A Mortal Likeness

by Laura Joh Rowland

  My inclination to trust Sir Gerald is about something else besides finding Robin, although I don’t know what. “I wonder what role he really brought us here to play.”

  “One thing’s for certain,” Hugh says as we exit the room. “This is no ordinary family. These people are dangerous. We’d better watch our backs.”

  10

  After dinner, we explore the house, meeting no one except Sir Gerald’s guards and finding nothing of significance. That night, before climbing into my canopied bed, I wedge a chair under the doorknob. I awaken at seven AM to the sounds of footsteps on stairs, doors opening and closing, distant voices, and the rush of water in pipes. I have a troubling sense that there was activity in the night that I missed hearing.

  Washed and dressed, I meet Hugh in the passage. As we walk to the staircase, maids go into rooms, carrying tea trays. “There must be other guests,” Hugh says. I’m uneasy because I was oblivious to the presence of strangers while I slept.

  In the dining room, some dozen guests are serving themselves from chafing dishes on the sideboard. The only familiar face is John Pierce. Hugh greets him and asks, “Who are all these people?”

  Pierce doesn’t look happy to see us. “Lady Alexandra’s entourage.”

  They’re mostly men—handsome young ones in smart clothes and a corpulent, white-haired gent in striped trousers and a red waistcoat who looks like Humpty Dumpty. The several women are dressed in the height of elegant, expensive fashion.

  “Where are Lady Alexandra and Miss Jenkins?” I ask Pierce.

  “They take breakfast in Lady Alexandra’s room.”

  “Where are Tristan and Olivia?” Hugh asks.

  “They caught the early train to town.” Pierce smiles at our disappointment, then carries his full plate to the table.

  “I suppose Tristan wants to avoid us and persuaded her to fly the coop with him,” I remark to Hugh. “It makes me wonder whether they have something to hide.”

  “We might as well eat,” Hugh says. “Then we’ll pay a visit to Lady Alexandra.”

  The enormous repast consists of boiled eggs, scrambled eggs, omelets, kippers, bacon, sausages, smoked salmon, crumpets, marmalade and toast, and coffee and tea. We eat at the end of the table by ourselves while the other guests chat together. Outside the French doors, beyond the veranda, a terrace gives way to a double, curved, stone staircase that leads down to the garden. There, marble urns on flagstone pavement surround a fountain in a rectangular pond. Flowerbeds and topiary trees pruned into cones and spheres decorate the green lawns. Three figures emerge from the mist—two of Sir Gerald’s guards dragging a smaller person who kicks, struggles, and yells, “Lemme go!”

  I choke on my coffee as I recognize the voice. Hugh says, “Oh, God.”

  We rush out the French doors, across the veranda, and down the staircase. The guards stop by the pond, and Mick sees us. “Hugh! Miss Sarah!”

  An irate voice calls, “What the hell is going on?”

  I turn to see Sir Gerald standing on the balcony outside a second-floor room. My heart flutters.

  “We caught him trespassing,” says one of the guards. That may not be their official title, but providing security for the estate and the people in it is clearly their function.

  “Mick, what are you doing here?” I ask.

  “I skipped school yesterday, and while I was hangin’ around the street, I saw you go by in a cab. I jumped onto the back of it and followed you on the train, and then to the house, and climbed over the wall.”

  “You spent the night outside?”

  “Yeah.” Mick seems relieved to see us but unhappy, defiant.

  “I should have known we couldn’t pull the wool over his eyes,” Hugh says, crestfallen.

  “You know this boy?” Sir Gerald says.

  “He’s a friend,” I explain.

  “This is where that baby was kidnapped,” Mick says to Hugh and me. “Are you workin’ on the case?”

  Hugh and I are silent, remembering the confidentiality agreement.

  “I don’t pay you to sleep on the job,” Sir Gerald says to the guards.

  “Sorry, boss. It won’t happen again,” says one of the guards, and they start to drag Mick away.

  On the verge of tears, Mick appeals to Hugh and me. “Please, don’t let ’em!”

  I feel bad, but I say, “You should go home for your own good.”

  “Wait a minute.” Hugh calls to Sir Gerald, “He’s our assistant. He’s been instrumental in solving our cases. We could use his help now. May he stay?”

  Sir Gerald turns his shrewd gaze on Mick. “What’s your name?”

  Mick stands at attention. “Mick O’Reilly, sir.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Almost fourteen.” Mick’s fourteenth birthday is eight months away, but he looks Sir Gerald straight in the eye.

  “Why should I let you work for me?” Sir Gerald asks.

  “Because I’m clever and a hard worker.”

  Sir Gerald strokes his chin, perhaps to hide a smile. “Do you know how to keep your mouth shut?”

  “Yes, sir.” Mick runs his finger across his lips.

  “You’re hired,” Sir Gerald says.

  Maybe he sees his young self, the cabin boy, in Mick. Maybe he has secret motives concerning Mick as well as Hugh and myself, but I can’t help feeling glad that Mick made a good impression on Sir Gerald.

  “Let him go,” Sir Gerald orders his guards.

  They obey. Mick smirks at them. Sir Gerald says to Pierce, who’s materialized beside me, “Find someplace for him to stay.” He tells Hugh and me, “The boy is bound by your confidentiality agreement. See that he understands it.” Then he disappears into the house.

  “I can bunk with the servants,” Mick says.

  Pierce regards him with distrust and says, “Very well,” before silently departing.

  Mick sticks his thumbs under his lapels and grins, proud of his coup. “If there’s anybody knows what goes on in a house, it’s the servants. I’ll pump ’em about the kidnapping.”

  “A capital idea,” Hugh says as we walk toward the mansion.

  The servants belong to Mick’s own class, and they may talk to him even if they didn’t to Sir Gerald or the police. But I say, “Mick, you shouldn’t have followed us or trespassed.” This isn’t the time to scold him for skipping school. “You might have been hurt.”

  “But you left without telling me.” Anguish darkens Mick’s blue gaze. “I thought you wasn’t coming back.”

  Hugh affectionately punches Mick on the shoulder. “You idiot, we wouldn’t just up and leave you forever.”

  But now I understand how it must have seemed to Mick. It was awful when my father disappeared without a word. We’re Mick’s family, and I’m furious at myself for doing such a cruel thing to him. “I’m sorry,” I say and explain the confidentiality agreement.

  He nods, but I see that he’s not sure Hugh and I won’t disappear on him again. There’s a new rift between us, and I fear for his safety. I’m also uneasy about what the impulsive, unpredictable Mick might do.

  “I’ll get to work right away,” Mick says, determined to prove he’s worthy of his new job.

  “Let’s get you some breakfast first,” Hugh says.

  Mick cheers up. “Won’t say no to that.”

  #

  Later that morning, while Mick passes the time in the kitchen and befriends the servants, Hugh and I locate Lady Alexandra in the library on the main floor. The library walls are covered with two tiers of bookshelves rising to the paneled ceiling, and a spiral staircase leads to the upper gallery. The smell of old paper and leather exudes from volumes in gilded bindings. Pedestals hold large dictionaries, atlases, and a giant antique globe. Servants are moving leather sofas and armchairs across the parquet floor.

  “Put them against the bookshelves,” orders a tall, dark, willowy man dressed in black.

  The fat, white-haired Humpty Dumpty man I saw at breakfast sits
at the grand piano in the corner, playing a tune full of dramatic flourishes, while a matronly woman dressed in emerald satin sings in a powerful soprano voice. People stand waiting by the windows. It’s as if they’re actors and we’ve wandered onto the stage before a performance. One figure is Tabitha Jenkins. The woman at their center is Lady Alexandra.

  She hurries gracefully toward us. The bouffant skirts of her amethyst gown rustle. Even without stage lights or makeup, she’s striking. Tall and slim but full-bosomed, she must be thirty years younger than her husband. Her beautiful features are bold enough to be visible from the back balcony of a theater. Her famous smile is so radiant that everyone else fades into the background. I’ve never seen her act, but I can imagine her enthralling effect on her audiences, and I’m relieved to find that I’m not jealous of her on Sir Gerald’s account, which I surely would be if I were romantically infatuated with him. Perhaps my feeling for him is merely kinship—we both have missing family members.

  “You must be Gerald’s detectives.” Although her voice isn’t loud, it’s so clear, melodious, and resonant that it fills the room and mutes the sounds of the piano, the singing, and the dark man saying, “Move that table here.” Up close, I can see the hollowness of her violet-blue eyes, the shadows under them, and the tension lines that age her face. Robin’s kidnapping has taken its toll on his mother.

  Hugh introduces me and himself. “It’s an honor to meet you. I saw you play Lady Macbeth. You were marvelous.”

  “You’re too kind.” Lady Alexandra extends her clasped hands to us. “Can you bring my Robin back to me?” Her voice quavers, and her hollow eyes sparkle with tears.

  “We’ll do everything in our power,” Hugh says. He’s not immune to a damsel in distress, and his sympathy toward Lady Alexandra is genuine even though she’s a suspect. “You can help us by providing some information.”

  “Whatever you want to know, just ask.”

  “Did you see or hear anything unusual when Robin was kidnapped?”

  “No. I was ill with one of my terrible headaches.”

  “Was anyone with you?”

  “Tabitha. She nursed me through it.”

  I note that she’s provided herself and Tabitha with alibis. I glance at Tabitha. Her anxious gaze follows the dark man as he moves chairs.

  Lady Alexandra sobs. “If only I’d been with Robin! This never would have happened!”

  Her devastation seems genuine, but she’s one of England’s most brilliant actresses, and her emotions as well as her alibi could be false.

  “Sarah has a question for you,” Hugh says.

  My muscles tense; I’m nervous with strangers, and Lady Alexandra’s beauty and fame are intimidating. So is the intelligent gaze she turns on me. She gives me her whole attention, as if I’m the most important person in the room. It’s flattering yet disconcerting. I feel like a novice actress about to match wits with an expert.

  “My question is about the photograph of Robin that appeared in the newspapers,” I say. “Why didn’t you give the press a more recent one?”

  “We haven’t any recent ones. Taking pictures has become difficult as Robin gets older—he won’t sit still.” A weary, harassed look comes over Lady Alexandra’s features. “What can that have to do with finding him?”

  I hesitate to ask whether Robin has been dead for the six months since the photograph was taken. If my suspicion is off target, it would be cruel to voice it.

  “Any little fact may turn out to be important,” Hugh explains.

  “Did Robin have any medical problems?” I ask.

  “No. He’s a perfectly healthy, perfectly normal child.” Lady Alexandra bursts into a fit of weeping. “Oh, God, if he’s not brought back to me soon, I’ll die!”

  Tabitha hurries to her and offers her a handkerchief. I wonder whether Lady Alexandra wants to halt this particular line of questioning.

  The dark man says, “Excuse me, Lady Alexandra. We’re ready for the séance.”

  Now I notice the round table with six chairs, placed in the center of the library, and the candle burning in a silver holder atop it. The music has stopped, and people are grouped around the table, actors awaiting their cue. A strong feeling of aversion twists my mouth into a grimace.

  Lady Alexandra composes herself, touches the dark man’s arm, and says to Hugh and me, “This is Raphael DeQuincey. He’s the best medium in London.”

  DeQuincey strokes his sleekly pomaded black hair and says, “Well, maybe not the best.” His voice is fluty, affected. Dark, lustrous eyes animate his gaunt, handsome face; loose black clothes accentuate his slenderness and pale complexion. “But I’ve a certain rapport with the spirits.”

  “He’s going to ask them if they’ve any information about Robin,” Lady Alexandra says.

  When I was sixteen, I consulted a medium who claimed to be an exiled Russian princess. After pocketing my money, she closed her eyes, moaned, and delivered a message from my father. She said he’d told me that he was at peace, he loved me, and we would meet again in heaven someday. I immediately knew she was a fraud: my father would never utter such platitudes! To this day, I detest mediums because they exploit bereaved, vulnerable folks.

  DeQuincey asks Hugh and me, “Would you like to join the circle?”

  “No, thank you.” Now that I know my father was alive when the medium delivered his message, I’ve more reason to think spiritualism is claptrap.

  “We’d be delighted,” Hugh says, contradicting me.

  I stay because I can tell he thinks we might learn something, even if not from the spirits. There are six of us; the other people have vanished like extras whose walk-on parts in the drama are finished. DeQuincey assigns us our places—Lady Alexandra at his right, Tabitha at his left, Hugh between Tabitha and me. On my left are Humpty Dumpty and the soprano.

  “I’m Sir Ogden Wilberforce, director at the Drury Lane Theatre,” Humpty Dumpty says, “and this is Dame Judith Langmuir, from the Royal Opera.”

  “Isn’t this exciting?” Dame Judith says with a pleasurable shiver.

  DeQuincey closes the door and the thick tapestry curtains. The room plunges into darkness. I can’t see my companions; the light from the candle barely reaches the table’s perimeter. DeQuincey seats himself. “Join hands with those of the persons beside you.”

  Hugh grasps my left hand, Sir Ogden my right. Sir Ogden’s hand is thick and moist. I can discern the faint shapes of everyone’s hands forming a circle around the table. I wonder what DeQuincey is charging Lady Alexandra for this farce.

  DeQuincey’s voice emanates from the darkness: “Let us purge the negative thoughts from our minds and create a hospitable atmosphere for the spirits.” Air swirls; the candle’s flame flickers. Either there’s a draft in the room or DeQuincey is blowing on the candle. “Oh, spirits, are you here?” DeQuincey intones.

  A hush engulfs the library. I can’t hear any noise from outside. The paneled ceiling, heavy curtains, and shelves of books must have an insulating effect, but unease creeps into me.

  Three loud, sharp knocks break the hush.

  Everyone jumps.

  “Welcome, spirit.” Elation fills DeQuincey’s voice. “Please tell me who you are.”

  Knocks come in rapid, irregular rhythm. DeQuincey must have some sort of noisemaker on his person. “It’s Ludovico, one of my guides to the spirit realm. He was an Italian composer who died in 1768.”

  Musical notes ripple. Goose bumps rise on my skin. The others gasp. Someone is playing the piano. Hugh’s and Sir Ogden’s hands crush mine. As the invisible musician plays rapid, discordant runs up and down the keys, I decide that the piano must be a mechanical one. DeQuincey must have left the circle, and Lady Alexandra and Tabitha are in on the act. But I feel my companions’ fear; it’s contagious.

  “Signor Ludovico, is Robin Mariner in your world?” DeQuincey asks.

  The music stops; the echoes fade. More knocking rattles my nerves. “He says no,” DeQuincey announces. “
Robin is not among the dead.”

  “Thank God!” Lady Alexandra exclaims.

  “Tell me where Robin is,” DeQuincey pleads. “Give me a sign.”

  The table lurches. An involuntary gasp escapes me as the others at the table cry out. The table levitates and spins. I grope around under it with my foot but detect no hidden mechanisms. DeQuincey says, “Take me to Robin.”

  The table lands with a thump. DeQuincey shudders, and the sensation passes through our joined hands like a current of electricity. He howls. His voice sounds strangely, alarmingly disembodied.

  “I hear him!” DeQuincey’s voice wafts to us as if from above. Then comes the sound of a baby crying.

  “Oh, God, it’s Robin!” Lady Alexandra bursts into loud weeping.

  It sounds so real. Maybe it’s ventriloquism. DeQuincey says, “Show me where Robin is.”

  Hugh tightens his grip on my fingers. “Do you see that?”

  A dim light shines some ten feet from us and high above the floor. An image wavers in it—the blurry face of a child. I’m astonished even though I know it can’t be Robin. I’ve seen the same phenomenon before, but how could DeQuincey have managed it?

  “Robin, can you hear me?” Lady Alexandra calls frantically. “It’s Mama.” The face vanishes into the darkness. “Don’t go!”

  “He’s touching me!” Sir Ogden cries.

  I feel pats on my head and back. The sensation of little hands is so real, so eerie, that I shriek even though I know it must be a trick.

  “I feel him too.” Lady Alexandra moans. “Robin, come back!”

  “There’s water all around him.” DeQuincey’s voice is breathless, exultant. “He’s in a boat . . . on a river . . .”

  DeQuincey yelps—a surprised, frightened sound. There’s a scuffling noise, a clatter, muffled shouts, and a crash. The people with me clamor in confusion. “What’s going on?” Dame Judith asks.

  “Unhand me!” DeQuincey shouts amid thuds and grunts.

  “The spirits are attacking him!” Lady Alexandra sounds on the verge of hysterics. “Somebody help him!”