The Seance (40 page)

Or else I was wrong about the accomplice, and Magnus had brought the ashes with him; he was a doctor, after all. But in that case – in either case – he had already planned his disappearance.

I looked back through Nell’s journal, at all the references to his being away from home for days or weeks at a time. Magnus had been living a double life all along.

And Nell must have known, as soon as the news of John Montague’s grisly discovery had broken, that if she were caught, Magnus might well be amongst the spectators who came to see her hanged for murdering him.

My mind had been leaping from one conclusion to the next with such rapidity that I had not realised how far I had come. Because Nell had insisted that there was nothing of Magnus in Clara, I had been able to push the thought aside, imagining Nell as my true mother in a world of half-belief, where ordinary relations did not apply. Now I was seized with a sudden vertiginous terror that I
might
be Clara Wraxford. Despite the two candles and the glow of the fire, the shadows behind the furniture – two musty armchairs, a wooden settle, various other chairs and cabinets – were very dark indeed. I shone the lantern around the room, striking more shadows from the peeling paper, and over the cracked,
sagging ceiling, which seemed to bulge downward as the light passed over it. And how long would the oil last?

Reluctantly, I rose and extinguished the two candles. I have only to endure the hours until daylight, I told myself, and by tomorrow evening I shall be safely back in St John’s Wood.

And then what? Supposing Magnus
was
still alive? Did I not have a duty to inform the police? But they would not listen to me, any more than Vernon Raphael, who would only twist everything around until all of the evidence pointed to Nell. The only certain way to prove Nell’s innocence – at least the only way that I could see – was to find Magnus Wraxford. Who had presumably taken the diamonds abroad to sell them – which of course was why he had bought them in the first place. Like so much else in his scheme, they had served a double purpose: to assist in his disappearance, and to sharpen the jaws of the trap he had laid for Nell, long before Bolton had seen her with John Montague.

Which was why, it came to me, Nell’s description of that encounter had been so perfunctory. Knowing that Magnus would read the journal, she had not wanted to make trouble – any more than could be helped – for John Montague. But by anyone else it would be taken – as perhaps Magnus himself had taken it – to mean that she was concealing a guilty liaison.

Magnus had woven his net so cunningly that every scrap of evidence turned out to be Janus-faced. Edwin, at least, would hear me out, and keep silent about Nell’s journal if I asked him to, but even he, I feared, would not believe me without some tangible indication that Magnus had not died in the armour.

There was one other possibility. For me to trace Magnus was plainly hopeless; but if I could draw him into tracing
me
. . . if, for example, I let it be known that I possessed proof of his guilt, discovered here at the Hall . . . especially if rumour said also that I was Clara Wraxford. But this was madness, and to dwell upon it here would drive me out
of my wits. I turned the lantern down as low as I could bear and lay awake for hours, as it seemed, with fear crawling through my veins, until I sank into an exhausted sleep, and woke half frozen in the grey light of dawn.

Two carriages were due to return at eleven – the coachmen had, I gathered, refused to remain at the Hall overnight – to take us back to Woodbridge. I made my primitive ablutions in icy water and kept to my room as long as possible, even though there was nothing to do there, once I had packed my things, but brood and shiver. I had done my best to make myself presentable, yet I felt grimy and bedraggled, and the tarnished glass above the mantelpiece did nothing to lift my spirits.

Hunger and cold drove me out at last on to the gloom of the landing, and around to the library, where the rest of the party were breakfasting on tea and toast, prepared over the library fire. Feeling acutely self-conscious, I assured everyone that I was entirely recovered from my faint, and had slept quite well, and allowed myself to be settled by the fireside and waited upon by Edwin and Vernon Raphael, between whom I sensed – at least on Edwin’s side – a certain antagonism.

‘I wonder, Miss Langton,’ said Vernon Raphael, after I had declined anything further, ‘what you thought of my exposition last night. I was left with the impression that you did not find it altogether persuasive.’

‘I – I found what you said about Cornelius Wraxford very convincing,’ I replied, hoping he would ask no further.

‘But ...?’ he prompted. Edwin gave him an angry look, and I was aware of the other men awaiting my reply.

If I cannot be true to Nell here, I thought, I shall never be brave enough to defend her.

‘I believe that Eleanor Wraxford was innocent,’ I said. ‘I think that all of the appearances against her were contrived by Magnus Wraxford
– including the ashes in the armour. I do not believe he is dead.’ A ripple of shock ran through the room. ‘No doubt you will dismiss this as a woman’s idle fancy . . .’

‘Perhaps I might have done,’ said Vernon Raphael, ‘if you had not allowed me to see those passages from John Montague’s narrative. What further evidence have you?’

‘I cannot tell you that,’ I replied, wishing my voice did not sound so tremulous, ‘I am – pledged to secrecy.’

‘But Miss Langton, if you possess evidence to prove what you say, is it not your duty to set it before the public?’

‘It is not yet enough to persuade a court; or any man already convinced of Eleanor Wraxford’s guilt,’ I said, with the sensation of sliding towards the edge of a precipice.

‘But it has persuaded
you
, Miss Langton,’ he persisted. ‘Can you not tell us why?’

‘I can answer no more questions, Mr Raphael, except to say my greatest desire is to see Eleanor Wraxford proven innocent.’

There was a moment’s embarrassed silence, and then, as if at an unspoken signal, all of the men rose and began gathering up their possessions.

I retreated once more to my room, intending to stay there until the coaches arrived, but found the confinement intolerable. After a few minutes’ restless pacing I decided to take a last look at the room where Nell had stayed. As I came on to the landing, I saw, in the shadows on the far side of the stairwell, the study door open and a tall figure – Dr Davenant – emerge. He glanced in the direction of the library, as if to assure himself that no one was following, strode confidently across the landing and disappeared into the corridor which led to the bedrooms. By the time I reached the entrance, the sound of his footsteps had ceased.

Pausing to listen at every turn of the corridor, I followed as quietly as I could, until I came within sight of Nell’s room. Pale light spilled from the doorway, wavering over the dusty floor of the passage, and as I watched a shadow passed across it. Superstitious dread possessed me; I turned to flee, but my foot slipped on some fallen plaster, and a board creaked loudly. The shadow darkened and seemed to rise up the opposite wall, and Dr Davenant appeared before me.

‘Ah, Miss Langton. Forgive me if I startled you – and for taking the liberty of exploring your house. This was, I gather, the room occupied by Eleanor Wraxford?’

He was not wearing his tinted spectacles, and his eyes gleamed faintly in the light from the doorway.

‘Yes, sir, it was.’

He gestured towards the doorway, as if inviting me to examine something, stepping back as he did so to make room for me to enter. Politeness compelled me to obey against my instinct, and a moment later I was standing by Nell’s writing-table, with Dr Davenant between me and the door.

‘What was it you wanted to show me, sir?’ I asked, unable to suppress the tremor of fear in my voice. His expression was all but concealed by his beard and moustache, but it seemed to me that there was a glint of amusement in his eyes, which were so dark that the irises, as well as the pupils, seemed almost black. I wondered if this was an effect of the injury he had suffered.

‘I found your remarks a few moments ago most stimulating,’ he said, blandly ignoring my question. His voice sounded deeper and more resonant than I remembered. ‘You said, I think, that you possess evidence that Magnus, rather than Eleanor Wraxford, was the guilty party, and yet you are constrained by a pledge of secrecy ... I could not help speculating as to whom that pledge might have been given.’

‘I cannot tell you that, sir.’

‘Quite so, Miss Langton. Only it did strike me that if you had managed
to trace Eleanor Wraxford, secrecy would be eminently justified, since she still faces a capital charge.’ His tone was courteous, even casual, but with an edge of mockery. Framed in the doorway, he seemed to tower above me.

‘You are quite mistaken, sir.’ I was afraid to ask him to let me pass, in case he would not.

‘I see.’ His gaze shifted from me to the cot in its cheerless alcove. ‘And what do you suppose became of the child?’

My heart lurched, and for a moment I was tongue-tied.

‘I cannot – sir, you must not press me. Now please—’

‘Miss Langton, hear me out. Your desire to prove Eleanor Wraxford innocent is altogether laudable, but supposing you are wrong? A woman capable of murdering her child is capable of anything.’

‘But she did not—’

‘You seem very certain of that. I put it to you, Miss Langton, that by withholding information, you are placing yourself in serious danger. If you are right, and Magnus Wraxford is still at large, he has a direct interest in silencing you. The same applies if Eleanor Wraxford committed these crimes. Ask yourself, Miss Langton, how the Whitechapel murderer has managed to evade detection with every man in London on the look-out for him – if not because the murderer is, in fact, a woman?’

‘You surely do not mean, sir,’ I said, shrinking away from him, ‘that Eleanor Wraxford—’

‘I do not say that, Miss Langton; only that a woman, once she has killed, can be as ruthless as any man – and far more adept at deceiving those around her. Which is why I urge you to confide in someone – myself, for example – expert in the appraisal of evidence in criminal cases. Anything you say to me I shall treat, of course, in the strictest confidence; indeed I would be happy to make the approach to Scotland Yard on your behalf; that way, your name need never appear in the matter. In the interests of justice, Miss Langton, and of your own safety, I beg you to trust me.’

His voice had softened, and his dark gaze, as he spoke, was fixed upon mine. Confiding in him seemed, for a moment, the only rational thing to do. But even wrapped in my travelling-cloak, I had begun to shiver again; and he was still between me and the door.

‘I thank you, sir, but you must excuse me now; I shall – consider what you have said.’

‘Of course, Miss Langton.’

He bowed, stepped back into the corridor, and allowed me to pass.