— What? said James. She said her name was Lily Violet.
— Of course she did, said McHale. Yes, well, it was said that someone had spoken to my brother before he died. The police said someone had been there, but they couldn't figure out who. We managed to speak to someone who'd seen you there, and Grieve's father sent her to ask you what it was Thomas said. All of us here, of course, are very interested to know what his last words were. My dear brother. .
McHale said this with real feeling.
James desperately tried to clear his head.
— None of this makes any sense. Why did Lily Violet—
— Grieve, interposed McHale.
— Grieve, continued James. Why did Grieve steal my wallet, why did she send me a strange mask, and why did she come to my house to spy on me?
— She came to your house? said McHale. Interesting. We didn't know that. She did slip her minder yesterday and go off into the city. We weren't sure where she went. Well, he said, that's one mystery solved.
He examined James closely, pulled another chair over, and sat beside him.
— The truth is, she took your wallet because she is a very good pickpocket, and we were interested to know about who you were. She had been instructed to simply ask you, but that's not her way.
James nodded, following along.
— As for the mask, well, she must have taken photographs of you, and then taken them to a mask factory. I can't imagine how that sort of thing could be done so fast, but evidently it was. . What can I say, she's an odd sort of girl. If not for the watch her father keeps on her, she'd have gotten into a lot of trouble a long time ago. I can tell you that much.
There was a knock at the door. McHale rose.
— Yes, he said peremptorily. Come in.
The door opened. A young woman dressed as a maid stood there, holding a tray.
— Bring that over here, said James.
She did so, setting the tray upon a table close by James's elbow.
— Of course, said McHale, we became even more interested in you after the death in Estrainger's building. You were there looking for Estrainger, were you not?
He took something out of his pocket and unfolded it. It was the napkin James had had at the diner.
What should be done?
nothing
tell someone, the police.
— Were you thinking of telling the police the story McHale told you? You wouldn't be the first to go to them. Before he ran into those muggers, my brother spoke to at least four people, and convinced them all to go to the police. They all did, every one, each with the same story. He was away from this house for four days. Don't you think it's strange that he didn't go to the police?
— I don't know what to think, said James. It's all rather strange to me.
— Yes, well, think through what he said. We know your profession. Of course, you can tell us exactly how his last minutes passed. We would very much like to have that information, as all of us here miss him deeply.
James nodded.
— Should I write it out?
— Yes, that would be preferable.
McHale pointed to the tray. On it there was a metal bell, the sort for concealing cakes and such.
— That's the key to your room, said McHale. We'd like to extend an invitation to you to stay here a few days. There are many of us who live here, many who knew my brother intimately. Some of us would like, I'm sure, the chance to speak to you personally, as you were the last one to see him alive. We have here a very fine chef, and a staff that is quite accommodating. Anything you want can be seen to. There are, however, a great many rules that govern our life in this house. When you get up to your room there is a little book where they're written. We ask that you observe them while you're here. You see, there are patients, many of them, and staff as well, and then there are those of us who live here on a rather different basis. Everyone here observes the rules, save Grieve, of course. She can be difficult, as you've learned.
McHale noticed James's puzzled expression.
— This is a verisylum. There was only ever one before this, built in 1847. We believe it is the only real treatment for dramatic cases of chronic lying, cases where the lying ends up compromising the identity of the individual. Instead of giving medications, or applying truth-rubrics, Margret Selm came up with her own method. She established the parameters for the creation of a country house in which all behavior would be governed by a set of arbitrary rules. There would be no prohibition against lying, but the individuals present in the house, the chronic liars, would find in the arbitrary rules, which, as you'll come to see, are many, a sort of structure that allowed them, as time passed, to construct an identity for themselves. The idea is that when many lies are told, unfettered by immediate comparison to fact, they end up comprising a kind of truth. On that truth too lies can be based.
This was all a bit too much for James, who after all had just been abducted for the first time in his life, abducted and carried away in a car.
— Then I can go up to my room now? he said. I can go where I like? And leave when I like?
— We ask that you stay here for the next few days, just so you're around to speak to our little circle of intimates. It would mean so much to us. .
— I just want to be clear, said James. I'm not a prisoner?
— A prisoner? said McHale, laughing. You were never a prisoner. I'm sorry if Torquin gave you that impression. He and the others were just a bit worried after the business on Verit Street. You did, after all, throw a man out a window.
— I did not! said James. Who do you think I am? That man jumped! I didn't even know him. He jumped!
— Yes, yes, said McHale, laughing. They always do, don't they?
He went to the door, opened it, and went out into the passage. After a minute, he stepped back in.
— Oh, another thing: we ask that you leave the pistol in your room. If you want, of course, we can dispose of it for you. Better certainly that you not keep on your person anything linking you to Mayne's murder, don't you think? Yes, well, think about it. It's yours, after all.
And with that, he went away.
Beneath the Bell
there was indeed a finely wrought key. The metal of the key handle curved in a circle, in the midst of which had been formed the number 17.
— Number seventeen is this way, sir, said the maid, who stood now in the door, holding across her arm his coat.
Up James stood and crossed the room, taking not a moment to look back as perhaps he ought to have at the relative position of the two chairs. McHale's was pointing at the chair in which James had sat, while James's chair looked meekly off towards the empty fireplace.
With a curt nod, the maid closed the room and locked it so that no one thereafter could get in.
Room no. 17
was upon the fourth floor. As houses in London, so rooms in this mansion, their numbers and assignments varying not to suit their neighbors. Beside 17 was 3, beside 3 was 22. How many rooms there were, James could not say for sure.