"To be sure," Charles said. "Mrs. Farnsworth-would the lady live in Keenan Street?"
"Indeed," Mrs. Murdstone said helpfully, "Number Seven. Some two years ago, she left a distinguished career on the London stage to marry Mr. Farnsworth, a gentleman who made his fortune in railroads. Unfortunately, she was left a widow shortly after their wedding, and has now taken on the task of establishing and organizing our temple-a rather difficult task, if I may say, requiring a great investment of her time and personal attention." She paused and gave Charles a benevolent glance. ' 'If you require introduction, you may say that Mrs. Murdstone recommends you to her as a Seeker after Truth."
"I most certainly shall," Charles said, bowing low. "Thank you for your help, Mrs. Murdstone." He inclined his head toward her husband. "And yours, Mr. Murdstone."
"Glad t'oblige, sir, glad t'oblige," Murdstone said heartily, and Charles took his leave. As he retrieved his hat from the maid at the front door, he could hear Precious's yapping bark and Mrs. Murdstone, scolding sharply. The smell of onions followed him out of the house.
The houses in Keenan Street were as undistinguished as those in Queen, built of brick, high, with only a modest frontage. Charles raised an eyebrow. Was it possible that Prodger had misunderstood his customer's accented English? Had Monsieur Armand been in search of Keenan Street, not Queen? Again, a compelling question, but not capable of answer, since the seeker was unfortunately dead.
The stoop of Number Seven, like those of its neighbors, descended directly to the sidewalk without the amenity of hedge or grass. To the right of the stoop was the bow window of the parlor hung with lace curtains and filled with a small forest of fern. There was no evidence of Mr. Farnsworth's railroad fortune, for the door was answered by a maid-of-allwork with a mop in her hand and a churlish frown on her narrow face. She hung Charles's wet coat and hat on a wooden coat tree, and showed him into the small parlor.
The room was cheaply furnished, but a few exotic touches gave it something of distinction. A plaster statuette of the Egyptian god Seth stood on a pedestal in the corner; several unframed hieroglyphic tomb paintings were prominently placed; and the floor was spread with Turkish carpets of purple and blue, much worn. The furnishings were of Japanese design, and a painted Japanese screen was angled beside the fireplace. Peacock feathers were artfully arranged on the walls. The only evidences of Mrs. Farnsworth's acting career were the framed playbills that Charles had seen in the entry hallway, where the name Florence Faber was prominently featured.
"Sir Charles Sheridan?"
The woman who came toward him was small and slight, but her features were sharply defined, with a classical balance and a jaw that hinted at a firm will. Charles would not have called her beautiful, but some, no doubt, would have. A gold net bound her softly waved brown hair away from a face that was dominated by large, luminous eyes and a mobile, mercurial mouth. Some time had passed since the loss of her husband and she was no longer in mourning; her pale green dress was loose and flowing with a pre-Raphaelite simplicity, but she did not, Charles thought, have the pre-Raphaelite aura of untouched innocence and wondering naivete. She wore instead the look of a weary Bohemian.
"Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Farnsworth," Charles said, bowing over her hand. "I come at the recommendation of Mrs. Murdstone, who suggests that you can provide me an introduction to the Order of the Golden Dawn."
"Ah, yes, Mrs. Murdstone," Mrs. Farnsworth murmured: She waved at a gold velvet settee. "Please, sit down, Sir Charles. Your interest in such matters is-?"
"— is of long standing, ma'am," Charles said deftly. He parted his coattails and sat down. ' 'As a child I early discovered a great fascination for things beyond the realm of ordinary human knowledge."
He paused. That was true, although his interest in the unknown lay largely in the sciences of the natural, rather than the supernatural. But the temperament of persons attracted to the occult had long held a scientific interest for him. What was there about the supernatural that fascinated certain people? What sort of people were they? Mrs. Farnsworth, for instance, seemed a woman of the world and not one to be taken in by charlatans. What was the source of her interest? Was it the experience of the occult-some satisfaction she gained in the practice of magical ritual? Or was it the power the practice gave her? Looking at the strong line of her jaw and a certain arrogance in the lift of her chin, he could believe that it was the lure of power that had brought her to the Order. Perhaps the founding of the Colchester temple lent her a certain authority, a certain prestige. Or perhaps the drama of ritual magic had replaced the stage dramas of her acting career.
"You were saying-" Mrs. Farnsworth remarked. Her voice was casual, but her probing glance made Charles feel that he was the object of her critical assessment.
Charles shifted. "Forgive me. I do not want to take up your time with talk about myself. You established the temple here, I believe?"
Mrs. Farnsworth took the light bamboo chair beside the settee. "I did," she said with simple authority. She leaned back, arranging her arm so that one hand hung gracefully from the arm of the chair, and fixed him with a direct gaze. "But you must understand that I can speak of it only in general terms. It is, after all, a secret order. One does not expect a Freemason to divulge the sacred rituals of his lodge."
"Quite so," Charles said. He paused. "I wonder, though… Is membership in your Order confined to Colchester?''
Mrs. Farnsworth's laugh was throaty, amused. "My dear man, how is it that you do not know already of the Golden Dawn? The Order has temples in London, Edinburgh, Bradford, Paris. It is the foremost organization of its kind in the world."
"Indeed," Charles said with interest. "In Paris?"
"Mr. MacGregor Mathers has established the Ahathoor
Temple there, as well as a school of occult sciences." A smile softened Mrs. Farnsworth's lips and she raised her hand in a studiedly playful gesture. ' 'Our little temple in Colchester is but one star in a distinguished galaxy."
"I do indeed see," Charles said, "and I am much impressed. Perhaps-"
He left the sentence hanging, placed his portfolio on his knees, and opened it. He might ordinarily have had some compunction about showing the photograph of a dead man to a woman of delicate sensibilities, although he had cropped this one so that it did not reveal the fatal wound. But Mrs. Farnsworth had been an actress, and actresses were women of the world. Such a thing should not shock. He took it out and handed it to her.
"This is a photograph of a man who, I believe, may have been associated with your Order. I wonder what you can tell me about him. The name I know him by," he added, watching her closely, "is Monsieur Armand. That may not be his real name."
Mrs. Farnsworth took the photograph and studied it for a few moments, her face revealing nothing. When she handed it back, her glance was casual, her tone devoid of any significance or feeling. "I fear I cannot help you," she said. "The gentleman is a stranger to me." She arched expressive brows. "If you are in doubt as to his identity, why not simply ask him?"
"Because," Charles said, "the man is dead."
Mrs. Farnsworth shook her head. "A pity," she murmured. "His death was untimely?"
"He was murdered," Charles said.
She looked startled. "Why on earth do you bring the photograph of a murdered man to me?"
"Because," Charles replied carefully, "I understand that he visited a member of your Order."
Mrs. Farnsworth frowned. "My dear Sir Charles," she said, "our temple is quite large. Surely you cannot imagine that I am acquainted with the private business dealings of individual members?"