“It will do no good whatever to tell you,” Hal said, folding his arms over his chest. “Your knowledge of magic is limited—you would not understand it.”
“Oh?” Inspector Cross said, looking more amused than irritated. “But then how shall you explain it—to me or to the courts?”
“I propose to show you,” Hal said coolly. “And you shall have the job to explain what you have seen.”
“Indeed?” Inspector Cross mused, stroking his mustache. He gave Hal a shrewd look. “And just what is it that you intend to show me?”
“The manner in which a curse like this is broken,” Hal said, blowing out a puff of smoke that drifted toward the ceiling. “Nothing more nor less.”
“I see,” the inspector said. “Then you believe that you can break it.”
“That depends upon the cooperation of the one who cast it,” Hal said. “In this case—that is far from certain. But there is always a price for a spell like this—a price that its caster would avoid at all costs.”
“What a curious sort of magic you practice, Mr. Bishop,” the inspector said; his tone was amused, but his gaze remained sharp as ever. “One which depends upon such sacrifices—and which places you in the center of disaster.”
“If others did not cast these spells, I should not be compelled to break them,” Hal replied evenly. “Yet they do—and thus, here I am. But let us waste no more time in talking—now is the time to act.”
“And what sort of action do you propose?” Inspector Cross said. “A spell circle drawn in the woods, to call some ancient spirit by moonlight? Come, sir—you must not involve an inspector of the Yard in such doings.”
“I propose nothing of the sort,” Hal said, standing abruptly. “I propose to go and see Sir Hector. Come along, Jem.”
With that, he turned from the office and began striding out into the station, while I scrambled after him. I glanced back at the inspector’s office, where Inspector Cross watched bemusedly as we left.
“Oughtn’t we to wait for him?” I said, catching up to Hal as we stepped out into the street. “Mr. Bonham said . . .”
“I know what he said,” Hal replied irritably, thrusting his hands into his pockets. “But I cannot wait upon the inspector’s ignorance. Time is of the essence—the girl is in greater danger than she knows.”
“Is she?” said a familiar voice, and I turned to see the inspector striding along beside me, an expression of concern on his face. “Dear me—what a tragedy it would be for that family to lose her as well.”
Hal frowned back at Inspector Cross. “So you have decided to join us after all.”
“Of course,” the inspector said. “I am ignorant, as you say—and what better cure for ignorance than to learn? I shall see what you do—and if it is successful, I shall be glad to teach it to others.”
“And if not?” I said, chewing at my lip. “What then?”
“That depends very much upon the circumstances of its failure,” he said, giving me a benign smile. “Of course I cannot vouch for anything that places a life in danger.”
“Even if that life were forfeit?” Hal said, then shook his head, picking up his pace. “Never mind. You shall make your judgment on what you see, not on what is speculated.”
He strode on ahead, smoke billowing from his pipe, and the inspector and I followed in his wake. I cut a sidelong glance at the inspector as we walked; he looked as benign and friendly as ever, but his presence on this expedition gave me a cold lump in my stomach.
“You seem rather out of sorts,” he said, glancing over at me. “Are you certain you’re quite recovered?”
I looked down at my feet, pushing my hands into my pockets. “Yes—I’m perfectly fine. It’s only—this part of the case always makes me a bit nervous.”
“Does it?” he said. “Is there danger in it, then?”
I looked up at him, frowning. “I wouldn’t—I mean, yes, there may be. But that isn’t . . . it’s just wrapping everything up, that’s all.”
He shifted his glance to Hal, pulling at his mustache. “Your brother has done this before, has he not? Then why should you be so nervous now?”
“Every case is different,” I said, picking up my pace. “You never—but Hal knows what he is doing. That much is true.”
I hurried to catch up with my brother, leaving the inspector behind; he watched me go with a mild frown on his face, and I felt uncomfortably as though I had said something that made him even more suspicious of Hal than he had been already.
“What was he asking you?” Hal said, breaking into my thoughts.
I looked up to see him frowning down at me. “Nothing, really—he wanted to know why I seemed so nervous.”
“Hm.” Hal furrowed his brow, teeth clenching around his pipe. “Well, there is no profit in being apprehensive—we must simply get on with it.”
We walked on in silence, the inspector following along behind us, until we reached the Marsh residence. It had begun to drizzle as we walked, and the lowering clouds in the smoke-grey sky gave an ominous appearance to the home. We were greeted at the door by Stark, who gave Hal a very icy frown—but before he could open his mouth, Inspector Cross stepped forward.
“We must speak to Sir Hector,” he said. “A matter of utmost emergency—having to do with the investigation.”
Stark’s chilly expression did not thaw in the slightest, but he stood aside without a word and let us pass, pushing the heavy door shut behind us with an echoing thud.
“Sir Hector is quite unwell,” he said. “The doctor has been in to see him. He has taken to his bed.”
“Ah, that is unfortunate,” Inspector Cross said, stroking his mustache. “But we really must speak to him.”
“If he has taken to his bed, then the situation is even more dire than I expected,” Hal said, frowning. “There is no time to be lost—I must speak with him at once.”
Stark glared at him and turned to the inspector, who nodded gravely. The butler gestured toward the stairs. “Then I will take you to him.”
We followed Stark up the stairs to the second floor, past the study in which we had first met Sir Hector, down to the end of the passage. To my surprise, we were met there by Alec, who sat in a chair against the wall, under a portrait of Sir Hector—who glowered at us with his steely gaze, seeming to disapprove entirely of the young man slumped in the chair beneath the portrait. Alec himself looked worn ragged, his hair disheveled and his face pale, with dark circles under his eyes. If I had to guess, I should have said he had not slept in several days. He looked up as we approached, then sat up straighter, his eyes wide.
“Mr. Bishop—thank God you are here,” he said. “Does this mean—do you know how to break it? Have you found a way?”
Stark frowned at Alec with a glare even more icy than the one he had given Hal. “The master bade you leave. Why are you still here?”
“I can’t—I can’t leave,” Alec said. “I shan’t—I’m not troubling him. But I can’t—I can’t leave her. I can’t.”
“Nor should you,” Hal said grimly. “Has she grown worse?”
“Has she—she can’t leave her bed,” Alec choked out, laying his head in his hands. “She’s dying—the doctor all but said so. She hasn’t eaten—she doesn’t know where she is. Doesn’t know who I—it’s ghastly, Mr. Bishop. You must—for God’s sake, put an end to it.”
Hal frowned, glancing at the door to Sir Hector’s bedroom. “There is only one thing I can do. I must speak to Sir Hector.”
“Oh, God,” Alec said, laughing bitterly. “If that is what you must do, then we are all doomed. He is dying, too—and in the foulest temper of his life about it. He has banished everyone from the house. He must have peace to die in, he says.”
“Nevertheless,” Hal said evenly. “He is the only one who can tell me what I must know. Come, Inspector. Let us put an end to this, as Mr. Wright says.”
The inspector nodded, turning to Stark and gesturing to the closed door. Stark stifled
a sigh and moved forward, pushing open the door.
“You have visitors, sir,” he said, waving us forward.
The room we stepped into was dim and close, a fire blazing away in the fireplace the only source of light. All the curtains were tightly drawn, not letting even the semblance of daylight allowed to filter in beneath them. In the center of the room lay a great four-poster bed, its curtains also drawn. I had the sickening sense of being in the presence of a curse; the smoky iron smell of it flooding into my nose and burning my throat. I pressed my sleeve against my nose, trying vainly to shut it out.
For a long moment there was silence, and then the sound of something stirring in the bed. “Visitors?” Sir Hector’s voice came harsh and rasping, sounding old and hollow. “What visitors? I am not to be disturbed.”
Hal frowned, stepping forward. “We have come on urgent business.”
“Urgent?” There was a choking cough of laughter. “There is nothing urgent for me any longer. Go away, and let me die in peace.”
Hal’s frown deepened, his jaw clenching about his pipe, and he rocked back on his heels a moment. The inspector watched him, with a benign expression on his face—and a shrewd look in his eyes. And in the dark corner of the room, I felt something else watching—something old and powerful, that smelled of blood and iron—and a shiver ran up my spine. I caught the glow of red eyes from the corner of my vision, and took a breath to steady myself.
“What shall we do now?” I whispered. “It doesn’t seem he wants to speak to us.”
“What he wants is of no concern to me,” Hal said. He strode forward, flinging open the curtains at the foot of the bed, oblivious to the shocked and disapproving noises that Stark was making. “Now. We shall speak.”
Sir Hector stared up at him from the pillows, face gaunt and grey, the steel grey of his eyes flinty as ever, but with a hunted look behind it. He clutched the gold coin in his hands, knuckles white.
“What do you want of me?” he said hoarsely. “I am an old man. I am dying. Leave me in peace.”
The inspector cleared his throat. “Is this really necessary, Mr. Bishop? He does look ill.”
“Yes, I expect he is ill,” Hal said, folding his arms over his chest. “Very ill, indeed. That is the root of all the trouble.”
Sir Hector groaned, closing his eyes and lying back on his pillows. “Leave me in peace, I say. Get them out, Stark. Out!”
“Peace?” Hal said coolly. “You mean the same peace that was afforded to your sons?”
“Thieving, lying fiends,” Sir Hector said. “They deserved what came to them—after all the years of bickering for my fortune, I outlived them both! How is that for fate?”
“And what of your daughter?” Hal said. “Will you outlive her as well?”
Sir Hector opened his eyes, staring up at him. “Rose? Rose is—I will die before her. All will be well. She—she is safe.”
“Are you certain?” Hal said quietly. “You have cheated your fate so long—you cannot hope to cheat it forever.”
“One last night,” Sir Hector said, his voice hollow and desperate. “That is all—the doctor says I will not last. She need only—she is safe.”
“Yet she lies dying in the next room,” Hal said, taking down his pipe and filling it with tobacco. “Can you be certain that she will survive this night?”
“What do you mean by this?” Inspector Cross said, frowning. “Sir Hector has a heart condition—that is well known. What has that to do with his daughter?”
“Everything,” Hal said, lighting his pipe and tucking it between his teeth. “It was Sir Hector who began all of this, many years ago.”
Sir Hector closed his eyes. “Let me go in peace. For God’s sake—haven’t I lived with it long enough?”
Hal shook his head. “No—the time for peace is over. Now you must know precisely what you have done—and pay the price for it.”
He pulled the photograph from his coat pocket and set it down on the table beside the bed. Sir Hector glanced at it, then turned away, eyes tightly shut.
“No,” he said. “No—I won’t . . .”
“You will,” Hal said, blowing out a puff of smoke. He looked up at the inspector. “You see, years ago, when Sir Hector was a young man, he discovered a mine in Canada.”
“Of course,” Inspector Cross said, looking bemused. “Everyone knows that.”
“And he had a business partner then,” Hal said, tapping the photograph. “Samuel Travers—who tragically died before the mine was discovered.”
“I sent money to the widow,” Sir Hector said. “She wasn’t left in want . . .”
“No, perhaps not,” Hal said coolly. “And yet, think what her life might have been had she received what she was entitled to—half the proceeds of the mine. Think what her son’s life might have been.”
“I don’t understand,” Inspector Cross said, pulling at his mustache. “How could he have been entitled to anything at all? It wasn’t his mine.”
“But it was,” Hal said. “He and Sir Hector discovered the mine together. But that fact was not made public until after Mr. Travers’s sudden and mysterious death. Am I correct?”
Sir Hector groaned. “Leave me in peace—for God’s sake, man! I am dying.”
“Yes, you are.” Hal folded his arms over his chest. “At last you are dying. And thus we have come to this point.”
“I am sorry, Mr. Bishop.” Inspector Cross shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t follow you at all. What can this death—these many years ago—have to do with what is happening now?”
“It is very simple,” Hal said. “You see, Mr. Travers did not die of an illness—nor of an accident. He died of a curse—in the same way that both of Sir Hector’s sons died. He was ridden down by an ancient spirit of death—called down by the very man who lies dying before us.”
As he spoke, I heard the sound of hooves striking against the stone floor, and fancied that I could feel the hot breath of the horse on the back of my neck; I turned, but there was only darkness behind me, and I felt a shiver run down my spine.
Neither Hal nor the inspector seemed to have noticed what I had felt; the inspector merely gave Hal a puzzled frown, stroking his mustache.
“A very serious accusation, Mr. Bishop,” he said. “How have you arrived at this conclusion?”
“It really is very simple.” Hal blew out a puff of smoke and began pacing beside Sir Hector’s bed. “The first clue was this story of how Sir Hector’s business partner died—a very convenient death for him, you must admit. It meant that he had no obligation to share the proceeds of the mine.”
“Samuel Travers died of a heart condition,” Sir Hector said hoarsely. “It was—it was a sudden attack.”
“I am certain it was very sudden,” Hal said. “He died in Canada, and you returned to England a very wealthy man. It was then that you began manufacturing these engines, was it not?”
“Engines?” said Inspector Cross. “What on earth can the engines have to do with it?”
“Everything,” Hal replied, stopping suddenly and turning to face Sir Hector. “That was his price—to build these engines. Am I correct?”
Sir Hector stared up at him resentfully. “Why can’t you let me die in peace? This will all be resolved if you simply let me be.”
“No, I do not think so,” Hal said. He returned his gaze to the inspector. “I see you do not follow. Well, let me set the story out for you.”
He pulled a chair over beside the bed and sat down, crossing his arms over his chest. “Here is how it began: two young men went to Canada to make their fortune—having heard that gold was in abundance there. But only one returned—with a tragic story of what had happened to his companion.”
He shifted his gaze over to Sir Hector, who lay staring icily up at the ceiling, never glancing at Hal as he spoke.
“The story he told was only a half-truth,” he continued. “The two of them discovered the mine together, but agreed to keep the secret unti
l the papers could be drawn up—to prevent a claim-jumper stealing their bounty. In the time they waited, Sir Hector’s mind turned to the possibilities of the gold—the things he could do with such wealth.”
He blew out another puff of smoke. “It was then that his benefactor appeared—the man who told him how he could rid himself of the burden of Mr. Travers. And how he could do it in such a way that no one need ever know what truly happened. Tell me, Sir Hector—did this man have a spider web tattoo upon his hand?”
A spasm passed over Sir Hector’s face, and he clutched the coin all the tighter, but still he did not look at Hal. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I should certainly think that you do,” Hal said. He gestured toward the coin. “It was that same man who gave you this charm—who told you that it could ward off the spirit.”
Sir Hector’s face went starkly pale, his knuckles going white around the coin. I heard the horse’s breath behind me, closer than before.
“It has worked, has it not?” Hal said, his tone mild. “All these years.”
The door to the room burst open, and Alec appeared, wild-eyed. “Come quickly—it’s Rose—I don’t . . .”
The inspector turned to him, a concerned frown on his face. “Miss Marsh? What of her?”
“Never mind,” Hal said, waving a hand dismissively. “The young lady will be safe when I am finished here.”
Sir Hector made a choking noise, staring at Alec with eyes filled with fury. “It had worked—it was working—until he came. If you want to know what happened to my children—ask him!”
“Oh, I have spoken to him already,” Hal said evenly. “I know who he is—what he has done. It is not Mr. Wright I am concerned with.”
“If you have spoken to him—then you know,” Sir Hector said, holding the coin close to his chest. His breathing had become rasping. “I knew—it was why I agreed to hire him, the bastard. I meant to keep a close watch on him.”
“Knew what?” Inspector Cross said. “I must say, this is all rather cryptic.”
Hal waved a hand at him once more. “Mr. Wright—or I should say, Mr. Travers—is the son of Sir Hector’s business partner. But it is not relevant.”
The Phantom of the Marshes Page 17
