“Are you feeling quite well?” Hal said, and I turned to see him frowning at me. “Perhaps—it may have been unwise to have you out of bed so soon . . .”
I took a deep breath, letting the air push the pain from my lungs. “No—no. If I had stayed one more day in that room, I should have gone mad. I was just—remembering.”
“Hm.” Hal turned to look at the factory, pushing his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels. He was silent for a moment, the smoke curling up from his pipe. “A strong memory, I gather?”
“Why shouldn’t it be?” I said irritably, not wanting Hal to take it into his head to send me back to mope in that dingy room at the inn. “It did rather make an impression.”
“Yes, I suppose it did,” he murmured, still looking at the factory. By the expression on his face, he was reliving memories of his own—not much more pleasant than mine. But after a moment, he shook his head and turned back to me. “Well, let us get on with it.”
He began walking in the direction of the Marsh residence, and I hurried to keep up with his long, purposeful strides. The streets were crowded, and small groups huddled together, giving us wary glances as we passed, and whispering among themselves. Hal never looked at them, his attention focused on his destination; but I could not help noticing their expressions—the same as the policemen in the station after Andrew had been killed, filled with a wariness that was more fear than suspicion. I looked down at my feet, hurrying after Hal, and tried not to think of what that meant for his license.
We arrived at the Marsh residence after a walk that had felt much longer than it actually was, and were greeted at the door by Sir Hector’s sullen-faced butler, who fixed Hal with a sharp and suspicious eye from the moment he opened the door.
“Sir Hector is not receiving visitors today, sir,” he said, never budging from the doorway. “You must call another time.”
“Well, how fortunate then that I am not here to see Sir Hector,” Hal said, unperturbed by the man’s hostile manner. “I have come call upon Miss Marsh.”
The butler’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Marsh is unwell. You must call another time.”
“But she is expecting me,” Hal said. “Go and inquire. I will wait.”
The butler frowned, a conflicted expression passing momentarily over his face. He glanced back into the house. “But she is unwell, sir.”
“So you have said,” Hal replied, his lips curling into a sardonic half-smile around his pipe. “And yet she has requested specifically that I call upon her. Go and inquire.”
The butler sighed, then nodded, before pushing the door closed. Hal and I waited upon the stoop, Hal silently staring at the door with a curious expression on his face, while smoke drifted up from his pipe. I shifted from one foot to the other, a cold feeling of déjà vu in my chest—Rose Marsh was unwell, and she had asked to see my brother. It was the same way her own brother had begun, and I felt chill sense of certainty that she would end the same way.
At last the butler returned, pushing open the door. He fixed Hal with a steely gaze. “Miss Marsh will receive you,” he said coolly. “But you are not to trouble her for long.”
“I hardly think I shall need more than a moment,” Hal said. “But let us go to her—if I am correct, there is little time to waste.”
The butler nodded curtly and stood aside to let us in. He led us up the narrow stairs to the second floor. I glanced over at the door of Sir Hector’s study—tightly closed, and silent. “Does Sir Hector know we’re here?” I said, keeping my voice low.
“No—Miss Marsh said he is not to be troubled,” the butler replied. “He—this has been quite hard on him, you know.”
“Hm.” Hal blew out a puff of smoke. “He didn’t seem so fond of his sons for all that. I wonder what does trouble him?”
“He’s fond enough of his daughter,” the butler said. “And she’s taken it so badly.”
Hal made a noncommittal noise by way of reply, and then we were before Rose Marsh’s door. The butler gave it a sharp rap, and it slid open, a harried-looking young maid poking her head around it. Her gaze lit on Hal and her eyes went wide.
“Is that them?” she said. “The magicians?”
“It is,” the butler said shortly. “Take them in to your mistress.”
The girl nodded, looking somewhat abashed, and stepped aside to let us pass. We entered into a room that was substantially different to the rest of the house—warm and inviting, with a fire flickering merrily in the fireplace, a soft rug and two cozy-looking chairs beside it. Rose was not to be found before the fire, though; I cast my gaze about the room, and finally lit upon her curled in the window seat, a shawl draped around her shoulders.
“The magicians have come to see you, Miss,” the maid said.
Rose turned to face us, and I was startled at her appearance—pale and wan, eyes rimmed with red, dark circles beneath. Her cheeks were hollow, as though she had not eaten for days, and I would guess that she also had not slept in all that time.
“Mr. Bishop,” she said, her voice thin; her tone was pleasant but strained. “How good of you to come.”
Hal was watching her with furrowed brow, frowning around his pipe. “I have come upon your request. What is it that I may do for you?”
She looked away from him, out the window, leaning her pale forehead against the glass. “I thought—I almost believe that it is a madness in our family,” she said quietly, after a moment. “The thing that Andrew saw—that Father says he saw—I have seen it now, too.”
“It pursues you also?” Hal said. “How long has it been?”
“Since—I suppose since Andrew died,” she said, her voice quavering slightly. “I didn’t think of it then—it seemed only a nightmare. It seemed only natural that I should dream of it, after hearing Andrew speak of it.”
“And now?” Hal said, pushing his hands into his pockets, his frown deepening. “What has made you call for me?”
A tear trickled down her cheek and she wiped it away absentmindedly. “Because—I have seen it now when I am awake. It stands at the foot of my bed—staring at me. I can’t—will I die also, Mr. Bishop? And—what of my father?”
“I am endeavoring to keep both of you safe,” Hal said gravely. “But I can make no promises—it all depends upon the nature of the curse.”
She nodded sorrowfully, pressing her forehead against the glass. “It has been—since the fire, it has been so hard. Father—Father never leaves his study. The maid takes a tray up, but he eats nothing—and I think he has not slept since then. And Alec . . .”
Her voice trailed away in a quiet sigh, and she closed her eyes. Her pale hand clutched at a handkerchief, and it trembled slightly.
“I have not seen Alec since the night of the fire,” she said, after a long moment. “No one has.”
Hal raised an eyebrow. “How very curious. And he has sent no word?”
“Oh no,” she said, turning around to face him. “No, of course he sent word. He is in London—taking care of a family responsibility. It simply—it is the worst time for him to be away. He could reason with Father—at least Father would see him. He lets no one into the study now—save Stark. Our butler.”
“Hm.” Hal rocked back on his heels. “He is in London, you say?”
“Yes,” she said. “But I wish . . .”
She trailed off again, leaning her face against the glass, and I felt a strong surge of pity for her—all alone in this great house, with her father slipping away from her, and a monstrous creature in pursuit of her, all whilst the person she trusted most had gone away. There was a long silence, while she stared out the window, thinking thoughts I could only guess at, before she turned away from the glass and fixed Hal with a steady gaze.
“The fire,” she said, in a deliberately steady tone. “You were there. How did it—how did it happen?”
“I cannot say precisely,” Hal said, taking down his pipe and filling it with tobacco. “It was a spell—of that much I am cer
tain. As for who cast it—that I cannot answer.”
“Inspector Cross has been asking questions,” she said, turning back to the window. “He seems to think it quite strange that you were there. I must say—I find it curious, myself. Why did you go into the factory that night?”
“There were questions I must have answered,” Hal replied. “Questions for which I expected neither your family nor Mr. Wright to have any plausible answer.”
“I suppose it would be too much too ask for you to tell me what these questions were,” she murmured, face pressed against the glass. “But can you tell me whether they were answered? Was it worth it?”
A spasm passed through Hal’s jaw, and I felt a rush of hot anger on his behalf. He had asked himself the same question often enough since the fire—he did not need to hear it from the very person we had come to help.
“If you think we had something to do with the fire, come out and say it,” I said—I intended to say more, but Hal cut me off with a wave of his hand.
“She has the right to ask,” he said, keeping his gaze fixed on Rose, leaning against the windowpane. “Yes, I think it was. There were answers—some of which I have yet to puzzle out.”
She nodded, pushing herself away from the window and sitting up straight. “That must satisfy me for now.”
“Why even ask for our help?” I said, still stung by her suspicion. “If you share the inspector’s thoughts about the fire?”
She fixed me with a steady blue gaze, and for a moment her face had some of her father’s steel in it. “Because while I only suspect your connection with the fire, I know that your brother is the only man who can help me—and my father.”
“That is fair,” Hal said. “I can only assure you that I did not set the fire—if I had, I should have been certain that Jem and I were out of danger before I did it. Only a very stupid magician would set a fire spell to a building he was standing in—and I am not stupid.”
The corners of her mouth turned up in a weak smile. “No, I don’t believe you are. But—can you help my father? Or is it too far gone?”
Hal took down his pipe, tamping down the tobacco and frowning at it as he spoke. “No—I think there is still hope. In that office, I found something that may be the key to ending this mystery. But first, you must do one favor for me.”
“Oh, anything,” she said, clutching her handkerchief tightly in both hands. “Only tell me what I should do.”
“Send for Mr. Wright,” he said. “Do it at once—and be certain that he understands the urgency of the summons. He must not fail to answer it.”
“Alec?” she said, her eyes widening. “But what can Alec have to do with this? He—he isn’t part of the family. He’s only been here a short while.”
“Nevertheless,” Hal said. “It is to him that I must speak most urgently. You must do this thing for me—or else there is no hope of saving you or your father.”
“Very well,” she said, looking down at the handkerchief she twisted in her hands. “But—what if he does not come?”
“Unless I am much mistaken—for you, I believe he will return,” Hal said. “Do you not agree?”
A faint color rose in her cheeks, and she nodded slightly. “Yes, I believe he will. I hope he will.”
“Good,” Hal said. “Then that is settled. Send word to me at once when he has arrived.”
She nodded once more, and we took our leave from her, stepping back out into the cold, austere passageway, where Stark waited for us, and impatient grimace on his face.
“Don’t think of leaving just yet,” he said. “Sir Hector knows you’re here—he wants to see you—and he has the inspector with him.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The mention of Inspector Cross sent an unpleasant thrill through my spine, and I glanced over at Hal. His expression scarcely changed—only the minutest frown suggesting his displeasure over the summons.
“Has he?” he said, pushing his hands into his pockets. “Well—I can’t say I’m inclined to speak to either of them.”
“The inspector very much wishes to speak with you,” Stark said, with an air of long suffering. “Shall I show you up, or will you be leaving, sir?”
Hal rubbed at his chin, giving his answer a moment’s thought. “No—no, I think I shall have this over with. Come along, Jem.”
We followed Stark down the passage. Dread made a cold lump in my stomach; I could only imagine the wild accusations that Sir Hector would make against Hal, and I did not share Hal’s confidence that Inspector Cross would not credit them. Sir Hector was a powerful and wealthy man, and his word against my brother—even in his current state—would be more than enough to end Hal’s magical career.
Yet Hal’s attitude as we made our way toward the study was hardly one of apprehension—if I had to give a name to it, I should have said his foremost feeling was a mild irritation. His mind seemed occupied elsewhere as we walked, and I thought that he must have the end of some thread of the case in his mind—a thread that he wished to pull out and see to its end, rather than waste his time being interrogated.
At last we reached the study. Stark pushed open the door and announced us, and we entered the large room to stand opposite Sir Hector, who sat behind his heavy wooden desk, hands occupied in turning his gold coin over and over. He fixed us with a cold steel gaze, his icy anger palpable from across the room, and I felt as though the room had grown more chill, despite the fire roaring in the fireplace. Sir Hector’s face had grown gaunt, his eyes sunken with dark circles, but his eyes burned coldly with rage.
“How dare you to come into my house?” he said, clutching the coin tightly in one fist. “After what you have done, how dare you to speak to my daughter? My son is dead—because of you. My factory—my life’s work—is gone, because of you. How dare you stand before me?”
“I no more wish to be here than you wish for me to be,” Hal said coolly. “But I understand that I was summoned. As for your daughter—I hope to be more help to her than I was to your son.”
Sir Hector’s face twisted into a snarl, and he swung around to face Inspector Cross, who stood behind him, pulling at his mustaches and regarding Hal with a benign interest.
“Do you hear him?” Sir Hector said, knuckles tightening around the coin until they turned white. “Do you? He does not even bother to deny it. Arrest him—at once!”
The pit of cold dread that had sat in my stomach from the time we entered the house became an icy lump. I glanced over at Hal, who did not seem unduly troubled by Sir Hector’s demand—he simply rocked back on his heels, blowing a puff of smoke into the air.
“Well, Inspector?” he said. “Am I to be arrested? Or may I get on with my work?”
“That depends,” Inspector Cross said mildly. “Did you set that fire?”
“Of course he didn’t,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “He wouldn’t—we were in that building . . .”
“Yes, there is that,” the inspector said, pulling at his mustache musingly. “But then again, it was a magical fire—and no ordinary one, at that. A powerful spell. And—well, Mr. Bishop, you and I are the only magicians in the city, to my knowledge.”
“To your knowledge,” Hal said. “On that evidence, I might as well accuse you of setting the fire.”
Inspector Cross chuckled, turning back to Sir Hector, who had watched this exchange with anger seething behind his steel-grey eyes.
“There you are, Sir Hector,” he said. “He sums up my difficulty most neatly. I cannot accuse a man on so little evidence.”
“Little evidence?” Sir Hector said, his face livid. “Little evidence! He was there—when he had no business to be! Arrest him for that, if nothing else.”
Inspector Cross turned back to Hal with a sigh. “Yes, there is that. What were you doing in that factory at that time of night?”
“Investigating,” Hal said, frowning around his pipe. “I believed that a dangerous experiment was being conducted. It was my duty as a magician to i
nquire.”
“To inquire, indeed,” Inspector Cross said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “But to burgle the place—that is a bit far, Mr. Bishop. What justified that?”
Hal’s frown deepened. “My inquiries were unsatisfactory. I believed I would find evidence to satisfy them at the factory.”
“And did you find such evidence?” Inspector Cross said—his tone was mild, as always, but a strange look flitted through his eyes for a moment. “Did you indeed satisfy your inquiry?”
Hal took down his pipe, tamping down the tobacco without looking at Inspector Cross. “Let us say that I did. But I must—there is much to be done before I fully understand what I have found.”
The strange look passed over Inspector Cross’s face once more—a look of extreme curiosity, but also a certain wariness. “Notes of a spell, then? Encrypted, perhaps? Well—let me take it back to the Yard. We have some very gifted magicians there—perhaps they may be of some help.”
Hal relit his pipe and stuck it between his teeth, giving Inspector Cross an appraising look. “No, I do not think so. However gifted your magicians may be, I doubt they will know more than I about my own father’s work.”
This prompted an explosion from Sir Hector. He rose abruptly from behind the desk, smashing his hands down upon it. “Your father’s work!” he roared, eyes blazing with anger. “His work—that is what you have destroyed, you imbecile. If you gave half a damn about your father. . .”
“Don’t,” Hal said, his tone calm and measured—though a muscle jumped in his jaw. “Do not presume to tell me how I felt about my father. And do not pretend that you had any respect for his work.”
“Listen to him!” Sir Hector said, turning back to Inspector Cross and gesticulating wildly. “Listen to him tell me—in my own house!—what to say. The arrogance! He has admitted to burgling my factory. Why do you not arrest him at once?”
“Because if he indeed suspected the misuse of magic, he had a duty to investigate,” the inspector said, unperturbed by Sir Hector’s outburst. He turned back to Hal, a thoughtful look on his face. “That is a defense to the charge. I shall not arrest you now—but I do expect to see what you have found. You must justify yourself.”
The Phantom of the Marshes Page 14
