“Aye, sir.” Mrs. Jones turned briskly away with an expression of relief and disappeared with Nellie in tow.
Artemas waited until they had retreated down the back stairs. Then he looked at Madeline. “What the devil happened?”
“My dream.” She glanced at Eaton Pitney. “It is a long story, sir, but suffice it to say that I have had a recurring nightmare. Last night there was something different about it. There is a key, you see.”
“A key?” Pitney cocked his head to the side. “To a door, do you mean?”
Artemas looked at her. “What of the key?”
“It is always in my dream, but last night I dropped it and instead of picking it up, as I generally do—” She broke off and turned back to Pitney. “Sir, yesterday you told me you did not believe that little volume I showed you could be the Book of Secrets”
“Quite impossible. The thing is not even written in the correct language.”
“But you and I discussed the possibility that it might be some sort of code.”
“What of it?”
She drew a breath. “Lord Linslade had a conversation with an intruder he took to be the ghost of my dead husband. Linslade said he and the phantom discussed the Book of Secrets. Renwick’s ghost apparently mentioned the fact that even if the book was found, one would need some means of translating it because there were so few scholars who could read the ancient tongue.”
“Quite right,” Pitney said.
“And you yourself said that the Stranger who surprised you in your maze demanded a key.”
“What are you getting at here, Madeline?” Artemas asked.
“What if the Book of Secrets was not consumed in the flames?” Madeline said very steadily “What if someone has it and now seeks the code he needs to unlock its secrets? What if that strange little book I have been studying is the key to the Book of Secrets?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
He waited in the pooling shadows behind the screen and watched through the small openings that had been embroidered into the design. The two men entered the elegantly appointed dining room one by one. Each was startled to see the other, although they quickly covered their mutual surprise with the usual pleasantries. Neither was entirely successful at concealing his unease, however. They did not meet each other’s eyes as they surveyed the firelit chamber.
The table had been laid for four. Candlelight sparkled on the crystal and silver. Thick velvet drapes shut out the view of the fog-swathed pleasure gardens outside the tall window. The sounds of music and the noise of the crowds were muffled and distant. The gentlemen’s footsteps were hushed by the heavy carpet. There were no servants about.
Silence cloaked the private dining parlor.
Glenthorpe broke the conversational ice first. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here tonight. I take it you’re a shareholder in this enterprise, too?”
“The mining project, d’ye mean?” Flood helped himself to the bottle of claret that stood on the table. He poured a generous serving into one glass but did not offer to pour any for Glenthorpe. “Got into it right at the start. Going to take my profits early.”
“I was told that the opportunity to invest at the beginning was limited to only a handful of gentlemen.”
“Yes, I know. By invitation only” Flood downed half the claret in his glass and regarded Glenthorpe over the rim. “So you were one of those who got in at the start of the venture?”
“You know me, Flood.” Glenthorpe’s laugh rang hollow in the small room. “I’ve always been one to take advantage of a good thing when it comes my way.”
“Yes, I know you,” Flood said quietly “And you know me. And we both knew Oswynn. Rather interesting, is it not?”
Glenthorpe jerked in response to that question. “You heard the news?”
“That they pulled his body out of the river this morning? I heard.”
“Footpad got him,” Glenthorpe said. He sounded both eager and desperate. “You recall his temperament. Wild and reckless. He was always one to take chances. Spent too much time in the most dangerous parts of town. It was a wonder he didn’t break his neck or get himself shot by a villain in the stews years ago.”
“Yes,” Flood said. “A wonder. But now he’s gone, isn’t he? And there are only two members of our little club left.”
“For God’s sake, Flood, will you stop carrying on about Oswynn?”
“Two of us left, and by a strange coincidence we are both here tonight to meet the master of our enterprise and to be told of our profits.”
Glenthorpe went to warm himself at the fire. “You’re well and truly foxed. Mayhap you should avoid the wine until after we’ve completed our business.”
“Our business,” Flood repeated thoughtfully. “Ah, yes, our business. Tell me, do you not find it curious that no one else has arrived?”
Glenthorpe scowled. Then he jerked his watch out of his pocket and flipped open the cover. “It’s only a quarter past ten.”
“The invitation was for ten o’clock.”
“What of it?” Glenthorpe dropped the watch back into his pocket. “The grounds are crowded tonight. The other investors have no doubt been delayed.”
Flood eyed the four places at the table. “There cannot be many of them.”
Glenthorpe followed his gaze. His hands worked nervously. “At least two more.”
Flood continued to study the four dishes on the table. “If we assume that one of the places is set for the master of this venture, that leaves only a single investor left to account for, other than ourselves. Apparently just three of us were invited to make our fortunes in this affair.”
“Don’t understand it.” Glenthorpe fiddled with the fobs on his watch. “What man would be late to learn of his profits?”
Artemas walked out from behind the screen.
“A dead man,” he said quietly
Flood and Glenthorpe whirled to face him.
“Hunt,” Flood muttered.
“What the devil is this all about?” Glenthorpe’s expression of wide-eyed fear transformed into blank confusion. “Why did you conceal yourself behind that screen? Should have announced yourself when we arrived. This is no night for games.”
“I agree with you,” Artemas said. “There will be no more games.”
“What did you mean with that remark about a dead man?” Glenthorpe demanded brusquely
“You’re a fool, Glenthorpe.” Flood did not take his eyes off Artemas. “You always were a fool.”
Glenthorpe bristled furiously. “Damnation, how dare you call me a fool, sir? You’ve got no call to insult me.”
“Hunt is not the third investor,” Flood said wearily. “He is the master of the mining venture. Is that not right, sir?”
Artemas inclined his head. “You are correct.”
“Master of it?” Glenthorpe looked at the four place settings and then switched his gaze back to Artemas. “Then who is the third investor?”
Flood’s mouth twisted. “I suspect that Oswynn was the third man induced to stake his entire fortune on this project.”
Artemas did not move out of the shadows. “Again you are correct in your conclusion. But then, you always were the cleverest of the three, were you not?”
Flood’s jaw tightened. “Tell me, just out of curiosity, precisely how much of our total investment have we lost?”
Artemas went to the table, picked up the claret bottle, and poured a glass. He looked at the two men.
“You have both lost everything,” he said.
“Bloody bastard,” Flood whispered.
Glenthorpe gaped. “Everything? But that’s not possible. What of our profits? We were going to make vast fortunes in the venture.”
“I fear your profits, as well as all of the money you invested, have disappeared down the shaft of that imaginary gold mine in the South Seas,” Artemas said.
“Are you saying there is no mine?”
“Yes, Glenthorpe. That is precisely what I am saying.”
“But… but I mortgaged my estates to raise the funds to put into that mining venture.” Glenthorpe gripped the back of a chair to steady himself. “I will be ruined.”
“All three of us wagered far more than we could afford.” Flood pinned Artemas with venomous eyes. “We allowed ourselves to be dazzled. We were deceived by an illusion. Hunt here was the magician behind the scenes.”
Glenthorpe staggered. His face pinched in an expression of anguish. He put a hand to his chest. He took a few shallow breaths and then slowly straightened. “Why? What is this all about?”
Artemas looked at him. “It’s about Catherine Jensen.”
Glenthorpe paled. He pulled himself to a chair and sat down hard. “Damnation. It was you who sent the seal a few months ago, was it not?”
“I wanted you to have time to contemplate the past before I took the next step,” Artemas said.
“You’re a cold-blooded devil, Hunt,” Flood said almost casually. “I should have reasoned it out long before tonight.”
“No.” Glenthorpe rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. “No, this is impossible. How can it be? It all ended five years ago.”
Artemas spared him only the briefest of glances. Flood was the dangerous one. “There is no time limit on revenge.”
“It was an accident.” Glenthorpe’s voice rose. “She made a fuss. Who’d have thought the little lightskirt would fight like that? She got away from us. We tried to catch her but she ran off. It was so dark that night. No moon. Couldn’t see your bloody hand in front of your face without a lantern. It’s not our fault she fell from that cliff.”
“But I do consider it your fault,” Artemas said softly. “Yours and Oswynn’s and Flood’s.”
“Well then,” Flood said quietly, “are you going to murder us the way you murdered Oswynn?”
Glenthorpe’s jaw dropped. “You killed Oswynn?” He twitched violently and clutched at the table to steady himself. “It wasn’t a footpad?”
“Of course it was Hunt who killed Oswynn,” Flood said. “Who else could it have been?”
“As it happens,” Artemas said, “I did not kill Oswynn.”
“I don’t believe you,” Flood said.
“What you choose to believe is up to you, of course, but if you spend your time watching for me over your shoulder, you may not notice the real killer standing in front of you.”
“Just as we failed to notice that we were being lured to our financial ruin?” Flood snarled.
Artemas smiled. “Precisely. My advice is to be wary of all new acquaintances.”
“No.” Glenthorpe’s breath was shallow and uneven. “No, this cannot be happening.”
Flood’s jaw tightened. “If you didn’t murder Oswynn, Hunt, who did?”
“An excellent question.” Absently, Artemas sipped his claret. “One I hope to answer soon. In the meantime I think we must assume the killer may go after each of you next. It is quite possible that he will dispatch you both. That is why I summoned you here tonight. Before you die, I wanted you to know that Catherine Jensen was indeed avenged.”
Glenthorpe shook his head in helpless agitation. “But why would this villain try to kill us?”
“For the same reason that he murdered Oswynn. He hopes to distract me from another project in which I am deeply involved,” Artemas said. “I must admit that he has succeeded in dividing my attention. I cannot allow that situation to continue.”
Flood looked at him. “What is your other project?”
“My other venture is none of your affair,” Artemas said. “Suffice it to say that my association with you and Glenthorpe is finished for the time being. Events have forced me to play my hand sooner than I had planned. For now I shall have to be satisfied with the knowledge that you will both find your creditors on your doorstep in the morning.”
“I am destroyed,” Glenthorpe wheezed. “Utterly destroyed.”
“Yes.” Artemas walked toward the door. “It does not begin to compensate for what you did five years ago, of course, but it will give you something to think about on long, cold nights. Always assuming that the man who killed Oswynn does not get to you first.”
“Damn you to hell, you bloody bastard,” Flood snarled. “You won’t get away with this.”
“If you feel I have in any way impugned your honor,” Artemas said very softly, “feel free to have your seconds call upon mine.”
Flood went red with rage but he said nothing.
Artemas went out into the hall and shut the door. He heard something crash against the wood panels. The claret bottle, perhaps.
He went down the back stairs and let himself out into the foggy night. The mist had not affected the enthusiasm of the crowds, but most visitors chose indoor attractions tonight. The lights of the Crystal Pavilion glowed. He made his way along a path that wound through a lantern-lit grove. He had the graveled walk to himself.
It was over at last. Five long years of biding his time, all the planning and the endless plotting of strategy; all ended tonight. Oswynn was dead, Flood and Glenthorpe were ruined and might very well die at the hands of the mysterious villain who had adopted the guise of Renwick Deveridge’s ghost. Surely it was enough.
He realized that he was waiting for something, but he felt nothing. Where was the satisfaction? The sense of justice done? A bit of peace?
He listened to the applause spilling out of the Silver Pavilion. The demonstration of mesmerism had just ended.
It occurred to him that he had been in a trance himself for the past five years. Perhaps Madeline was right. Mayhap he was eccentric in the extreme. What sane, clearheaded man spent five years plotting revenge?
He knew the answer to that question: A man who had nothing more important to live for than a cold vengeance.
The oppressive knowledge settled on him, as gray and featureless as the fog but far heavier on his soul. He walked out the west gate and started toward the first in the row of hackneys that loomed in the shadows.
He stopped when he saw the small black carriage waiting in the street. The exterior lamps glowed with ghostly radiance in the mist. The interior of the cab was cloaked in darkness.
“Bloody hell.”
The emptiness inside him was suddenly eclipsed by anger. She was not supposed to be here.
He went toward the carriage. Atop the box, the lump that was Latimer greeted him as he drew near.
“Sorry about this, Mr. Hunt, sir. Tried to talk her out of following ye tonight, but she would ’ave none of it.”
“We will discuss the issue of who gives you your orders later, Latimer.”
He yanked open the door and vaulted up into the unlit cab.
“Artemas.” Madeline’s voice was choked with some emotion that he could not immediately identify. “You met with those two men tonight. Flood and Glenthorpe. Do not bother to deny it.”
He sat down across from her. She was heavily veiled as she had been that first night. Her gloved fingers were tightly clenched in her lap. He could not see anything of her expression, but he felt the tension that shimmered through her.
“I have no intention of denying it,” he said.
“How dare you, sir?”
Her rage stopped him cold for a few seconds. “What the devil is this?”
“You did not even have the courtesy to inform me of your plans for this evening. If Zachary had not happened to mention that you sent messages to two gentlemen with whom you had business dealings, I would not have known what you were about. How could you do such a thing without telling me?”
Her anger baffled him. “My business with Flood and Glenthorpe tonight was none of your affair.”
“You told them of their impending ruin, did you not?”
“Yes.”
“Damnation, sir, you could have been killed.”
“Highly unlikely I had the matter completely in hand.”
“Good God, Artemas, you orchestrated a showdown with your two greatest enemies and you did not even take
Zachary along to guard your back?”
“I assure you, there was no need for Zachary to be there.”
“You had no right to take such a risk. What if something had gone wrong?” Her voice rose. “What if Flood or Glenthorpe had challenged you to a duel?”
Her fury was unsettling and somewhat intriguing. She was, he realized, quite overwrought on his behalf. “Flood and Glenthorpe are not the sort who risk their necks in duels. If they were, I would have challenged them long ago. Madeline, calm yourself.”
“Calm myself? How can you even suggest such a thing? What if one of them had pulled out a pistol and shot you dead on the spot?”
“I was not entirely unprepared,” he said soothingly. “I hesitate to remind you of my deficiencies, but I am Vanza, after all. I am not an easy man to kill.”
“Your bloody Vanza training is not proof against lead, sir. Renwick Deveridge was Vanza, yet I took a pistol and shot him dead in his own upstairs hall.”
The carriage was in motion but the silence inside was so loud that it masked the clatter of wheels and hooves. Madeline listened to the echo of her own confession of murder and wondered if she truly had gone mad. After all the months of keeping her great secret—a secret that could get her hanged or transported—she had blurted it out in the course of a flaming row.
Artemas looked thoughtful. “So the rumors and speculation are right. You did shoot him.”
She tightened her hands in her lap. “Yes.”
“And your recurring nightmare, I take it that it is a fairly accurate account of events that evening?”
“Yes. I did not tell you the first part.”
“The part where you shoot Deveridge.”
“Yes.”
He did not take his gaze off her. “Nor did you tell me why you were so desperate to unlock the bedchamber door even though the house was burning down around your ears.”
“Bernice was inside the bedchamber.”
There was a beat of grim silence.
“Bloody hell.” Artemas contemplated that for a moment. “How did she come to be locked in the room?” he finally asked.