The White Forest (10 page)

I glanced at the onyx statue of Anubis, studying his long jackal’s muzzle and the staff he held at an angle against his chest. I wondered if the god used his staff to herd the dead, like sheep.

“Would you mind answering that question, Mademoiselle?”

“I would never want to see Nathan harmed. I care for him as I care for my own father.”

Vidocq nodded. “And where were you on the evening in question—the evening of Nathan Ashe’s disappearance?” The question was difficult to answer. How could I tell him that I’d spent the evening praying for everything to end, praying for all of it to be taken away. I’d lost myself that night, torn to pieces, and the stars came shining through.

I willed myself not to show any hint of this to Vidocq. I’d known, after all, that the inspector was going to ask about Nathan’s final evening, and I’d prepared my answer carefully. “I spent a good part of the day in the company of Nathan and Madeline,” I said. “The three of us were in the garden at Stoke Morrow, talking as we often did. Then a conflict arose.”

“A conflict?” asked Vidocq.

“Maddy didn’t like the idea of Nathan going to the Temple that night, and they argued. She said it was dangerous, but he wouldn’t listen to reason. After we parted, I went for a long walk on Hampstead Heath to ease my nerves.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t Madeline Lee accompany you?”

“She was—distraught.”

“So no one can account for your whereabouts that evening?”

I studied the flowers at my wrist. “Our maid at Stoke Morrow,” I said. “When I returned from my walk it was late, and I was exhausted. She served me a soothing tea in our Clock Parlor. I fell asleep on the sofa, and she came to wake me near eleven o’clock.”

“Very good,” Vidocq said, making a note on the sheaf of paper in front of him. “Lady Ashe tells me that Nathan came home and ate a light supper before taking his regular carriage to Southwark. This must have been after he left you and Madeline Lee in the garden.”

I paused. “I suppose that’s correct.”

“You did not see Nathan Ashe again after he left you?”

“I did not,” I said.

“And before his disappearance, was Mr. Ashe courting you, Miss Silverlake?”

I hesitated, surprised at how the inspector drove ahead. “No.”

“Then he was courting Miss Lee—daughter of the, how should I say, less than tasteful daguerreotypist?”

“We are friends,” I said, “all of us together.”

Vidocq cleared his throat, resting his cigarette in the bronze ash tray. “In France, it is not the custom for people of your age and of opposite sex to carry on as
friends
.”

“Yes, well, it was irregular. We are irregular.”

“What form does this irregularity take?” Vidocq asked.

I remembered to breathe, focusing on the feverfew to silence the tremor of objects in the parlor. “We spend time together and talk to one another about a great variety of things that men and women should not talk about according to convention. We are utterly open.”

Vidocq nodded. Over the course of our conversation, a certain haziness had developed in his eyes, making me wonder if there was something other than tobacco in his cigarette. His sleepy look revealed his age and that he was perhaps no match for this case. “
Open
is an interesting word,” he said. “Do you know, Miss Silverlake, that Nathan Ashe referred to you as ‘the Doorway’?”

For a moment, I couldn’t believe he’d spoken that name. Of course I knew Nathan called me the Doorway. He and I had many talks about my talent and what he believed the result of the talent might be if pushed, but how was it possible that Inspector Vidocq knew this as well? “He had pet names for all of us,” I said, “as part of his playful nature.”

“Calling someone a doorway is a curious endearment,” Vidocq observed. “Any idea where he thought you might lead?”

“No,” I said, lying and hearing Nathan’s voice in my head
: the Empyrean, Jane. That’s what the old mystics called it.
“Inspector, could you tell me where you heard about the name Nathan called me?” I asked.

He glanced up with faint interest. “Your friend and confidante Madeline Lee. Is there a problem?”

“It only made my heart heavy to hear Nathan’s words,” I said, trying not to show my shock at hearing of Maddy’s revelation.

“Yes, well, you were both a great deal closer to the boy than any of his family, I gather,” Vidocq said. “Especially after the war. His mother tells me he would go weeks without speaking to her. She only saw him from a distance. But he continued to speak to you and Miss Lee in confidence. Could you tell me about Mr. Ashe’s comportment since his return from the Crimea?”

“He was
changed
by his experience in the war,” I said, “as one would expect. Men are changed by war, are they not?”

Vidocq raised his brow but did not answer. Cigarette smoke churned in the air above his head. The room’s shadows painted his sunken cheeks. “I was in a battle, Miss Silverlake—the First Coalition. A skirmish between France and Austria. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

“I have not.”

“No matter. I was a deserter and nearly arrested for it. One of my many crimes. I was nothing but a child then. Everyone around me was a child. I thought—why not leave this field of bloodied children? Why not walk away?”

I had no idea how to reply. Vidocq’s haziness was causing him to reveal too much.

“Can you tell me anything about this
theater
in Southwark, Miss Silverlake?” he continued. “The Theater of Provocation beneath the Temple of the Lamb.”

“Nathan did not share details of that place with me,” I answered truthfully. “You’ll have to ask Pascal Paget. He was involved with the Temple for a time.”

“Monsieur Paget is reticent,” he said. “It seems he’s been cowed by the theater’s proprietor.”

“Ariston Day.”

“Quite.”

“Have you gathered any information on Mr. Day?” I asked.

Vidocq put out his cigarette, dropping the butt into the small pile of ash in the tray. “This and that,” he said. “Nothing a young woman
need bother herself with.” He surveyed me. “Day is a dangerous man, Miss Silverlake. He has brought a great deal of harm to his followers in the past. I trust you’ll steer clear of him.”

“Of course,” I said, thinking again of the letter I’d received that morning. “You might want to visit the Temple yourself. It’s across Blackfriars Bridge in Southwark.”

“I know where it is,” Vidocq mumbled as he made more notes.

“We never imagined this would happen, Inspector,” I said. “Of all the things we thought the future might—”

But I was cut off. A French agent in a charcoal suit and neckerchief appeared at the door and requested to speak to Vidocq immediately. The inspector stood, without excusing himself, and strode from the room, lighting another black cigarette on the way and leaving me alone. Perhaps it was his age or his altered state that caused him to leave his papers in such disarray on the desk. I leaned over, took the sheaf where he’d been making notes and read:

—Jane Silverlake, friend to Nathan Ashe and Madeline Lee

—Known to Nathan as the Doorway

—Inconsequential, perhaps—not as pretty or exotic-looking as the Lee girl

—Appears calm, serene. Something beneath surface. Guilt? Anger?

—No: it’s superiority. Isn’t even looking at me. She’s somewhere else, far away.

—Unlike anyone I’ve ever met. Certainly not as plain as she first appeared.

—Jane is hiding something

—Continually strokes the odd flowers at her wrist

—Difficult to look in her eyes . . . her quiet voice seems treacherous somehow.

My face burned as I read this. How dare he write such things? I hadn’t acted in a superior manner. I’d answered all his questions in turn. Treacherous, indeed. Emboldened by my anger, I looked toward the door to ensure that neither the inspector nor any of his
henchmen had reappeared, and then I sifted through the pile of papers on the desk until I found a sheaf marked “Ariston Day.” I slipped the papers into my dress pocket, took a final look at the statue of Anubis, and made my way out of the room without bothering to wait for Vidocq to dismiss me. It did not occur to me until much later that I’d perhaps behaved exactly as the inspector intended.

I
n my haste to leave Ashe High House, I forgot to look for another of Nathan’s possessions. This missed opportunity troubled me, but even more troubling was the fact that Maddy had revealed my secret name to the inspector. To know that Vidocq was so close to understanding my true relationship with Nathan made me uneasy to say the least. I wondered what motive Maddy had for revealing such information. Was it possible my dearest friend did not trust me as much as she claimed?

For a moment, I wished I’d never shared my ability with either Maddy or Nathan. He had been nineteen and she and I, both a year younger. I’d been old enough to understand what damage my revelation could do, but at the time, I didn’t care. The decision was fueled by my own vanity. I wanted them to think I was fascinating, especially Nathan, and I knew my talent would fix his gaze.

During my outing—as it were—the three of us held hands around a bottle of Tyndall’s popular brand ink while standing in Heath’s southern woods, not far from the outcropping of shale where my mother had succumbed. Oak leaves shone red and orange above us like fire, and the tree trunks looked like ancient pillars. The Heath was a temple that evening, and I was to be its priestess.

I’d chosen the ink bottle to demonstrate the transference because,
as an object, it was banal. I could have produced an extravagance from Father’s collection of curiosities—a Peruvian god-mask or a mechanical bird designed by the medieval engineer Tommaso Francini. But there was no need. What I would show them would be extravagant enough.

I squeezed the cool slimness of Maddy’s hand, and thrilled at the sheer weight of Nathan’s. I’d never touched him for such duration before, and now that I had my chance, I cherished it. We huddled in our small circle beneath the autumn sky, braced against the chill, all staring down at the ink bottle nestled in the leaves. When nothing happened, Maddy, who was wearing one of her more dramatic dresses, an emerald corseted gown with a dark silk flower in her hair, said she was tired and would like to go home. “I don’t know what you mean to show us, Jane,” she said. “But I’m not really in the mood for a magic show.”

Nathan hushed her. He was already interested in spiritism from reading articles by William Crookes, head of the queen’s Society for Pyschical Research, and from his mother’s own participation in séances. My allusion to what I believed would happen with the ink bottle pricked his interest further—another factor that contributed to Madeline’s state of perturbation.

I was experiencing some sort of anxiety over my performance and felt as though I was pushing my consciousness against a batten of wet cotton, trying to form some connection between the three of us. Maddy made a kind of hiccupping sound, and then without warning, the transference occurred. All the fine hair on my arms stood on end and my teeth ached. I think even the leaves around us might have rustled.

The three of us listened as the glass bottle of ink began to make a high and wavering echo that was wordless, but later we all agreed that listening to it allowed us each to feel something of what it was to be the glass. There was a deeper sensation too—a greenish color that made me think of old plant matter, great and sopping ferns blotting out the sun. We were digging deeply into the bottle’s ghosts, glimpsing its most private layers. Nathan looked from the bottle to
my own face in shock, and Madeline began to giggle, as if someone had brushed a feather against the nape of her neck.

We broke hands, and for them, at least, the ink bottle grew silent.

“What in God’s name, Jane?” Nathan asked, but I had no time to answer. Maddy was sinking toward the ground, still giggling, reaching her hand to a bed of leaves for support.

“Is the bottle haunted?” she asked. Maddy too was well apprised of séances. Nathan’s mother had shared with us her investment in them, and Maddy’s own mother, the venerable Eusapia Lee, became quite obsessed with summoning after the death of first her husband and then her son, Melchior.

“It’s certainly not haunted,” I said, picking the ink bottle out of the leaves and slipping it into the bag I’d brought. “I didn’t think you believed in that kind of foolishness, Maddy.”

“I don’t,” she said. “Of course, I don’t. But, oh, it had a voice and it has been to strange places.”

“It’s not just the bottle. All objects emit sensation,” I said. “It could have been anything: a pair of shears, a pocket watch, a mirror glass. Plants are soothing. That’s why I wear flowers so often.” I pointed at the feverfew tied at my wrist. “Flowers help me silence the objects.”

Maddy’s eyes became remarkably still, and I hated to see that I’d inspired fear in them. “Are you some kind of witch, Jane? I’ve been friends with a sorceress all this time?”