Part 16 (1/2)
Diana expected a chuckle at this point, if not an outright laugh, but she got no response at all from her audience. Determined to inject a little more verve into her storytelling, although she was already gesturing with both hands while she spoke, she cleared her throat and continued.
”Grace Church is opposite the St. Denis.” She glanced at Ben, remembering that she'd followed him to services there. ”It boasts an iron fence. When the camel left the express wagon, it bolted across the street. A woman pa.s.sing by on the sidewalk saw it coming, screamed, and tried to run, but one foot slipped on an icy cake and down she fell, plump in the camel's path. It was a critical moment, but just as those watching braced themselves to witness a terrible collision, the camel sprang over her prostrate form like a hurdle racer and fetched up against the iron fence of the church. He struck it with such violence that the concussion knocked him flat.”
Mrs. Northcote made a tsking noise.
Ben chuckled. ”A knock-down blow.”
”But not sufficient to lay Mr. Camel low for long. Even as the woman scrambled to her feet and fled, the, er, hunchback terror started off for another stretch down Broadway.”
She thought that a rather good turn of phrase, but neither of her listeners seemed impressed.
”The camel seemed to sense that his stable was somewhere in that direction and he was bent on getting there at a pneumatic clip, but as he approached the Sinclair House, another hotel, a private carriage containing a gentleman, his wife, and their baby, wheeled into view going up Broadway. The driver's eyes went wide and his horses had an attack of St. Vitus dance as they realized that the camel was making a bee-line for the carriage. His bowed head was in close proximity to one of the gla.s.s doors when, at the last possible minute, two men sprang to the rescue. They seized the camel by the nostrils, one on each side, kicked him in the forelegs, and threw the beast, holding him firmly until help arrived.”
”The approved technique for subduing a camel,” Ben told his mother, sotto voce.
”In a little while,” Diana finished, ”the keeper appeared on the scene and that was the end of Mr. Camel's adventure.”
”How did those two men know what to do?” Mrs. Northcote asked.
Ben grinned. Since he'd heard the story before, he answered before Diana could. ”They told reporters on the scene that they'd both had previous experience wrangling camels.”
”Coincidence,” Mrs. Northcote scoffed. ”It never works well in fiction.”
”But this is all true,” Diana protested.
”Do you think people will believe preposterous things just because they really happened?” Mrs. Northcote asked. ”On the other hand, with a little work, this might make a good story.”
”I thought it was a good story.” Diana felt more confused than ever.
”I mean if it were written down. As fiction. Not just as you told it, of course. It wants tinkering. You must turn the basic chase into something more. Explain away the two men who just happened to know what to do. Perhaps the entire incident was a sinister plot to ruin the Kirafly Brothers. Arranged by a theatrical rival.”
”More likely a publicity stunt,” Diana muttered, disconcerted by Mrs. Northcote's comments. In New York, Ben had told her the tale was humorous, and suggested that she might write that sort of thing instead of gossip columns.
”That could work,” Mrs. Northcote said in a thoughtful voice. ”Keep asking yourself 'what if?' until you've found exactly the right combination of details. Then slap a snappy t.i.tle on the whole and you've got yourself a nice little package to sell to a magazine.”
”Is that how you do it?” Diana -- her pique forgotten -- asked because she was genuinely curious to know.
”Most of the time.” Mrs. Northcote waited, plainly expecting more questions.
Diana did not want to disappoint her. ”Why did you choose a male pseudonym?”
Damon Bathory's alter ego blinked solemnly at her. ”Because some people have an irrational prejudice against women in any occupation men dominate. Aside from Mary Sh.e.l.ley, I know of no other woman who has ever written stories like mine. Oh, a few females pen novels containing dark secrets, mysterious villains, ghosts and ghouls and things that go b.u.mp in the night, with virginal heroines, of course, but those tales do not come close to exposing the evil underbelly of human depravity, or the torments of the misaligned mind.”
”Do you risk censure, then, by revealing all at this juncture?” Diana could well believe it. She'd not considered that aspect of the situation before and the thought sobered her.
”I always wanted to be honest with my readers.” Mrs. Northcote's expression was deadly serious. ”My editor dissuaded me. First he insisted no one would believe that a respectable matron could write so convincingly about murder and mayhem. Then he said they'd be horrified if they did believe it.”
Diana thought of Horatio Foxe and was forced to agree. Men could be very small-minded.
”A company in Boston publishes my books,” Mrs. Northcote continued. ”They were the ones who insisted I pretend to be a man. Six months ago, they suggested that I find someone to impersonate me and embark on a lecture tour. I persuaded Ben to do it. Knowing he had his own reasons for wanting to visit several of the cities on the proposed route, I seized upon what seemed an admirable compromise.”
He'd wanted to visit insane asylums. Remembering that, Diana sent a questioning glance his way. His expression enigmatic, he ignored it.
”Since his return, he has persuaded me that subterfuge is unnecessary, that my sales figures are high enough to overcome any qualms on the part of my publisher. Since he will not stand in for me again, I am inclined to do as he wishes. I do not know what the result will be.” She heaved a theatrical sigh. ”They may decline to accept any more stories from me. My writing will come to an ignominious end.”
”Not likely,” Ben muttered. ”The publicity will undoubtedly cause sales to soar. Your publisher will profit and so will you.”
Diana had more questions, but Ben deftly deflected them. The rest of the evening pa.s.sed without further discussion of his mother's unorthodox career or the news story Diana was to write about it.
Not until she was in her room once more, trying to ignore the storm raging outside her windows as she prepared to go to bed, did Diana realize how easily Ben had distracted her. All he'd had to do was smile.
She resolved to be more sensible in the future. She'd focus on getting answers to her questions. And she would not let her imagination run away with her. If the wind had not howled just then, producing an involuntary s.h.i.+ver, she might have had more faith in her ability to keep that second vow.
Hurriedly, without help, she undressed and put on her nightgown. In the morning, she'd insist on interviewing Mrs. Northcote. Then she'd write her article. After that....
At this point, Diana's optimism failed her once more. She still felt Ben was keeping something from her. Worse, he had given her no real indication of what he had planned for them. Did they have a future together?
You are not some impressionable young virgin, she lectured herself. She'd married Evan without enough forethought. She hoped she had sense enough not to repeat that particular mistake.
Not that Ben had asked her to marry him.
All he'd said was that he had intended to keep his promise to return to New York. He'd intended to tell her the truth about Damon Bathory.
She climbed into the huge bed, snuffed the candle, and tried not to think about the bugs carved into the headboard. She'd be fit for one of Ben's madhouses if she didn't get a good night's sleep.
Resolutely, she closed her eyes. Everything, she told herself firmly, would sort itself out in the morning.
Chapter Thirteen.
”He's already left for the day,” Ben's mother told Diana when she came downstairs the next morning. The older woman was dressed in a frothy concoction of laces and bows that Diana took to be some sort of night wear. It was eccentric, but in a charming way.
”He has a separate house in town for his office,” she continued as Diana helped herself to a selection of foodstuffs from a well-stocked sideboard in the breakfast room. ”When he bought out another doctor's practice, he took over both the patients and the building.”
”I understand he has a laboratory here.”
”Oh, yes. In the cellar. Would you like to see it? I'm fairly certain there are no cadavers there, though.”
Diana choked on a bite of toast. ”Cadavers?”
”Oh, yes. Ben did a lovely dissection just before he left on tour.”
Forcing herself to chew and swallow, Diana digested this information. ”Is Ben, by chance, the local coroner?”
”How clever you are.” Mrs. Northcote calmly b.u.t.tered a roll. ”A hunter found the body in the woods near here. Ben did an autopsy in the hope of discovering what killed him. And when. There wasn't much to work with by then.”
Apparently relis.h.i.+ng every word, Mrs. Northcote provided far more detail than Diana ever wanted to hear again. When she could stand no more, she abruptly stood. ”I believe I will go into town.”