"Please be seated, Madam," said Sparks, grabbing the back of a chair and slamming it down unceremoniously in the center of the room.
Eileen gave a pained and vulnerable glance back to Doyle even as she moved to the chair and settled herself.
"Here now, Jack, must you take that tone—" started Doyle.
"Be quiet!" commanded Sparks. Doyle was too dismayed to reply; he'd never before heard Sparks display such an imperious manner. "Or need I remind you, Doyle, that this woman, while in the employ of our enemies and through the effectiveness of her false office, made one of the principal contributions to your entrapment, betrayal, and near murder!"
"Most unwittingly, I assure—" protested Eileen. "Thank you, Madam; when your self-defense is required, it will be most swiftly called upon," replied Sparks corrosively. "Jack, see here—"
"Doyle, if you would be kind enough to contain your ill-informed, moonstruck affections long enough to allow me
some small opportunity to arrive at the truth with this adventuress, it would be very much appreciated."
Stung by his unalloyed scorn, Eileen began to weep quietly and helplessly, looking up at Doyle for assistance. Contrary to ameliorating his anger, her flood of feeling only served to stiffen Sparks's bellicosity.
"Tears, Madam, in this instance, are wasted. I assure you that as persuasive as you may have found them in the past— and as effortlessly as you can simulate them according to your well-practiced craft—you will find them here as bootless as rain to a river; I will not be moved. Treachery of this high order, whatever form it takes, however unwitting, deserves no presumption of innocence. I will have the truth from you, Madam, make no mistake, and any further attempt to manipulate the gentle nature of my companion to your advantage will avail you not at all!"
In the interests of discretion, Sparks had hardly raised his voice above the conversational, but the silence that lay in the room when he finished speaking rang out with the vehemence of his rancor. Stoker had backed up against the door, stunned and speechless. Doyle found it difficult to move, shamed both by his friend's explosive outburst and the nettle of unattractive truth that he knew nested in his harsh judgment. He was perhaps even more disturbed to see Eileen stop weeping almost instantly; she sat upright in her chair as stiff as a celluloid collar, entirely and eerily composed. Her eyes coolly regarded her interrogator without fright or anger, clear and steady and with enormous self-possession.
"What is your name, Madam?" asked Sparks less aggressively, apparently appeased by the greater authenticity of her current state.
"Eileen Temple." Her voice wavered not at all; there was pride in it, and a hint of no longer undeclared defiance.
"Mr. Stoker," said Sparks, without looking at him, "I take it that, upon your discovery at the local laundress's, you traced Miss Temple back to this address, whereupon you sought her out last night."
"Correct," said Stoker.
"Miss Temple, you have been an actress in the employ of the erstwhile Manchester Players for how long a period of time?"
"Two years."
"Last October, while playing an engagement in London, were you approached by someone in your company regarding the appearance you were eventually to make on Boxing Day at Thirteen Cheshire Street?"
"Sammy Fulgrave. He and his wife, Emma, were understudies with our company. She was with child; they were in fairly desperate need of money."
"So they introduced you to the man who had offered them this situation—a small, swarthy man, with a foreign accent— whereupon he extended the same offer to you."
The Dark man at the seance, thought Doyle. The one he'd shot in the leg.
"That he did," said Eileen.
"What were the terms of that offer?"
"We were to receive one hundred pounds, fifty of which he paid to us immediately. His accent was Austrian, by the way."
"He then recruited the fourth and last actor with your assistance?"
"Dennis Cullen. He was to play my brother—"
"And was no doubt in equally exigent financial distress," said Sparks, unable to keep the edge of scorn from his voice. "What did this man require of you for his hundred pounds?"
"Our participation in a private performance for a wealthy friend of his who was interested in spiritualism. He said it was the intention of a well-meaning group of this man's friends to play a sort of joke on him."
"What sort of joke?"
"He told us that this man, their good friend, was a resolute disbeliever in the spirit world. He said they planned to invite the man to a seance, which he would be given every reason to believe was genuine, and then give him a proper fright, using all manner of elaborate stage effects. This was to take place in a private home, and in order to pull off the effect, they had decided that professional actors, people the man didn't know and whose behavior would appear credible, were required to play the parts."
"Nothing about this offer aroused your suspicions?"
"We discussed it among ourselves. To be honest, it sounded like fairly harmless fun. Nothing about the man's at-
titude suggested otherwise, and we, all of us, frankly needed the money."
She looked at Doyle and then away, somewhat ashamed, Doyle thought.
"What did he subsequently ask you to do?"
"Nothing for the moment. We were to return to London the day before Christmas for another meeting to organize the performance. At that time, the man took us to Chesire Street and showed us the room where the seance would be staged. He gave each of us our character's name, told us what sort of person they were supposed to be, and asked us to supply our own appropriate costumes. That's when we learned that Dennis and I were to play brother and sister."
"Had you ever before heard the name Lady Caroline Nicholson?"
"No."
"Have you ever seen this woman before?" Sparks asked, showing to her the photograph of the woman taken outside Rathborne and Sons.
"I have not," she said, after a moment's study. "Is this Lady Nicholson?"
"I believe it is," said Sparks. "You're younger than she. You wore makeup that night to make you appear older."
She nodded.
"I believe that you were singled out by someone who saw your London performance in October and sought you for this job because of your resemblance to Lady Nicholson. The others were relatively immaterial; you were the key to their plan."
"But why go to all this trouble?" asked Stoker.
"To protect against the eventuality that our friend Dr. Doyle had ever seen the real woman. I assure you the man responsible is capable of far more absolute thoroughness than this."
"But what in God's name was their intention?" pressed Stoker with evident frustration.
"Dr. Doyle's murder," he said.
Stoker leaned back. Eileen turned to look at Doyle again; he saw outrage register there, on his behalf. He was beginning to gain a measure of the woman's substantial fortitude.
"Did the man introduce you to the medium before the night of the seance?" asked Sparks.
"No. I suppose we all assumed it would be just another actor. He did say he would be playing a part as well. He was wearing makeup that night—you described him as swarthy; actually the man himself was quite pale."
"Our friend Professor Vamberg again, Doyle," said Sparks in an aside.
"Really?" said Doyle eagerly, almost pathetically grateful to hear a comradely word from Sparks. "You can't say we didn't get our licks in."
"No: When next we see him, the Professor should be walking with a pronounced limp."
Doyle felt a visceral, decidedly uncharitable surge of satisfaction as he recalled the gun going off in his hand and the man's wounded bellows.
"What did this man tell you to do on the night of the seance?"