Prospero in Hell (22 page)

“Theo! Please do not bother Ariel with your conjectures!” I could see where this was leading. Next, Theo would ask whether Ariel could remember a point before which I was a little hellion and after which I suddenly became docile. Then, he would spout accusations about Father and enchantment again. “There is absolutely no evidence that Father has me under a spell!”

Theo leaned toward me and spoke in a low voice, “Is that so? What about back in 1666, when you would not step outside the house for eight months because Father told you to mind the house until he returned?”

I frowned, recalling the year in question, the year Cornelius gave up looking for a cure for his blindness, the year Father gave us our staffs. Minding the house while Father was away had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. I had to admit, though, stated the way Theo put it, it did sound odd.

Ariel answered, “I am a creature of the air. I flit. I fly. I race the very lightning bolt. Of the behavior of men, I know naught. Upon what basis could I judge whether the mistress behaved as other human children do or nay?”

Theo grunted, and I bit into a Danish to hide my smile. Good old Ariel. I turned back to Mab, my sense of uneasiness growing.

“Is there naught else?” asked Ariel. When Theo shook his head, Ariel said, “Mistress, before I depart, there is that which has been promised me but not delivered. Rumor’s tongue brings more talk of Prospero’s death. Will not you relent your harsh stance and set us free to wind our way about the myriad of worlds, eldest child of your father?”

Before I could answer, Theo rounded angrily upon the spot from which Ariel’s voice issued. “Spirit, you overstep yourself! I will not hear such evil spoken of my father!”

“Master Theophrastus, I knew you not at first glance, because you had taken upon yourself a countenance like unto your father’s—that of an aged mortal. Surely, this means that Dread Prospero uses his no longer? If he has perished—” Ariel began.

Theo cut him off. “There will be no talk of ill to Prospero in this house.”

There was a pause. Then Ariel’s fluting voice replied, “As you wish, Young Master.”

“Hmph!” Theo muttered as he sat down. “You should keep a tighter rein on those spirits, Miranda. One would almost think Ariel believes he might sway you with his protestations.”

“No, of course not, why would he think that?” Mab replied sourly, glowering at my brother. “A reasonable argument has never swayed Miss Miranda before.”

“You, too, Spiritling!” Theo spoke as he might have in years past to some infantryman under his command who dared to give orders to his fellow soldiers. “My sister grants you too many liberties. You forget your place.”

“That is enough!” I snapped. Both men looked toward me, startled. Mab was still glowering, but Theo’s face showed only surprise. “Mab is an employee of Prospero, Inc., Theo. He has the same rights and perquisites as all other employees, mortal or otherwise, including the right to his own opinion. What would be the use of a company gumshoe who wasn’t allowed to speak candidly?”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Mab said, mollified. “I was about to tell you to figure this matter out for yourself, but as you have come to my defense, I will proceed. As for you, Mr. Theophrastus. I think you’re a fine fellow for the most part, but it’s a shame you’re such a bigot. So, sit down and buckle your seat belts, because you aren’t going to like the ride.”

Mab took a deep breath. “Here goes… . You may remember, Ma’am, while I was checking out what happened to your father, I got into a conversation with the local sheriff who promised to send me a copy of some microfiche reports from the time of Mr. Gregor’s death. Well, I stopped at the post office on my way back from the airport and found this in the mailbox. Miss Miranda… I’m afraid your brother Gregor was murdered.”

“Gregor? Murdered?” I cried, surprised. Theo and I exchanged glances. This was news to him, too. “But… I thought he was struck down by a stray bullet, during a shoot-out with whiskey runners.”

“I don’t know where you got that idea, Ma’am, but nothing like that happened. He was murdered… and it gets worse.”

Theo and I stared at him.

“What could be worse than murder?” asked Theo.

Mab looked pained. “Look, why don’t I read this to you?”

“Please,” I said weakly. I had been enjoying the sweet creamy filling of
my cheese Danish. As Mab began to read, I discovered I was no longer hungry, and put the rest aside.

Mab read:

Regarding the murder of the watch factory worker Gregory Prosper: ‘On the first of November, Nineteen Hundred and Twenty Four, the watch factory worker, Gregory Prosper, was shot point blank in the chest by a stranger.

Gregory Prosper, a Pennsylvania man, had been living in our town of Elgin for about three years. He was a rough-spoken but well-mannered man, never known to be involved in brawling or bootlegging. He was law abiding, attended church on Sunday, and served on the yearly Fourth of July committee.

On the day of his death, Mr. Prosper was walking with Mr. Smythe and Mr. Wickerson near the well by the post office when a stranger approached the group. According to eyewitnesses, Mr. Prosper waved, greeting the stranger in a familiar manner. The stranger reportedly said, “Sorry about this, old chap. Must tie up a few loose ends.” Next, he pulled out a revolver and shot Mr. Prosper twice at point-blank range, once in the chest and once in the head.

“Darnation!” whispered Theo.

“If only we had known!” I cried. “Avenging Gregor was just the cause we needed to draw us back together back then. Even Ulysses would have fought off his wanderlust long enough to avenge his favorite brother.”

Mab continued reading.

Before Mr. Smythe or Mr. Wickerson could react, the stranger leaned forward and took from Mr. Prosper’s fallen body the gold and black knife with the ruby pommel, which Mr. Prosper was known to carry. Misters Smythe and Wickerson gave chase, but the stranger escaped before he could be apprehended.

“That’s the same knife Mephisto had on the boat!” I interrupted. “The one he found at Logistilla’s place.”

“I remember that knife,” said Theo. “Titus made the blade and Mephisto made the hilt. How could Logistilla have a knife that Gregor’s murderer stole?”

“Ma’am, Mr. Theophrastus… there’s more,” Mab said gravely.

“Go on, Mab,” I replied softly.

Mab read, “ ‘Misters Smythe and Wickerson described the stranger as a wealthy gentleman, well dressed and distinctive in appearance.’ ”

A cold shiver traveled down my spine. My head felt oddly light. Mab’s words seemed to be coming from far away.

“ ‘According to Misters Smythe and Wickerson, the stranger had a mustache. In addition to his revolver, he carried a tall walking stick, almost as high as his head, with a single star-sapphire set into the top of it. Except for his spats, which were of purest white, the fellow was dressed entirely in gray… and, strangest of all, he wore a domino mask which covered his eyes.’ ”

A low moan issued from Theo’s throat. “No! It can’t be.”

“Sorry, Sir, but I never forget a perpetrator. And I recognize this perp, Ma’am. Mr. Ulysses shot Mr. Gregor.”

Later that day, we crunched our way across the snow-covered sidewalks of Boston, bemused by the locals, who apparently crossed the busy streets any time they wished, without concern for traffic laws. Beside me, Mab snapped his cell phone closed and stuffed it into his trench-coat pocket.

“That was the guy from the graveyard,” he informed Theo and me. “They found your brother Gregor’s coffin, Ma’am.”

“That’s a relief!”

“Not really.” Mab paused, then blurted out, “It was empty.”

“Empty!” Theo’s face had taken on an unnatural pallor. I began fearing for his health. “Where is Gregor’s body?”

“We don’t know,” Mab replied. “His body may have fallen into the gate your father opened.”

“Could Father’s spell have worked? Could Gregor be alive? Either on Earth, or in Hell?” Theo insisted.

Mab and I looked at each other.

“I suppose he could,” Mab replied. “I never thought to follow up that other fellow who came out of the grave. I assumed it was your sister’s old boyfriend, that Ferdinand guy.”

“Could you go follow it up now, Mab?” I asked. Theo’s pallor worried me. He was still Catholic enough to find the disappearance of his brother’s body tremendously alarming. I hoped the notion that someone was pursuing the subject would help soothe him. “It could be important.”

“Sure,” Mab stuck his hands in his trench-coat pockets. “You’re probably better off without me underfoot during your family reunion anyway. I’ll head down to the library, get the laptop out, and make some inquiries. If necessary, I’ll fly to Illinois.”

“Thank you, Mab,” said Theo. “You are a decent fellow.”

“You’re welcome,” Mab tipped his hat to Theo. “Always nice to be appreciated.”

My brother Erasmus lived in a large Victorian mansion with bright curly trim like a gingerbread house. When we knocked on the front door, a smartly dressed parlor maid let us in and took our coats. She led us to a drawing room, where we were instructed to wait while she informed Professor Prospero that guests had arrived. Before she could do so, however, Theo asked to use the facilities. While she was showing him the way, I slipped out the far side and headed up the stairs in search of my brother.

I found him in the library, leaning languidly against a table, reciting poetry to a gathering of pretty young women, presumably students. He wore a dark green turtleneck and black slacks, and looked much as I remembered him: handsome and clever, with dark hair falling over mocking green eyes and a narrow chin. In his hand, he held an old leather-bound volume, from which he was reading a work by Marvell. The young women stared at him with rapt attention, absorbing his every word.

One of the students noticed me, and Erasmus raised his head and glanced toward the door, smiling charmingly—a smile that died stillborn the moment he recognized me.

“That’s all for today, ladies.” He shut the leather volume with a snap. “Family business intrudes.”

The young women rose and departed reluctantly amidst a wave of mingling perfumes. Some smiled at me as they left. Others were hostile, perhaps fearing I might be some rival for my brother’s affections, which made me speculate, unpleasantly, as to the nature of his relationship with his female students.

Stepping into the library, I pushed aside a sliding ladder and allowed the young women to pass. The room was long and narrow with wall-to-wall books, save for where the windows looked out on broad snowy lawns leading to the frozen Charles River. The air was warm and smelled of books and leather and spiced chai. Several young women had left mugs resting on or near their seats.

“Miranda!” My brother rose. “You’ve crawled out of your moldering heap. What an unpleasant surprise.”

In the rush to come here, I had forgotten how disagreeable Erasmus was. Until he had opened his mouth, I had actually been glad to see him. Now, however, all the old grievances came rushing back. A blinding rage swept
over me. Clenching my fists, I turned my back on my brother and examined his library, as I struggled to regain my composure.

Portraits painted by Erasmus were placed here and there about the library. I recognized Queen Elizabeth, Sir Walter Raleigh, King Charles II, and the portrait commemorating the first time Father sat for Parliament. In fact, all of the art was Erasmus’s, except for a tapestry, which hung between two of the windows, that I recognized as Logistilla’s work. It showed a green-clad angel with five sets of seagull wings and five halos of storm and spray. Ignoring Erasmus and his smirk, I crossed the room and reached toward the tapestry, my fingers not quite brushing the cloth.

“Muriel Sophia,” I breathed, recalling the day she had come to me, so long ago.

Erasmus started. “Don’t speak that name aloud! Where did you hear it? Only the Inner Circle are cleared to know it. Who betrayed us to you?”

“She told me,” I replied simply, gazing up at the angel. By “Inner Circle” and “us,” I assumed he meant the
Orbis Suleimani.