Deadlier Than the Pen Part 14

Diana wondered if the presence in the Bangor papers of excerpts from the World meant that other Manhattan dailies had been able to continue publis.h.i.+ng. If so, what had Horatio Foxe done about her column? The expose of Damon Bathory he'd promised readers should have run last Wednesday. He'd have been ecstatic had he known that she and Bathory were even then stranded together on a train in Connecticut. Diana supposed Foxe had made up some story, as he'd threatened to do. For all she knew, he might have penned a whole week's worth of columns using her name. Or perhaps he'd announced her disappearance to the world and made something scandalous out of that. She winced at the thought before a more likely possibility occurred to her -- given the storm, he'd no doubt suspended publication of "Today's Tidbits" in order to fill the paper with news of the blizzard.

In the Bangor papers, most of the copy was devoted to New England news. Only a few columns contained "Incidents of the Storm," but from those she gathered that hundreds of people all across Connecticut and Ma.s.sachusetts had been stranded in isolated farmhouses, in train stations, and on the trains themselves, many without heat or food. For the first time, Diana realized just how extensive the blizzard had been and how much damage had been done by it. It gave her a queer feeling to read that the greatest number of trains had been stranded for the longest period of time in the area around New Haven.

In Bangor, although trains had stopped arriving from New York and Boston, local rail service had continued unabated. Indeed, Bangor had experienced only a light snowfall, the usual sort of winter precipitation. By early afternoon on that same Wednesday Diana had been s...o...b..und in Connecticut, the sun had reappeared here, melting snow with such rapidity that people complained about sloppy walking conditions.

When she'd read all the newspapers she'd collected from beginning to end, Diana sat staring at them. What now? Damon Bathory was probably Aaron Northcote. He'd lied about his name and where he lived. Had he also lied when he swore he'd come back to her?

She buried her head in her hands.

Bathory -- she could not call him Aaron, not yet, and she'd always had difficulty thinking of him as Damon -- would not be pleased to discover she'd followed him again, but she could not leave Bangor without warning him. Foxe was more determined than ever to implicate him in the murders of those two women. Worse, Diana's editor now knew she was in Bangor. Even if she refused to reveal what she'd discovered here, he had enough to go on to uncover Bathory's real ident.i.ty for himself. She had no choice. She had to arrange a meeting with Aaron Northcote. Whatever else the man was, she did not believe him to be a cold-blooded killer.

At noon the next day, Diana waited, growing ever more anxious, at a table for two in the dining hall of the Bangor House, the city's largest hotel. She had sent a note to the Northcote home to suggest Aaron meet her for luncheon.

Initially, she paid no mind to a man approaching her table. He was not Damon Bathory. Only when he stopped next to her did she realize he seemed familiar.

Diana frowned. The stranger had eyes of an odd copper color and brown hair. Although he had a build similar to Damon Bathory's, he was less muscular, showing evidence of a sedentary life style. Beneath a fine mustache, even his beardless jowls were fleshy.

"I don't recognize your name," he said, "but your note intrigued me."

Diana blinked at him in surprise. "You're Aaron Northcote?"

He frowned, staring intently at her face. "I've seen you before."

"I don't think so. I've only just arrived here from New York."

This announcement seemed to alarm him. "You didn't warn me," he said.

"I beg your pardon."

"I'm not talking to you."

His strident tone made Diana nervous, and very aware that everyone else in the dining room was staring at them. "Mr. Northcote, I think there's been some mistake."

"I thought we'd seen the last of her." He muttered the comment to a point beyond her left ear, as if there were someone standing there. Then, without warning, he bolted, moving so suddenly and violently that he toppled the table and knocked Diana right off her chair on his way to the exit.

Unhurt -- but so surprised that for several moments she couldn't find words -- Diana sat on the floor of the restaurant and stared after the departing artist.

The maitre d' rushed over to her, solicitous and concerned. "Are you all right, madam? Shall I send for a doctor?"

"No, of course not. I'm perfectly fine." She started to get to her feet, hampered by her bustle and heavy skirts.

A hand wearing a ring with a familiar family crest appeared in front of her, offering a.s.sistance.

"What luck," the maitre d' exclaimed. "Here's Dr. Northcote. I had not realized you were back in town, doctor. Welcome home."

Diana's heart began to race as she rose to her feet, lifting her head to meet the brooding gaze of the man she'd last seen in New Haven. "I had the wrong brother," she whispered.

She looked, Ben thought, as confused and astonished as he'd felt when he'd found the note she'd sent Aaron. Diana here. He could hardly credit it.

"We need to talk," he said, careful to conceal any hint of the tumultuous emotions coursing through him.

He held her chair, then seated himself opposite her and signaled to the waiter. They were still the center of attention. Behaving as if their meeting was an everyday occurrence seemed the wisest course. And until he knew why Diana had turned up here, he dared not let her know how his heart had leapt at the sight of her.

Even beset by doubts, he felt a sense of relief wash over him. Her arrival made one decision easy. He had no other choice now. He must tell her the whole truth about Damon Bathory.

"Your name is Benjamin," she said. It was not quite an accusation, but close enough.

"Ben."

"Ben," she repeated, sounding a bit breathless. She offered him a tentative smile.

"I meant what I said. I'd have come to you."

"I thought you'd be angry that I followed you again."

"Should I be?" Alerted by the odd note in her voice, he narrowed his eyes. His hand froze in the act of lifting a water gla.s.s to his lips.

She was prevented from answering by the appearance of the waiter. After they'd ordered, he reached across the table and took her hand in both of his.

"Why didn't you return to New York, Diana? And how did you know I would be here?"

"I saw the telegram you sent to your mother," she blurted. "I thought she was your wife."

She'd been jealous? Uncertain whether to be encouraged or wary, Ben said nothing. He didn't want to risk betraying how deeply his own feelings ran.

Uncertainty made conversation stilted. So did the proximity of other diners. With painful awkwardness, they made small talk until the arrival of their meal. For a few minutes after that, they ate in silence. Ben had no idea what he put in his mouth. It all tasted like sawdust.

"How's the ankle?" he asked.

"Better," she said without looking at him.

He felt his eyebrow shoot up. "I doubt that."

"Still sore," she amended.

"When did you arrive in Bangor?"

"Late Sunday morning."

"I should have known I couldn't get rid of you so easily." It took a concerted effort to sound more amused than irritated but she seemed to take his tone of voice as an encouraging sign. Watching her as closely as he was, he saw her shoulders relax and some of the tension go out of her neck.

"I thought I'd solved the mystery," she told him, and recounted the steps that had led her to fix on Aaron as Damon Bathory.

Her explanation answered more questions than she realized. "So you did go back to that gallery in New York. I thought you might have."

"Yes. Your brother is a talented artist."

"He comes by it honestly."

"What do you mean?"

"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.