What she needed was a cup of tea, she decided. She walked along the hall that led to the back of the house and went down the stone steps into the kitchens. She glanced at the door of the room through which she had overheard Ibbitts extorting money from poor Sally. Only two days later the butler was dead.
She shuddered at the memory and moved on down the hall. The door to Sally’s bedchamber was open. She glanced inside, expecting to see the maid curled up with her novel.
The room was empty. Perhaps Sally had decided to go out for the day after all.
In the large kitchen, she prepared herself a tray and carried it upstairs into the library. There she poured herself some tea and went to stand at the window.
The house had been transformed in recent days. The task was not yet complete, but it was already a vastly different place than it had been on the day she had arrived. In spite of her sad mood, she took a quiet satisfaction in what had been accomplished thus far.
The floors and woodwork gleamed from recent polishing. Rooms that had long been closed had been opened up and cleaned. Covers had been removed from the furnishings. The windows and once-dark mirrors now sparkled on the walls, drawing the sunlight into spaces that had long been filled with gloom. On her instructions, the heavy drapes throughout the mansion had been tied back. There was hardly a speck of dust to be found anywhere.
The gardens were starting to look much more inviting, too, she noticed. She was pleased with the progress that had been made. The gravel paths were all neatly raked. The overgrowth was being methodically trimmed. Fresh planting beds were being repaired. The work on the fountain had begun.
She thought of how beautiful the view from the library would be in another couple of months. The flowers would be in full bloom. The herbs would be ready for the kitchens. The waters of the fountain would sparkle in the sunshine.
She wondered if Arthur would think of her from time to time when he looked out this window.
She finished her tea and was about to turn away when she noticed the man in sturdy work clothes and a leather apron crouched over a flowerbed. She thought about the replacement tiles for the fountain. It would do no harm to have a word with the gardener to make certain that the order had been placed.
Hurrying from the library, she let herself out into the garden.
“A moment, please,” she called as she walked swiftly toward the gardener. “I would like to have a word with you.”
The gardener grunted, but he did not look up. He continued pulling weeds.
“Do you know whether or not the order for the fountain tiles was placed?” she asked, coming to a halt beside him.
The man grunted again.
She bent down slightly, watching as he yanked out another straggly green weed. “Did you hear me?”
Her heart almost stopped. His hands. The gardener wore no gloves. She could see his long, graceful fingers. A gold signet ring glinted on his left hand. She remembered the feel of that ring beneath the thin glove the killer had worn the night he had invited her to waltz with him.
She caught a trace of his unpleasant scent and straightened quickly. Her pulse was beating so frantically now that she wondered if he might hear it. She stepped back and clasped her hands together to still the fine tremors. She glanced quickly at the door at the back of the house. It seemed a million miles away.
The gardener rose to his feet and turned toward her.
Her first crazed thought was that he seemed far too handsome to be a ruthless killer. And then she saw his eyes and knew there was no doubt about his identity.
“I personally selected a sample of the tiles that I wish installed on the fountain,” she said crisply. She took another step back and gave him a thin, shiny smile. “We don’t want any mistakes, do we?”
The gardener produced a pistol from behind the leather apron and aimed it at her heart.
“No, Miss Lodge,” he said. “We most certainly do not want any mistakes. You have caused me quite enough trouble as it is.”
Suddenly she remembered that Sally had not been in her room. Fear and a great fury raged through her.
“What have you done with the maid?” she asked tightly.
“She is quite safe.” He motioned toward the shed with the pistol. “See for yourself.”
Elenora crossed the short distance to the gardening shed, scarcely able to breathe through her terror, and opened the door.
Sally was inside on the floor, bound and gagged but evidently unharmed. Her eyes widened with desperation and panic when she saw Elenora. A sealed letter lay on the boards beside her.
“Your maid will stay alive so long as you cooperate with me,” Miss Lodge,” Parker said casually. “But if you give me any difficulty whatsoever, I shall cut her throat before your very eyes.”
“Are you mad, sir?” Elenora asked without stopping to consider her words.
The question seemed to amuse him. “My grandmother seems to think so. She had me carried off to an asylum yesterday. And here I thought she doted on me. It is a sad day when one cannot even rely upon one’s relatives, isn’t it?”
“She was trying to save you.”
He shrugged. “Whatever her intentions, I was able to escape within a matter of hours. Why, I was back here in London in time to proceed with my plans last night.”
“That was you I saw at the ball.”
He gave her a mocking bow. “It was indeed. You do have a very attractive neck, Miss Lodge.”
She would not let him unnerve her with such intimate talk, she vowed. “Why did you want St. Merryn to believe that Roland Burnley was the killer?”
“So that the earl would relax his vigilance, of course. I felt it would be easier to snatch you and, later, him, if he let down his guard for a time.” He chuckled. “Besides, I rather enjoyed playing games with his lordship. St. Merryn prides himself on his logical mind, but his powers of reason are nothing compared to my own.”
“What is this all about?” Elenora asked in her most authoritative tone. Perhaps if she stalled for time someone would return to the house, see her out here in the garden, and come out to investigate.
“All your questions will be answered eventually, Miss Lodge. But first things first. Allow me to introduce myself.” Parker inclined his head in a graceful little bow, but the pistol in his hand never wavered. “You have the great honor of meeting England’s second Newton.”
36
Arthur put one booted foot on the step and propped his forearm on his thigh. “What made you think that the gentleman who lived in Number Five was odd?”
The elderly housekeeper snorted. “No manservant. No chambermaid. No one to look after his clothes or cook his meals. Lived there all alone. Never knew a young man who could afford better to do for himself.”
Arthur glanced back toward the door of Number Five. “Were you here when they took him away?”
“Aye.” The woman followed his gaze and shook her head. “A terrible sight it was. They brought him out all bound in one of them strait-waistcoats like they use to bind the poor souls in Bedlam. The fine lady in the carriage was crying her heart out. Afterward everyone said they’d taken him off to a private asylum someplace in the country.”
“Did the gentleman ever have any visitors while he lived in this street?”
“None that I saw,” the housekeeper said. “But, then, again, he was only there for a few hours in the afternoons and early evenings.”
Arthur straightened and took his foot down off the stone step. “He didn’t sleep there?”
“Never saw him come home until midday at the earliest. Figured he spent the nights at his club.”
Arthur contemplated the door. “Or somewhere else.”
Elenora smelled the damp, dank odor that told her she was underground before Parker removed the blindfold. When he untied the cloth, she opened her eyes and found herself looking at the interior of a windowless stone chamber lit with lamps mounted on the walls.
They had descended into this
place in some sort of iron cage. Because her eyes had been covered, she had been unable to see the device, but she had felt the movement and heard the noise of the heavy chain that Parker had used to lower it. He had explained with great pride that only he knew the secret to operating the cage.
“There is a special lock that secures it, top and bottom,” he had said. “One must know the combination in order to release it.”
The low, vaulted ceiling told her that the room was very old. The gothic design was original, she concluded, not a modern decorator’s notion of a fashionable interior. She could hear the faint sound of water dripping or lapping somewhere in the distance.
A number of workbenches were arranged around the chamber. Each was laden with an assortment of instruments and apparatus. Some, such as the balance, microscope and burning lens, she recognized. Others were unfamiliar.
“Welcome to my grandfather’s laboratory, Miss Lodge.” Parker gestured widely with one hand. “His collection of equipment and apparatus was excellent. But, naturally, by the time I arrived, they were all several years old. Some were still usable, but I have taken the liberty of replacing many of the instruments with more modern and more advanced devices.”
Her hands were still bound in front of her, but Parker had untied the bonds that he had used to secure her ankles during the carriage ride.
At one point during the nightmarish journey she had tried to throw herself out of the vehicle, only to discover that the door was locked and barred. When Parker had given his orders to the two ruffians on the box, she had quickly realized that there was no point appealing for help in that direction. The villains were clearly in Parker’s employ.
“We did not travel far,” she said, pointedly ignoring his verbal tour of the laboratory. “We must still be in London. Where is this place?”
She kept her voice very even, trying to sound as though she was in control of the situation. Whatever else happened, she would not let him see the terror that filled her heart. She would not give this madman that satisfaction.
“Very astute, Miss Lodge. Yes, indeed, we are still in London. This chamber is located in a rather remote section beneath the ruins of an ancient abbey. Very few people live in the vicinity, and those who do are convinced the place is haunted.”
“I see.” She glanced around, surveying the shadowy corners of the room. It was not difficult to believe that specters and phantoms lurked in this chamber.
Parker put his pistol down on a workbench and removed his coat. Beneath the well-cut coat he wore a snowy white linen shirt and an elegantly made blue and white patterned waistcoat.
“My grandfather encouraged the local legends surrounding the abbey, and I have continued the tradition,” he said. “It is useful for keeping people away from the place.”
“Why have you brought me here?”
“It is a somewhat complicated tale, Miss Lodge.” He glanced at his watch. “But there is time to tell it.” He walked to one of the workbenches and touched the large, malevolent-looking machine that sat there. He stroked the device the way a man might stroke a lover. A terrible reverence glittered in his eyes. “It is a tale of destiny.”
“Rubbish. No serious student of science speaks of destiny.”
“Ah, but I am more than a serious student of science, my dear. I was born to be its master.”
“Your grandmother was right. You are mad.”
He gave a short, derisive laugh. “She certainly believes that.”
“You have committed murder.”
“Murder was only the beginning, Miss Lodge.” He moved his hand slowly, lovingly along a part of the machine that resembled the long barrel of a rifle. “Only the beginning. I still have a great deal more to do.”
The manner in which he caressed the machine disturbed her. She looked away from his long, elegant fingers. “Tell me about your so-called destiny.”
“There can be no doubt about it. Not any longer.” He seemed to have become entranced by his machine. “St. Merryn and I share a bond. Neither of us can avoid our fates.”
“What do you mean?”
Parker took a small red velvet sack from his pocket and untied the thong that secured it. “We have each inherited a legacy of murder and thwarted destiny. But this time around, matters will turn out much differently than they did last time.”
Very carefully he removed a large red gem from the sack and slotted it into an opening on the side of the strange machine.
“What on earth are you talking about?” she asked, desperate to keep him talking.
“My grandfather and St. Merryn’s great-uncle were friends until they became fierce rivals. Eventually the competition between them turned bitter. George Lancaster could not abide the fact that my grandfather was Newton’s equal, you see. Called him mad. Mocked him.”
“You have had your vengeance, haven’t you? You murdered Arthur’s great-uncle.”
“Lancaster’s death was an accident, you know. At least, I thought so at the time. I did not intend to kill him, not until after he had witnessed the success of my project. I wanted him to know that he was wrong when he jeered at my grandfather and called him a crazed alchemist. But the old man surprised me that night when he walked in on me while I was searching his laboratory.”
“You were looking for the snuffbox.”
“Yes. Jove’s Thunderbolt requires all three of the stones, you see.” He slipped the second dark gem into the device. “After George Lancaster was dead, I thought perhaps I had misinterpreted my destiny, but when I learned that St. Merryn was hunting me, it all became clear. I understood at once that he, not the old man, is the one who is meant to witness my great success. It is perfectly logical.”
“How is that?”
“George Lancaster and my grandfather lived in a different time. They were men of an earlier generation. They belong to the past. But St. Merryn and I are men of the modern age. It is only fitting that the earl, not his ancestor, be the one to witness my triumph.” Parker patted the machine “Just as it is right that I, not my ancestor, untangled the last mystery of Jove’s Thunderbolt.”
“Where did you discover this supposed destiny?”
“It was all there in my grandfather’s journals.” Parker eased the last stone into the machine, closed the opening and turned to look at her. “But like any good alchemist, Treyford often wrote in a coded language that is not easy to unravel. I made a few errors along the way.”
“What makes you think that you have not made a huge mistake in bringing me here?”
“I admit that some parts of my grandfather’s writings were quite murky. But they were all clarified when the Earl of St. Merryn ensured that our paths would cross.”
“You mean when he set out to find the man who killed his great-uncle?”
“Precisely. When I realized that he was hunting me, I understood at last that we were, indeed, destined to be opponents in this generation, just as Lancaster and my grandfather were, all those years ago.”
She understood now. “You have brought me here tonight because you knew that would be the simplest way to get St. Merryn here and take him prisoner.”
“You are a very clever woman, Miss Lodge. St. Merryn chose well when he went to the offices of Goodhew and Willis. It is a great misfortune for you that he dragged you into this affair. But that is how destiny works sometimes. It is often the lot of the innocent to play crucial roles as pawns.”
37
Arthur jumped out of the carriage before it had come to a full stop in Rain Street and went up the steps.
“Do not put the horses away,” he called to Jenks over his shoulder. “We have another call to make this afternoon.”
“Aye, sir.”
The door opened before Arthur reached it. Ned stood in the opening, his face stark with dread.
“Ye got my message, then, sir?”
“Yes.” Arthur moved impatiently into the hall. “I was still at Parker’s address when the boy found me and said that there was a
matter of great urgency. What is it? I have another call I want to make today and I do not want to waste time.”
He saw Sally standing in the hall behind Ned. The stricken look on her face made his stomach knot.
“Where is Miss Lodge?” he rasped.
Sally handed him a sealed letter and started to cry.
“He threatened to cut my throat if she tried to run away or call for help,” Sally said through her tears. “And he would have done it. I saw his eyes, sir. They weren’t human.”
It is true that my grandfather failed in his attempt to complete Jove’s Thunderbolt,” Parker lounged against the workbench, arms folded. “But the fault lay in his instruments, not in the old alchemist’s instructions.”
“What do you mean?” Elenora asked, trying to sound genuinely curious. She edged closer to the workbench, as though intrigued by the strange machine. Parker was eager to talk about the device and his own genius. He had assumed the air of a lecturer.
“The directions in the old lapidary call for using a cold fire to excite the energy sealed in the heart of the three stones,” Parker said. “That was the great stumbling block. My grandfather reported in his journal that he tried heating the gems in a number of different ways but nothing worked. Nor could he decide what was meant by a cold fire. He was conducting researches into the production of a suitably powerful heat source when he was killed in that explosion.”
Elenora stopped on the other side of the table, pretending to study the device. “You believe that you have found the answer?”
“Yes.” Parker’s face lit as though with passion. “Once I had read my grandfather’s journals and considered the instructions in the lapidary in the light of modern science, I understood at last what could be used to apply a cold fire to the gems.”
“What is it?”
Parker caressed the device. “Why, an electricity machine, of course.”
Arthur ignored the distraught butler who was attempting to announce him and walked swiftly into the study.
“Parker has kidnapped Elenora,” he said.
“No.” Lady Wilmington rose quickly from the chair behind the writing desk. “No, that cannot be possible.”