murderer has been newly installed, holding the very gun from which the fatal shot was fired."
Having already heard of Madame Tussaud's famous waxworks and feeling that the jaunt would yield excellent story material, Kate instantly agreed to Eleanor's proposal. "It is not that I am particularly adventuresome," she added. ' 'It is simply that I am fascinated by all facets of life-even death." She smiled at Sir Charles. "Hence my interest in your photographs."
Bradford Marsden roused himself from his preoccupation. "Sheridan, old chap," he said, "you are in luck. Someone actually wants to see those wretched snapshots of yours." He turned morosely to Kate. "Take my advice and don't encourage the fellow, Miss Ardleigh. He will not only insist on showing you his photographs, but his fingerprints as well."
"Fingerprints?" Kate asked, finding that her opinion of Sir Charles was in need of revision. "You know about fingerprints?"
Sir Charles held out his hand, palm up. "Indeed," he said. "The skin of each finger exhibits a unique set of ridges. Each time the finger touches a surface, it deposits a print, rather like a stamp."
"That much I know," Kate said.
Sir Charles frowned. "You know?"
"I read Pudd'nhead Wilson" Kate explained. "Mark Twain's novel, published last year in Century Magazine. The murderer is convicted when the detective shows an enlarged drawing of a fingerprint to the jury."
"Astonishing," Sir Charles murmured.
"Absurd," Mr. Marsden said. "Shows how far novels are from the real world. Convicting a man on the flimsy print of a finger!"
"Nevertheless," Kate said bravely, "at some time when you would care to explain more about fingerprints, Sir Charles, I would be interested in listening." And she sat back, fearing that she had called too much attention to herself already, when attention was the last thing she wished. In order for Beryl Bardwell to conduct her clandestine observations, she must remain discreet and undiscovered behind the mask
of Kathryn Ardleigh, docile, decorous secretary-companion.
But how interesting to encounter a man (however arrogant he might be) who could teach her something more than she already knew about fingerprints-and to encounter a murder. Not just fictional murder, either, but murder most real!
So, as Eleanor Marsden pointed out landmarks of interest along the way, Beryl Bardwell was devising a catalog of things she needed to discover. Who was the murdered man? From whence had he come? And, above all, who had done the deed and why? It was up to her to find answers, or, rather, to create them. When it came to thrillers, Beryl Bardwell was constrained neither by truth nor by fact.
8
The splendour falls on castle walls
T o Charles Sheridan's surprise, he found the drive to Bishop's Keep rather interesting. Marsden was sitting like a stick, busy with his thoughts. Eleanor was no less feather-wilted than usual. But Miss ArdleighAh, yes, Miss Ardleigh. Charles occasionally amused himself by drawing conclusions about people's characters and personal histories from appearance and odd bits of conversation. It was not difficult to conclude, from the plain cut and plainer fabric of her costume, that Miss Ardleigh was a poor relation. The woman was not particularly young, and not particularly beautiful. She lacked either the interest, the skill, or the funds-perhaps chiefly interest, since most women managed to pretty themselves no matter what their funds-to devote much attention to her appearance. The undisciplined mass of auburn hair, for instance, bespoke both a lack of concern for elegance and an unruly will, while the second finger of the right hand bore inky tribute to her acquaintance with the pen. That, and her age, indicated a type: the American spinster abroad, greedily consuming every delight of the excursive experience, and writing volumes about it in the form of letters home.
But there seemed to be more to Miss Ardleigh than that, Charles acknowledged. The unruly hair was quite lovely and the forthright hazel eyes under straight dark brows unusually striking. She would photograph well. And more, she had intrigued him with her odd remark about Mark Twain's use of fingerprints. It had betrayed an unusual interest. What sort of woman read detective stories?
Three-quarters of an hour after leaving the station, the carriage with its four passengers turned off the road and onto a curving lane lined with mist-cloaked beeches. Miss Ardleigh seemed to be holding an excited expectation in stern check. "I suppose Bishop's Keep is very medieval," she said in an offhand way, glancing across the fog-wreathed landscape.
"Medieval?" Eleanor asked in surprise. "Why, no. Why did you- Oh, of course. The Keep."
Charles suppressed a smile. Americans harbored endless misconceptions about England. All the fault of Byron and Wordsworth and those other soulful purveyors of the Romantic view. Caught up in a New World whirlwind of invention and innovation, Americans loved to take a holiday from progress to revel in the picturesque, the macabre, the mist. That's what came of having virtually no history of their own, and no castles. And very little fog, either.
"You have been reading thrillers," Bradford remarked. "Towers and turrets and dead bodies in great chests, and bats in all the belfries."
Charles was distracted from his reflections on the American temperament. "Ah, bats," he said energetically. "D'you
know, there is a bat in this locality that is quite a rare little fellow, a-"
Eleanor's laugh was a melodious tinkle. "I am sure Kath-ryn will have more exciting things to do than spy out bats for you, Charles."
"Are you saying that Bishop's Keep is not really a castle?" Miss Ardleigh asked, clearly disappointed but trying not to seem so.
"There once was a castle," Bradford said carelessly, "the country seat of some great churchman or another. But Cromwell pulled it down during the Civil War, and there is little left save the odd flint rubble wall. The present residence is less than seventy years old. Not as romantic as a castle, but a damned sight less drafty, I warrant." A little of his flirtatious good humor seemed to be coming back, and he grinned. "If it's romance you're after, Miss Ardleigh, you must visit Marsden Manor. No ruin, but we have our own resident ghost."
At the word "ghost," Charles noticed, Miss Ardleigh leaned slightly forward, her face eager. She was no doubt impressed by Bradford's attention, as were most women. The brief sigh that escaped his lips as he turned away was largely unconscious.
Sir Charles could not know, of course, that Kate was far less impressed by Mr. Marsden's person and manner than by his last remark. "Is there truly a ghost?" she asked, trying to keep the hopeful note out of her voice.
"Truly," Bradford said solemnly.
Eleanor patted her hand. "Do come and be introduced to him, Kathryn. Bradford will give you the life story of the wretched creature, and I shall show off my wedding dress."
Kate smiled. "I certainly shall," she said. "I don't imagine your ghost goes to weddings," she said, hoping to prompt Mr. Marsden to say more.
The corners of Bradford's mouth twitched and his pale blue eyes were amused. "No, but he's quite civil, all the same. If you will do us the honor of staying over the night, we can put you in the chamber which he frequents. In search of his missing head."