Doyle nodded, irritated at the intrusion of the man’s self-interest but sympathetically aware of how his own good nature was often at odds with the impulse to mine the rough ore of his experience for gold.
“My first action was to obtain a roster of company names from the hotel in Nottingham, then track the schedule of the Manchester Players to the next few cities on their tour, on the chance they had made some plan to regroup down the road and one of them or more might surface there. That took me to Huddlesfield, then York on New Year’s Eve, on to Scarborough, and finally here, to Whitby, two days ago. I checked with the theaters in each city, and the hotels they had reserved to lay over. I watched stations and piers for arrivals and departures, visited restaurants and pubs touring actors were known to frequent. I questioned tailors and cobblers; actors are in constant need of repairs to shoes and costumes while on the road. For all that, I had not had, in any of these cities, a single encouraging response. I was indeed on the verge of returning to London when yesterday afternoon I happened upon a laundress in Whitby who had the day before taken in a woman’s black satin dress damaged with a peculiarly persistent red stain—”
Sparks stood bolt upright. Doyle looked at him; he was wearing the most curious expression he had ever seen on the man’s face. Doyle turned to see what could have wrought such an effect in him.
She was standing in the doorway. She was looking for Stoker, and her face wore the small concentrated satisfaction of having found him, when her eyes traveled to his companions. The impact of seeing, and a moment later recognizing, Doyle appeared to weaken her; splotches of color rushed to her cheeks, and she put out a hand to the wall for support. Doyle immediately rose to his feet and moved to her, but he had no sense, or later, memory, of movement. There was only her face, the pale, delicate oval that had so haunted his thoughts and dreams, the soft black curls that framed her forehead before cascading gently to her shoulders. The noble eyes and full rose-pink lips. The elegant, swanlike gracefulness of her white neck. Unmarked, unscarred.
As he reached her, Doyle held out his hands, and she unhesitatingly took both in greeting, stepping forward to him even as she seemed to retreat, full of surrender and fear and apology uncertain of its reception. Realizing the forgiving welcome of his look, she let her weight list gently back against the door; it was the slightest, but to Doyle the most stunning, yielding to the turbulence of her feelings. She looked at him and looked away repeatedly, unable to hold the fullness of his gaze for any length of time. Emotions played across her face with the clarity and speed of minnows in a shallow stream. She seemed temperamentally incapable of any intentional deception; her beauty provided only the most quicksilver transparency to her innermost looking glass. Feeling the warm, moist touch of her hands, Doyle realized with a jolt that they had never spoken a single word to one another. Tears came freely to his eyes. He searched through his mind, quite sure he hadn’t the remotest idea of how to begin.
“Are you all right?” he finally asked.
She nodded, repeatedly, trying to find her voice. There were tears glistening in her eyes as well.
“I had no hope that you could have been alive,” he said, letting go of her hands, trying to keep his emotions in check.
“I had none,” she said finally, her voice a dusky contralto, “but that which you, sir, by your courage and kindness had given me.”
“But you are alive,” said Doyle. “Here. That’s what matters.”
She looked up at him and held his look and nodded again. Her eyes were large, bracketed by dark, shapely brows, slanted appealingly downward at the outer corners, their color a startling sea green.
“You don’t know how often I’ve thought of your face,” she said, reaching out a tentative hand to touch him, withdrawing before making contact.
“What is your name?”
“Eileen.”
“We must straightaway remove ourselves from common view,” Sparks’s voice intruded sharply. He was suddenly standing beside Doyle. “We’ll use Stoker’s room. This way, please, Madam.”
Sparks gestured to where Stoker was waiting by the stairs. Doyle was disturbed at the curtness with which he had addressed her and gave him a cold look, which Sparks refused to meet. Doyle followed Eileen across the room, where she accepted Stoker’s offered arm before climbing the staircase. Sparks trailed them to the second floor. No one spoke until all had entered Stoker’s slanted, low-ceilinged room, and the door was secured behind them.
“Please be seated, Madam,” said Sparks, grabbing the back of a chair and slamming it down unceremoniously in the center of the room.
Eileen gave a pained and vulnerable glance back to Doyle even as she moved to the chair and settled herself.
“Here now, Jack, must you take that tone—” started Doyle.
“Be quiet!” commanded Sparks. Doyle was too dismayed to reply; he’d never before heard Sparks display such an imperious manner. “Or need I remind you, Doyle, that this woman, while in the employ of our enemies and through the effectiveness of her false office, made one of the principal contributions to your entrapment, betrayal, and near murder!”
“Most unwittingly, I assure—” protested Eileen.
“Thank you, Madam; when your self-defense is required, it will be most swiftly called upon,” replied Sparks corrosively.
“Jack, see here—”
“Doyle, if you would be kind enough to contain your ill-informed, moonstruck affections long enough to allow me some small opportunity to arrive at the truth with this adventuress, it would be very much appreciated.”
Stung by his unalloyed scorn, Eileen began to weep quietly and helplessly, looking up at Doyle for assistance. Contrary to ameliorating his anger, her flood of feeling only served to stiffen Sparks’s bellicosity.
“Tears, Madam, in this instance, are wasted. I assure you that as persuasive as you may have found them in the past—and as effortlessly as you can simulate them according to your well-practiced craft—you will find them here as bootless as rain to a river; I will not be moved. Treachery of this high order, whatever form it takes, however unwitting, deserves no presumption of innocence. I will have the truth from you, Madam, make no mistake, and any further attempt to manipulate the gentle nature of my companion to your advantage will avail you not at all!”
In the interests of discretion, Sparks had hardly raised his voice above the conversational, but the silence that lay in the room when he finished speaking rang out with the vehemence of his rancor. Stoker had backed up against the door, stunned and speechless. Doyle found it difficult to move, shamed both by his friend’s explosive outburst and the nettle of unattractive truth that he knew nested in his harsh judgment. He was perhaps even more disturbed to see Eileen stop weeping almost instantly; she sat upright in her chair as stiff as a celluloid collar, entirely and eerily composed. Her eyes coolly regarded her interrogator without fright or anger, clear and steady and with enormous self-possession.
“What is your name, Madam?” asked Sparks less aggressively, apparently appeased by the greater authenticity of her current state.
“Eileen Temple.” Her voice wavered not at all; there was pride in it, and a hint of no longer undeclared defiance.
“Mr. Stoker,” said Sparks, without looking at him, “I take it that, upon your discovery at the local laundress’s, you traced Miss Temple back to this address, whereupon you sought her out last night.”
“Correct,” said Stoker.
“Miss Temple, you have been an actress in the employ of the erstwhile Manchester Players for how long a period of time?”
“Two years.”
“Last October, while playing an engagement in London, were you approached by someone in your company regarding the appearance you were eventually to make on Boxing Day at Thirteen Cheshire Street?”
“Sammy Fulgrave. He and his wife, Emma, were understudies with our company. She was with child; they were in fairly desperate need of money.”
“So the
y introduced you to the man who had offered them this situation—a small, swarthy man, with a foreign accent—whereupon he extended the same offer to you.”
The Dark man at the séance, thought Doyle. The one he’d shot in the leg.
“That he did,” said Eileen.
“What were the terms of that offer?”
“We were to receive one hundred pounds, fifty of which he paid to us immediately. His accent was Austrian, by the way.”
“He then recruited the fourth and last actor with your assistance?”
“Dennis Cullen. He was to play my brother—”
“And was no doubt in equally exigent financial distress,” said Sparks, unable to keep the edge of scorn from his voice. “What did this man require of you for his hundred pounds?”
“Our participation in a private performance for a wealthy friend of his who was interested in spiritualism. He said it was the intention of a well-meaning group of this man’s friends to play a sort of joke on him.”
“What sort of joke?”
“He told us that this man, their good friend, was a resolute disbeliever in the spirit world. He said they planned to invite the man to a séance, which he would be given every reason to believe was genuine, and then give him a proper fright, using all manner of elaborate stage effects. This was to take place in a private home, and in order to pull off the effect, they had decided that professional actors, people the man didn’t know and whose behavior would appear credible, were required to play the parts.”
“Nothing about this offer aroused your suspicions?”
“We discussed it among ourselves. To be honest, it sounded like fairly harmless fun. Nothing about the man’s attitude suggested otherwise, and we, all of us, frankly needed the money.”
She looked at Doyle and then away, somewhat ashamed, Doyle thought.
“What did he subsequently ask you to do?”
“Nothing for the moment. We were to return to London the day before Christmas for another meeting to organize the performance. At that time, the man took us to Chesire Street and showed us the room where the séance would be staged. He gave each of us our character’s name, told us what sort of person they were supposed to be, and asked us to supply our own appropriate costumes. That’s when we learned that Dennis and I were to play brother and sister.”
“Had you ever before heard the name Lady Caroline Nicholson?”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen this woman before?” Sparks asked, showing to her the photograph of the woman taken outside Rathborne and Sons.
“I have not,” she said, after a moment’s study. “Is this Lady Nicholson?”
“I believe it is,” said Sparks. “You’re younger than she. You wore makeup that night to make you appear older.”
She nodded.
“I believe that you were singled out by someone who saw your London performance in October and sought you for this job because of your resemblance to Lady Nicholson. The others were relatively immaterial; you were the key to their plan.”
“But why go to all this trouble?” asked Stoker.
“To protect against the eventuality that our friend Dr. Doyle had ever seen the real woman. I assure you the man responsible is capable of far more absolute thoroughness than this.”
“But what in God’s name was their intention?” pressed Stoker with evident frustration.
“Dr. Doyle’s murder,” he said.
Stoker leaned back. Eileen turned to look at Doyle again; he saw outrage register there, on his behalf. He was beginning to gain a measure of the woman’s substantial fortitude.
“Did the man introduce you to the medium before the night of the séance?” asked Sparks.
“No. I suppose we all assumed it would be just another actor. He did say he would be playing a part as well. He was wearing makeup that night—you described him as swarthy; actually the man himself was quite pale.”
“Our friend Professor Vamberg again, Doyle,” said Sparks in an aside.
“Really?” said Doyle eagerly, almost pathetically grateful to hear a comradely word from Sparks. “You can’t say we didn’t get our licks in.”
“No: When next we see him, the Professor should be walking with a pronounced limp.”
Doyle felt a visceral, decidedly uncharitable surge of satisfaction as he recalled the gun going off in his hand and the man’s wounded bellows.
“What did this man tell you to do on the night of the séance?”
“He wanted us to arrive in character, in case his friend happened to see any of us on the street. We met him a few blocks away; Dennis and I were picked up by carriage and delivered to the house by another man, who played the part of Tim, our driver.”
“What was his name?”
“We didn’t know him; he didn’t speak to us. But just after we boarded the carriage, and the Professor, as you refer to him, was leaving for the séance, I overheard him call the driver Alexander.”
Good Lord, that was him, thought Doyle, the driver he had spoken to outside 13 Cheshire, that was Alexander Sparks; he’d been as close to the man then as he was now to his brother. A shiver ratcheted through him. The man’s immersion in his role had been consummate, undetectable.
“Miss Temple, the things we saw in the séance,” Doyle asked, “did they demonstrate any of those tricks to you beforehand?”
Eileen nodded. “They had one of those devices—what do you call them?—a magic lantern, hidden behind the curtains. It projected an image into the air—”
“The picture of the little boy,” said Doyle.
“With all the smoke, it appeared to be moving, and it was difficult to tell where it came from—and there were wires suspended from the ceiling, holding the trumpets and the head of that hideous beast—”
“You saw that before the séance?”
“No, but of course I just assumed,” she said, looking for reassurance.
Unsure that he could provide any, Doyle only nodded.
“What specific directions were given to you regarding how to behave toward Dr. Doyle? Did they give you his name?” asked Sparks.
“No. I was told he was a doctor that my character had sent for, requesting help; my son had been kidnapped, I had turned reluctantly to this medium for guidance, but unsure about her intentions had written to the doctor asking him to meet us there.” She looked at Doyle again. “But when he arrived, I don’t know why, but I sensed immediately that something was terribly wrong, that the stories I’d been told were untrue—I could see it in your face. The others kept playing along—I don’t know that they even noticed. I wanted to say something to you, to give you some sign, but once the thing began, it became so completely overwhelming…”
“Did you believe what you were seeing was real?” asked Doyle.
“I had no way to judge: that is, I know what we’re capable of onstage, but…” She shuddered involuntarily and crossed her arms around herself. “There was something so vile in the touch of that woman’s hand. Something…unclean. And when that creature appeared in the mirror and began to speak in that dreadful voice… I felt as if I were losing my mind.”
“So did I,” said Doyle.
“And then came the attack,” said Sparks.
“An attack was to be part of the entertainment; we had rehearsed it. We would fall at the hands of these intruders, you would have your reaction, then everyone would bounce to their feet, and have a good laugh at your expense. But when those men came into the room…they weren’t the ones we’d seen before. I heard the blow that struck Dennis down, I saw the look in his eyes as he fell and…”
Her voice caught. She put a hand to her forehead, lowered her gaze, and with an immense show of will righted the keel of her emotions.
“…and I knew that he was dead and that they meant to kill you, Dr. Doyle; that had been their intention all along. In that moment, I found voice in my mind to pray; if they would take my life for the part that I had played in this, my life for yours. T
hen I felt the knife at my throat and the blood running down, and I had no reason to believe it wasn’t mine, that they hadn’t murdered me as well. I fell, I suppose I fainted, the next moments are unclear.…”
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath; it hitched raggedly as she exhaled, fighting off tears again. She had told them the truth, thought Doyle; the greatest genius of the stage the world over could not have dissembled so effectively.
“I came around as Sammy and his wife were carrying me from the house—they hadn’t been hurt, but we heard screams and moans behind us. Gunshots. Chaos. Such a terrible shock to realize I was still alive and everything I remembered had actually happened, that Dennis had been killed.”
“The driver of the carriage, did you see him outside?” asked Sparks.
She shook her head. “The carriage was gone. We ran. We began to encounter people in the streets. Emma was screaming, Sammy tried desperately to quiet her, but she wouldn’t be stilled, he couldn’t comfort her; he insisted it would be safer for me if we parted, so we went our separate ways. He gave me his handkerchief to wipe the blood off my throat. I didn’t see them again. Mr. Stoker told me what happened to them.… I tried to make myself presentable. I didn’t dare return to the small hotel where we’d been staying. I walked until morning, then took a room somewhere in Chelsea. I had the money we’d been given with me. I considered going to the police, but my part in it seemed impossible to explain, too deserving of blame; what could I have told them?”
Doyle shook his head, trying to grant her absolution. She took no solace from it, shaking her head self-reproachingly and looking away.
“All I could think of was getting back to the company. Get back and tell them what had happened, because I thought they would know what to do. I tried to remember where they were playing—I knew it was in the north, but I was so confused—then I remembered Whitby. I remembered Whitby because we’d played here once before, in the height of summer, and the sea and the sailing ships in the harbor had been so very beautiful, and I wanted to sit on a bench by the sea-wall and look out at the ships as I had that summer and not move and to think for the longest time, and maybe then I would begin to forget what had happened, maybe I could heal what had been done to my mind.…”