Inspector Cross stepped forward, holding out a hand. “Inspector Alistair Cross, of Scotland Yard. I’m afraid—we’ve some rather bad news for you.”
Sir Hector regarded the offered hand with cold disdain, and did not take it. “A policeman? Andrew, what have you done now? It was a mistake for Simon to send for you—I told him as much.”
“He’s dead, Father,” Andrew said shortly. “So you needn’t trouble yourself about it now.”
Sir Hector abruptly stopped rubbing at the coin, though he didn’t set it down. He shifted his gaze from Andrew to the inspector. “Dead?” he said. “Is this true?”
Inspector Cross nodded soberly. “Yes. And—I’m afraid—it does not appear to have been an accident.”
“Murder?” Sir Hector raised his eyebrows once more, turning to his son. “Perhaps you have more gumption than I supposed.”
Andrew shifted his feet, gazing darkly down at the floor. “Don’t be absurd, Father. Of course I didn’t kill him.”
Sir Hector began rubbing his coin again. “No? That would be more like you—to wait on another to do what you wanted done.”
“Oh, stop,” said the girl’s voice that had bade Andrew in. I turned to see her standing off in one corner of the study, her face very white. She had the same dark hair as Andrew, and the same eyes—though in her they were soft and bright, made all the brighter just now by the tears that stood in them. “Father, stop. He’s just told us poor Simon is dead—don’t you feel anything for that?”
Sir Hector’s face softened instantly, and he turned to his daughter. “Never mind, Rose—never mind. I’m unsettled by it, that’s all—very unsettled.”
She went to him, laying a hand on his shoulder, and he patted her hand, before looking down at his coin. Something strange entered his expression then, and he stared down at the coin, rubbing at it as though he could rub it out of existence.
“So Simon is dead,” he said, after a moment. “I am surprised by it—he hardly had enough character to get himself killed. He was devoted to the factory—lived there, almost. I should say that I am not surprised he died there.”
“He was a good son to you,” Rose said quietly. “He worked very hard.”
“He did that,” her father agreed, glancing up at Inspector Cross. “Now, tell me how my son died—and why you think that he was murdered.”
“It was a curse that killed him,” Hal said, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe and giving Sir Hector an appraising look. “He died in fear—terror, really.”
Sir Hector looked at Hal, narrowing his eyes. “And who are you? Another policeman?”
“No—we are not so fortunate,” Inspector Cross said amiably. “This is Mr. Bishop. The boy is his brother—here as his apprentice.”
“Bishop?” Sir Hector’s thumb abruptly stopped rubbing, and he clutched the coin tightly in a fist. “Are you, by chance, a relative of Charles Bishop?”
“He was my father,” Hal said, glancing away from Mr. Marsh. “You knew him, I imagine.”
“Knew him!” Sir Hector gave a short bark of laughter. “He was the best magician I ever knew—until his mind went. Well, if it is magic that has killed my son, then I am glad to have someone who knows something about it.”
There was the sound of footsteps in the passage, and the door swung open to reveal a breathless youth, his hair disheveled and cheeks reddened by the wind. He clutched a satchel in one hand, holding the door open with the other, and stood panting for a moment, while Sir Hector regarded him icily.
“Mr. Wright,” he said coolly. “How good of you to join us. You are more than half an hour late.”
“Yes, sir,” the youth said, stepping into the room and closing the door. “I know—but I meant to stop at the factory first. There’s—something’s happened. They wouldn’t tell me what—but someone said . . .”
“Simon is dead,” Sir Hector said curtly. He gestured at Inspector Cross. “The police are here. They have it in hand. Take your seat.”
Mr. Wright did as he was bid, taking a seat at a small desk in one corner of the study. As he went, he gave a troubled glance to Rose, who shook her head minutely. She stepped away from her father, smoothing down her skirt.
“I’ll—I’ll have Alice send up some tea, shall I?” she said, going over to the corner of the room, and pulling on the strap that hung beside the fireplace. “Andrew, do sit, won’t you? You look dreadful.”
Andrew glanced sidelong at his father, who did not look at him—he had returned his gaze to the coin in his hand, turning it over between thumb and forefinger. Seeing that his father took no notice of him, he went and settled himself in an armchair before the fireplace, leaning his forehead in his hand.
Alice appeared at the door and Rose gave her instructions; but just as she turned from the door, her father looked up.
“Rose, go and fetch my medicine,” he said. “I’m—I’m having a bit of the trouble. The excitement, you know.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Are you—do you need a rest?”
“Just go and fetch it!” he snapped, then ran a hand over his forehead. “Please, my dear.”
She nodded, her eyes wide, and went from the room, the door shutting behind her. Mr. Marsh looked back down at his coin.
“She doesn’t like to hear this,” he said quietly. “But I know that Simon was not a good son. He was stealing from me.”
“For God’s sake, Father!” Andrew said, sitting up abruptly. “I never pretended to like him—but he was your son. He’s just died this morning—his body’s still at his desk! Don’t start this now. It’s—it’s indecent.”
“Indecent?” Sir Hector said, his face twisting into a grimace. “Indecent? I’ll tell you what’s indecent—to have one son groveling and sniveling before my face, all the while taking from my life’s work, and the other making an ass of himself over two continents! Indecent! Don’t you tell me . . .”
He cut off abruptly, gasping for air, and clutching at his chest with his right hand, while the other gripped the coin in a white-knuckled grip. For a moment, we all stood astonished—until Mr. Wright got to his feet and went around the side of the desk, pulling a bottle of brandy and a cup from a drawer. This he poured and handed over to Mr. Marsh, who took a deep swallow of the brandy. He set it down, closing his eyes and taking several deep breaths.
“Get out,” he said quietly, after a long moment, his tone weary. “All of you, get out—you’re useless to me.”
Andrew stood from the chair and left without protest, his expression dull and haggard. Mr. Wright hesitated for a moment, holding the brandy in one hand.
“Are you quite all right, sir?” he said. “Shall I—shall I send for the doctor?”
“The doctor,” Sir Hector repeated, and laughed hollowly. “Will he bring my son back to me? Will he—no. Never mind. Get out, I said. Get out!”
Mr. Wright set the brandy down, his face troubled, and we followed him from the room. Andrew waited in the passage, leaning against one wall with his arms folded over his chest. Rose came up the stairs just as I pulled the door closed. She took in our little group with a stricken expression.
“Oh, what’s happened now?” she said. She gave a pleading glance to Mr. Wright. “Is he ill, Alec?”
“He’s having one of his—his tempers,” Andrew said, tapping at his temple. “He’s gone around the bend, Rose—that’s all there is to it. That nonsense about Simon—as though anyone could believe it. It’s disgraceful.”
She shook her head vigorously. “He’s an old man, and he’s ill—and he’s just had a terrible shock. I think it’s disgraceful of you to say such things.”
She went into the study, pulling the door closed with a sharp click behind her, and Andrew ran a hand through his hair wearily.
“Then you do not believe your brother was embezzling?” Inspector Cross said.
“Of course not,” Andrew said. “He was many things, but a thief? Why should he be? It was all going to be his—and sooner than later, by the look
s of it. You saw Father just now—it’s his heart, the doctor says. He hasn’t more than a few months left, if that.”
“Is this a recent invention?” Hal said. “This imagining about your brother?”
“Yes,” Andrew said. “And not the only one—you tell them, Alec. You’ve known him better than I have, lately.”
Alec cleared his throat, giving a troubled glance to the door. “He’s—he’s paranoid, these days. He’s accused me of going through his desk more than once. And he—well, he suggested that Andrew had come back to poison him, yesterday. These—fits, I suppose you could call them—come upon him with some regularity.”
“Don’t mistake me,” Andrew said. “He has always been difficult, but this—it’s nonsense. He’s completely out of his mind.”
“How interesting,” Inspector Cross said, pulling at his mustache. “Well, your father has been informed—now we must wait upon the inquest. Oh, and Mr. Marsh—I shouldn’t go anywhere, if I were you.”
“Wasn’t planning on it,” Andrew said moodily. “I haven’t anywhere else to go, more’s the pity.”
“Very good,” the inspector said. “We’ll be taking our leave of you then.”
He took off down the stairs, his amiable mood unabated by the scene we had just left, and Hal and I followed, Hal in a considerably more perturbed state than Inspector Cross. We took our coats and stepped out into the cool, damp air. I drew in a deep breath—I had not been focusing on it, but now that I was out in the fresh air, I could feel how the magic had been weighing upon me. A headache had built up behind my eyes, and I felt a terrible sort of weariness.
“Bit of a morning for you, eh?” Inspector Cross said. “You look a bit washed out.”
I blinked at him, a bit startled. “I’m fine. It’s just . . .”
“It has been, as you say, a bit of a morning,” Hal cut in. “I think we shall return to the inn. Good day, Inspector.”
Inspector Cross pulled out his pocket-watch. “Ah! Look at the time. Yes, I had better be on my way as well.”
He stepped into the street and disappeared in the crowd. A whisper of a breeze rushed past me, and I felt a sudden startling sense of déjà vu. I stared after him, my eyes wide.
“What is it?” Hal said, frowning at me. “Are you all right?”
“An illusion,” I said, turning to him. “An air spirit—that’s what it was. In the pub, yesterday. I didn’t realize—because I wasn’t looking for it . . .”
Hal’s frown deepened, and he turned his gaze to where Inspector Cross had slipped into the crowd. “So—he was there, but he did not want to be seen,” he said. “That is something.”
He turned and began walking toward the inn, hands tucked into his pockets and his pipe billowing smoke. I followed behind, grateful for the distance we were putting between ourselves and the Marsh residence. I thought of the way Andrew had looked when his father had accused him of murdering his brother, and shuddered.
“What a family,” I said. “To have a father like that . . .”
“Hm,” Hal said, without looking back at me. “They do seem to have their problems.”
“Yes,” I said. “But isn’t it odd that he should be ill just now . . .”
Hal stopped abruptly, so that I almost ran into his back. He turned to me, a strange expression on his face. “I think, perhaps, this is a conversation better had over a meal,” he said, glancing out into the street. “I should like to get out of this air.”
I followed his glance, uncertain of his meaning. But then I felt it again—the sudden rush of air past my face, like someone moving past me that I could not see, and I nodded. Hal turned back toward the inn, quickening his pace. I followed behind—and wondered why the inspector should be keeping such close watch on us.
CHAPTER FIVE
Upon arriving back at the inn, we went down into the pub for a meal. It was close and dim, the only light coming from a flickering fire and one dirty window. The tables were all but empty, the only patron near to us an elderly gentleman with a still more elderly dog, snoozing before the fire. Nevertheless, I took my seat with an uncomfortable sense that we were being scrutinized. Hal took his seat across from me, frowning around his pipe. The innkeeper brought our meal—a bit of watery stew and rather hard bread—and I stared down at it, utterly without appetite.
“Are you ill?” Hal said. “The magic—is it having that much of an effect on you?”
“It’s not that,” I said, poking at the stew absently with a spoon. I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “How do we know he isn’t here?”
Hal’s lips quirked up in a half-smile. “Our friend the inspector is not the only person who knows how to cast an illusion spell.”
He took a bit of chalk from his pocket and drew a few quick strokes upon the wood of the table—a circle, wrapped around a drawing of a sylph, with a few characters that signified the name of the spirit. He laid his hand upon it, closing his eye, and I felt the air shift around us. It was a subtle spell—nothing showy or elaborate, but the effect of it was that the sound from without was entirely muted, as though Hal and I sat in a private bubble shut away from the rest of the world. A rush of fresh-scented air filled my lungs, like a breeze from the seaside, and I felt the tightness in my chest ease.
“There we are,” Hal said, opening his eye and tucking the chalk back into his coat. “Now we may speak without fear of listeners.”
I picked up my bread, crumbling it into the stew. “Why should he be watching us? Why should he have been here when we met with Andrew?”
Hal folded his arms over his chest. “I strongly suspect that we are the ‘other business’ that brought the inspector here.”
“We?” I said, dropping the bread. “But how could he have known we were coming here?”
“That is the question,” he said. “I doubt that Mr. Bonham would have told him—and indeed, Mr. Bonham only knew that we were coming the day before. Hm—that is a puzzle.”
I stirred the stew around once more. “I don’t like it. What Mr. Bonham said before we left—I don’t like it at all.”
“No more do I,” he said, leaning back in his seat. “But we haven’t much choice save to deal with him—it seems that he is taking over the official portion of this investigation.”
“Then perhaps we ought to leave it to him,” I said, looking down at the table. “He seems—competent enough.”
Hal snorted. “Certainly—if you want to see someone hanged for this, and none saved. Andrew’s life is still in danger, and there may be others. I’ve given Andrew my word that I shall try to solve this. No, I think we will not leave it to the inspector.”
I did not look up at him—I kept my eyes fixed on the rugged table as I spoke again, choosing my words carefully. “But—if we do break the curse, then he will see exactly what Mr. Bonham was talking about. He’ll see you dealing with spirits. Then what?”
“It is not, so far as I am aware, a crime for one to sacrifice oneself to a spirit,” Hal said, after a long moment. “Curses are those spells placed upon the unwilling. I have done nothing against the law—only that which is not covered by it.”
“I suppose,” I said, taking up the bread once more and crumbling it. “But what if . . .”
“Don’t worry about it, Jem,” he said. “Mr. Bonham and I discussed this possibility before I ever embarked on this venture. I have it in hand. And—as my apprentice, you are shielded. Everything you have done is my responsibility as your master. You cannot be held accountable.”
I jerked my head up, staring at him. “That’s not—it’s not me I’m worried about.”
He smiled, though there was something of a strained quality to it. “As I say, I have it in hand. The inspector will do as he pleases—Mr. Bonham and I have a plan for the worst eventuality. But I do not think it will come to that. Let us return to that which we can resolve—this spirit that troubles the Marshes.”
I dropped my gaze from him, looking down moodily at my stew. I had a tho
usand questions about this plan of his and Mr. Bonham’s—but I could see that he was in no mood to discuss it. I sighed, poking at a lump of cold potato with my spoon.
“All right,” I said. “What do you make of it?”
He took down his pipe and began filling it, tamping down the tobacco. “A curious case, this. I believe that we are dealing with a dullahan—but for it to run after a family like this is strange indeed.”
“Unless someone has contracted for it to do so,” I said, and a shiver ran across my neck at the memory of the sharp, acrid taste of blood in my throat. “A spirit like that—the payment must be dear indeed.”
“Hm.” Hal finished filling his pipe and lit it, tucking it between his teeth. “Yes—I can only think that there is a terrible vengeance here. But we are very early on in the matter. I can scarcely speak to who might have done it.”
I rested my chin in my hand, staring thoughtfully at the little spell circle in the corner of the table. “Certainly there was no love lost between Andrew and his brother—the inspector seems to have settled upon that as well. But then—why should the spirit trouble him? And why should he come to us?”
“Because he is covering himself,” Hal said. “Perhaps he was lying when he spoke to us.”
I recalled Andrew’s haunted, weary face when we spoke to him, and shook my head. “No—I don’t think that’s the case at all.”
He gave me another half-smile and blew out a puff of smoke. “Perhaps not. And then there is this strange illness of their father’s.”
“Yes,” I said, frowning. “But it doesn’t add up to anything.”
“Not yet,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table. “And there is something else.”
I sat up, puzzled. “What do you mean?”
He looked away from me, out into the dimly shadowed pub. “Father’s spell. You’ve been searching for it, haven’t you?”
I blinked, looking down at the table. So he had noticed, after all. “Yes, but . . .”
“You haven’t found it,” he said, drumming his fingers more vigorously against the table. “I couldn’t sense it, but my sense is not as strong—if you could not find it, then I wonder . . .”
The Phantom of the Marshes Page 4
