The vicar puffed calmly on his pipe. "Quite so," he replied. "But peacock feathers have been the rage for some years now. Everybody has them. Even I." He gestured at a ceramic vase of dried grass fronds and peacock feathers in the corner.
"Of course," Charles said thoughtfully. "Still, it is a clue, and there are bloody few of them in this affair." He paused.
' 'You are a member of the Order, if I understood you correctly the other evening."
"I… am." His reply was slow, almost reluctant.
Charles gave the other man an inquiring glance. When they talked previously, the vicar had seemed impressed with the Order, had even recommended it. Had something occurred to change his view? He spoke quietly. "I wonder, sir, if you would oblige me by telling me something of it."
The vicar made a small grimace and shifted in his chair. "What do you want to know?"
"Something of its history, perhaps." I "Well, then," the vicar said, as if resigned. "I first heard of it six years ago, at a meeting of the Metropolitan College of the Society of Rosicrucians. Wynn Westcott spoke of it. He is a coroner of London-then and now, a man of utterly impeccable repute." He shook his head slightly. There was in his face a kind of regretful disappointment, as if he were speaking of someone about whom he had held a mistakenly elevated opinion and could scarcely believe that he had been in error.
He came back to himself and began to speak again. "Dr. Westcott invited me to a meeting of the temple-the Isis-Urania Temple, it was called, newly established in London. I was delighted to be asked to enter as a Neophyte." A tone of wry irony colored his words. "A neophyte, indeed. I fear I had much to learn, although I thought at the time I knew quite a lot."
"Neophyte is a rank of entry?"
"Yes. The members progress through various ranks, as do the Freemasons. With the proper study and the passing of certain tests, I advanced through the grades of the Outer Order-Neophyte, Zelator, Theoricus, Practicus, and Philoso-phus-and thence to the Second Order, where I now stand at the Sixth Grade, as an Adeptus Major."
"It sounds as if there is much effort involved in this work," Charles remarked.
"I have always been interested in the magical arts, and count the time as study of little consequence." The vicar's mouth set in a firm, fixed line, and bitterness crept into his
tone. ' 'I have prided myself on my commitment to scientific inquiry into the occult, not out of superstitious credulousness, but on the firm foundation of objective science. To learn now that I may have been-" He bit off his sentence.
"May have been what, sir?"
The vicar straightened. "I think, Sir Charles, that I have said as much as I am able-more, perhaps, than I should have done. The Golden Dawn is, after all, a secret society, and its practices must remain confidential."
Charles took a different tack. "How long has Mrs. Farns-worth been a member of the Order?''
The vicar's gaze went back to the fire. "Ah, yes. Mrs. Farnsworth." He puffed on his pipe and a wreath of smoke rose over his head. "I first encountered the lady in the Isis-Urania Temple. An actress, then Florence Faber. Have you met?"
"This morning," Charles said. "I called on her."
The vicar nodded. "Her stage career, it appears, came to something of an abrupt conclusion. She apparently refused to honor a contract, which angered the play's producers. Subsequently, a larger difficulty arose over a substantial sum of money she is said to have… borrowed." He paused. "I have not inquired into the details, you understand, but I gather that there were accusations on both sides, and that the matter was concluded without litigation only on the condition that her departure from the London stage be a permanent one."
"In other words," Charles said, "she has been blacklisted."
"So it would seem. She married an admirer-a Colchester merchant who was said to have made a substantial fortune in railroad stock. But he died shortly after the honeymoon, leaving her to discover-with some understandable shock, I daresay-that the expected fortune had melted into a sea of debts. She only just managed to keep the house on Keenan Street from going on the auctioneer's block."
"How does she support herself?"
' 'By the contributions of the wealthier members of the temple. They are glad to give generously toward the establishment of the Order in Colchester. Mrs. Farnsworth has been energetic in seeing to its expansion, and the membership here now exceeds that in Edinburgh, Bradford, and Paris, combined. She is also supported because she is a friend of West-cott's," he added. There was a touch of acid in his tone. "In the view of the members, Westcott is a god."
"She does not plan to return to acting, then."
"On the contrary, she does, although not at the present in London. Some friends of hers and Westcott's-again, wealthy members of the temple-are working toward that end. She will play Rosalind in As You Like It, when the Grand Theatre opens early next year."
"You mentioned Paris," Charles said reflectively. "There is a Parisian temple, operated by someone named Mathers, I believe."
The vicar pulled rapidly on his pipe. "Mathers. Indeed. Mathers."
"Is he connected with the Order here in England?"
"He was," the vicar said. The pulling became so agitated that it turned into a spate of coughing. "Fancies himself an occultist," the vicar choked out. "Involved with the kabbalah, astrology, the tarot. An eccentric with an exaggerated sense of his own importance, in my opinion. And a troublemaker."
"But no immediate connection with the British Order?"
The vicar's knuckles whitened around his pipe stem. The thought of Mathers seemed to waken some deep emotion in him, anger, perhaps even fear. "None, Sir Charles, that I am at liberty to discuss at this time." He pushed himself to the edge of the chair. "I have only partially answered your questions, and I am distressed to thrust you out once more into the wet. But I fear that my Sunday sermon is still in a state of disrepair and requires my active attentions. Do you mind?"
"Of course not," Charles said, setting his cup on the table. "But before you go, perhaps…" He opened his portfolio. "Can you tell me if you recognize this man?"
The vicar took the photograph. "This is the murdered man?" he asked. A tic appeared at the corner of his right eye.
"Yes," Charles said.
The vicar handed back the photograph and stood, not meeting Charles's eye. "I am afraid I cannot help you," he said.
Charles rose as well, hearing the evasion in the clergyman's words. There might be answers here, but for the moment Vicar Talbot was keeping them to himself.
33
"What secrets are hidden behind the tapestry or dark?"
It was nearly eight when Kate heard the carriage return. A few minutes later, she heard Aunt Sabrina's slow step on the stair, and the closing of her bedroom door. Thinking that her aunt was surely tired and hungry, Kate put on her shoes and went out into the passage. Outside Aunt Sabrina's door, she tapped gently. When she heard a blurred sound she took to be an assent, she opened the door and went in.
Aunt Sabrina was sitting at her dressing table with her back to the door, her head in her hands. She did not look up or turn around.
"You must be tired, Aunt Sabrina," Kate said gently. She needn't tell her now about the altercation in the kitchen, or Tom Potter; the tale had to be told, but it could wait until she was rested. "Would you like me to fix you a bit of hot supper? I could bring it up on a tray."
Aunt Sabrina raised her head and looked at Kate in the
dressing table mirror. Her face was gray and old-looking and her eyes were darkly hollowed, but she managed a small smile. "You needn't bother, dear," she said. "I am not hungry-"