The Dark Between Part 5

When he woke-an hour later, according to his watch-he knew it didn't matter that Elsie refused to smile at him, that the Thompsons were eccentric, or that his father might actually be proud of him for reaching so high as Trinity College, Cambridge.

He needed to be part of this place. It had called to him somehow, and he planned to stay and listen.

After such an epiphany, Asher could only be pleased that Elsie Atherton did smile at him upon his return to Summerfield. She greeted him quite warmly, in fact, and met his gaze more than once during supper.

As the five of them settled in the sitting room afterward, he noted an unusual animation to her expression. That morning she'd been cold and remote. Now, however, her eyes shone brightly. She did not fidget-nothing so unladylike as that-but when he looked up from his book to steal a glance at her, she seemed attuned to the atmosphere rather than withdrawn from it. He forced himself to look away, feigning indifference.

"I hope you weren't expecting to have port and cigars in the dining room, Asher," said Mr. Thompson. "I suppose it's what most gentlemen do, but I've always preferred to stay near my wife when in my own home." He and Mrs. Thompson shared a smile.

"Of course, sir," Asher mumbled, embarra.s.sed by the display of affection, modest though it was. He turned back to his book, but minutes later he found he'd read the same sentence three times without comprehending it. A sigh broke the silence, and Asher raised his head to find Elsie's eyes on him.

"You know, I would so enjoy a visit to the Fitzwilliam Museum," she said airily.

Mrs. Thompson looked up from her sewing. "How nice, my dear. They have many treasures."

"I was thinking of visiting tomorrow, in fact."

Asher noted the furrow on Mrs. Thompson's brow. Even Kate, who'd been ripping seams on a brown skirt, looked up with interest.

"If you would wait until Sat.u.r.day, Elsie, we could all go together," Mrs. Thompson said. "I'm afraid your uncle and I have too many engagements tomorrow, and Miss Poole has her duties in the library. You ought not go alone."

Elsie sighed again. "It's just that I am feeling much better and would like to see more of the town. All I've seen so far are the buildings and garden of Summerfield."

Asher chanced a look at her and felt his face grow hot as she boldly returned his gaze. She smiled and turned back to her aunt. "Might Mr. Beale be allowed to accompany me?"

Mrs. Thompson looked at her husband. "I'm not sure that would be-"

"Would be what, Aunt?" Elsie's expression was all innocence. Asher dragged his eyes from her to look at Mrs. Thompson.

"A young lady accompanied by a young man who is not her brother?" Mrs. Thompson shook her head. "It's not the done thing."

Her husband set his book down. "Is it really so terrible, Helena? Surely it isn't any worse than two cousins visiting a museum together."

"But they are not cousins, dear husband."

"And yet we know and trust his father so well, they might as well be. I've never known you to be this old-fas.h.i.+oned! They are merely going to a museum."

"What would my sister say?" Mrs. Thompson arched an eyebrow for emphasis.

"I'm sorry, my dear," Mr. Thompson said, "but your sister is a fusspot. I did not agree to have your niece here so that she could be locked within our walls until we have a spare moment to chaperone her outings."

"I suppose it would be nice for our guest to have company as he explores all that Cambridge has to offer," Mrs. Thompson relented, looking at Asher.

He smiled in reply.

"It's settled, then," said Mr. Thompson, opening his book once more. "That is, I a.s.sume it is amenable to Mr. Beale?"

"Of course, sir." Asher knew better than to meet Miss Atherton's gaze. Nor would he glance at Kate Poole, for he could almost sense the sly look she must be giving him. Instead he pretended to study his book most carefully, all the while rehearsing the clever things he would say to Miss Atherton the next day.

Chapter 8.

"Miss Poole, I have an early appointment this morning and must let you into the library before Miss Freeman and Miss Barrett arrive. Does this suit you?"

Kate glanced at Mrs. Thompson over her teacup. "You trust me with the books? All alone?"

"I highly doubt you would run away with them." Mrs. Thompson's eyes gleamed with amus.e.m.e.nt. "They are of little value to anyone but scholars. Furthermore, I'm certain there's nothing in our collection that would be inappropriate for a young lady to read."

A young lady? Kate squirmed with pleasure to be termed such. "Of course, ma'am. I will unpack books until the lady scholars arrive."

As she entered the building, it occurred to her that no one had ordered the unpacking to commence immediately. With that in mind, the first thing she did once Mrs. Thompson left her alone was to survey the stacks of periodicals.

The Summerfield newspaper collection consisted of bound volumes of two London papers dating back to 1880. She also found stacks of unbound copies of the local paper, but they were sloppily folded and mostly out of order. It would take ages to get them all sorted. She turned back to the stacks of London papers. The Daily News appeared to be a smaller publication, quicker to search, so she pulled out the appropriate volume and paged her way to June 1, 1898.

No mention of Frederic Stanton.

She found nothing listed in the following day's paper, either. In fact, she didn't find his name in the obituaries until the June 7 edition.

STANTON. - June 1, at Brighton, F. Stanton, late Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, age 43.

Kate stared at the words until they blurred on the page. How could that be all? She chewed her lip for a moment, then returned to the stacks of bound periodicals. The only other choice was The Times, and these copies were bound in wide volumes with bright red covers. She scanned the spines and heaved the appropriate volume to the floor next to The Daily News. This time she knew better than to expect the obituary to be printed the very day her father died. She turned pages quickly, and her heart leapt when she found a full paragraph.

We regret to announce the sudden death, by misadventure, of Mr. Frederic Stanton, joint secretary of the Metaphysical Research Society. Mr. Stanton, who was born in 1855, was the son of the Rev. Trevor Stanton, late Rector of Marylebone. He received his education at Trinity College, Cambridge, of which college he became a Fellow, after taking his degree in Cla.s.sics in 1878. Mr. Stanton was the princ.i.p.al author of The Metaphysical Mind. He died alone at the Avalon Hotel, Brighton, whither he had gone for a night on business.

"Misadventure?" Kate whispered.

What did that mean? She read the paragraph again. Her father had been secretary to the Metaphysical Research Society. The name sounded vaguely familiar. Had she heard it mentioned at Mrs. Martineau's? If so, the Society must have something to do with spirits and hauntings.

But that made no sense. Her mother had often told her, very proudly indeed, that Frederic Stanton was a serious scholar and gentleman. How could he have been involved in Martineau's world of seances and spirit apparitions? How could he have written a book on the subject? None of it was real.

She studied both entries again. Her father had been thirty-two years old when she was born, still a Fellow at Trinity. Fellows were allowed to marry, but Kate had to admit that her mother, a woman without education or refinement, could only have harmed his career prospects. Still, he hadn't abandoned them. They had lived comfortably enough, and Kate had vague memories of his visits. She knew that he'd towered over her when he stood at the door, and those few times when he held her on his lap, his wide brown eyes had seemed sad. The visits had stopped when he'd married, but the money had continued.

Until his death by misadventure.

Such an ominous word. It brought to mind darker words such as murder and mayhem. When she found the word in the dictionary, she was almost disappointed to find it merely meant mishap-an accident, just as Mr. Thompson had said.

She studied the t.i.tle of his book again. The Metaphysical Mind. It sounded preposterous, but at that moment the book was the only remaining source of information on her father.

She glanced about the room at the jumbled stacks of books. Could she be so lucky?

Asher's rehea.r.s.ed charm failed him the next morning when he saw Elsie Atherton. Dressed in somber grey and an imposing hat, with her camera strapped across her body, she seemed more handsome than ever. The light still gleamed in her eyes, and her tapping foot communicated a desire to be on her way.

"Do you plan to take photographs at the museum?" he asked, gesturing at the camera.

"Mostly likely not. Perhaps we'll have an opportunity on our return walk?"

When she tilted her head and grinned, all thoughts of the camera vanished from his mind.

Why did she have this effect on him? Her beauty disarmed him, of course, but it was her air of mystery that captivated him even more. She carried secrets about her, and yet he sensed nothing dark or cunning. Her secrets were worth knowing, and they waited for the proper man to discover them. Were others repulsed by her illness? The very thought filled him with indignation. Her ailment was no fault of her own. She merely required a steadying hand from time to time, someone to keep her safe.

The morning was bright and cool, which made for a pleasant walk. He'd intended to offer his arm, but Miss Atherton kept enough distance between them that he couldn't do so without being awkward. Her hands were occupied, anyway, for she held a parasol in one and clutched her bag with the other.

He gestured toward the parasol. "Might I hold that for you, Miss Atherton?"

"Have you need of it, Mr. Beale? Are you sensitive to the sun?"

She was teasing him. Perhaps he should have been pleased by her casual manner-surely that meant she was comfortable with him-but instead he felt terribly young.

Fortunately, there were plenty of sights to distract him. It was a busy morning in Cambridge town as the butcher's traps and corn wagons made their noisy way to the market. Asher did his best to strike up conversation by noting the fierce glare of one butcher's pony or a pretty view of the river. Miss Atherton murmured agreement without pausing to study what he pointed out. She walked rather quickly, in fact-so quickly that they arrived at the museum in ten minutes. He had to admire how the exertion made her cheeks flush so prettily. He paid the admission and gestured for her to go ahead of him. She surprised him by holding her ground.

"Mr. Beale, would you mind waiting for me in the West Gallery?" She glanced meaningfully in the direction of the ladies' powder room.

"Of course," he said quickly. "Do take your time. I shall be well occupied."

Her cheeks flushed pink. "You are too kind."

Charmed again by her modesty, Asher stepped lightly up the stairs to the gallery. He took a catalog from the attendant, intending to use his time alone to review the descriptions of the paintings. He would share the most interesting details with Miss Atherton when she returned, for he wished to be convincing as a man of learning and artistic appreciation.

Asher studied the paintings and contrived brief commentaries for each, but still Miss Atherton did not return. His own mother took forever to primp in the powder room, yet even she was quicker than this. He'd thought Miss Atherton's flushed cheeks indicated exertion, but perhaps she was suffering from a fever? Yet what could he do but wait? He forced himself to make another survey of the paintings before checking his watch again. She had been in the powder room for twenty minutes.

He walked down the stairs to the entrance hall, thinking to procure a female attendant to politely check on Miss Atherton. He suggested this to the ticket seller, a young man with slick pale hair and a blank expression.

"Are you speaking of the lady who accompanied you earlier, sir?"

"Yes, the lady in grey. I paid her admission."

"Well, sir, that lady left the museum more than fifteen minutes ago. She seemed in a hurry."

Astonishment clutched at Asher's throat, bringing a fit of coughing. With great effort he steadied himself. "Do you know where she was going?"

"No sir, I didn't think it polite to ask."

Asher looked about the hall and raised his hands in despair. "But I am responsible for her! How could she just disappear?"

The man shrugged.

Asher stalked away and applied his anger to the door, shoving it open. He looked up and down the street but did not see the dove-colored feathers of Miss Atherton's hat among the people who milled about the shops. Had she returned to the college? Perhaps she truly was sick. Or worse yet, she'd had another epileptic spell.

a.s.suming a gentler expression, he turned back to the ticket seller. "Did you happen to see which way the lady turned as she left the building?"

The man thought for a moment. "I do believe she turned right, sir."

So she hadn't returned to the college.

Asher walked down Trumpington Street, peering in windows in case she'd entered a shop, but she was not to be found. When he reached Lensfield Road he stared at the large hotel at the corner. He didn't think she'd go into such a building alone. Perhaps she'd walked to Coe Fen, for she did seem to enjoy a green s.p.a.ce. But why leave so abruptly? Had he offended her in some way? He glanced at the hotel again. A boy sat on the steps, counting the coins in his hat.

"You there," he called out. "Did you see a lady in a grey dress walk past here twenty minutes ago?"

The boy tilted his head as though trying to remember. "I dunno."

"Yes or no?"

The boy shook his hat. The coins inside tinkled suggestively.

"You want money?"

The only reply he received was a blank stare.

"You'd better not be wasting my time." Asher reached into his pockets and dropped a few coins in the hat. "Well?"

The boy looked at the offering. "Sir, the lady offered me more'n that to keep my mouth shut."

The answer came as a blow. "You actually spoke to her?"

"I dunno."

This time Asher pulled a note from his pocket and tossed it into the hat. "That should be enough. Now speak up-I'm very concerned for the lady."

"Well, when you put it that way I don't mind sharing a few details with a concerned young gentleman." The boy gestured for Asher to sit next to him. "Now," he said in a low, confidential tone, "the lady did come by, and she did speak to me. In fact, she asked if I'd seen the tram. She was afraid she'd missed it."

"What tram is that?"

"The one that runs from Christ's College to the railway station." He pointed toward the cross street. "It creeps along Regent and I has a good view of it from here. I see a great deal whiles I wait to help gentlemen like you with their bags."

Asher thought for a moment. "So you think she was heading to the railway station?"

"She didn't say, sir, but I can't think why else she'd take that tram. There's an eleven o'clock to London that's very popular with our patrons."

"Eleven, you say?" Asher looked at his watch. "Do you think I could make it in time by foot?"

"You'd have to take it at a gallop, sir, though I suppose 'tis possible-"

But Asher had leapt off the steps before the boy could finish.

Chapter 9.