interest for him. What was there about the supernatural that fascinated certain people? What sort of people were they? Mrs. Farnsworth, for instance, seemed a woman of the world and not one to be taken in by charlatans. What was the source of her interest? Was it the experience of the occult-some satisfaction she gained in the practice of magical ritual? Or was it the power the practice gave her? Looking at the strong line of her jaw and a certain arrogance in the lift of her chin, he could believe that it was the lure of power that had brought her to the Order. Perhaps the founding of the Colchester temple lent her a certain authority, a certain prestige. Or perhaps the drama of ritual magic had replaced the stage dramas of her acting career.
'You were saying-' Mrs. Farnsworth remarked. Her voice was casual, but her probing glance made Charles feel that he was the object of her critical assessment.
Charles shifted. 'Forgive me. I do not want to take up your time with talk about myself. You established the temple here, I believe?'
Mrs. Farnsworth took the light bamboo chair beside the settee. 'I did,' she said with simple authority. She leaned back, arranging her arm so that one hand hung gracefully from the arm of the chair, and fixed him with a direct gaze. 'But you must understand that I can speak of it only in general terms. It is, after all, a secret order. One does not expect a Freemason to divulge the sacred rituals of his lodge.'
'Quite so,' Charles said. He paused. 'I wonder, though… Is membership in your Order confined to Colchester?''
Mrs. Farnsworth's laugh was throaty, amused. 'My dear man, how is it that you do not know already of the Golden Dawn? The Order has temples in London, Edinburgh, Bradford, Paris. It is the foremost organization of its kind in the world.'
'Indeed,' Charles said with interest. 'In Paris?'
'Mr. MacGregor Mathers has established the Ahathoor
Temple there, as well as a school of occult sciences.' A smile softened Mrs. Farnsworth's lips and she raised her hand in a studiedly playful gesture. ' 'Our little temple in Colchester is but one star in a distinguished galaxy.'
'I do indeed see,' Charles said, 'and I am much impressed. Perhaps-'
He left the sentence hanging, placed his portfolio on his knees, and opened it. He might ordinarily have had some compunction about showing the photograph of a dead man to a woman of delicate sensibilities, although he had cropped this one so that it did not reveal the fatal wound. But Mrs. Farnsworth had been an actress, and actresses were women of the world. Such a thing should not shock. He took it out and handed it to her.
'This is a photograph of a man who, I believe, may have been associated with your Order. I wonder what you can tell me about him. The name I know him by,' he added, watching her closely, 'is Monsieur Armand. That may not be his real name.'
Mrs. Farnsworth took the photograph and studied it for a few moments, her face revealing nothing. When she handed it back, her glance was casual, her tone devoid of any significance or feeling. 'I fear I cannot help you,' she said. 'The gentleman is a stranger to me.' She arched expressive brows. 'If you are in doubt as to his identity, why not simply ask him?'
'Because,' Charles said, 'the man is dead.'
Mrs. Farnsworth shook her head. 'A pity,' she murmured. 'His death was untimely?'
'He was murdered,' Charles said.
She looked startled. 'Why on earth do you bring the photograph of a murdered man to me?'
'Because,' Charles replied carefully, 'I understand that he visited a member of your Order.'
Mrs. Farnsworth frowned. 'My dear Sir Charles,' she said, 'our temple is quite large. Surely you cannot imagine that I am acquainted with the private business dealings of individual members?'
Charles felt rebuked. 'Well, I-'
She rose from her chair. 'Am I to take it, then,' she said with evident distaste, 'that your interest in the Order is connected with your interest in this dead person?'
Charles rose also. 'That is correct, ma'am,' he said. 'It is of urgent importance that I discover where he spent the last day of his-'
'Then I very much fear that you have wasted your time inquiring here.' She gathered her skirt and turned toward the door. 'And now if you will excuse me, I have pressing matters to attend to.' She swept out of the room, leaving behind her the lingering scent of roses and a host of puzzling questions.
29
'It is no use telling me there are good aunts and baa aunts. At the core, they are all alike. Sooner or later, out pops the cloven noor.'
W hile Charles was on his way to Colchester, Kate was on her way to the library. She had almost finished copying out the cipher manuscript and its transcription for Mr. Yeats. It had been tedious labor, for the crabbed glyphs were written in faded sepia ink and were hard to decipher. The paper on which they were written bore a watermark of 1809-or, rather, some of the sheets did. Others bore no mark at all; curiously, they appeared to be much newer, although
the script and ink were the same. And there was a further curiosity: the name and address of the German woman to whom Dr. Westcott had written for authorization of the Order of the Golden Dawn were in the same hand that had produced the cipher. Odd, Kate thought, since the woman had died only recently. Kate mentioned these puzzling facts to Aunt Sa-brina, but she seemed unable to shed any light on the matter.
Aunt Sabrina, meanwhile, had been copying out her tarot deck. The precious cards had been designed by MacGregor Mathers in consultation (it was said) with his spirit guide, and hand-drawn by his wife, Moina Mathers. This original deck was loaned to each member in turn, so that a personal copy could be made. The member was required to keep the deck closely guarded and pass it on when he or she had finished copying it.
But Kate was thinking neither about the cipher document nor the Golden Dawn tarot. After what Mrs. Pratt had told her last night, she was filled with a firm determination. She would have a frank talk with Aunt Sabrina. It was too late to help Jenny, but something had to be done to restrain Aunt Jaggers, and Aunt Sabrina was the only person who could do it.
But when Kate came into the library, Aunt Sabrina was not alone. Aunt Jaggers, dressed in her customary rusty black, stood in front of the fire, while Aunt Sabrina, wearing a pale blue morning gown, was sitting at her desk, where she had been copying the cards. From their strained faces and tense postures, it was clear that the two were quarreling.
Sensing that she had stepped into a private and perhaps embarrassing exchange, Kate turned to leave. But Aunt Jaggers caught sight of her.
'What do you think you're doing, miss?' she cried violently, stamping her foot. 'Eavesdropping, like the other servants?'
'Calm yourself, Bernice,' Aunt Sabrina said, rising. 'Kathryn was merely-'
'Don't tell me what she was doing,' Aunt Jaggers snapped, shoulders squared, face wrenched into angry ugliness. 'I've seen how this girl toadies to you and your foolish sorcery. Before she came, there was at least peace in this household.' She pulled herself up. 'Clearly, your experiment is not working. She must go.'
Kate gasped as if a bucket of cold well water had been splashed over her. Go?
'You aren't serious, Bernice,' Aunt Sabrina said quietly.
'I am very serious,' Aunt Jaggers replied with a lofty look. 'We did agree, did we not, that if this person'-she glanced coldly at Kate-'did not suit, she would be returned to America.'
Aunt Sabrina's voice was low, controlled. 'But she does suit. She suits very well. Her work is exemplary, her manner cooperative, her-'
'She does not suit we,' Aunt Jaggers said flatly. 'But you needn't worry about the details. I have already
