everyone in Polite Society has conveniently forgotten her origins due to the fact that she is now married to Lord Netherhampton.”
“I’m sure that the craft of acting made excellent training for moving in the Polite World.”
Harrow laughed. “No doubt. It is, indeed, a world of masks and false facades, is it not?” He nodded toward another woman. “The overdressed female in pink on the far side of the room is Mrs. Chilcott. Her husband obligingly dropped dead two years ago, leaving her a fortune. She was one of your wife’s first clients and has since sent several of her friends to her.”
“I must remember to be very polite to the lady if we are introduced.”
Harrow swept the crowd with an assessing glance and paused. “Do you see the elderly gentleman with the cane? The one who looks like he might fall over at any moment? That is Lord Ackland.”
Gabriel shifted his gaze to a stooped, gray-haired, heavily bewhiskered man in the company of a much younger, strikingly attractive woman. In addition to the cane, Ackland gripped the lady’s arm in a manner that suggested he needed it for additional support. The couple was admiring a photograph in the Portraits division.
“I see him,” Gabriel said.
“Ackland retired to the country years ago. Never produced an heir. The fortune will go to some distant relatives, I believe.”
“Unless the lovely lady who is propping him up can per
suade him to marry her?” Gabriel said.
“That is the speculation, of course. Ackland was said to be slipping into senility and in very poor health but it seems that he has been pulled back from death’s door by the lovely creature at his side.”
“Astonishing what a beautiful woman can do for a man even when his doctors have given up all hope,” Gabriel said.
“Indeed. The lady with the remarkable therapeutic powers is Mrs. Rosalind Fleming.”
Harrow’s tone had altered, Gabriel noticed. The underlying note of mocking amusement was gone. In its place was a cold, flat quality.
“What happened to Mr. Fleming?” Gabriel asked.
“An excellent question,” Harrow said. “The lady is, of course, a widow.”
Gabriel did his own survey of the room, the hunter in him searching not for prey but for the competition; others who looked as if they might be predators under their civilized facades.
“What about the man standing by himself near the potted palm?” he asked. “He does not appear to be here with the intention of making casual conversation.”
The man next to the plant seemed to occupy a remote, separate space in the room. It was clear to Gabriel that one encroached on that space at one’s peril.
Harrow glanced in that direction, frowning a little. “That is Willows. I cannot tell you much about him. Appeared on the scene a few months ago. He is a collector of art and antiquities. Keeps to himself but he evidently commands a fortune. I believe he has acquired some of Mrs. Jones’s pictures for his private museum.”
“Married?”
“No,” Harrow said. “At least, we don’t think so.”
Gabriel wondered about the we but his instincts told him not to inquire.
He made a mental note of the name and went back to searching the room, seeking others who projected the same aloof, potentially dangerous air.
Over the course of the next several minutes he added three more names to his private list as Harrow continued his commentary. He paid particular attention to persons Harrow said collected Venetia’s work.
