Forty-Three
This household must strike you as a very morbid place, Miss Lockwood.” Victor poured brandy into a glass. “Some of my old friends have hinted that I have been in deep mourning far too long. They feel it is time that I moved forward with my life.”
“I know that there are social rules when it comes to mourning,” Beatrice said gently. “But I am of the opinion that everyone grieves in his or her own way. Certainly there cannot be any loss more dreadful than that of a child.”
They were back in the library. The black-clad housekeeper had brought in a coffee service. Victor had graciously poured two cups and added a splash of brandy to each but Beatrice had not touched her cup.
She had been growing increasingly anxious ever since Joshua had left the mansion to seek a confrontation with the assassin. It was now after midnight. She was struggling to maintain control of her nerves. Periodically she gave herself a small lecture, reminding herself that Joshua knew what he was about. But the sense of dread continued to deepen.
“Emma was all I had after her mother died,” Victor explained. He draped one black-clad arm on the white marble mantel and looked up at the portrait. “Society expects a widower to remarry within a few months, especially when he does not have any male heirs.”
“Yes, I know,” Beatrice said.
“But I loved my Alice and could not find it in my heart to betray her memory by bringing another woman into this house. I had my brilliant, beautiful daughter, and that was more than enough for me.”
“I understand.”
The rules and rituals for mourning were complicated but the social burden fell most heavily on women. Everything from the black-bordered paper used to announce a death to the length of time prescribed for wearing black and, later, gray gowns was a matter of great concern for ladies. A woman in mourning was watched with close, critical scrutiny. But gentlemen usually confined themselves to a black hatband and, at most, a black armband for a couple of months. Widows were discouraged from marrying again. A second marriage implied a lack of sensitivity. Men, however, were encouraged to take another wife as soon as possible.
“I also had two young men in my life who were like sons to me,” Victor continued. “Indeed, my happiest hour came when Emma told me that she wished to marry one of them.”
“Clement Lancing,” Beatrice said.
“Yes. My daughter was quite beautiful. She could have had any man she chose. I knew that both Joshua and Clement loved her, but in the end I felt that Lancing was the right choice because he shared Emma’s fascination with Egyptology.” Victor’s jaw tightened. “It was one of the few times in my life that I have been wrong in my judgment of a man. The mistake cost me my Emma.”
“Were you aware of Lancing’s obsession with the formula for the Egyptian preservative fluid?”
“Of course,” Victor said. “Emma was equally fascinated. We discussed it on several occasions. They were excited by the possibility that the ancients had discovered a means of preserving the newly dead in a state of suspended animation. Lancing was convinced that in that deep sleep the formula would exert a healing effect on the organs. When the process was complete, the individual could be successfully revived.”
“As I told Mr. Gage, I am astonished that a scientist as brilliant as Clement Lancing would actually believe he could awaken the dead,” Beatrice said.
“The line between genius and madness can sometimes be difficult to find.” Victor’s hand tightened around the edge of the mantel. “Mind you, Lancing did not think the Egyptian Water would work on a long-dead corpse, but he was convinced that if the body of a recently deceased person was immersed in the fluid within a few hours after death, there was every hope. He began conducting terrible experiments.”
“Mr. Gage told me about that aspect of the affair.”
“When my daughter discovered what was going on she was horrified. She confronted him and, well, I’m sure Josh told you the rest.”
“Yes.”
Victor shook his head, mouth tightening. “It is difficult enough to comprehend that Lancing actually survived the explosion. The possibility that he may have my daughter’s body preserved in a chemical bath is shocking beyond belief. All these months . . .”
“I can only imagine how upsetting that notion must be for you.”
“Joshua never took Lancing’s and Emma’s work on the Egyptian Water seriously because he doesn’t believe in the paranormal.”
“Yes, he has made that quite clear.”
Victor’s mouth twisted faintly. “We all have our blind spots. With Josh it is his great desire to live by cold logic and reason. He has always feared that to do otherwise means risking his sense of control.”
“You know him well, sir. But then, that is no surprise. I understand that you guided him at a crucial juncture of his life.”
“I did what I could,” Victor said. “I am very fond of Joshua. What happened nearly a year ago caused both of us great pain. I know that each of us has been grieving this past year. In hindsight, we should have talked more.” He glanced at the clock. “It’s going to be a very long night.”
Another flutter of anxiety shifted through her. The faint, panicky sensation brought her to her feet. She suddenly wanted to be out of the funereal room, out of the mausoleum of a mansion. The sad, seething energy of the house was taking a toll on her nerves.
“Would you mind very much if I went upstairs to my room to wait for Joshua?” she asked.
Victor frowned. “Are you all right, my dear? You look unwell.”
“I am quite tense. I’m afraid I’m not good company at the moment.”
“Yes, of course.” Victor studied her with deep concern. “I see you did not drink your coffee and brandy. Would you care for a glass of the brandy alone? It will help calm your nerves.”
“No, I’m fine, thank you. Please call me the instant Joshua comes back.”
“You have my word on it.”
Victor opened the door for her. She hurried out into the hall and walked swiftly toward the grand staircase. The relief she experienced upon escaping the library proved short-lived. Another wave of fear crashed through her when she climbed the stairs. By the time she reached her bedroom she was in a state of near-panic. She was suddenly desperate for a breath of crisp night air.
She had to get out of the house. Perhaps a few minutes in the gardens would ease her tight breathing.
She opened the door of her bedroom, collected her cloak and a candlestick, and let herself quietly back out into the hall. The long carpet runner muffled her footsteps. She did not want to alarm Victor. She knew he would be worried if he realized that she was going outside alone at such a late hour.
The house was very silent. The household’s small staff had gone downstairs some time ago.
The servants’ stairs at the end of the hall were the closest route to the gardens. She opened the door to the stairwell, trying to make as little noise as possible.
She heard Victor’s footsteps on the main staircase just as she shut the door. She lit the candle and started down. The close confines of the back stairs caused her heart to beat faster. The need for fresh air was overwhelming. It was as if the house was trying to suffocate her.
There was no logical reason for the sparks of raw panic that shot through her, but she had survived on her intuition far too long to ignore the sensation.
She reached the ground floor and paused to blow out the candle. The wall sconces had been turned down low but there was sufficient light to reveal a door that looked as if it served as the tradesmen’s entrance.
There was a muffled squeak of floorboards overhead. Victor was moving down the hall toward the master bedroom. The faint groans of the boards should not have terrified her, but they did. The memories of the night she had stood beside Roland as he lay dying and listened to his killer returning to the scene of the crime slammed across her senses. The choking fear welled up inside.
But it had not been Victor Hazelton who had killed Roland, she thought. Why was she so frightened tonight? Perhaps the events of the past few days had been too much for her nerves. She was strong but everyone had a breaking point. She was jumping at shadows now.
She crept silently toward the tradesmen’s entrance. Her talent was sparking in reaction to her fear. In the dim light she could see the psychical fog created by the prints of the many people who had come and gone through the door—deliverymen bringing provisions for the household, carpenters and painters who had been summoned to perform repairs, coachmen, gardeners and all those who had come to the door in hopes of gaining a post in the mansion.
The decades of tracks had formed a layer of murky energy that swirled on the floor. But one set of footsteps stood out above all the rest. They glittered with a terrible iridescence. She recognized them instantly.
The man with the skull for a face had come through the door—not once but on several occasions in the past few months.
The fact that he had used the tradesmen’s entrance told her all she needed to know. He worked for Victor Hazelton.
There was another creak from the floor above and then a nerve-shattering silence. It was impossible to be certain from where she stood but intuition told her that Victor had stopped at her bedroom door.
She took out her stocking gun and opened the tradesmen’s door, half expecting to come face-to-face with the assassin. But there was only moonlit darkness on the other side.
Joshua thought that he had set a trap, but he was wrong. He was walking into one.