by Greg Cox
Barbara contemplated the lurid old headlines, which screamed at them from a century past.
SAD END TO MISSING
MODEL MYSTERY
BEAUTY’S CURSE!
SPURNED SUITOR SLAYS
CELEBRATED SIREN
LOVE-CRAZED MADMAN
PLEADS GUILTY TO
MISS GOTHAM’S MURDER
“You think Wright had her killed?” she asked.
“I don’t think anything yet,” he replied, “but to all appearances he was obsessed with her, even after her disappearance.” He recalled what Claire had said. Joanna was convinced Percy Wright’s sculptures held secrets of their own. “Let’s see her again—both in the flesh and otherwise.”
“Easy enough.” Her fingers danced across the keyboard. “Hello, Miss Gotham.” Multiple images of Lydia Doyle appeared on the screens, smiling for the camera, carved out of stone, cast in bronze, and even embossed on commemorative coins and medallions. Often draped in flowing robes, or wearing nothing at all, she adorned archways, parks, gardens, monuments, and mausoleums. An angel on a stained-glass window bore her features. A decorative frieze depicted her in bas-relief. She reigned as the Queen of Hearts on an old playing card, where her blonde curls and striking blue-gray eyes were shown in full color for once.
Was he just projecting, or was there often a hint of sorrow there?
Her smiles seemed like sad ones.
Reflecting her life, Bruce wondered, or sculpted after her death? The number and variety of the works—most but not all by Wright— testified to Lydia’s popularity, or perhaps to his obsession with her.
One particular image caught his eye. It was a marble fountain featuring a graceful young woman relaxing at its center, her figure reclining on her side at the water’s edge. He recognized it immediately.
“That fountain,” he said. “It’s on the grounds of the Manor.” His throat tightened. The fountain, which graced the rose garden outside the west wing of the mansion, had been one of his mother’s favorite spots when he was a boy. Memories flooded him as he recalled countless lazy spring and summer hours sharing the garden with his mother, sometimes sailing paper boats in the fountain as she relaxed with a book or magazine.
Other times, in his younger days, she had read to him by the fountain. He had first discovered The Wind in the Willows in that garden, and the Oz books and The Black Stallion. The girl in the fountain had shared those precious moments with Bruce and his mother. She had been their silent companion, smiling and serene, through many treasured afternoons of peace and togetherness— before Crime Alley changed everything.
“Right,” Barbara said. Her eidetic memory was an archive in its own right. “In that pretty little garden outside the screen doors.”
The fountain was still there, the garden meticulously maintained, but Bruce couldn’t recall the last time he had spent any time there, relaxing or not. His mission didn’t allow for such luxuries, while the memories had been best left undisturbed. The girl in the fountain had been neglected, her lonely presence barely registering on him even when he passed by her on his way from one spot to another. He hadn’t truly looked at her, seen her, since his mother died.
Until today.
“Lydia.”
He knew her name now, and something of her history. His expression darkened along with his mood, as he realized that the Owls had intruded upon yet another cherished corner of his past. The fountain had been a place of refuge, a repository of precious memories, and now it served as a reminder of yet another victim of the Court.
His fists clenched at his sides.
“Bruce?” Barbara looked up at him with concern. Like Dick, she knew him better than most. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he lied. “Keep digging.”
Harbor House, Gotham City, 1918
Percy’s face itched beneath the smooth white porcelain mask with a beak and wide, deep-set eyes. He longed to lift it to scratch the itch but, of course, that was quite impossible.
To the world at large, Harbor House was an exclusive social club frequented by Gotham’s elite. On nights such as this one, the looming Gothic edifice hosted gatherings of a more clandestine organization, whose interests went far beyond simple socializing. The Court of Owls sat around a long oak table in a windowless room on the uppermost floor of a turret. A candlelit chandelier, along with a row of candelabras lined up on the table, cast an animated light across the gloomy chamber, which housed an intimidating collection of artwork.
Oil portraits of wide-eyed raptors were framed upon the walls. Owls of bronze and jade and gold perched on shelves and the mantle of the fireplace. Examples of the taxidermist’s art, which Percy found distasteful, hung suspended above the conference, spreading their wings as though in flight. The lack of subtlety appalled him.
Heaven forbid we should forget our esteemed totem.
Porcelain masks, identical to the one discomforting Percy, hid the faces of the well-dressed men and women convened around the table. Many of the masks, he knew, were family heirlooms passed on from one generation to another. Percy had inherited his own mask from his late father, who had received it from his father before him and so on, all the way back to the colonial era. The Court of Owls was not for the nouveaux riches. Its wealth was old wealth, accumulating over time.
The Grandmaster, an elderly fellow now stooped with age, rose with visible effort to lead the Court in the customary invocation.
“Beware the Court of Owls that watches all the time…” he began, and the others joined in. Percy recited the rhyme along with the rest of the assembly. In truth, however, he found these theatrics faintly ridiculous. Gotham’s upper crust was not so large that he couldn’t guess whose faces were behind most of the masks, yet the Court was nothing if not devoted to preserving its hallowed traditions—and power.
“Let us get on with the conclave,” the Grandmaster said, the ritual complete. He sank with obvious relief back into his seat at the end of the table, wheezing audibly behind his mask. Rumor had it the old man was not long for this world. “We have much to discuss.”
“Indeed.” Margaret was quick to agree. She sat to Percy’s left, her own expression concealed. Her family, the Addisons, was equally well established in the Court. “These troubled times demand vigorous action on our part.”
Despite himself, Percy was amused by his wife’s eagerness to speak up. That she had ambitions of rising in the Court, and perhaps even taking the aging Grandmaster’s place someday, was to be expected. It was not in her nature to settle for less.
“Such as?” the Grandmaster inquired.
“The unfortunate incident at the Pyramid Garment Factory,” she answered, referring to a recent tragedy in which more than a dozen seamstresses, many of them immigrants from overseas, had perished during a fire. Their workplace had been ill equipped with fire escapes and exits. Percy had read the newspaper accounts with sorrow, but Margaret had her own concerns regarding the disaster. “Already the usual malcontents are seizing upon this freak accident to stir up discontent among the lower classes, shamelessly taking advantage of the deaths to press for excessive regulation of free enterprise, disruptive labor actions, and unionization of the garment trade.”
Her contemptuous tone conveyed disapproval, which was shared by many of her fellow Owls. They muttered and grumbled at such radical notions, which ran contrary to the best interests of the Court and its members. The Bolshevik uprising in Russia, barely a year in the past, had instilled in the Owls a positive loathing for any sort of workers’ revolt. They were by no means inclined to share their power with the common herd.
“And how do you propose we counter these alarming initiatives?” the Grandmaster asked, and again Margaret was quick to respond.
“Let us promote the story that the fire was started by foreign anarchists, who callously sacrificed the lives of innocent women in their fanatical crusade against modern industry,” she suggested. “Ideally, this will shift the conversation away
from empowering the unwashed masses, while providing a timely excuse for the authorities to crack down on those subversive elements intent on sabotaging the proper social order.”
“Anarchists?” Percy murmured to his wife. “Is that true?”
She shrugged. “Does it matter?”
“An intriguing proposition,” the Grandmaster said. “Certainly worth further consideration.”
Percy imagined Margaret beaming behind her mask. A lively discussion followed, then the conclave moved on to other pressing issues. One member of the Court proposed curbing the circulation of tabloid newspapers that were not yet under their editorial control. Another wished to discredit a stubbornly reform-minded political candidate by ensnaring him in an unsavory sex scandal. It was suggested that they acquire, by fair means or foul, several choice pieces of real estate that were bound to appreciate in value once various public and private works were made to happen. Also on the agenda: determining the outcome of the upcoming elections, bribing a Federal judge, and convincing Gotham’s latest district attorney that it would be unwise to press charges against the errant son of a prominent family, who had recently run over a young girl while taking a joy ride in his new motorcar.
Percy squirmed restlessly in his seat.
Unlike Margaret, who was in her element, he had little interest in matters of politics and finance. His passions were art and science, which he judged to be of greater lasting value than the ephemera of current affairs. Although they had both been born into the Court, Percy was more than content to let Margaret play politics. As the tedious meeting wore on, he occupied himself with the hypnotic dance of the candle flames, while he pined for his studio and Lydia.
In his mind’s eye he began to conceive a new work for which Lydia would be perfect—Cassandra foreseeing the Fall of Troy— and he was eager to commence work on it. Although he was still toying with the precise details, he could almost see the finished piece. No doubt Lydia would improve on whatever he could devise—
“Pay attention!” Margaret hissed sotto voce, breaking his reverie. She nudged him below the table. “The Grandmaster is speaking to you.”
Dear God, he thought, experiencing a moment of panic. He thanked Providence for the mask that concealed his alarm and confusion as he sought to recover from his inexcusable lapse of attention. “Forgive me, but can you repeat that?”
“I asked,” the Grandmaster said huffily, “for the status of the renovations to the Labyrinth.”
The Court’s underground prison, torture chamber, and on occasion gladiatorial area was showing its age, in particular a large marble figure of the Great Owl. Percy had been drafted to sculpt a replacement on an even grander scale, the better to reflect the Court’s growing power and influence in this bold new century. That at least was a way in which his talents and the Court’s interests coincided.
“It’s an ambitious project,” he replied, regaining his composure, “which will require a great deal of time and labor. I am confident, however, that the final result shall more than justify the effort. I am already in the process of acquiring a truly monumental block of the finest Italian white marble from which I will personally liberate the Great Owl of hallowed tradition.”
The Grandmaster nodded, seemingly satisfied with Percy’s report. “I look forward to beholding the culmination of your labors and artistry. Our sacred Labyrinth deserves nothing less than an idol worthy of this Court.”
“Quite so,” Percy agreed diplomatically. Quietly he breathed a sigh of relief. Then the Grandmaster spoke to him again.
“And what of your scientific pursuits?” he asked. “I hear rumors of a promising new elixir.”
Caught flat-footed by the query, Percy glanced in dismay at his wife. As far as he knew, she alone was acquainted with the arcane nature of his experiments. His private laboratory occupied the basement of his house in the city—the same building that held his studio. By confiding in her, he had sought more time alone there. Now he cursed himself for doing so. He should have guessed she would seek to turn his discoveries to her own advantage.
“My… elixir?” He stalled, uncertain how much the Grandmaster already knew. “My experiments appear to date to bear out my theory, but it would be… premature to consider any practical applications at this point. There is still much work to be done to eliminate certain… incendiary… side effects that render the current formulas lethal in the extreme.” This was not dissembling. A discouraging heap of charred laboratory mice and rabbits could attest to it.
“Is that so?” the Grandmaster wheezed. “What a pity. From what I hear, this discovery of yours could be of incalculable value to the Court.” He peered at Percy through the holes in his mask. “I trust you appreciate that.”
His eyes seemed to go cold.
Percy swallowed hard. “Fully, sir.”
“Good,” the Grandmaster said. “Then you must expend every effort to perfect your elixir, and make it available to the Court as soon as is possible.”
“Have no fear, Grandmaster,” Margaret said beside him, and he jumped. “We understand perfectly, don’t we, dear?”
Percy felt like one of his own test animals, trapped in a cage he could not escape.
“Yes, of course.”
* * *
A horse-drawn carriage waited to deliver them to the Plaza Hotel, where they had booked their usual suite in anticipation of the conclave running well into the evening. It was too late to embark on the long trip back to their mansion in the country and, unsurprisingly, Margaret wanted nothing to do with his private lodgings downtown. This was fine with Percy, who was none too eager to share that refuge with her. What sat less well was the growing certainty that he been placed in a highly difficult position. He waited until the carriage was underway before confronting her.
“How the devil does the Grandmaster know about my experiments?”
She did not look at him.
“I may have mentioned something of the sort during a private tea with him and his wife,” she said without a trace of remorse. “At one of those dreary social occasions you can seldom be bothered to attend.”
“Why in God’s name would you do such a thing?” he pressed, leaning in. “Is this some petty act of revenge because of Lydia?” Then she did look at him, and her gaze burned into him, even in the darkness of the coach. He moved back.
“I’ll thank you not to speak that trollop’s name in my presence,” she said. “And don’t be absurd. I have far weightier matters on my mind than your trifling infidelities.”
“Such as?”
“My… our position within the Court. It remains vital that we demonstrate our unquestionable value to the order. More, that we be seen as indispensable to the Court’s future.” This time she subjected him to an icy glare. “You may be content to coast on your family’s long history, treating your membership as an inconvenient obligation, but I intend to make the most of my birthright. What was the point, I ask you, of consolidating our family fortunes if not to assume a leadership position among the Owls?”
“What indeed?” he asked dryly. “But I flatter myself to think that I have served the Court in my own fashion, as an artist and scientist. My studies into the unique chemical properties of electrum alone—”
“Are all very well and good,” she conceded, “but again, we cannot rest on our laurels. It is not enough for us to be of use to the Court. At this critical juncture, we must become pivotal to the organization’s success. Your astounding elixir could be the key to our ascension.”
“But it is nowhere near ready!” he protested. “You know that. It could be years before I find a solution—if there even is one. Yet thanks to you, the Grandmaster now expects results, and quickly.”
“How distressing for you,” she said without a trace of sympathy. “Perhaps if you were to spend more time in your laboratory and less in your studio…”
Then he saw through her machinations. She had deliberately manufactured this crisis out of an insidious mixture
of jealousy and ambition.
“That is not how it works,” he said, his voice a low growl. “Science cannot be rushed, nor can inspiration be simply diverted from one arena to another. My scientific pursuits and my artistic vision feed each other, but they are not interchangeable. Both are necessary to keep my mind and soul in balance,” he continued. “You may suppose that you have spurred me to pursue my experiments with greater alacrity—at the expense of my art—but all you have accomplished is to promise the Court a miracle I… we may be unable to deliver. Genius is not so easily manipulated as politicians or the press, and you cannot force inspiration upon me.”
“As opposed to your precious muse?” she replied. “Understand me, Percy. I tolerate that creature because, as you say, she plays a part in keeping you ‘in balance.’ Your artistic career and reputation have undeniably benefited since you discovered her, but if she becomes a distraction or, worse, a liability… well, unfortunate things can befall careless young women who outlive their usefulness.”
Fear gripped Percy’s heart. “No. You wouldn’t dare!”
“You know me, Percy. Do you truly believe that?”
The rundown fishing cabin was tucked away in the woods overlooking Lake Miagani. An overgrown dirt trail led to the cabin, forcing Batman to park alongside a dimly lit mountain road a short hike away. This was just as well, since he preferred not to alert or alarm any occupants prematurely. It had been a long drive from Gotham City.
With any luck, the trip would be worth it.
The cabin was owned by Dennis Lewton’s maternal grandfather, who currently resided in a nursing home in Blüdhaven. The isolated retreat was at least a quarter-mile from any other residences. With the summer over and hunting season not yet begun, most of those were likely to be empty. So if Dennis—and perhaps even Joanna— wanted to hide from the Court of Owls, grandpa’s cabin might have seemed like a good option. As long as the Talon didn’t follow the same paper trail that had led Batman here.
