The Phantom of the Marshes

by Elizabeth O'Connell

  “There, there, Thompson,” Inspector Cross said soothingly. “No one blames you. This gentleman would like to speak with you.”

  Hal stepped forward, and Thompson peered at him with narrowed eyes. “Who are you? I know you—I’ve seen you—but who are you?”

  “Hal Bishop,” my brother said. “A magician by profession. I came to your jail yesterday—to visit Andrew Marsh.”

  Thompson’s eyes widened, and he shrank back against the wall. “It was you—you came to set it upon him—that creature.”

  “I assure you that I have set nothing upon anyone,” Hal said, tamping down the tobacco in his pipe. “Andrew Marsh was my client. I had no wish to harm him. It was at my request that you were set to watch him. And now I should like to know what it was that you saw.”

  Thompson darted his eyes wildly over to Inspector Cross, who smiled benignly and gave an encouraging nod.

  “It’s all right, Thompson,” he said. “I can vouch for him.”

  Thompson looked back down at his quilt, clutching it tightly in his hands. He took a deep, shaky breath and closed his eyes before he spoke again.

  “I didn’t see anything,” he said. “I mean—all the lights went out. Candle, lantern—all went out. I thought there’d been a draught—I was trying to light my lantern again. That was when I heard it.”

  Hal frowned, lighting his pipe and tucking it back between his teeth. “Heard what?”

  “Hooves,” Thompson said, his voice drifting away to a whisper. “Hooves, and the sound of breathing—like a horse at a gallop. I don’t know why—but it was like I was frozen. Struck dumb and still with fear—pure terror. That’s all I felt. I made myself look into the cell—and I saw them. Two red eyes—glowing there in the dark. And then—then all I heard was screaming. I don’t remember anything after that.”

  He ran a shaking hand over his face. “I know how it sounds—but that is what happened.”

  “I believe you,” Hal said. “Tell me—Andrew had a pin. Did you see it?”

  Thompson frowned. “I’m not certain—he had something in his hand that he kept staring at. He was angry over something—he threw it away. Muttered something about it being worthless.”

  Hal stood, his face troubled. “Well—I have learned something, at least. I’ll trouble you no more.”

  And with that, we took our leave from the house, returning once more to the station.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Upon returning to the station, we took our leave of Inspector Cross. He watched us go, pulling at his mustache with a perturbed expression on his face, as though there were something more he had wanted to ask Hal, but he did not stop us as we left. I was just as glad to leave the station—it was unnerving to stand under the suspicious gaze of the constables and staff, though it did not seem to trouble Hal in the least. I turned to him as we walked out into the sooty mid-day street.

  “Well, where do we go from here?” I said. “I suppose we ought to go and see Sir Hector . . .”

  “No.” He squinted into the distance, smoke drifting up from his pipe. “What should I tell him? That his son threw away his only chance at living? I think not.”

  “What about the danger to his own life, then?” I said, stuffing my hands into my coat pockets. “Surely he ought to be warned about that.”

  “Unless I am much mistaken, he is already well aware of the danger,” Hal said, walking down the steps and taking a brisk pace down the cobbled street.

  I hurried after him, puzzled by his words. “What do you mean?”

  “Surely you have observed that he has already taken precautions,” he said, without slowing. “No, I do not think he needs a warning. But what is needed—what I need—is space to think.”

  He hurried on ahead, in the direction of the inn, and I followed behind, trying to figure out what he meant by Sir Hector’s having taken precautions—and trying very much not to think about what had happened in Andrew’s cell. The mere memory of it had the acrid burn rising in my throat once more, and I coughed a bit to clear it. Hal glanced back at me with a frown, but said nothing.

  I had succeeded neither in puzzling out what Hal meant nor in clearing the memory of the curse from my mind by the time we reached the inn, but both were put from my mind completely a moment after—for the innkeeper told us that there was someone waiting for us in the pub.

  “Who is it?” Hal said, frowning around his pipe. “I have no plans to meet anyone.”

  The innkeeper shrugged. “Odd-looking fellow. Said you sent for him.”

  Hal’s frown deepened, the patch over his eye making him look positively stern, like an old sea-captain. “Sent for him? I haven’t—oh, damn.”

  The innkeeper stepped back, looking a bit alarmed. “Well, what was I meant to do? I couldn’t very well turn him away . . .”

  Hal waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind. I know who it is now. Come along, Jem.”

  I followed him into the pub, wondering who our mysterious caller could be. He was not to be found among the sparsely populated tables where men sat scattered, taking their quick and simple mid-day meals before returning to their work. We found him instead seated before the fire, nursing a pint as he watched the flames flicker and dance, reflecting in his strange grey-green eyes and casting shadows over his face, framed in mutton-chop whiskers.

  “Mr. Bonham,” I said, rather startled at his sudden appearance. “What are you doing here?”

  He gave me a cheerful grin, sitting back in his chair and settling his hands over his stomach. “I was sent for, was I not? I had a telegram.”

  “I did not send for you,” Hal said, sitting down heavily in the chair opposite Mr. Bonham, still scowling. “I asked you a question—which you have yet to answer. And even if I had sent for you—well, it is too late to do any good.”

  “How so?” Mr. Bonham said, his brows drawing together. “I had a letter from Sir Hector’s secretary as well—a Mr. Wright, I believe. It seems Andrew has found himself in a bit of a tight spot. But I assume you have dealt with that.”

  “It has been dealt with—not by me,” Hal said. “Andrew Marsh is dead. Others will die soon enough, if I cannot resolve this. What do you mean by coming here?”

  Mr. Bonham clicked his tongue, shaking his head sorrowfully. “Ah, poor Andrew. I suppose it was the same thing that took his brother. But never mind—you may still resolve it, before more harm is done. That is not what I have come to speak to you about, in any case.”

  “Then what?” Hal said, raising an eyebrow. “Why have you come here, if not for Andrew?”

  “I confess I did hope to aid poor Andrew—to mollify Sir Hector, at the very least,” Mr. Bonham said. “But that was to wait until I had answered your question—about the second magician.”

  Hal ran a weary hand over his face. “I’ve answered that for myself—Andrew told me the man had a tattoo upon his hand. A spider web.”

  “Aha! You are clever,” Mr. Bonham said. “To have deduced this much without aid of my resources. But did you know that Andrew was not the only person who spoke to this man?”

  I stared at Mr. Bonham, startled. “What do you mean? How can you know that?”

  “Our nameless friend has his eyes, and I have mine,” Mr. Bonham said cheerfully. “But never mind where I heard it—it is what I have heard that is important. Your arachnophile acquaintance spoke with at least two other persons whilst he was in Birmingham.”

  “Who?” Hal was sitting up now, a glint in his eye, more animated than I’d seen him since we entered the police station that morning. “Who else met with him?”

  “Simon Marsh, for one,” Mr. Bonham said. “He was seen to enter Simon’s office—and a lengthy conversation was held. I suppose we know the outcome of that. As for the other—did you know that Sir Hector’s secretary has an interest in magic?”

  “He said he only cared so far as the proper markings were laid upon the engines,” I said. “Why does that matter? What does it have to do with T.S.?”


  “Mr. Wright has not been forthcoming with you,” Mr. Bonham said. “I took the liberty of passing his name on to a few of my acquaintances—and he has more than a passing knowledge of the subject. He made quite a study of it, in fact—though he never completed the training.”

  “A curious thing to lie about,” Hal said, tenting his fingers beneath his chin. “Yes, very curious. But Jem’s question remains unanswered—what has this to do with T.S.?”

  “Why, everything,” Mr. Bonham said. “For Mr. Wright was the second person T.S. met with.”

  “Hm.” Hal closed his eye, a brooding expression stealing over his face. “That is curious, indeed. I suppose you don’t know what they spoke of.”

  “I said I had eyes—not ears,” Mr. Bonham said, taking a draught from his pint and smacking his lips appreciatively. “If you want to know what they spoke of, I’m afraid you’ll have to play detective a bit longer.”

  Hal’s lip curled into a half-smile, though he did not open his eye. “Very well. With what you have given to me—my job shall be that much simpler.”

  “I’m always glad to be of service.” Mr. Bonham drained his pint and stood, taking his watch from his pocket. “Well, I must be off. I did tell Sir Hector I would meet with him today—though I don’t know what use I may be to him now.”

  Hal waved a hand at him, never opening his eye. Mr. Bonham pulled on his coat and turned to go, before stopping abruptly and turning to Hal. His strange eyes seemed to glow in the light from the fireplace, and the shadows cast upon his face made it seem very craggy and old all at once.

  “There is one other thing,” he said, his tone suddenly somber. “Mark these words carefully: you must not return to the factory.”

  Hal opened his eye and looked at Mr. Bonham, brow furrowed. “But the factory is at the center of this mystery—Simon Marsh died there. He fought with his brother over it. Of course I must return.”

  “That is not what I mean,” Mr. Bonham said, with that strange, intense expression still on his face. “You must not search here for your father’s spell—I know that you have been looking. You will not find it—and you must look no further.”

  “But why not?” I said, folding my arms over my chest. “We’ve a right—he was our father. If something’s been done with his spell . . .”

  “No,” Mr. Bonham said. A very strange expression passed over his face just then—a shadow stealing across it, making his face, for just a moment, seem entirely alien. It made the hair on the back of my neck stand up, but only for a moment—for it passed as quickly as it had come. He ran a hand over his face. “Forgive me—but I warn you for your own safety. There is—there are—those that do not wish you to look further. They are watching you.”

  “And I thank you for your warning,” Hal said, turning back to the fireplace. “It is well-taken. But you know very well why I have embarked upon this venture, and you cannot expect me to turn from it now.”

  A spasm passed over Mr. Bonham’s face, and he ran his hand over it again. When he took his hand away, his old expression was back—strangely cheerful as ever, but not the alien gaze that for a moment had startled me.

  “No, I suppose not,” he said. “But truthfully, Mr. Bishop—this is one corner I should not poke in, if I were you.”

  Hal nodded, and Mr. Bonham turned away with a wave of his hand, vanishing into the dim pub. I took the seat he had vacated, staring into the fireplace a moment. I felt strangely unsettled—as though the ground had shifted beneath me. I looked over to Hal, who had closed his eye once more, and was leaning back in his chair with his fingers tented beneath his chin.

  “What do you suppose he meant by that?” I said, keeping my voice low.

  “I suppose he means that there is danger in it,” Hal said, without opening his eye. He gave a short laugh. “As though there has not been danger enough already.”

  I looked at the patch over his eye, and remembered what it had looked like after the spirit had taken his sight from him—the burn that covered nearly half his face. The memory sent a quiver through my stomach. I turned back to the fire, chewing my lip a moment.

  “Hal,” I said after a moment, and waited for him to open his eye and look at me. “Perhaps we had better leave it alone.”

  He raised his eyebrow. “And leave the Marshes to their fate? You know we can’t do that.”

  “No,” I said, looking down at my feet. “No—but we needn’t know about Father’s spell to help them. We can—the curse can be broken without knowing that.”

  “Perhaps—and perhaps not,” he said, frowning. “We know that T.S. had some involvement with Father; we know that Father worked with Sir Jasper, the late Lord Ransom, and also with Sir Hector. What is the common thread? The aether-engines.”

  “I know that,” I said. “We’ve said as much a dozen times. But it hasn’t anything to do with the curse.”

  “You assume too much,” he said, taking his pipe from his pocket and refilling it. “And your assumption is contrary to the evidence. The aether-engines have very much to do with these curses, unless I am much mistaken.”

  I looked away from him, into the fireplace, and remembered the strange and alien gaze that had, for a moment, looked out of Mr. Bonham’s face. It sent a shiver across the back of my neck, and I shook my head.

  “But—at least we may avoid it until absolutely necessary,” I said. “We can do that at least, can’t we?”

  “Why should we avoid it at all?” he said, lighting the pipe. He tucked it between his teeth and glanced over at me, brow furrowed. “This is why I began the entire enterprise of curse-breaking—you know that. I thought you felt as I did—that you wanted to know what happened to Father.”

  “I do, but . . .” I sat up straighter, looking him in the eye. “Not at the expense of—we must be careful.”

  He blew out a puff of smoke, absently touching the patch over his left eye. “I’m wiser now than I was before—pain is an excellent teacher. I will be cautious—but I will not run from the truth merely because it brings danger. Can you understand that?”

  “Yes,” I said, sighing. I was losing the argument, as I always did with Hal. I decided to change the subject—the talk of danger and Father and aether-engines made me feel unsteady—uncertain about the future. “Well, what about the curse? Alec Wright—why should he have met with T.S.?”

  “That is a puzzle indeed,” Hal mused, leaning back in his chair and blowing out a puff of smoke. “And one perhaps better discussed without the possibility of prying ears.”

  He pulled a bit of chalk from his pocket, drawing a wind spell with a few quick strokes. He laid his hand against it and closed his eye. After a moment, I felt the now-familiar muting effect—as though a glass jar had been dropped over us, shutting out the rest of the world. Hal tucked the chalk back into his pocket and sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers under his chin.

  “So—here we have two questions,” he said. “Why has Mr. Wright met with T.S? And, more significant, why has he misled us as to his magical training?”

  I chewed at my lip a moment, watching the fire crackle away behind the gate. “I couldn’t say—but I do remember the subject came up when you asked him about the spell on the engines.”

  “There you are,” he said, closing his eye. “The aether-engines again. And there is the matter of these papers from Canada—first, whether they exist at all, given Sir Hector’s state, and then whether Mr. Wright has taken them.”

  “What should he want with old letters, though?” I said, shaking my head. “That seems to me to be nothing more than Sir Hector’s nonsense. We’ve seen him—he’s out of his head.”

  “Possibly,” Hal said. “Though it strikes me that, as the Bard said, ‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.’ There was a scandal involving Canada—you recall what the telegraph officer said to you.”

  “Well, yes,” I said, doubtfully. “But I can’t see what that would have to do with Mr. Wright. He didn’t come into Sir
Hector’s employ until years after that happened.”

  “He has access to all of Sir Hector’s private papers, as his secretary—the more so because Sir Hector is believed to be non compos mentis. Does it not strike you as possible that he has learned more than Sir Hector intended for him to learn?”

  I frowned. “Blackmail, then? I don’t know.”

  “No?” Hal opened his eye and glanced over at me, raising an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “He just—doesn’t seem the sort,” I said. “And anyway, if he was—where is the money going to? He certainly doesn’t seem to have much of it.”

  “As I say—it is a puzzle,” he said, blowing another cloud of smoke at the ceiling. “We shall have to speak to Mr. Wright to resolve it.”

  “Are you suggesting that we go to Sir Hector’s house and accuse his secretary of blackmail?” I said, incredulously. “Hal—they’ve just had a death in the family. You can’t . . .”

  “Of course not,” he said. “We shall speak to him tomorrow—at the factory.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The next day was dark and sooty, even by the standards I had come to accept from Birmingham. It had rained during the night, and the streets were muddier than ever. This did not dissuade Hal in the least from his mission to meet with Alec at the factory and question him regarding his magical training—far from it, in fact. I had awoken that morning to find that, once more, my brother had awakened before me, and already gone down to the pub. I found him in a chair by the fireplace, leaning back with his hands tented under his chin, while smoke curled about his head. He had scarcely acknowledged my presence before we were out the door and away on our business.

  I followed him now, through the muddy streets, trying to keep pace with his long strides. He walked with a purpose, looking neither right nor left as he strode on, shoulders tense and gaze fixed upon the factory. Hal was certain of our mission—but I did not share his certainty. Mr. Bonham’s words of warning about the factory echoed in my mind, giving me an uneasy feeling in my stomach, and I did not share Hal’s belief that Alec could have been blackmailing Sir Hector. If he had deliberately misled us regarding his training, I felt certain that there must have been another reason.