Part 14 (2/2)
”You'll find out soon enough. And you'll have a story for your Mr. Foxe, as well, if you still want it.”
Her face blanched.
”What's wrong?” He put down his fork and took her hand once more. It trembled in his grasp.
”I might have considered going quietly back to New York to wait for you, once I knew you weren't Abraham Northcote,” she confessed in a voice so soft he had to strain to make out her words, ”but something else came to light in Horatio Foxe's pursuit of scandal.”
Taking a deep breath, she related her editor's latest discoveries about the two murdered women. Ben's consternation grew with each word she uttered. If Foxe combined these speculations with the Northcote name in print, the story had the potential to tear Ben's family apart.
”You're certain he isn't making this up? You did say he wasn't averse to inventing scandal, and it seems odd this information didn't come out when he first sent his queries to those two newspapers.”
”I imagine only a few people knew those women were journalists. My byline doesn't appear on 'Today's Tidbits,' and female reporters often use pseudonyms. You don't think Nellie Bly is her real name, do you? She borrowed it from the Stephen Foster song.”
”But surely their own newspapers -- ”
”Perhaps they didn't write for the papers Foxe queried, but for their rivals. In any case, I need your help if I'm to convince my editor to abandon this story.”
Ben did not reply. A flicker of memory came to him. Frowning, he murmured. ”I met Dolly Dare.”
At the startled sound she made, he smiled rea.s.suringly. ”No, I did not kill her. But you already know she came to one of my lectures, and that reporters were always trying to interview me.”
”Did you seduce her?”
His ill-advised attempt to frighten Diana in his hotel room in New York came back to him. ”Was she the woman near the start of the tour who seemed ... affected by my reading? No. That was someone else.”
Diana frowned at him, obviously wondering if he'd admit it to her if he had taken Dolly Dare to bed. ”How is it you remember her, then?”
”I remember the name. I clipped reviews out of newspapers in every city I visited and sent them home for my mother to paste in her sc.r.a.pbooks. For that matter, I recall the unsigned review from San Francisco, too.” He grimaced. ”Vicious criticism does tend to stick in one's mind. As I recall, that anonymous critic accused Damon Bathory of being responsible for the corruption of a whole generation of young people. Said they couldn't help but turn violent if they were brought up on a diet of Bathory's tales.”
”I am sure you were not the only one of whom these women did not approve. And it is still entirely possible that there is no connection but coincidence between the two murders, even if the victims were both journalists. As a motive, killing someone over a difference of opinion seems very weak.”
”Strong enough when it's your creation that's been torn apart in a public forum.”
Diana sighed. ”I do not believe I will go back to writing scathing reviews of plays or books. They cause too much harm.”
”It would not be sufficient motive for me,” he a.s.sured her.
”But your stories were savaged by the press. He can argue that -- ”
”No,” Ben said.
”You won't help me convince Foxe of your innocence?”
”You misunderstand me, Diana. Finished?” He gestured at her plate.
She looked surprised to see she'd eaten most of the meal. ”Apparently I am.”
The smile she provoked quickly vanished. What he meant to propose was deadly serious. He plunged ahead. ”I had already decided to tell you the truth, Diana, but there are reasons why the details must not be published just yet. There are people who need to be warned before any revelations are made.”
”I am not the one you must convince,” she said. ”It's Horatio Foxe who threatens you.”
”Do you trust me, Diana?”
”Yes.” The reply came without hesitation, gladdening his heart.
”Enough to collect your things from the hotel and come home with me?” The invitation was a risk, but not as great a one as leaving her to her own devices. ”I want you to meet Mother.”
She hesitated, then gave a tentative nod.
Diana had already realized that the Northcotes were well-to-do, but she was unprepared for her first glimpse of the estate. Wrought-iron gates decorated with fearsome-looking gargoyles were opened by an aged servant to reveal a steep, curving drive leading to a mansion with a Mansard roof and a square tower at the front, the latter topped by a widow's walk. Beyond the main house were several outbuildings, including a stable and a carriage house.
The old manservant closed the gate behind them ... and locked it.
”Do you see patients at home?” Diana asked. There was certainly room enough for an office with waiting and examining rooms in this huge house.
”No, but I do have a laboratory in the bas.e.m.e.nt where I compound medicines and ... well, it has several uses.” He seemed to withdraw a little as he brought the horse to a stop in the ivy-covered porte-cochere.
Laboratory? Diana did not like the sound of that. She a.s.sociated the word with a place where experiments were conducted. Suddenly all the thoughts she'd been trying to suppress surged to the fore. Despite his charm, Ben Northcote was still Damon Bathory, the man whose mind had conceived horrifying images and chilling scenarios. And he was also Dr. Northcote, a scientist with an intense interest in madmen and their treatment. As he handed her down from the buggy, Diana wondered if she had made a terrible mistake in coming here.
Inside the Northcote house, Diana barely had time to note the overall luxury of the decor before a st.u.r.dily-built woman of medium height swooped down on her. Her dress was an expanse of black velvet broken only by jet beads at the wrists and hem, and by a heavy gold brooch at her throat.
”Who is this, Ben? Who have you brought me?” She made it sound as if Diana might be the evening's entertainment.
”This is Diana Spaulding, Mother, the columnist I told you about. Diana, this is my mother, Maggie Northcote.”
Graying hair framed a surprisingly youthful face. Mrs. Northcote's eyes, alight with curiosity, were the same curious copper color as her other son's.
”Today's Tidbits?” Abruptly, the eyes narrowed.
”That's right.” Diana's wariness increased.
”You have a way with words, my dear,” Mrs. Northcote said.
Ben helped Diana remove her coat and shrugged out of his own, then escorted both women into the parlor. ”The time has come to tell Mrs. Spaulding the truth,” he said when he'd installed Diana on a loveseat.
With exaggerated nonchalance, Mrs. Northcote arranged herself on a rococo sofa. She took care that the light from the chandelier fell on her in the most flattering way possible. The elaborate scroll work on the back of the piece of furniture created the illusion that she sat upon a throne.
The woman's eyes, Diana realized, reminded her of a cat's.
Ben remained standing, one shoulder negligently resting against the window frame. ”With your permission, Mother?”
Mrs. Northcote gave a regal nod.
”I am not the Northcote who wrote those horror stories,” Ben said.
”Aaron?” she guessed.
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