each Being assuredly is well fitted for its place in nature, many structures have now no very close and direct relations to present hahits of life.'
When the ladies had gone, Bradford motioned to the but ler to bring the port and offered a cigar to the vicar.
He did not offer one to Charles, who was getting out his pipe,
nor to his father, who had fallen asleep over the blancmange
and was now sprawled in his chair, bald head fallen forward, mouth open, snorting in his sleep like a Yorkshire pig. Bradford looked at him, anger thick at the back of his throat. How much had he paid Peel for the damned mare? Too much, no doubt.
But then, any amount would have been too much, according to the family solicitors and accountants, who were becoming positively tiresome about the condition of the Marsden accounts. Damn it, Bradford thought ferociously, why couldn't his father listen to them? The anger settled into a heaviness that lay on his chest like a pleurisy.
But he could understand-a little. After all, his father had come of age when the old queen was young, when landed fortunes seemed solid as Essex earth and eternal as the sun, which never set upon the far-flung Empire. But Victoria was past her fifty-fifth year on the throne, the Empire was in a half-dozen tight patches, and the agricultural economy had been blighted by the repeal of the Corn Laws almost fifty years ago, allowing cheap foreign grain to flood the home market. There was no money any longer in horses, especially when one's judgments about bloodlines were as- Yes, let it be said! As feeble and faulty as his father's.
From the music room came the sound of the piano. Patsy, playing a Schumann song, passably well. Eleanor's soprano, untrained but acceptable, and a contralto-Miss Ardleigh's, he assumed. Bradford sipped his port, thinking unexpectedly of the American-part Irish, from the look of her. Not pretty, certainly, but rather handsome, when one actually looked at her. And one did look at her, for her calm self-assurance, her composure, was such a contrast to the stylish, self-conscious flourishes of the women around her, including his sisters.
Miss Ardleigh. Kathryn. Bradford frowned. Nothing could come of it except a little harmless flirtation, of course, for although she was the niece of a neighbor and primly enough dressed, she was Irish, and American. But of course, such a combination offered certain advantages. One might guess from looking at that wonderfully unruly mop of hair what a willful creature she mustHe set down his glass of port hard. No. No, this would not
do. What he required was not a mistress to bed but an heiress to wed, and the sooner the better. He was beginning to feel desperate enough to acknowledge that the woman's other qualifications-appearance, demeanor, temperament-did not matter, as long as she was sufficiently rich. If the solicitors were right, he might soon have to resort to such a stratagem.
Bradford stared at the candles gleaming in their silver candelabra down the center of the long table. It was unkind to blame his father's faulty judgment for their situation. He had simply continued to live in the old manner, which was no longer suited to the times. And in any case, Bradford himself was not blameless, far from it. He had taken matters into his own hands in a way that, as he thought about it now, quite appalled him. He had poured a substantial amount of money-truth be told, much more than he could afford-into a venture he knew little about, on the word of a man of uncertain reputation. He had bargained with the devil, and if he had to pay the price, the fault was only his own.
Bradford picked up his glass again. However reckless his action, at least he had not closed his eyes to the need to ensure the reliable survival of the Marsden landed fortunes into an unreliable future. He had been looking out for the family. For his sisters, whose dowries had to be provided; for his mother, to whom the opinion of society was the inspiration of a frivolous life; for his father, and his damned bloody horses.
The candle in front of him guttered and went out. Even the assurance that he had done it for family seemed flabby, and Bradford felt suddenly chilled to the bone. If only Landers didn't require so much money to stay in the game. If only he'd been somewhere else when the man came along, dangling his damned patents like diamonds. He wished him dead. He wished him in hell!
'As to the corpse, Sir Charles,' the vicar was saying. 'What will you do with the photographs?'
Startled, Bradford brought his attention back to his guests. Charles and the vicar were talking about the wretched murder. Had they no other topic of conversation?
'I shall develop the prints and take them to the police,' Charles replied, stoking his pipe. 'The sergeant did not seem
keen on them, however,' he added. 'I rather fancy he agreed to receive them only because he feared to offend.'
'P'rhaps,' the vicar said, thoughtful. 'Juries do prefer rhetoric to scientific proof. Witness the Lamson trial in '82.'
'Ah, yes,' Charles said, accepting a light for his pipe from the butler. 'A friend of mine, Dr. Thomas Stevenson, gave evidence. His testimony was based on his investigation of plant alkaloids-very fine research, too, very solid.'
'Well and good,' the vicar reminded him, 'but Lamson was convicted upon his confession, not by the expert testimony of a scientist. Juries are confused by science.'
Bradford stirred uneasily. All this talk about trials and juries made him apprehensive. He changed the subject. 'Speaking of investigations, Vicar, how are yours progressing?'' He turned to Charles with a wry humor. 'The vicar has a compelling curiosity about the afterworld. He is bent upon proving the physical existence of the soul.'
The vicar inclined his head. 'Some persons-they shall be nameless, of course-take pleasure in deriding my investigations.' He waved a benign hand in Bradford's direction. 'But my treatises on the nature of Spirit have been quite well received by the London Spiritualist Alliance.' He lowered his voice. 'This is a subject that is spoken of, you understand, only among friends.'
'Of course,' Charles said gravely. 'I myself have an academic interest in such dealings. My camera and I have been invited to several seances to photograph ectoplasmic manifestations.'
Bradford grinned and pulled on his cigar. 'And what did you observe? Did your camera capture the soul, or did you find the ectoplasm to be merely flimflam?''
Charles was about to reply when the vicar interrupted spiritedly. 'It does not matter what was observed! What matters is the commitment to unbiased observation, carried out in the service of Truth.' His voice grew louder and his white mustache, impassioned, quivered violently. 'What is important is the application of scientific method of the study of the Soul.' He leaned forward, blue eyes fierce, leathery face intent. 'If this inquiry is your aim, Sir Charles, you are in luck. There
is within our very neighborhood, in nearby Colchester, an association of persons dedicated to this pursuit. It is called the Order of the Golden Dawn, and I am a member.'
'In Colchester?' Charles asked with surprise.
'Indeed,' the vicar said tartly. 'Why should inquiry into spiritual matters be confined to the metropolitan centers?'
'Why indeed?' Bradford asked. He gestured to the butler. 'Hawkins, wake his lordship.' He stood and pushed back his chair. 'Shall we join the ladies, gentlemen? Better their nonsense, I think, than our own.'
13
'By me 1890's, me Spiritualist movement had spread to England, where mediums set up stop in every city and even royalty attended seances. Spiritualist journals abounded, and kabhalism, Rosicrucianism, Theosophy, and Freemasonry flourished. Out or this rich occult mix was crystalized, by a Rind or social alchemy, the Order oi the Golden Dawn. It became the most ra-mous oi all occult societies.'
