"You can dismiss Miss Ransom from consideration," Carlton declared. "I will swear she could not have freed herself."
"Are you sure? You did your best, but you have not studied, as I have, the tricks these charlatans employ. I made it a point to investigate them when the Duchess became so infatuated with – with spiritualism. Not that it was any use, exposing the tricks to her; she merely replied that because a thing could be done in a certain way did not prove it was done in that way. This, despite the fact that phenomena such as we saw tonight can be duplicated by any clever conjurer."
Carlton shook his head. "I don't believe Miss Ransom could have managed it." But he sounded less certain.
"I am not accusing her. I am merely pointing out a possibility. There are others. Young Henry, for instance, is quite bright enough and mischievous enough to perpetrate such antics. I am not convinced that Holmes did not install mechanisms of various kinds in that room. Even without such aids Henry could have crept in, by means of one of the secret passages he boasts of knowing so well – or hidden himself in the room beforehand – and done everything that was done under cover of darkness. His seizures are brought on by excitement; it would not be surprising if one followed a performance such as that."
"Hmm." Carlton nodded. "That is a possibility that did not occur to me. Though I believe the seizures began when that idiot tutor, trying to recapture him, laid violent hands on the boy. And what of M. Victor himself? He's a wretched creature, capable of playing tricks for the fun of it."
"He is," Marianne declared.
"I won't ask how you know that… Well, Doctor, you are a clever fellow, you have given me much to think about."
"I am not done," the doctor declared. "I cannot wholly discount the operation of some unknown force – not the sentimental twaddle about spirits, but a form of animal magnetism that can move objects at a distance. Certain cases of haunted houses suggest that possibility; the agent is usually a young person, who is quite unaware of his, or her, abilities. Well." He put his cup down and rose to his feet. "I must have a few hours' sleep before returning to my patient. Good night."
Carlton also said good night. Marianne went to her bed, but she did not fall asleep immediately.
She knew why the doctor had not voiced one of the theories that must have been in his mind. She, too, was reluctant to admit it; yet to an objective observer, the Duchess had to be considered a suspect. It was absurd, of course, to suppose that she would deliberately play tricks on herself, but the doctor's theory of hysteria, if Marianne understood it correctly, could explain a great deal. "We believe what we want to believe," Carlton had said. He might have added, "Some of us will go to any length to prove that what we believe is true."
There was one other suspect. Perhaps the doctor had reasons for dismissing her from consideration, or perhaps he had simply forgotten about her, for she was a shadowy figure at best. Marianne had never set eyes on her, unless the retreating figure she had seen the first night had indeed been the Duke's mother.
I will make an effort to meet her tomorrow, Marianne thought drowsily – if she exists at all, and is not another of the Duchess's fantasies.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The following day brought answers to some of the questions that had troubled Marianne, but they were not the answers she had hoped to hear.
She slept late, and upon arising went to see how the Duchess was. Her soft knock was answered at once, and when she entered she saw the patient propped up on lace-trimmed pillows and looking quite herself. She greeted Marianne with a smile.
"My dear girl, what a night you must have had!"
"Nothing compared with yours. I am so glad to see you looking better. But perhaps you should not talk, or have visitors," Marianne added; for as she came closer, the Duchess's high color and sparkling eyes did not look so much like signs of recovered health as of unhealthy excitement. "I won't stay. I only came to ask how you were."
"I feel splendid. Horace is an old fussbudget. It is you I am concerned about. I will ask him to have a look at you."
"I assure you, my health has never been better. Is there anything I can do for you? Write letters, or read, perhaps?"
"You are a sweet child," the Duchess replied, with an affectionate smile. "Later, perhaps, if you would care to join me for tea, I might ask you to write a letter or two. Now I want you to get out into the fresh air. I am sure Roger is waiting impatiently to go riding with you."
"I imagine he is still sleeping."
"No, no; he was here only a few minutes ago. Have you had breakfast? You must eat; it is essential to your health."
"You are not to fuss," Marianne said, patting the thin hand that moved restlessly on the counterpane, as if seeking to take up the reins of authority once again. "I will leave you to rest now, and return later. I hope you will sleep."
She had no particular desire for food, or for Carlton's company, but she sensed that her presence was keeping the Duchess from the rest she needed.
Carlton was in the entrance hall, turning over a heap of papers and letters.
"The post has come," he said, glancing up. "And here is a letter for you."
"For me?"
"Why do you sound surprised? We are not cut off from civilization. This was forwarded from London."
Even before he handed it to her, Marianne suspected whom the letter was from. There could be only one correspondent. The sight of the handwriting confirmed her assumption.
Carlton, frowning over a letter he had just opened, did not appear to be paying attention, but when she thrust her mail, unread, into her bag, he inquired, "Don't you want to read it? Pray don't let my presence deter you."
"It can wait," Marianne replied. Mrs. Jay could not yet have received her letter, so this epistle, written when she was probably still in doubt as to her young friend's whereabouts, could hardly contain anything she wanted to hear. It was probably full of admonitions and advice.
"The Duchess has ordered me to take you riding," Carlton said, still glancing through his mail.
"You need not consider it an obligation."
"Ah, but I do. Run along and change; that will give me time to finish looking over my correspondence."
Marianne did as she was bid. When she had put on her riding habit she sat down to open Mrs. Jay's letter. There was no sense putting it off – and really she had no reason except her own uneasy conscience to anticipate that the contents might not be to her liking.
They were, however, even worse than she had expected. Mrs. Shortbody had apparently peppered her old friend with daily bulletins about Marianne's activities. Naturally she knew nothing of Marianne's brief career in the theater, or of Bagshot; but Mrs. Pettibone had reported her quondam governess's "insolence and brutality" to the employment agency, which had passed the report on to Mrs. Shortbody. The good landlady was too fair-minded to take this account at face value; Mrs. Jay acknowledged that she had reported Mrs. Pettibone to be an impossible woman, who could not keep help of any kind. All the same, Mrs. Jay felt bound to lecture Marianne at some length on the advisability of controlling her temper and facing adversity with Christian meekness.
"But this," she went on, "is of small consequence compared with the latest news I have from Mrs. Shortbody. She was unaware when Mr. Carlton first called upon her that he was in the employ of the Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook. Had she known, she would not have been a party to connecting you with such a person. Naturally you would not be aware of Her Grace's reputation, but, Marianne, you ought to know enough to inquire of those older and wiser before entrusting yourself to anyone not known to you personally! Heaven knows I am not one to give credence to vulgar gossip, and Her Grace's relationship with a certain gentleman now deceased was never proved; in any case that subject is not fit for your ears. What concerns me even more is the fact that she is known to be involved with a pagan cult condemned by all true -"