Deadlier Than the Pen Part 18

She wasn't certain how many of her thoughts he read in her expression, but what she saw in the depths of his dark brown eyes was tenderness. And love? She dared hope that was what it was.

With a gentle touch, he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She hadn't even realized it had come loose. "You've had a difficult morning," he murmured.

She longed to throw herself into his arms and accept the comfort of his embrace. She backed away instead. "Why are the gates kept locked?"

"Aaron," he said simply. "He wouldn't harm anyone, but he has ... spells. He goes off on his own if he isn't watched. It's for his protection that we don't leave the gates open."

"He was in New York."

"Yes. He's perfectly capable of taking a train by himself. But he doesn't always behave rationally. It's worse when he's among strangers. And when he's been drinking. I'm afraid his luck will run out one of these days and he'll be arrested and confined in an inst.i.tution. It happens, you know."

Diana nodded. That was how Nellie Bly had gotten her sensational story. It had been frighteningly easy to end up committed to a madhouse.

"Did he reach Bangor before the blizzard?" she asked.

Ben gave her a sharp look, as if he guessed what she might really be asking, but neither of them voiced the possibility that Aaron could have been the one who'd attacked her in that alley.

"No. And the telegram I got in New Haven advised me of that fact. That's why I couldn't stay longer, and why I didn't invite you to come with me. I expected to have to track him down. There's a place in Boston he goes sometimes. I meant to try there first."

"Ben -- "

"He's harmless, Diana. I swear it." He managed a self-deprecating smile. "But I still don't want you posing for him."

"And your mother? Is she harmless?"

"Ah, well. Mother. She's an entirely different case. I think that, rather than speculate, we'd better discuss what happened today with her."

A few minutes later, Ben ushered Diana into Maggie Northcote's inner sanctum, a sumptuous boudoir decorated in the Oriental style. Diana's jaw dropped at the sight of Moorish banners hanging from the ceiling and walls covered with lattice-work screens, all except the one filled with Moorish cabinets loaded down with bric-a-brac. A divan, broad, low, and deeply cus.h.i.+oned, was draped with a heavy rug and heaped with fluffy pillows. Several larger pillows created a "cozy corner" on the floor.

"Oh, you're free," Maggie said, sounding surprised but not particularly disappointed. "Come in and have a seat." She indicated the divan. "The trick is to curl one foot underneath yourself, lean back, then build a wall of cus.h.i.+ons at shoulder-level. Wonderfully relaxing after hours sitting upright in a hard chair."

Diana surveyed the obstacle course between the door and the divan. The entire area was littered with inlaid Damascus tables and Cairene folding stands which held a.s.sorted statuary and delicate porcelain vases.

"I don't dare move. I'm afraid I'll knock something over."

"Perhaps you'd be more comfortable in here."

Grinning, Maggie opened a narrow door at a right angle to the hall entrance, revealing a room no bigger than a built-in closet. The small cell was furnished with only two pieces of furniture -- a library table and a lattice-back chair.

"Here I write," Maggie said. "The outer room is for dreaming."

"Why did you lock Diana in the crypt?" Ben asked, cutting short the tour.

"Research."

"I beg your pardon?"

"You remind me of my current heroine," Maggie informed Diana. "It was very helpful to me to see how you took various statements I made to you earlier. That's when I conceived the idea of locking you in the vault to find out how you'd deal with being shut up with all those dead bodies. I would have released you after a few hours."

"Mother," Ben objected, "it would have been one thing to ask for her help, but -- "

"If she'd known there was no danger, she'd not have acted the same way."

Having voiced this irrefutable logic, Maggie turned her attention back to Diana. Her eerily cat-like eyes gleamed. "Did you scream? Did your breathing change?"

As Maggie peppered her with questions, Diana found she could no longer doubt the other woman's motive, even if she didn't approve of what she'd done. She supposed a good deal could be excused on the grounds of excessive zeal. Certainly there was genuine enthusiasm in the way the older woman talked about her work in progress. The writer in Diana responded to that. She did not entirely abandon her doubts about Maggie's sanity, but she did end up cooperating.

Wouldn't it have been easier to lock yourself in?" she asked, interrupting the flow of questions.

"I tried that. It didn't help. I suppose I was already too familiar with the place."

"You'd spent time in the crypt before?"

"Only once. That was a great disappointment, too. At the end of October, just before Ben left on tour, I was in there for hours one night, trying to evoke a spirit. Of course, I left the door open. I wanted the effect of the wind, but I quite lost my temper when my candles kept blowing out."

"Do you often rely upon real experiences?"

"Oh, dear me, no! I use legend and history for my inspiration. And I have an excellent imagination." Maggie tapped the side of her head. "On the other hand, I am not one to overlook the opportunity for first-hand observation when it walks in my door."

Diana's uneasiness returned. "I see."

Maggie's laugh had a surprisingly girlish lilt. "And I do love dreaming up new ways to kill people, and clever places to hide the bodies."

Chapter Fourteen.

Ben had come home for luncheon. Belatedly, he and Diana sat down to a rushed meal. "I have to leave again soon. I have patients scheduled."

Diana barely listened to the excuse. She felt more comfortable about Maggie now, but she'd remembered an unsettling contradiction to do with Aaron. "Is Ernest gatekeeper?" she asked. "Does he stand by to open and close it?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Because he locked it after you brought me in, and he was nowhere in sight when I wanted to get out."

Ben finished his soup before he replied. "The day you arrived, Ernest's very presence meant Aaron had already returned. I told him to wait by the gate and lock up after everyone was in for the night." He glanced at his pocket watch and rose in haste. "I'm late. I have to go."

"Take me back with you. I'd like to see your office."

He shook his head, a rueful expression on his face. "This morning a lake is covering the pavement from Center Street to Ess.e.x Street. The snow machines have been out sc.r.a.ping the roads where there's just ice, but mud and water are another matter. Wait until tomorrow. I'd like you to see the city when she glistens like the queen she is."

"Logic works better than sorcery," she remarked.

His puzzled look made her wonder if he realized just how potent his brand of charm could be. Did he know women saw him on first acquaintance as an engaging rogue, even without the dark and mysterious aura he'd had as Damon Bathory?

She could only hope that the man she was now coming to know was the genuine Ben Northcote and not just another creation of a clever charlatan. That she'd once fallen for the false front presented by Evan Spaulding gave her reason to fear she might still be vulnerable to such tricks.

"I'll try to be back early," he said, stopping to kiss her cheek on his way out.

She caught his arm and tugged. When he halted, she reached up with both hands, seized his beard, and tugged until his lips were level with hers. Her kiss was a lover's, meant to last him through the afternoon and speed his journey back to her.

Once Ben had gone, Diana spent the rest of the afternoon working on her story for Horatio Foxe. At four, she gathered up a half-dozen sheets of foolscap covered with small, neat handwriting. To her surprise, writing the piece on Damon Bathory had gone well.

Because it was an account of an interview with a writer, she realized, not an expose. It was, in fact, exactly the sort of thing she'd told Foxe she wanted to write. Had it only been two weeks since that meeting in his office? Diana shook her head in amazement. So much had happened. There were times lately when her life in Manhattan seemed a distant memory.

"Diana? Are you there?" Maggie rapped loudly on Diana's door. Without waiting for an invitation, she invaded the bedroom, carrying Cedric the cat draped like a black shawl over one arm and a sheaf of papers in the other hand.

"Well," said Diana a half hour later. Words failed her. "Well."

Maggie had written a story about a runaway camel. She'd added vice and skullduggery and a touch of her trademark horror. It was a compelling, startling piece. Diana knew she could not have produced its like, not in a single day. Not, most likely, in a lifetime.

"You write well, too," Maggie told her, turning the last page of Diana's article. She had made herself comfortable on the bed, lying on her stomach, her chin propped on her fists and the cat curled up beside her. "I suppose this means you will be leaving us soon."

"I do have a job to go back to."

Maggie gave a short bark of laughter. "You might sound more enthusiastic about it!"

"The truth is that I do not like what my column has become."

"Then write something else."

"Easier said than done. There are nearly forty women who supply stories to New York newspapers. Only four -- Fannie Merrill, Viola Roseboro, Nell Nelson, and most recently and notably, Nellie Bly -- do anything but the women's pages and reviews, except for Middy Morgan, who writes livestock reports for the New York Times."

"Stunt girls," Maggie said with distaste.

"Yes. The four I mentioned are all employed by the World and all four take dangerous risks to get their stories. You may have heard of Nellie Bly's adventures. She had herself committed to a mental inst.i.tution in order to land her present position." Diana shuddered at the thought. At the other extreme was Elizabeth Bisland, also employed by the World. Miss Bisland, a young woman who'd left impeccable social connections behind in New Orleans, seemed content to write nothing but book reviews.

Diana and Maggie talked shop through supper. They had plenty of time for it. Once again Ben did not come home. Maggie received a message saying that he had another medical crisis but he sent no private word to Diana.

The evening pa.s.sed with interminable slowness. Maggie had invited several friends to call. Diana supposed she meant to reveal her secret to them. She could not say for certain, since she was not asked to join them. She went to bed early and slept until the sound of a door closing woke her.

Ben. She was certain of it. His room was located just down the hall from her own. Feeling greatly daring, she got up and lit a lamp.

As penance for locking Diana in the crypt, Maggie had sent to town for a dressmaker. She'd taken measurements for new clothes and provided ready-made undergarments and a new nightgown to augment what Diana had purchased in New Haven. A scandalous amount of flesh showed through the filmy fabric.

Catching sight of herself in the mirror, Diana hesitated. She was wavering between reaching for the doork.n.o.b and returning to her bed when she heard a soft rapping sound. Curious, she pulled on a newly-acquired warm wool robe, opened her door a crack, and peered out into the hall.

Old Ernest stood in front of Ben's room. His whisper sounded eerie in the still darkness. "Miss Jenny's sent for you."

"Wake Joseph," Ben ordered.

"Already there," Ernest said.

"Is something wrong?" Clutching the lapels of the robe tighter, Diana stepped boldly out into the hall.

"Nothing that need concern you," Ben said bluntly. "It's after midnight. Go back to bed."

She stiffened. He ought to know by now that she did not take orders well. Since he was exerting not an iota of charm, she found it easy to defy him.

Unaware of her chagrin, or ignoring it, Ben hurried towards the stairwell. Maggie's door opened just after he'd pa.s.sed by. Clad in a startling red-velvet wrapper that had been fas.h.i.+oned to resemble a monk's robe, she noted her son's rapid retreat, then turned to Diana. "Another emergency?"

"Something about a Miss Jenny?"

"Hmmm," said Maggie.

"Who is Miss Jenny?"

"Are you sure you want to know?" Maggie studied Diana's face so intently that the younger woman felt herself flush. "Well, why not? You're already privy to most of the rest of our secrets. When Ernest comes back inside, tell him I said to take you there." She retreated into her room.

Uncertainly, Diana stared at Maggie Northcote's closed door. No one in this family seemed capable of giving a direct answer to a simple question.

Maggie poked her head back out. "I've rung for Annie. She'll help you dress and go with you."

Prodded into action, Diana went in search of clothing. It was possible Maggie was using her for "research" again, but that concern was overshadowed by her own curiosity. What was Ben up to? She hadn't a doubt in the world that he was trying to hide something from her. Better to discover the worst, she decided, before she became any more involved with the man.

A short time later, Old Ernest settled Diana and Annie under a fur lap robe in the buggy. Blinking sleepily, Annie looked wary. When questioned, she claimed she had no idea who the mysterious "Miss Jenny" might be.

Ernest drove straight into Bangor, never slowing until he brought the horse to a halt in front of a large, white corner house set on a bank in a narrow lot. The pale beams of a gaslight showed Diana that it had a long ell connecting it to a shed and barn, outside of which sat a buckboard.

"That belongs to the Northcotes," Annie said.

Ernest spoke in a laconic drawl, the most garrulous Diana had ever heard him. "Miss Jenny's place. Second best wh.o.r.ehouse in Bangor."

"We shouldn't be here!" Annie grasped Diana's arm and tried to tug her back into the buggy.

Diana shook free. "Come along, Annie," she ordered. "Obviously, Ben does not intend to stay here long. If he did, he'd not have left the horses. .h.i.tched to the wagon."

Hoping she was right, she marched up a long set of steps leading to a big front door and boldly used the knocker.

The woman who let them in was small and graceful, her hair coiled high on top of her head and a pair of gold bobs in her ears. Instead of the daring, garish costume Diana had expected to see, she wore a simple, tasteful evening gown. Before either of them could speak, a horrendous crash sounded overhead, followed by a shout of anger. The woman turned and ran towards the sound, leaving Diana and Annie to follow.

In spite of her concern for Ben, Diana could not help but be curious about the establishment. The first thing she noticed was that her surroundings were rather shabby. The second was the pervasive smell. Cigar smoke mingled with a variety of strong, clas.h.i.+ng perfumes.

Diana pa.s.sed an empty parlor on the left and a closed door to the right before getting a glimpse of the dining room. Each chair grouped around the table appeared to have a woman's name lettered across the back.

On the upper floor, where the stench of perfume was even stronger, one narrow hallway ran the length of the house. Six doors opened off it on each side. Diana found both Northcote brothers in the second room on the left.

"Joseph!" Annie gasped, just as Ben broke the hold Aaron had on a young man's throat. A woman dressed in nothing but her corset and drawers crouched in a corner, arms held protectively over her head. She was weeping piteously.

"Lord save us!" Annie ran to the gasping Joseph, adding to the confusion by flinging herself into his embrace.

Aaron stood still as a statue, a bewildered look on his face. Slowly, he turned to look at the crying woman. As if in sympathy, tears began to stream down his face. His sobs were more wrenching than hers.