The Phantom of the Marshes

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  “Bit of a headache,” he said, running a hand over his forehead. He raised an eyebrow at my muddy trousers. “And yourself? It looks as though you had an eventful excursion.”

  I sat down on the edge of my bed, looking down at my hands. “I went back to the factory.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “Did you? And could you—what about the spell?”

  “I didn’t—I never really had the chance to look for it,” I said, chewing at my lip. “I think—I found the spirit there.”

  I heard the notebook shut, and looked up to see Hal frowning down at it. “The spirit? How do you know?”

  I recounted for him my encounter, brief as it was, and he listened, his frown deepening. When I had finished he took up his pipe and began filling it, tamping down tobacco, the frown never leaving his face.

  “The spirit chased you?” he said, striking a match. “You’re certain of that?”

  I shook my head. “I—well, I thought I heard it following me. But then I ran into the inspector.”

  He gave me a sudden, sharp look. “The inspector? What did you tell him?”

  “Nothing,” I said, startled. “I mean—I didn’t say anything about the spirit, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Hm.” He stuck his pipe, now lit, between his teeth, and leaned back in his chair, closing his eye. “Better to keep it that way, for the time being. The inspector—the less he knows about us, the better, I think.”

  I chewed at my lip a moment, looking down at my hands. I made up my mind not to tell him about the rest of the conversation with Inspector Cross—Hal felt badly enough over my encounters with magic, and I could not see passing the inspector’s scolding on to him, especially not when I looked at the patch over his eye and remembered what he had done for me.

  “What do we do now?” I said. “There’s no getting back to the factory—not until after tomorrow, at least.”

  “Then we wait until tomorrow,” he said, without opening his eye. “The inquest should be interesting in itself.”

  The rest of the day passed quietly, and the following morning found us walking through the muddy streets to the coroner’s court. I had slept poorly—visions of red eyes peeking out from the shadows had haunted my dreams, and I followed Hal blearily through the crowded streets. The air was filled with smoke, the sounds of various factories and yards coming alive with striking steel and burning furnace giving notice that another day of work had begun. The thrumming rhythm of industrial magic ran through my veins—after a bad night’s sleep, it was not so much bracing as tiring, and I bit back a yawn.

  Hal strode on ahead of me, his back rigid and tense, while his pipe sent smoke curling up in the air. He had not slept any better than I had—but far from seeming weary, he was full of nervous energy. It coiled about him like a spring.

  We arrived at the coroner’s court—held in a cold, austere room set with hard benches and harshly whitewashed walls. I sat down on a bench, tucking my hands into my pockets to warm them, while Hal sat beside me, his arms folded and his back ramrod straight. We were early, but the benches were soon filled—the same crowd of eager townsfolk that had gathered outside the factory now gathered at the inquest. Their murmurs of speculation built up to a dull roar that abruptly ceased as the door opened once more, and Sir Hector appeared. He leaned heavily on his daughter, his other hand in his pocket, clearly worrying at his coin—but his eyes were sharp enough to cut through the whole of the room. He walked down the aisle, settling himself into a seat, and Rose settled herself beside him. She was pale and thin; the black of mourning suited her ill, giving her the look of one near death herself.

  Andrew followed his father and sister, his shoulders hunched and his head hanging down as he stared moodily at the floor. He seemed all too aware of the eyes that watched him as he made his way to his seat, and he never looked up, even as he took his seat. Rose gave him a quick glance, but he simply continued to glare at the floor.

  The last of the party to enter was the secretary, Alec Wright. He, too, looked pale, and rather harried. He strode to his seat quickly, giving Rose a glance as he passed her. He never said a word as he sat, but his gaze kept returning to her periodically.

  There was a sudden rush of air at my left, and I looked up to see Inspector Cross seated beside me, smiling benignly.

  “Curious lot, aren’t they?” he said, gazing over at the Marshes. “Well, we shall see what we shall see.”

  I blinked at him, rather startled at his sudden appearance. “I suppose so, yes.”

  Inspector Cross nodded, pulling at his mustache, then turned his gaze to my brother. “Ah—Mr. Bishop, you are prepared to give testimony, I hope?”

  “Yes,” Hal said curtly. “It can’t amount to much, but—yes.”

  “Can’t amount to much?” Inspector Cross repeated, eyes crinkling up in amusement. “Why, it is the linchpin of the inquest—it will make the verdict. I am certain.”

  “Your testimony would be good enough for that,” Hal said. “The testimony of any magician would satisfy.”

  “The name Bishop still carries weight—especially here,” Inspector Cross said. “Despite everything.”

  Hal’s mouth flattened into a thin line, but he made no response. He looked away from Inspector Cross, staring intently at the witness chair. A hush fell over the room as the coroner entered and took his seat at the long table at the front of the room. He called the inquest to order. It was not a lengthy proceeding. A Dr. Mead testified first, as to the condition of the body when he examined it, and opined that the cause of death had been heart failure as the result of a sudden shock. The coroner inquired as to the family history and Dr. Mead confirmed that, yes, the deceased’s father suffered from a heart condition.

  It was Andrew’s turn next; his testimony was more interesting to watch than the doctor’s, though less illuminating. He sat in the witness chair with his shoulders hunched, his hands nervously fidgeting, as though he did not know what to do without a cigarette. He described finding the body, and his voice shook as he described his brother’s face.

  “I never saw him look like that—never,” Andrew said. “He—he wasn’t a terribly emotional man, you know. That look on his face—I’ll never forget it. Not to my dying day.”

  The coroner excused him, and Andrew fairly fled back to his seat on the bench, the accusing eyes of the townsfolk following him as he went. It seemed they at least were in no doubt as to the identity of the guilty party. Andrew looked down at his feet, hands fidgeting in his pockets, and finally shook out a cigarette and lit it, drawing deeply from it with an air of relief; his father glared at him icily as he smoked, but Andrew paid him no mind.

  Inspector Cross described the scene, and told the coroner of his investigations there. He offered his opinion that the deceased had been subject to a spell. The coroner inquired as to the nature of the spell, and the inspector paused, glancing over at Hal.

  “Well, professional opinions may certainly diverge,” he said amiably. “But it is my opinion that the spell was one of illusion—meant to frighten the deceased.”

  The coroner dutifully marked this down and excused the inspector, and then it was Hal’s turn at last. There was a murmur in the crowd at the name, and Hal’s shoulder tensed as he passed through them on his way up to the witness chair.

  The coroner had him sworn, and Hal dutifully recounted our presence at the scene. Here the coroner paused and inquired what had brought us there.

  “I had arrived the day prior at the request of Mr. Andrew Marsh,” Hal said. “On a . . . separate matter.”

  Another rumbling through the crowd, and the coroner tapped his gavel on the desk, waiting for order to be restored. Andrew hunched down still further in his seat, smoke curling up from his cigarette, and Rose looked distraught.

  The coroner then inquired, as he had with the inspector, about the spell. Hal glanced over at the inspector, then returned his gaze to the coroner.

  “A blood spell,” he said
. “A bargain with the gentry—the Fair Folk.”

  The coroner blinked at him. “That is—a most unusual accusation. I am familiar with your methods, Mr. Bishop—but you must allow that they are rather unorthodox.”

  “I do allow it,” Hal said evenly. “But orthodoxy matters little where it conflicts with truth—and I have given you my opinion on the true nature of this spell.”

  The coroner shook his head, and marked this down as well. Hal was excused, and the coroner retired a moment to consider his verdict. It was not long before he returned, however—and in the face of the evidence, the verdict was obvious.

  “It is the verdict of this inquest,” the coroner said, when he had returned and called the inquest to order once more, “that the death of Simon Marsh was the result of murder by magic, perpetrated by person or persons unknown.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Though the verdict may have seemed obvious to me, it caused a stir in the crowd. A general murmur went up, and surreptitious glances were directed both at Andrew and at Hal. Hal stood and strode from the room, hands in his pockets and smoke billowing up from his pipe. He kept his gaze fixed before him as he walked, glancing neither to the right nor left; but I, following behind him, could not fail to notice the wide-eyed glances and whispers behind hands that trailed him as he walked.

  The Marsh family had its own gauntlet of stares and whispers to push through—though the steely-eyed gaze of Sir Hector chilled much of the outright gawking. When we had made our way back out into the muddy street, Sir Hector turned to Hal.

  “I hope you know what you’re about,” he said. “The Fair Folk? Here? Nonsense.”

  Hal gave him a strange look. “But why should it be so odd that they should be here? The folklore of this country is rich with stories of them.”

  “But this is England!” Sir Hector protested, hand clutching the coin in his pocket, and his eyes sharp. “Not—not some uncivilized backwater.”

  “Hm.” Hal rocked back on his heels, a meditative expression in his eye. “No, perhaps not. But perhaps England is not so civilized as you believe it to be.”

  Sir Hector fixed Hal with a sharp expression, fear passing through his eyes before a hardened resolve set in them once more.

  “Well, such things cannot happen here,” he said. “I won’t allow it.”

  Rose came up beside him, taking his arm. Her face was even paler in the sunlight, giving her a ghostly look—though her eyes were red-rimmed, rather spoiling the ethereal effect.

  “Come, Father,” she said gently. “You’ll take a chill.”

  “Bah, a chill,” he said gruffly. “I’m not a child.”

  “Best listen to her, Sir Hector,” said Alec mildly. He was watching Rose with a wistful sort of expression. “Else she’ll insist on the doctor.”

  Sir Hector grumbled, but let himself be led aside. Alec stayed behind, watching the pair with furrowed brow.

  “His health really is poor,” he said. He sighed and ran a hand over his brow. “This—shock, I suppose you’d call it—has been terribly hard on him.”

  He nodded over to the building where Andrew stood, leaning against the wall, cigarette clenched between his lips. “And that one. Heaven knows what this will mean for him.”

  “I can answer that,” said a familiar voice, and I turned to see Inspector Cross standing behind me. “It’s fortunate that his father has already been sent home—I should have wanted to spare him the spectacle.”

  “Spectacle?” Alec said, frowning. “What do you mean?”

  The inspector’s face turned solemn, and he gestured behind him. Two constables moved up beside him and he strode over to Andrew. Andrew looked up as they approached, his eyes wide and his cigarette dangling from his lips. Hal followed the inspector, and I followed behind him, wondering what the inspector was about to do.

  “Andrew Marsh,” he said, in a solemn tone to match his expression. “I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Simon Marsh.”

  The constables moved forward, taking hold of Andrew’s arms as the inspector continued his recitation. Andrew stared wildly at the inspector before swinging his gaze over to Hal.

  “Mr. Bishop,” he said, the cigarette falling from his lips to sputter in the mud. “Mr. Bishop, don’t let them—I haven’t done anything. Don’t let them put me in a cell—I can’t . . .”

  His words trailed off, the haunted expression returning to his eyes, and I knew that he was imagining himself trapped behind a locked door, unable to escape the phantom that terrorized him every night.

  “On what basis do you accuse him?” Hal said mildly. He was observing the scene coolly, hands in his pockets, as though watching a client placed under arrest were as commonplace as buying a paper. “He cannot have cast that spell—he is not a magician.”

  “No,” Inspector Cross conceded, pulling at his mustache. “But he is quite capable of paying to have a spell cast. He was seen with a magician before his brother died.”

  Hal’s lip curled, though his tone remained mild. “And shall I, too, be arrested?”

  “Heavens, no!” Inspector Cross chuckled. “I don’t mean you, of course—we have had a report that there was another person—a known magician—who met with Mr. Marsh before his brother’s death.”

  Hal turned his gaze on Andrew, raising a single eyebrow. Andrew’s face had turned ashen, his eyes staring ahead blankly, and he shook his head.

  “Well, what say you, Mr. Marsh?” Hal said. “Is there truth in it?”

  Andrew’s lips trembled. “I can’t—I can’t—I haven’t done anything! I swear it!”

  “That’s quite enough,” Inspector Cross said. “Come along—let us get on with it.”

  The constables led Andrew away, while we returned to Alec Wright, who had been watching the proceedings with a look of abject horror on his face. Andrew turned at the last moment, his face still pale, and gathered his wits enough to shout back at Alec.

  “Father’s solicitor!” he called. “Send for his solicitor!”

  Alec nodded blankly, still staring after him as he was led from our sight. When Andrew and the policemen had disappeared around a corner, he turned to Hal and I, blinking in surprise.

  “God, what a thing to happen,” he said, running a hand over his face. “Do you suppose he has done it? He—certainly he never loved Simon. But murder?”

  “I can think of nothing less likely,” Hal said, frowning in the direction that Andrew had gone. “But still—it remains possible.”

  “Poor Rose,” Alec said, shaking his head. “And Sir Hector, of course. What a thing to have in your family! I can scarcely believe it.”

  “Hm.” Hal rocked back on his heels, still staring after Andrew. “But who was the other magician? I wonder.”

  Alec pushed a hand through his hair, looking tired. “Don’t ask me—I’ve no idea. Well—I suppose I had better send for the solicitor.”

  “Don’t bother,” Hal said. “I shall send for my own. He has some experience in matters of magic—it will be a benefit to have his aid. Another might prove a hindrance.”

  Alec frowned. “I shouldn’t feel right about having someone else in—Sir Hector trusts his solicitor implicitly. And he is a man who knows magic quite well—though not a magician. I believe Andrew consulted him recently.”

  This brought Hal’s attention back to Alec. “Not Mr. Bonham?”

  “Yes, of course,” Alec said, frown deepening. “He has been Sir Hector’s solicitor for years. Is there something wrong?”

  “Not in the least,” Hal said, his face clearing. “That is very good news—Mr. Bonham is just who I meant to call. Well, send for him—and tell him to contact me directly he arrives.”

  Alec nodded, then set his shoulders in the manner of a man preparing for a fight. “I suppose I had better be on my way—someone must break the news to Rose and her father.”

  He tipped his hat and took his leave. Hal turned back in the direction of our inn, and I quickened my pace to walk bes
ide him.

  “What can it mean?” I said. “This other magician? Why would Andrew have consulted him?”

  “Who can know?” Hal said, frowning around his pipe. “Perhaps he tried another avenue before seeking my aid.”

  “But—no, I hardly think so,” I said. “He wouldn’t have known who to look for—he asked Mr. Bonham to send him a magician. If he had known one, he would have fetched him himself.”

  Hal’s lips curled up in a half-smile. “Perhaps you are right about that. Nevertheless—the question can scarcely be answered by speculating on it. We must go to the source. Tomorrow we shall ask Andrew ourselves.”

  We walked the rest of the way to the inn in silence, Hal’s pipe billowing smoke in the air, and sat down to a silent meal once we arrived. Hal scarcely touched his food; he sat, staring broodingly into the fireplace and drumming his fingers upon the table, while his pipe sent up curls of smoke. I poked at my food; my mind swirled with questions—about the other magician, about Andrew, and about Inspector Cross—but it was evident that Hal was in no mood for conversation.

  We finished our meal and then returned to our room. Hal went to the desk and pulled out the notebook in which he had been writing the day before, and I sat down on my bed, watching him for a moment.

  “What are you writing down?” I said. “We’ve scarcely learned anything. We knew already that Simon Marsh was killed by magic, and it’s hardly a surprise that Andrew should be suspected of it.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, without looking up. “But this other magician intrigues me. If there is another—one who knows of curses . . .”

  A shock of realization passed through me, sending a crawling sensation across the back of my neck. “T.S.,” I said. “The other magician—but why would he speak to Andrew?”

  “That is indeed the question,” he said, shutting the notebook and turning to look at me. “We must see the factory—I must know about the engines.”

  I looked down at my feet. “I suppose. Perhaps Alec will have the factory open tomorrow.”