do. What he required was not a mistress to bed but an heiress to wed, and the sooner the better. He was beginning to feel desperate enough to acknowledge that the woman's other qualifications-appearance, demeanor, temperament-did not matter, as long as she was sufficiently rich. If the solicitors were right, he might soon have to resort to such a stratagem.
Bradford stared at the candles gleaming in their silver candelabra down the center of the long table. It was unkind to blame his father's faulty judgment for their situation. He had simply continued to live in the old manner, which was no longer suited to the times. And in any case, Bradford himself was not blameless, far from it. He had taken matters into his own hands in a way that, as he thought about it now, quite appalled him. He had poured a substantial amount of money-truth be told, much more than he could afford-into a venture he knew little about, on the word of a man of uncertain reputation. He had bargained with the devil, and if he had to pay the price, the fault was only his own.
Bradford picked up his glass again. However reckless his action, at least he had not closed his eyes to the need to ensure the reliable survival of the Marsden landed fortunes into an unreliable future. He had been looking out for the family. For his sisters, whose dowries had to be provided; for his mother, to whom the opinion of society was the inspiration of a frivolous life; for his father, and his damned bloody horses.
The candle in front of him guttered and went out. Even the assurance that he had done it for family seemed flabby, and Bradford felt suddenly chilled to the bone. If only Landers didn't require so much money to stay in the game. If only he'd been somewhere else when the man came along, dangling his damned patents like diamonds. He wished him dead. He wished him in hell!
"As to the corpse, Sir Charles," the vicar was saying. "What will you do with the photographs?"
Startled, Bradford brought his attention back to his guests. Charles and the vicar were talking about the wretched murder. Had they no other topic of conversation?
"I shall develop the prints and take them to the police," Charles replied, stoking his pipe. "The sergeant did not seem
keen on them, however," he added. "I rather fancy he agreed to receive them only because he feared to offend."
"P'rhaps," the vicar said, thoughtful. "Juries do prefer rhetoric to scientific proof. Witness the Lamson trial in '82."
"Ah, yes," Charles said, accepting a light for his pipe from the butler. "A friend of mine, Dr. Thomas Stevenson, gave evidence. His testimony was based on his investigation of plant alkaloids-very fine research, too, very solid."
"Well and good," the vicar reminded him, "but Lamson was convicted upon his confession, not by the expert testimony of a scientist. Juries are confused by science."
Bradford stirred uneasily. All this talk about trials and juries made him apprehensive. He changed the subject. "Speaking of investigations, Vicar, how are yours progressing?'' He turned to Charles with a wry humor. "The vicar has a compelling curiosity about the afterworld. He is bent upon proving the physical existence of the soul."
The vicar inclined his head. "Some persons-they shall be nameless, of course-take pleasure in deriding my investigations." He waved a benign hand in Bradford's direction. "But my treatises on the nature of Spirit have been quite well received by the London Spiritualist Alliance." He lowered his voice. "This is a subject that is spoken of, you understand, only among friends."
"Of course," Charles said gravely. "I myself have an academic interest in such dealings. My camera and I have been invited to several seances to photograph ectoplasmic manifestations."
Bradford grinned and pulled on his cigar. "And what did you observe? Did your camera capture the soul, or did you find the ectoplasm to be merely flimflam?''
Charles was about to reply when the vicar interrupted spiritedly. "It does not matter what was observed! What matters is the commitment to unbiased observation, carried out in the service of Truth." His voice grew louder and his white mustache, impassioned, quivered violently. "What is important is the application of scientific method of the study of the Soul." He leaned forward, blue eyes fierce, leathery face intent. "If this inquiry is your aim, Sir Charles, you are in luck. There
is within our very neighborhood, in nearby Colchester, an association of persons dedicated to this pursuit. It is called the Order of the Golden Dawn, and I am a member."
"In Colchester?" Charles asked with surprise.
"Indeed," the vicar said tartly. "Why should inquiry into spiritual matters be confined to the metropolitan centers?"
"Why indeed?" Bradford asked. He gestured to the butler. "Hawkins, wake his lordship." He stood and pushed back his chair. "Shall we join the ladies, gentlemen? Better their nonsense, I think, than our own."
13
"By me 1890's, me Spiritualist movement had spread to England, where mediums set up stop in every city and even royalty attended seances. Spiritualist journals abounded, and kabhalism, Rosicrucianism, Theosophy, and Freemasonry flourished. Out or this rich occult mix was crystalized, by a Rind or social alchemy, the Order oi the Golden Dawn. It became the most ra-mous oi all occult societies."
On her first morning at Bishop's Keep, Kate stepped out of the breakfast room into the hall. "Pardon me," she said tentatively to the parlor maid, "can you show me the way to the library? I am to meet Miss Ardleigh there." Amelia dropped her eyes, but not before Kate had caught
the fearfully sullen glance. It was the same look she'd seen on the face of the young chambermaid, a girl of fourteen or so, who had opened her draperies this morning and brought her tea. Mudd, of course, had been too well trained to display any overt emotion as he directed her to the breakfast sideboard. But she could see it in the tense line of his jaw, the half-furtive look of the eye. The orderly, placid surface of life at Bishop's Keep concealed a black undertow. The tension made Kate shiver.
"This way, 'f ye please, miss," Amelia said without inflection, and started off down the dark hallway.
As she followed Amelia's modestly beribboned cap, it suddenly occurred to Kate that if Beryl Bardwell planned to include a servant as a character in "Amber's Amulet," she needed to know a great deal more than she already knew about the servants' lives. Perhaps she should set aside her apprehension and make an effort to befriend Amelia.
"It is such a very large house, there must be a great amount of work to do," Kate said, catching up to the maid, who seemed to have wings on her feet. "Is there a large staff?"
"Sev'ral, miss," Amelia said, quickening her already fast pace.
Kate lengthened her stride. "Have you been here long?" she inquired.
"Only since winter, miss."
"Well, I suppose with a large staff, people are bound to come and go." Kate smiled and made a friendly gesture. "I am sure you have already discovered a great deal about life at Bishop's Keep, while I am a newcomer. I have quite a few questions."
Amelia's reaction was not quite what Kate had expected. She stopped short, blanching. Her chin began to tremble. "Don't be askin' me, I beg ye, miss, please," she pleaded shrilly. " 'Tis not my place t' say wot happened to Jenny."
Kate stared at her, startled. Who was Jenny? What had happened to her? What fear had the power to turn Amelia pale?
"I don't mean to frighten you, Amelia." Kate reached out
to touch the girl's white-cuffed sleeve. "I would only like to-"
"That'll do, Amelia," Mudd said severely, materializing out of the darkness. The parlor maid dropped a stricken curtsy and fled down the hall as if dragons flew at her heels. Mudd turned to Kate, his smooth face tightening.