Kate stared at her, apprehension rippling through her like a hissing snake. "No," she whispered. "That's not the way."
"Yes," Mrs. Pratt said darkly. "Yes, 'tis."
28
"Find me some material, though it is no bigger than a fly's root, give me but a clew no thicker than a spider's web, and I'll follow it through tne whole labyrinth."
Charles spent the next day following the two clues he had-the peacock feather and the dead man's photograph. Buttoned up in a mackintosh and wearing a hat against the drizzling mist, he rode into Colchester, where he stabled his horse and walked to Queen Street. At the fourth house, his portfolio under his arm, he pulled the brass bell. It was answered this time by a pert little maid with red cheeks and a ready smile who gave Charles a demure look under her eyelashes when he asked to see the master. He handed over his card, on which he had written, ' 'A matter of paramount importance."
"I'll tell Mr. Murdstone yer here, sir," the maid said, leaving him standing in the narrow hall. He passed the time by examining a series of gilt-framed etchings of the Charge of the Light Brigade, hung against the rose-patterned wallpaper. Precious was nowhere to be seen but could be heard, yapping briskly but faintly in a distant room, and the rich perfume of cooked onions arose from the back of the house. A moment later the maid returned to take his coat and lead him to the parlor.
Frank Murdstone was roasting his feet on the small fender in the lace-curtained parlor immediately off the hall, comfortable in a soft jacket and loose tie, reading a newspaper by the light of a hissing gas lamp. He was a man with a horsey nose, a high forehead, and tufted eyebrows.
"Oh, it's you," he said, removing his boots from the fender. He put down his newspaper, his ears reddening. He obviously remembered yesterday's encounter with some embarrassment. "What can I do for you, Sir Charles? What's this business of 'paramount importance'?"
"As I said yesterday," Charles said, taking the photograph out of his portfolio, "I am attempting to identify this man."
Murdstone stood up, glanced briefly at the photograph Charles handed him, and shrugged. "Can't help you, I'm afraid."
"Do you mind taking one more look?" Charles prodded, watching Murdstone's face. The fire cast flickering shadows across his cheeks, highlighting the dome of his forehead.
Murdstone took a pair of gold-rimmed glasses out of his pocket, hooked them over his ears, and peered through them at the photograph. His eyes widened slightly. "Dead man, is he?"
"Murdered."
Murdstone shook his head firmly. "Never saw the chap." He handed the photo back and took off his glasses. "If you don't mind my asking, why are you inquiring, and not the police?"
"It is a matter of interest to me," Charles said vaguely. At this point he was not entirely sure why he was pursuing the matter. The police had given it up as a bad job and offered absolutely no encouragement. Perhaps he was led by his feeling that the dead ought to inspire at least some interest among the living; perhaps it was merely his enjoyment of the laby-rinthian process of puzzle solving. ' 'One more question, Mr. Murdstone. Yesterday when we met, you were wearing a cockade of peacock feathers in your hat. The gentleman you greeted on the street was also wearing peacock feathers. Is there some special significance to that fact?"
There was a moment's silence. The coals shifted in the
grate. Murdstone pulled at his lower lip and turned so that his face could not be seen. "I don't see what a few silly feathers have to do with anything," he said.
Charles persisted. "Is it the insignia of a secret society?"
Murdstone turned around to face Charles. "If you must know," he said pettishly, "it's one of my wife's silly involvements." There was a shadow of something in his face-resentment, or deceit? Was he hiding something? "Wouldn't have gone, myself, but she insisted. And when Irene insists-"
Charles heard a flurry of yaps in the hallway, and a sharp female voice. "Frank, it is time for Precious to have her walk."
Murdstone's resentment-for that's what Charles thought it was-darkened in his face. "Coming, m'dear," he said. He pulled off his jacket and reached for his coat, hanging on the back of a chair. "The chap you saw on the street. He's one of 'em. Freemason. Obsessed by magic. Dotes on abracadabra, passwords, all that rot." He shrugged his arms into his coat.
"This society," Charles pressed, fearing that he was about to lose his informant to the custody of a poodle. ' 'Can you tell me its name?"
Murdstone moved to the mantel mirror to straighten his tie. "Order of the Golden Dawn," he muttered. "Lot of foolishness, 'f you ask me. Mumbo jumbo, cards, astrology, seances. Sheer flummery. But Mrs. Murdstone-"
"Frank!" The door was flung open and an overly stout matron in a gray dress came into the room, leaning on a silver-headed stick. She held a red leather leash in her hand, the poodle dancing at the other end. "Are you going to dither all-" She stopped when she saw Charles.
Murdstone turned around. "Sir Charles Sheridan," he said, with a careless wave of his hand. "Mrs. Murdstone. Sir Charles is inquiring about the affair last week, m'dear. Over at Florence-what's-her-name's-"
"Florence Farnsworth," Mrs. Murdstone said peevishly. She had at least three chins, receding one after the other like foothills into her mountainous bosom. "Why you can't manage a simple name-" The poodle made a quick sally in Charles's direction and was pulled back. She retreated sulkily behind her mistress's full skirts.
"Ah, yes, Farnsworth," Murdstone said, rocking on the balls of his feet. "Farns-worth," he repeated to himself, as if trying to memorize it.
Charles frowned slightly, remembering that Miss Ardleigh had also directed him to Mrs. Farnsworth, and his suspicion of yesterday that there was some connection between her and the dead man. What did she know? How did she come by her information? She had appeared to recognize something about Monsieur Armand's photograph-how was that possible? Had she seen him, spoken to him, perhaps in London, before she came down to Bishop's Keep? If that were true, Miss Ardleigh was almost certainly other than she seemed.
But those questions, however compellingly they were beginning to prod him, had to be postponed for the moment. ' 'I would like to learn more about the Order," Charles said.
Mrs. Murdstone turned to Charles and her manner changed. "Are you interested in becoming a member, Sir Charles?" she inquired ingratiatingly.
Charles bowed slightly. "One does not wish to commit oneself on a matter of such importance without some previous intelligence of the group. What can you tell me of it?"
Mrs. Murdstone's plump face took on a mysterious look and she lowered her voice. "Only that if you are interested in the occult, sir, I daresay you will find it a most fascinating group. I cannot speak further without revealing important secrets, you understand-"
Mr. Murdstone shaped "flummery" with his lips, but did not speak the word.
"Of course," Charles murmured. "I would not for the world ask you to violate a sacred trust."
"The Society's charter was obtained from a very ancient Society in Germany," Mrs. Murdstone continued. "Unlike the sham societies one sees so much of these days, it enjoys an entirely legitimate lineage, with roots going back to the Rosicrucians and even to the magicians of Egypt. Its authority is transmitted through our respected chief, Dr. William Westcott, whom all the world knows as a man to be admired and trusted. Our temple is named the-" But here she clapped her hand over her mouth. "Forgive me, sir, I go too far," she said coyly, through pudgy fingers, heavily ringed. "It is permitted to speak the name of our temple only to initiates."