Death at Bishop's Keep (14 page)

Aunt Sabrina's face was intent. “Has the identity of the dead man yet been determined?”

Kate shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. After we left Mr. Fairfax, Sir Charles told me of the few clues he and the police have obtained.”

After being taken to the field tent yesterday, Kate had listened at length and with as much forbearance as she could summon to Sir Archibald's opinion of women, who were in some incomprehensible way, it seemed, as potentially devastating to historical inquiry as horses, water buffalo, and policemen. When the archaeologist had at last stopped shaking his turkey-red wattles at her, she had taken her leave. Sir Charles, who seemed startled by her sudden appearance at the door of the field tent and wryly amused by her walking costume, accompanied her to the spot where Pocket was waiting with the dog cart. On the way he told her what he had learned from his meeting with Inspector Wainwright.

“The police have recovered a knife tip that appears to be from the murder weapon,” Kate told her aunt, “as well as a railway return ticket from London to Dover. In addition, Sir Charles has discovered that the victim appears to have driven to the excavation in a light carriage, iron-wheeled, drawn by a horse lame in the left hind foot. The victim walked unsteadily, probably assisted by a walking stick. And the scarab ring,” she added with a close look at her aunt, “is inscribed.”

“Inscribed?” Aunt Sabrina asked quickly.

“Sir Charles copied the inscription, which appears to consist of hieroglyphics, and has asked an Egyptologist to decipher it.”

“I see,” Aunt Sabrina said. Her expression was unreadable. “But the police have no suspect?”

“No,” Kate said. “And according to Sir Charles, they may not discover any. He does not have a high opinion of their abilities.”

Aunt Sabrina straightened her shoulders. “In the circumstances,” she said briskly, “I believe we can conclude our inquiry into the matter, Kathryn.”

Kate frowned. “But I haven't seen Sir Charles's photographs of the murder victim,” she objected. “They may offer some clue—”

“They may indeed.” Aunt Sabrina's mouth was firm. “But I must insist, Kathryn. I do not wish you to press the matter. Most particularly, I do not wish you to call attention to my interest in this affair. If Sir Charles happens to show you the photographs, that is one thing. But you must not press him for them.” She leaned forward, her look intent. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Aunt,” Kate said reluctantly, feeling a sharp disappointment. Her murder investigation, closed before it had scarcely been opened! But it wasn't just disappointment she felt. She was deeply curious. Why would Aunt Sabrina ask her to look into the murder and then force her withdrawal before anything definite was learned? What was Aunt Sabrina's interest in this matter?

“In any event,” Aunt Sabrina said, shifting some papers on her desk, “we have other important things to command our attention. I would like to give you an introduction to the Order of the Golden Dawn, so that you will understand the work you will be asked to do.” Her face tightened imperceptibly. “But I must have your promise, Kathryn, that you will not reveal what I tell you. The business of our Order is quite secret, and the history is meant for initiates only.”

“Of course, Aunt Sabrina,” Kate said, pushing the murder investigation out of her mind and settling herself to take notes. She would reveal nothing she learned about the Golden Dawn. But that did not mean that Beryl Bardwell could not borrow an idea or two.

“The Golden Dawn,” Aunt Sabrina said, “is a secret fraternity dedicated to exploring mysteries of the spirit through magical and occult practices.”

“I believe you said that it was recently established,” Kate said.

“Recently, yes, but on age-old authority. Seven years ago, Dr. William Westcott found, by accident, an ancient manuscript written in cipher.”

“How interesting,” Kate said. She sat forward in her chair. An ancient cipher document would be a marvelous plot device in her story.

Aunt Sabrina rose and went to the fireplace. “After some effort, Dr. Westcott discovered the key to the cipher and transcribed the document, which revealed the outlines of an ancient occult order. Dr. Westcott was in a position to understand its significance, because he is a Freemason and a student of Western occultism, as well as a medical doctor of good reputation and coroner for North-East London.” With tongs, she took a lump of coal from a japanned black coal box and added it to the grate. The fire blazed into a shower of sparks. “Dr. Westcott then asked MacGregor Mathers to expand the outlines and create a series of rituals.”

“This Mr. Mathers,” Kate said. “He is the one you mentioned yesterday? The man who established the temple in Paris?”

“Yes,” Aunt Sabrina said. “The Ahathoor Temple. Mathers is a—” She returned to her chair and sat down, her brows pulled together. “I don't mean to be uncharitable,” she said reluctantly, “but I must confess to disliking the man. He is arrogant and conceited, quite pretentious about his magical knowledge. And always in need of funds. He sponged on Dr. Westcott for some years, and now Annie Horniman virtually supports him and his wife, Moina, in Paris.” She made an exasperated gesture. “But to give the devil his due, the man is an excellent ritualist. He expanded the materials in the cipher documents to create the initiation rites for the Order.”

Kate was thoughtful. There were so many frauds about—the Order of the Golden Dawn would need unimpeachable credentials. “The authority you mentioned,” she asked. “Where did it come from?”

“From a certain Fräulein Anna Sprengel, a chief of a German Rosicrucian order called
Die Golden Dämmerung.
Dr. Westcott found her name and address in the cipher document and wrote to her. She wrote back, authorizing him to establish a London temple. He called it the Isis-Urania Temple, and invited Mathers to join him as co-chief. Fräulein Sprengel and Dr. Westcott exchanged several letters, until he received the news that she was dead.”

“There are other temples beside those in London and Colchester?”

“Five, altogether,” Aunt Sabrina said. “And several hundred members. But we do not have a reliable membership roster. That will be your first task, Kathryn. You will write to each of the temples and ask them to send a correct list of their members. When you are finished, I will ask you to sort and organize the rather disordered mass of papers that Dr. Westcott had accumulated, which now reside in the boxes under your worktable. When that is done, I would like you to copy the cipher manuscript for one of our members, Willie Yeats, an Irish poet, who wishes to make a study of it. You will enjoy meeting him, I think. He has a deep interest in the tarot, which is used quite frequently in our rituals.”

“The tarot?”

“The tarot cards are esoteric cards derived from an ancient Egyptian magical system. Those we use have been drawn by Moina Mathers from her husband's design. Each card represents a particular psychic state, a sort of station along an allegorical journey toward higher spiritual knowledge. As such, the deck serves as a kind of Bible for the Order.”

“Ah,” Kate said thoughtfully. Beryl Bardwell was becoming quite interested. “I would like to see the cards, when it's convenient.”

Aunt Sabrina shook her head. “I'm afraid you can't see the cards, Kathryn. The privilege is open only to members.”

“I see,” Kate said. Then, being a person who acted upon the impulse of the moment, she added decidedly, “Well, then, I must become a member.” It was not so much that she wanted to join a magical society—Kate was naturally skeptical, and although she respected her aunt's occult interests, she was doubtful about mystical orders in general. But the story Beryl Bardwell was writing featured the beautiful medium Mrs. Bartlett, who might be expected to understand and use such things as tarot cards. If becoming a member of an occult society would give Beryl Bardwell ready access to a magician or two who might serve as models, Kate was more than ready.

Aunt Sabrina gave her a searching look. “Are you quite sure you want to join? You're not just seeking to please me?”

“I'm seeking to please myself,” Kate assured her. “Is it difficult to become a member?”

Aunt Sabrina smiled. “Not at all. In fact, your joining would make our work much more enjoyable, and I would feel more at ease in sharing the material. But I suggest that you attend a gathering or two before you make up your mind. The next one is on Saturday afternoon. Several members from London will be there, as well as a few visitors. It is said that Oscar Wilde will come—he is an admirer of Mrs. Farnsworth, and his wife, Constance, formerly belonged to the London temple. He is to bring a man of his acquaintance, Doyle, I believe. The writer of those detective mysteries that have become so popular.”

Kate's heart leaped up. Oscar Wilde was chiefly a literary curiosity—at least, that's how American papers portrayed him. But Conan Doyle! Perhaps she could speak to him and find out why he had allowed Professor Moriarty to fling Sherlock Holmes into the abyss, thereby bringing the series to an untimely end. If the successful Holmes had been Beryl Bardwell's character, she would not have killed him!

“Is there, in human-form, that bears a heart—A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art, Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?”

—ROBERT BURNS “The Cotter's Saturday Night”

 

 

 

K
ate was at the typewriter that afternoon when her work was interrupted by Amelia.

“Yer wanted in the drawin' room, miss,” she said.

Kate looked up, frowning. She had just finished her aunt's work for the day and settled down to Beryl Bardwell's latest chapter. She did not wish to leave it, for she was trying to extricate her heroine from a particularly perilous situation. “Thank you, Amelia,” she said, “but I would rather—”

“There's callers, miss,” Amelia said flatly, and withdrew.

Kate, resigned, tidied her russet hair into a semblance of neatness and smoothed the dark gray serge skirt she wore to work in. Her gray cotton shirtwaist was badly rumpled and one white cuff was ink-stained. Well, that was just too bad, she thought defiantly, collecting her papers and hiding them in the desk. Whoever had interrupted her writing time would simply have to take her as she was, dressed for work rather than attired for afternoon callers.

Kate wasn't entirely surprised when she saw that one of the visitors was Eleanor Marsden, attractive and vivacious in china-blue silk. She was, however, a little nonplussed when Sir Charles Sheridan stood and bowed.

“Miss Ardleigh,” he said.

Kate felt herself reddening under his inquisitive glance. “Sir Charles,” she murmured, immediately conscious of her soiled cuffs and workaday costume. She sat down, remembering his dry amusement at her walking suit the day before and wondering if he thought that she was in the habit of wearing unladylike dress. She hoped he would not mention encountering her in Sir Archibald's field tent, for across the room, Aunt Jaggers was scowling over her cup of tea. It would not be easy to explain why she had gone to the excavation without implicating Aunt Sabrina.

Eleanor's eyes widened slightly when she took in Kate's appearance, but she leaned forward. “My dear Kathryn!” she exclaimed. “How good it is to see you again!” Her cuffs were elegant with lace, and a blue straw hat, jauntily beribboned, perched on the back of her head. Dainty blue boots peeped out from beneath her skirt.

Kate smiled. “I'm glad you came,” she said with genuine warmth. “I had hoped to see you again before very long.” She looked curiously at Sir Charles. Some devil stirred in her and she said, lightly, “Did you come to inquire after the bats, Sir Charles? I understand the ruins are quite full of them.” Aunt Sabrina had told her about the remains of the old keep across the little lake at the foot of the lawn. She planned to go there as soon as she could.

At the mention of bats, Aunt Jaggers made a sputtering noise. Sir Charles looked regretful. “I'm afraid that Miss Marsden would not permit such an excursion today,” he said. “But I certainly hope to make a later investigation. The bat in question is quite a wonderful—”

“Sir Charles!” Eleanor admonished, tapping his wrist. She turned to Kate. “Really, Kathryn, you mustn't encourage him.”

Aunt Sabrina sat back in her chair, chuckling. “And how is your mother, Miss Marsden?”

“Quite well,” Eleanor said, “although simply maddened with wedding plans. There is so much to do.” She smiled. “She asked me to inquire whether you plan to invite the G.F.S. to hold their annual tea at Bishop's Keep this year.”

Aunt Sabrina nodded. “Tell Lady Marsden that I have already informed the vicar that I would be glad for the Society to come. But he has not yet fixed upon a day.”

Aunt Jaggers narrowed her eyes. She seemed about to say something, but Kate spoke first. “The G.F.S.?” she asked. “Is that some sort of organization?”

Eleanor giggled. “The group is often referred to as the God-Forsaken Spinsters,” she said. Amelia's back, turned to Kate, seemed to stiffen.

Kate glanced from Eleanor to Amelia and frowned. “How old must one be to belong to this group?” she asked innocently. Sir Charles cleared his throat, and she caught his glance. His lips were twitching and his brown eyes were wryly amused.

But Eleanor was not amused. “Oh, not
you,
my dear Kathryn!” she exclaimed, brows arched in horror. “You could never—”

“Perhaps I'm
too
old,” Kate persisted. Sir Charles began to cough into his napkin.