The Black Tower Read online

  All in all, Clive mused, this audience was a cosmopolitan crowd. He wondered if all of them had even understood the dialogue and the songs!

  "Miss Leighton," Folliot said, "I do hope you will not take it amiss if I ask you to accompany me backstage."

  She did not reply at once.

  "I don't think it will ruin your reputation," he added. "But of course, if you prefer not to mingle with players, we will leave the building at once."

  "No, Major. You did mention that one of the players was your friend. I should be happy to be introduced to him—if that is what you have in mind."

  "Indeed."

  The rooms behind the stage were a mad flurry of unfamiliar colors, odors, and sounds. Annabella Leighton felt as if she had fallen down the same rabbit hole that had claimed little Alice in Mr. Carroll's peculiar little book, and she would not have been surprised to encounter a mad hatter or a hookah- smoking caterpillar at any turn.

  Major Folliot's friend had played Mr. Box, the printer. For this, he rated a private dressing room, upon the door of which Folliot rapped briskly.

  A tenor voice called, "Come ahead, then," and Major Folliot pushed open the door, gesturing to Miss Leighton to precede him.

  "Clive!" the erstwhile printer cried. "Close it behind you! I'm almost ready." The actor's back was to the door, a dressing table and mirror offering him the opportunity to observe his callers. When he caught sight of Miss Leighton he spun about and leaped to his feet.

  "Don't tell me!" he exclaimed. "This is the breathtaking Miss Leighton, of whom Clive has spoken so often."

  Annabella extended her hand.

  "George du Maurier," the actor introduced himself. "I am honored, Miss Leighton. Clive never ceases to sing your praises, and now I see the reason for his devotion."

  "A splendid production, du Maurier," Folliot said. "I wish I could reconcile with Neville, as did the brothers in your amusement."

  "He'll turn up, Clive. Others have been out of communication far longer than Neville has, and emerged unharmed from some jungle or desert."

  Du Maurier gave a hint of a bow. "Let's find a more suitable venue for our conversation than this pesthole, shall we?"

  Annabella said, "I agree that there could be more agreeable surroundings in which to hold our chat."

  Du Maurier clapped a beaver hat on his curly hair, lifted a light coat from a peg near his mirror, reached past Folliot and Miss Leighton to open the door, and doused the gas. The room remained faintly illuminated, light penetrating through the open doorway from the cluttered backstage area.

  Outside they hailed a cab. Du Maurier peered up at the driver and gave the address of his club. To Folliot and Miss Leighton he said, "Artists and writers shall surround us. I trust you approve."

  The traffic was light at this late hour, and shortly the cab drew up before an entryway guarded by a uniformed footman.

  Once inside, du Maurier said, "We're very bohemian here, Miss Leighton. Ladies are permitted in the bar. There are those who frown upon us, but then, we are as we are." He shrugged.

  "Yes." Annabella smiled. "Artists and writers. What can one expect?"

  Du Maurier laughed and led them toward the main salon. A servant took Miss Leighton's outer wrap and the two men's headgear—du Maurier's tall beaver and Folliot's military cap. A waiter approached and du Maurier ordered brandy for all.

  They were seated in comfortable chairs before a huge fireplace, warming themselves happily.

  Turning toward Folliot, du Maurier said, "There is, then, no further word of your brother?"

  "None," Clive murmured. "Fourteen months now, and not a word."

  "It must be very hard for you to accept," Annabella said.

  "Yes," du Maurier agreed. "And to believe, as well."

  "I don't know what you mean, Mr. du Maurier. Hard to believe—what?" she frowned.

  "He's going to start in," Major Folliot warned her. "I should have warned you, Miss Leighton. George is a brilliant cartoonist—the best that Punch can boast—in addition to his talents as comic actor and musician. But he is given to some very strange ideas."

  "Strange, are they?" The conversation paused as the waiter arrived and served the brandies. Then du Maurier resumed. "You scoff, Folliot, you scoff. But 'there are more things in heaven and earth …"

  "I know, I know. I should like to believe, or at least to hope, but when there has been nothing for so long, I find it almost impossible."

  "But of course, my friend. You have struck to the heart of the matter. To hold that the possible is possible takes no wit or courage. It's a mere tautology at that!"

  He waved his hands as he warmed to his subject. Annabella Leighton watched the two men, du Maurier in casual mufti, Folliot in his scarlet tunic and brass accouterments. The dancing light of the fire set the artist in soft and subtle shades of earth tones, greens and browns and grays. At the same time the flames seemed to dance on the metal buttons and fittings of the major's bright uniform.

  "To assert that the impossible is possible," du Maurier continued, "that is what requires imagination. Imagination," he grinned, tapping a long finger against his temple, "imagination, yes, and intellectual courage. And strength."

  "I would not have thought, Mr. du Maurier, that you were given to mystical leanings," Annabella said.

  "Mystical leanings?" Du Maurier smiled at the phrase, considered for a moment. Then he asked, "But why not, Miss Leighton?"

  "We live in an age of science and of rationality, do we not?" The flames were warming her from the outside, the brandy from within. She smiled at the cartoonist.

  "All the more reason to consider those things which remain—thus far—beyond the veil of the known. We are learning of new wonders each year. Nature yields her secrets grudgingly, but yield them she does. Chemistry, electricity, geography—life itself! What great beasts once trod these islands, uncounted ages ago, of which we are only beginning to learn!"

  "But, du Maurier," Clive put in. "You speak of things that are produced in laboratories, or found beneath the surface of the earth. Wonders, yes—but wonders that can be perceived with the eye, weighed upon the scale of the investigator, placed in the museum for all to visit and behold."

  "And you think I am spinning fairy webs when I tell you that I believe in the wonts of Dr. Braid and his achievement of trances and new mental states. But I hold that the mind contains powers and abilities we have not yet begun to plumb. I believe that there is life we have never encountered. There may be inhabitants of the other planets and there may even be planets circling the fixed and distant stars, with whose people communication and commerce will someday be possible."

  Folliot was about to reply, but Annabella Leighton spoke first. "This is all very wonderful, Mr. du Maurier, as subject matter for philosophical speculation. But what has it to do with Major Folliot's missing brother? Surely you do not mean to suggest that someone had placed Neville in a trance, from which he may transmit mesmeric emanations to Clive. Or do you believe that he has been translated to the planet Mars, where he is at this moment learning the secrets of the people of that world?"

  "I do not know where Sir Neville is," du Maurier said.

  Clive rose from his chair and stood facing du Maurier, his back to the flames. "You make too much of the mystery," he asserted, "and too little, at the same time."

  "Ho!" du Maurier exploded. "Who is speaking in paradoxes now, Folliot?"

  "What I mean is this. My brother is lost, truly lost. With all your talk of hypnotism and mesmerism and trances and inhabitants of distant worlds, you merely cloud the issue. Neville went to Africa, not to Jupiter. We know that he explored much of the Ruwenzori Range, and that he then penetrated at least as far as Gondokoro."

  He placed his brandy snifter on the mantelpiece and clasped his hands behind his back. He paced the Persian carpet.

  "What happened to him after he left Gondokoro? That is what we need to determine. Not whether there are winged persons on Mars."

&nb
sp; "But you see," du Maurier responded, "if Dr. Braid's developments on the foundations of Mesmer's work have validity—"

  "If?" Folliot cut him off. "If? You who spout the whole line of supernatural foolishness from Paracelsus to Mesmer to Braid, say, If?"

  Du Maurier refused to rise to the bait, refused to be distracted from his chain of reasoning.

  "If," he repeated, "Anton Mesmer and James Braid are correct, and if we can continue their researches, it might be possible to establish a contact, a direct mental contact, from the mind of one brother to that of another."

  "Unfortunately for your notion," Folliot replied, "Dr. Braid has gone to his reward."

  "Just so," du Maurier conceded. "But others may carry on."

  Miss Leighton said, "I do not wish to cast a pall on your speculations." She looked from Major Clive Folliot to George du Maurier, than back to Folliot. "But you both assume that Sir Neville is still alive. How can you be certain of this?"

  Clive Folliot and George du Maurier exchanged glances.

  Folliot spoke. "I do not know that my brother is alive. In part, I need to find this out, for if he survives he remains in line to become the next Baron Tewkesbury, and to inherit the lands and buildings and moneys appertaining to the title. If my brother is dead—heaven forfend!—then the inheritance will pass to me upon the eventual death of our father." Du Maurier pushed himself from his chair and crossed to stand beside Clive Folliot. He put his arm around Clive's scarlet-covered shoulders. "If I had not known you for most of my life, and if I did not know you for the true innocent that you are, I should accuse you of dissembling. 'Heaven forfend,' indeed!" He dropped his arm again, sipped his brandy. "We'll need another round of these, will we not?" He signaled to a servant, then returned to his subject. "What did that arrogant bully of a twin ever do for you, that you should want to find him and bring him home? Other than thrash you in the boxing ring a hundred times? You're game, Clive, but that isn't enough, in this life!"

  The servant returned and refilled the brandy snifters of the three.

  "Go out there after him, and fail in your quest," du Maurier went on, "and you're more than likely to pay with your life. Succeed, and what have you achieved? You bring the bully back! Leave him, I say. If he returns of his own accord, well enough—or ill! If he never returns, then when the time comes you will inherit in his stead."

  "No," Clive Folliot said. "Neville has his faults, I'll concede."

  "Hah! And Napoleon had his ambitions!"

  "But he is still my brother," Folliot continued. "And I see my duty very clearly. I must find Neville. Save him if he lives, or at least learn his fate, if he is dead. I cannot leave the mystery unsolved. Even a cynic like you, du Maurier, will concede that I must learn his fate. Else the line will become clouded and I will never truly become Baron Tewkesbury."

  Du Maurier snorted. "A mystic in one breath, a cynic in the next—is that what I am?"

  "Yes. And the best cartoonist in London," Clive Folliot said. "And my good friend, devil take you." The two men clasped hands.

  "Come along, then, Folliot. Miss Leighton, if you please."

  The great clock standing between a portrait of the late Prince Albert and one of Her Majesty sounded the hour.

  "A cold supper will be served now," du Maurier said. "I trust you both have at least a modest appetite. Performing always makes me ravenous, and I am prepared to attack something larger than I am if I must, to fill my plate!"

  Laughing, they made their way through a cold buffet of poached salmon, langouste, asparagus, potted veal with truffles, and pudding. As he stood, china and cutlery in hand, Clive felt the hand of another descend heavily upon his shoulder. He turned to see a man of below average height, his clothing well cut but stained and carelessly worn, staring at him. The man's hair was wiry and gray; he wore a straggly beard marked with stains of ink.

  The newcomer spoke in a low voice, jerking his head toward a far corner of the salon.

  Clive excused himself from Annabella and du Maurier and followed the bearded man in the direction indicated.

  "I wouldn't expect to see you out tonight," the gray-haired man said to Clive.

  "What I do tonight is my business, Carstairs," Clive hissed. "Let me get back to my party."

  "Soon enough, fellow. Since we've crossed paths we might as well finish our little business for the moment."

  "I don't know what's to finish."

  "Your itinerary is set, your passage is booked, your gear has been packed and delivered to the Empress Philippa," Carstairs said in his low tones.

  "That's no more than was agreed to."

  "And you will furnish complete reports to us."

  "Of course."

  "And only to us. The London Illustrated Recorder and Dispatch is not financing your expedition out of sheer benevolence, Folliot. I hope you understand that. One word to a rival paper, and everything is off. No further funds, no sponsorship, no publication for you, nothing."

  "Don't think that you are furnishing all my funds, Carstairs. Father is providing cash as well."

  Carstairs snorted. "Good old Dad, eh, Clive? Loves his little boy so well he's sending you out to be a hero and rescue your big brother! Well, here's your farewell present from The Recorder and Dispatch." He drew a thick envelope from an inside pocket and passed it to Clive.

  Clive glanced over his shoulder. Annabella and du Maurier had filled their plates and were chatting while they waited for him to return. He opened a brass button on his tunic, slipped the envelope inside, and nodded curtly to Carstairs.

  When he returned to his companions du Maurier said, "I didn't know you were pals with Maurice Carstairs."

  "I wouldn't call him a pal," Clive said grimly. "Nonetheless." Du Maurier peered at Carstairs, who was slinking from the salon, pretending not to have seen the cartoonist. "Take care, Folliot. That Recorder gang has an unsavory reputation on the street. Newspapering's a competitive game, and there are a lot of smart players in it, but even so, that gang is about the slipperiest in the business."

  "I know what I'm doing, du Maurier! I thought you were hungry, anyway. Perhaps that's what's making you so testy tonight."

  "I—testy?" Du Maurier's eyes popped with surprise. "Well, never mind, never mind. I'll see what I can do for us."

  Du Maurier secured the use of a private dining room, and they seated themselves around a table covered with spotless linen and polished silver.

  A steward brought a tall bottle of Moet & Chandon, and glasses were filled with the sparkling champagne.

  The conversation returned to the burlesque Cox and Box and to George du Maurier's comic and musical performance. The spirits of the celebrants rose with those of the champagne and the world outside their little group was forgotten.

  From the outer salon the standing clock sounded again.

  Major Folliot said, "You'll excuse us, du Maurier. I know that Miss Leighton must rise early tomorrow to attend to her academic duties."

  Du Maurier stood. "Permit me to accompany you, then."

  "No, no. There is no need of that. If the commissionaire will fetch a cab for us, I shall see Miss Leighton to her door."

  Du Maurier accompanied them to the main entryway of the club. He stood with them while a cab was summoned. The night had turned colder, and the London fog had thickened into a mist that clung to every visible object, reflecting the few dim lights and giving the street a grim and ghostly atmosphere.

  CHAPTER 2

  Plantagenet Court

  Major Clive Folliot sat on the dark blue velvet plush stool, his scarlet tunic open, his elbows on his knees. His fingers were laced and his chin rested on his hands.

  He was watching Miss Annabella Leighton bathe.

  Her hair was piled upon the top of her head and held in place by pins so as to keep it out of the warm water. She smiled at Major Folliot as she soaped herself. His admiration was obvious, and his frank expression of it was equally gratifying to her.

  She rubbed a ca
ke of Pear's soap into lather, balanced a shimmering bubble on the palm of her hand, and playfully blew it toward Folliot.

  The bubble wafted the few feet from Annabella to Clive and broke against the side of his face. He looked startled.

  Annabella laughed. "What's the matter, Clive?"

  He shook his head. "Nothing, my dear. Nothing. I was merely—distracted."

  She raised herself in the tub, the better to scrub. Her breasts, pale as milk and soft as new snow, were exposed, their generous nipples in dramatic contrast with the color of the rest of her skin.

  "Would you help me to dry myself, Clive?" She climbed from the tub and stood on a small carpet while he wrapped a huge Turkish towel around her. She turned so her back was to him, his scarlet-covered arms around her. She took his hands and placed them on her bosoms. "I feel so wonderful after a bath, Clive. So freshened, before retiring."

  She turned within the circle of his arms, looking into his face. She gave him a small kiss on the edge of his jawbone. "Come to bed now, my darling. I really do have to rise early in the morning, and go to discharge my duties."

  "You shouldn't be teaching the daughters of the rich, Annabella." Clive's voice was angry. "You're as fine as any of them—finer! And yet they treat you as little better than a servant."

  "Hush. Come beside me." She had climbed into her large bed. She had a long nightgown with her, but she held the garment in her hands; she had not donned it.

  The room was illuminated by a single oil lamp, and a window gave onto the little street, Plantagenet Court, where Annabella had her room. The landlady had questioned her about her entertaining a gentleman in her quarters, but when the landlady learned that the gentleman in question was the younger son of Lord Folliot, Baron Tewkesbury, she soon ceased to ask questions.

  Clive continued to stare into the oil lamp's flickering flame.