Sins of the Father (Bloody Marytown Book 1)

by Mansell, Lucie J.

  ‘You said that you work for MPIA?’ the curator asked.

  ‘We believe that Mr. Ford used it as a way of focusing the magical energy of another person in order to use it for himself,’ Parker revealed. ‘Do you know of anybody who deals in magical talismans or antiques that could be used in such a way?’

  ‘The occult?’ He asked, sounding slightly amused. ‘Not an interest of mine.’

  ‘Really?’ It was Martha that actually questioned his response. ‘Because there are books on these shelves that suggest differently.’

  ‘I run a local museum,’ he said, meeting her suspicious gaze. ‘It’s my job to know about the history of the area, is it not?’

  ‘You believe that occultism is historic in Marytown?’ she pushed, keeping her tone even.

  ‘Predating even the construction of Blackthorn, this whole area had ties to paganism, so yes, I do. It’s well documented that women who were branded as witches were oft persecuted in these lands and men from all walks of life dabbled with the black arts. It’s mythic rather than historic but it’s a part of the culture. And so it’s important, from a historical standpoint.’

  ‘I suppose that you have a point,’ she conceded, sounding a little bit impressed.

  Trying to take back control of the conversation, Parker asked, ‘Did you ever hear or see anything that would make you think that William Ford had interests in the occult?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ He shook his head. ‘He was known to be a sceptic amongst some of his peers that do have those interests. I would certainly never have considered him the type.’

  ‘Oh, and what type is that?’ It was again Martha who posed the astute question.

  Henry White seemed to focus on her for a good, full minute before countering her enquiry with an equally astute, ‘Have I offended you somehow, Miss Ford?’

  ‘It’s Valentine,’ she corrected. ‘I use my mother’s maiden name. And no, you haven’t. I would just like to know what you meant by type.’

  ‘Mixing with certain social groups, you hear things,’ he conceded after another brief pause. ‘There is a lot of wealth floating around the area and not all of the people who have it necessarily worked for it, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘I don’t think that I do,’ Martha hedged, to apparently encourage a fuller answer.

  ‘As I said earlier, I have absolutely no interest in the occult but a lot of people around here do. One might suggest that some of the more wealthy residents of Marytown and the area around the Blackthorn hills came across their fortunes by dabbling with such interests. I also imagine that’s why an agency like MPIA exists and does all of the good work that it does.’

  Parker found that he could not fault the man’s logic and Martha seemed to not want to try either. Whether it was something that she had sensed in the curator, or simply the fact that he had been so blatant in his attentions towards her, she was clearly not a fan and that realisation made Parker relieved in ways that he did not want to admit out loud. Continuing to focus upon the reason that they were at the gallery, he retrieved another document from his file. It was the list of names that he had shown Martha back at MPIA. Probing further, he asked Henry White, ‘Do you mind if we ask wether you know of any other antique dealers in the area who might have had such interests?’

  Taking the list from him, somewhat reluctantly, the man conceded, ‘All right. But I am only doing this for Amanda. If word gets out that I spread such information around, it could be bad, and not only for business. The people that deal with those sort of artefacts are not known for being particularly understanding or friendly.’

  Quick as a whip, Martha asked, ‘Do you have a particular person in mind?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said as it read the long list. ‘There was somebody that I heard Mr. Ford had been doing a fair bit of business with recently. A man who I would never have put in the same social circle as your father. But he’s not going to be willing to talk to you, Miss Valentine.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He runs a very exclusive club which is located here in town and let’s just say that you are not his preferred clientele, nor are you his type.’

  Martha looked confused so Parker decided to field the implication in her direction on the curator’s behalf by saying, ‘He means it’s a gentleman’s only club. And he doesn’t like girls.’

  She made a noise of disgust and rolled her eyes but then asked, ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I’ll happily give you the address,’ Henry While said, sounding a little bit amused. ‘But I assure you that if you go there, you will not even get through the door. It’s simply the way it is.’

  ‘What about me?’ Parker asked.

  ‘Perhaps but I doubt it also. Afterlife is members only and you are not a member.’

  Getting what the curator was getting at, he stated, ‘But you are.’

  With a curt nod, he replied. ‘I am.’

  Parker turned and looked at Martha who had her arms once more folded across her chest, her jaw locked tight in irritation and anger in her eyes. With a small tilt of the head, he asked her a silent question, knowing that she would hear it because she always had been able to hear what he was thinking and after a long, long moment of stubbornness, she nodded her approval.

  Turning back to the curator, he asked, ‘Are you free to take a lunch break?’

  Chapter 22

  Russell Beck was an antiques dealer who had allegedly had recent dealings with a man who was found dead on his driveway after summoning a demon. He also ran a gentleman’s club in the original part of Marytown. It was an interesting second vocation which told them more than they needed to know about the man, who according to Martha was a misogynistic pig, an utterance that she had angrily made number of times in response to her expected denial of entrance to the building when they arrived. She had waited outside and Parker did not envy the doorman his station. He himself had been on the receiving end of Martha’s wrath a handful of times and it had been intimidating back when she was a mere hormonal teenager who didn’t actually look like she could punch out a man twice her size.

  Which she had threatened to do. Vehemently.

  The club itself reminded Parker of a stately home. There was a main lounge room, with deep plum pained walls and artwork that would not have seemed out of place in the gallery. Tables were sparse, seating consisting of luxurious brown leather armchairs and sofas. A little before lunch time, the club was relatively full with businessmen shortening their working days with a drink and some gentlemanly banter. Never one for such traditions, Parker had to admit that he mostly agreed with Martha that the exclusivity was not as elite as the clients wanted to believe that it was. He would never go there to socialise. Fortunately for him though, he had the right body parts and a member who was prepared to sign him into the building as a guest on the agreement that Parker was discreet in his dealings with the man in charge before leaving the MPIA investigator to it. Parker did not promise but he would do his best. Either way, Henry White had not stuck around. Apparently his desire to keep his name out of it ran as deep as he had claimed. He would facilitate an introduction, nothing more. He was simply not interested in getting involved further.

  The main bar was crafted from dark mahogany, adorned with classic real ale pumps that were polished until they gleamed. The male bartender, dressed in a smart black and white suit, was coiffed to within an inch of his life. He directed Parker to one of the back rooms, where the particular gentleman who owned the premises could be found, at a table with two other men, playing cards and drinking. The elder of the three, he had shoulder length hair that was dark blonde, dyed to hide the fact that it was actually grey. The jacket of his pinstripe suit was perfectly pressed, a dark tie complementing the shade. He looked every inch the debonair that he wished to portray himself as. There seemed to be equal amounts of money and prestige in both of his chosen fields of work and Mr. Beck didn’t seem to be short of either. Alongside a hefty dose of self-importance. Mar
tha would most definitely hate him.

  Parker approached the table. As he got closer, he noted that there were three tumblers of what looked like whiskey in front of the men and an ashtray that currently housed a fat, smouldering cigar. Tut-tut. Naughty, naughty. Unable to help himself, he commented, ‘Isn’t that illegal now?’

  ‘Is it?’ The man shrugged his suit encased shoulders. ‘I’ll fetch my give-a-crap badge.’

  The blatant ego made Parker scowl. ‘Being rich doesn’t put you above the law.’

  Russell Beck glanced up, thinning pale eyebrow raising. He smiled, the curl exposing deep wrinkles around the corner of his mouth. Parker wasn’t particularly sure if it was supposed to be welcoming but it came off conceited. And maybe even a little bit lecherous. He indicated a nearby waiter, ‘But of course it doesn’t. Shaun, could you please do me a favour and remove my ashtray? Its presence is offending Mr..?’

  ‘Parker,’ he answered sternly. ‘Michael Parker. I’m with MPIA. I’m here to talk to you about the recent business dealings you had with William Ford.’

  The smirk on the man’s face fell abruptly into a scowl. He straightened himself up in his chair, folding and fanning the cards in his hand back out somewhat aggressively as he forcefully stated, ‘I have absolutely nothing to say about that man.’

  Interesting. Keeping his tone terse, he said, ‘Well, fortunately for me, I wasn’t asking.’

  Mr. Beck stared at his hand for a long moment before folding them again and placing the cards, face down, flat on the surface of the table. Linking the long fingers of his hands together as if he were praying, he gave Parker an appraising stare before deeming him apparently worthy of taking one of the seats that his companions had also abruptly cleared at his demand. Deciding that he didn’t particularly want to play the man’s game, Parker declined the seat.

  ‘Well,’ the art dealer said, ‘unless you are here to investigate how Mr. Ford swindled me out of a lot of money, I don’t see what we have to talk about.’

  Again, interesting but not what he had come to discuss. ‘You know that he’s dead, right?’

  Russell Beck sneered. ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘Is it true that you recently did business with him?’ he asked again. ‘In particular, we are interested in what would appear to be a gold amulet, probably with magical properties but not necessarily. It looked like this.’ He pulled out the appropriate photograph and put it on the table.

  ‘You might call it a business deal,’ the man mused. ‘Or theft. Or even the most ill-made venture of my very illustrious career. You can choose a semantic, the result is the same.’

  ‘Would you care to elaborate?’

  ‘Even though you have not been very cordial, yes, I suppose I will.’ He reached down and took a small sip from his tumbler, probably for dramatic effect before continuing. ‘I was approached by William Ford about seven months ago. He was looking for an artefact that could be used to siphon magical energy from another human being and transfer the power to the person who wielded it. Rather specific and very rare. It took me a lot of time and great expense on my behalf to procure such an item, which I delivered to him, as promised.’

  ‘I’m guessing that he never paid for it,’ Parker inferred.

  ‘No, he did not. Furthermore, he proceeded to enquire about other such items and if I knew anybody who would have the kind of power it would take to create other amulets such as the one that I had procured. As a show of good will, because I expected him to be the honourable kind of gentleman that he claimed to be, I put him in touch with an old friend of mine.’

  ‘A magic practitioner?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mr. Beck confirmed. ‘A very powerful one who I had known for years.’

  Sensing an unpleasant development, Parker asked, ‘What happened?’

  ‘She was found dead in her home several days later.’

  Parker cursed under his breath. ‘And you believe that Mr. Ford was responsible?’

  ‘I know that he was,’ he said, arrogantly. ‘In the days before her death, she called me up and admonished me for sending him her way. She claimed that he had begun stalking her after she refused to help him and that he was becoming increasingly aggressive.’

  ‘Were the police involved?’ Parker pushed. ‘Did she report the harassment?’

  ‘My dear boy,’ the man sounded genuinely amused, ‘the police around here do not take matters of a supernatural nature very seriously. The agency that you work for should be clear enough evidence of that. My friend was a practicing witch. They blamed her for many, many misdemeanours that occurred over the years so why should she have trusted them with this? They probably would have accused her of putting a love spell on him or some such tripe.’

  ‘Did you ever confront William Ford about the accusations?’

  ‘I tried to.’ He sounded genuinely remorseful. ‘But at that point, he had stopped taking my phone calls and that woman who was not his wife claimed that he was out whenever I called by like she was protecting him. He deliberately avoided me, right until his death.’

  ‘Mr Beck,’ Parker hedged, ‘I have to ask you, did you have anything to do with that?’

  ‘I wish,’ the man scoffed. Parker believed it.

  ‘Thank-you for your co-operation,’ he said, retrieving the image. ‘For the record, you can confirm that this was the necklace that William Ford stole from you?’

  ‘The very same,’ he confirmed. ‘Say, do you think that I might be able to have it back?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s not really how it works.’

  ‘Pity,’ the older man said, leaving Parker with no doubt that even if he could get the talisman back into its rightful owner’s hands, he never would. Too much damage had already been done over the thing. ‘Well, it’s been a delight. I shall put your name on the guest list, should you feel the need to ever call by again. Have a good afternoon, Mr. Parker.’

  Chapter 23

  Outside of the oh-so-exclusive gentleman’s only club, Martha was practically chomping at the bit. If there was one thing she hated, it was being disregarded because she was female. She had dealt with it for years on The Mount and she had experienced it more than enough. If the pseudo tough-guy doorman thought that he could intimidate her than he should probably meet the males that she regularly trained with. They’d eat him for breakfast. Perhaps literally.

  Henry White emerged from the club several minutes after he and Parker had been given permission to cross the sacred threshold. The late morning sun illuminated him like a spotlight but it was completely superfluous, not like he needed it to draw attention at all. The man was handsome, incredibly so, but there was something about him that Martha did not like. The long strap of a brown leather satchel bag hung over his broad shoulders like the arms of a lover and his dark eyes were covered by tinted glass. An eyebrow rose at her obvious disgruntlement and he said, ‘You can’t say that I did not warn you.’

  ‘You did,’ she retorted blithely.

  ‘Yet you thought that you could somehow still charm your way in there,’ he deduced, folding his arms in a gesture that any body language expert would call defensive only it didn’t quite match the subtly defiant sliver of amusement he held in his smile.

  ‘Either that or threaten my way in,’ she smirked. ‘Guess I’m not as tough as I thought.’

  ‘Somehow, I doubt that very much.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’ She asked, suspicion in her tone. ‘You don’t know me.’

  ‘People are fascinating. I notice what they do, how they react.’ He withdrew a finger from the crook of his left elbow, pointing in her general direction. ‘You are very fascinating, Miss Martha Valentine. You intrigue me. I think there’s more to you than meets the eye.’

  ‘That’s very perceptive. Not something I’m prepared to talk to you about though.’

  He all but pouted. ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re a complete stranger and I’m not here to socialise.’

  ‘That’s a shame,’ he
said, sounded genuinely disappointed. ‘But I agree. Your family is currently going through something rather unpleasant and it was insensitive of me to flirt with you. I hope that this lead helps you give Amanda her answers. She really needs them.’

  ‘You care about her,’ Martha realised. ‘A lot.’

  ‘Amanda is a remarkable young woman,’ he replied. ‘She is very talented and intelligent and she has a passion for her craft that you just don’t get to find every day. Working with her is a pleasure and I hope that she finds what she’s looking for because I meant it when I said that the gallery wouldn’t be the same without her. It simply wouldn’t.’

  Martha couldn’t help but smile. ‘I’ll be sure to pass that along.’

  ‘Please do,’ he said. ‘And also feel free to come by the gallery whenever you like. I know you don’t really care for all the artsy-fartsy stuff but it would be nice to try and convert you.’

  ‘Yeah. I don’t think so.’

  ‘As you wish,’ he shrugged. ‘Take care of yourself, Martha Valentine. And your sister.’

  ‘Goodbye Henry White.’

  With a small smile, he walked away. Martha watched him go, unable to help herself.

  The man certainly had a way, she had to give him that much and it was clear that he cared about her sister and was encouraging the young artist in her chosen vocation. Sitting down on the curb opposite the entrance to the private Afterlife club, she thought about how different her life might be if she had simply stayed home that day, thirteen years ago. In another life, she might have been a bit more open to Henry White’s attention, if her life had taken another turn or she had simply arrived in Marytown one day with no knowledge of how dark reality truly was and she had not been forever changed by years of abuse and trauma.