The Shadow in the North Read online

  However, the speech didn't last long. Lady Harborough was helped down from the stage; the pianist took his place, unfolded his music and played a sinister series of arpeggios in the bass. Then the curtain was drawn aside, and Mackinnon appeared.

  He was transformed. Jim had described it, but Frederick hadn't really believed him; now he blinked in amazement to see the furtive, shadowy figure he knew become so dominating and powerful. He was wearing his chalk-white make-up - bizarre at first sight, but in fact a brilliant stroke, because it allowed him to be at various times sinister or comic or appealing - a skull, or a clown, or a Pierrot.

  His appearance was an important part of the total effect. He didn't just perform tricks; he turned flowers into goldfish bowls, plucked cards from the empty air, and made solid silver candlesticks disappear just as ordinary magicians did, but the tricks were the means to an end in his performance, and that end was the creation of a world. It was a world in which nothing was fixed, everything was changeable; in which identities merged and dissolved, qualities such as hard and soft, up and down and sorrow and joy changed into their opposites in the twinkling of an eye and became meaningless, where the only reliable guide was suspicion, the only constant theme mistrust.

  It was a world, thought Frederick, that was more than a little devilish, for there was no delight in Mackinnon's performance, no sense of innocent play. He scorned the thought as it entered his mind (was he getting superstitious now?), but there it was: Mackinnon had summoned up shadows, even if one could laugh at them in the light.

  Then came a trick in which Mackinnon needed to borrow a watch from someone in the audience. As he announced this, he looked directly at Frederick and his dark eyes flashed; Frederick, understanding at once, unhooked his own watch-chain from his waistcoat and held it up. Half a dozen other hands were up, but Mackinnon leapt down gracefully and was at Frederick's side in a moment.

  "Thank you, sir," he said loudly. "Here's a gentleman with faith in the benevolence of the world of wonders! Does he know what terrible transformations will befall his timepiece? No! Will it come back to him as a chrysanthemum, perhaps? Or as a kippered herring? Or as a pile of tangled springs and cogs? Stranger things have happened." And then, almost before Frederick was aware of it, he heard a whisper: "Beside the door. Just come in."

  A moment later, Mackinnon was on the stage again and wrapping the watch up in the folds of a silk handkerchief, with many flourishes and declamations. Did Frederick imagine it, or was there a hysterical edge to Mackinnon's voice now? He seemed to be speaking more quickly, his gestures seemed more exaggerated, less controlled. . . As soon as he could manage it, Frederick turned around unobtrusively to look where Mackinnon had indicated.

  On the chair nearest to the double doors sat a large, powerfully built man with smooth, blond hair. He was watching the stage with impassive, wide-set eyes; one arm lay along the back of the empty chair next to him, and his whole aspect was one of watchfulness and command. Despite his faultless evening dress there was something brutal about him. Or no, thought Frederick, not brutal, because that meant animal; and this man was mechanical.

  Now why did he think that?

  He found himself staring, and turned back to the stage. Mackinnon was completing some intricate piece of business with the watch, but his mind wasn't on it - Frederick saw his hand shake as he passed the handkerchief to and fro over the little table he was working on, and saw, too, that his eyes kept glancing up to look at the man by the door.

  Frederick turned himself sideways in the chair, crossing his legs, as if he were looking for a more comfortable position. He could just keep Mackinnon and the man by the door in his field of vision and, as he watched, the blond man beckoned with a discreet finger to a servant. The footman bent to listen, and the visitor looked up at Mackinnon again and seemed to be saying something about him. Frederick knew that Mackinnon had seen it too, and, as he watched the servant nod and leave the room, he saw Mackinnon falter. Now, it seemed, there were only three people in the whole ballroom who mattered: the blond man, and Mackinnon, and Frederick watching their strange duel of wills.

  The audience was aware, now, that something was wrong. Mackinnon's patter had dried, the handkerchief hung loosely in his hand, and his face looked ghastly; then he dropped the handkerchief altogether and staggered backwards.

  The music stopped. The pianist looked up hesitantly. Mackinnon stood clutching the curtain in the electric silence and managed to say:

  "Beg pardon - indisposed - must leave the stage -"

  He then twitched the curtain aside and vanished behind it.

  The audience was too well-bred to react with excitement, but there was certainly a stir of comment. The pianist, using his initiative, began to play some bland waltz or other, and Lady Harborough got up from her seat at the front and held a whispered consultation with an elderly man, possibly her husband.

  Frederick tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, and then made up his mind.

  "Charlie," he said quietly. "That fellow by the door - fair hair, big build. Find out who he is, could you? Name, rank, number, everything you can."

  Charles nodded. "But what are you--"

  "I'm going detecting," said Frederick.

  He left his seat and made his way to Lady Harborough. She was standing by the piano with the elderly man at her side and she looked as if she was about to summon a servant. The rest of the audience - most of them - were politely looking the other way, and talking to each other as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  "My lady?" Frederick said. "I don't like to interrupt, but I'm a doctor, and if Mr Mackinnon's indisposed it might be helpful if I saw him."

  "Oh! What a relief!" she said. "I was about to send out for a physician. Do go with the footman, Doctor. . ."

  "Garland," said Frederick.

  A stiff footman, hair powdered white, calves bulging in his white stockings, blinked impassively and gave a slight bow. As Frederick followed him out of the ballroom, he heard Lady Harborough give orders for the orchestra to be brought back in, and saw Charles Bertram in conversation with someone in the row behind.

  The footman led Frederick through the hall and along a corridor to a door near the library.

  "Mr Mackinnon was using this as a dressing-room, sir," he said.

  He knocked at the door, but there was no reply. Frederick stepped past him and turned the handle. The room was empty.

  "Wasn't there a footman in the hall?" said Frederick.

  "Yes, sir."

  "Would you go and ask him if he saw Mr Mackinnon coming out of the ballroom?"

  "Certainly, sir. But he wouldn't have come that way, if you don't mind me pointing it out, sir. He'd've more likely gone through the drawing room, coming out the back of the stage like what he did, sir."

  "Yes, I see. But if Mr Mackinnon wanted to step outside for a breath of air, he'd have gone through the hall, wouldn't he?"

  "I daresay he would, sir, yes. Should I go and ask?"

  "Yes, do."

  While the footman was out of sight, Frederick quickly glanced round the room. It was a small sitting room of some kind, with one gaslight glowing by the mantelpiece and Mackinnon's cloak and hat flung over the back of an armchair near the fire. There was a wicker case standing open by the table and a tin of greasepaints next to a small hand mirror - but there was no Mackinnon.

  After a minute or so, the footman knocked at the door behind him.

  "Seems as if you were right, sir," he said. "Mr Mackinnon ran to the front door and went straight out."

  "I dare say he'll be back when he feels better," said Frederick. "Well, there's nothing to be done here. Could you show me the way back?"

  In the ballroom, the servants were removing the chairs while the orchestra reassembled on the stage. Footmen were passing through the crowd with more champagne; it was as if time had jumped backwards an hour and Mackinnon had never started his performance.

  Frederick looked around for the blo
nd man, but he was nowhere in sight. Nor was Charles, to begin with. Frederick took a glass from the nearest footman and wandered through the room watching the faces of the guests. Pretty insipid lot, by the look of 'em, he thought. Smooth and bland and superior. . . He wondered what the time was, and then remembered that Mackinnon had his watch. If it still was a watch, and not a rabbit or a cricket bat, he thought morosely.

  Then he saw Lady Mary Wytham and stopped to look at her. She was sitting not far from the piano, and her mother was beside her. They were both smiling politely at someone Frederick couldn't quite see; there was a potted palm in the way. He moved to one side, and then looked again, casually, and saw the blond man.

  He was sitting opposite them, with his back to Frederick, talking easily. Frederick couldn't quite hear him, but didn't want to move any closer; he felt exposed enough as it was. With a pretence of nodding his head in time to the music, he watched Lady Mary closely. There was a shadow of that same desperation he'd noticed earlier in her eyes, and she didn't speak at all; when there was a remark to be made in reply, her mother made it. Lady Mary was listening, but dutifully, and from time to time she would glance around quickly and then look back. Frederick wondered how young she was; at times she looked about fifteen.

  Then the blond man stood up. He bowed to the women, took the hand which Lady Mary unsurely moved towards him, and kissed it. She flushed, but smiled politely as he turned and left.

  Frederick looked casually across as the man went past him. He had an impression of great physical force, of smooth power like a huge volume of water sliding through a sluice, of pale hair and prominent grey-blue eyes, and then the man was gone.

  He thought of following him, but dismissed the idea at once; the man was bound to have a carriage, and by the time Frederick had found a cab he'd have been out of sight. In any case, Charles Bertram was coming towards him.

  "Did you find Mackinnon?" said Charles.

  "No. He's the original will-o'-the-wisp," said Frederick. "He'll turn up again. He'd better, dammit; I want my watch back. What about the fellow with the fair hair? He's just been flirting with Lady Mary Wytham."

  "Has he, now?" said Charles. "That's interesting. I heard some gossip about Wytham himself just now - it seems the old boy's on the verge of bankruptcy. I don't know how true that is, mind you. And the fair-haired man's a financier - something big in railroad and mines and matches. A Swede. His name's Bellmann."

  Chapter Seven

  A STRANGE PROPOSAL

  Next morning, before Frederick had had a chance to tell her about Mackinnon's connection with her case, Sally arrived at her office to find a client waiting for her.

  At least, she thought he was a client. His name, he told her, was Windlesham; he was a mild-mannered little man with gold-rimmed spectacles, and he waited most politely until she had settled Chaka and taken off her coat and hat. Then he sprang a surprise.

  "I represent Mr Axel Bellmann," he said. "I think his name is known to you."

  She sat down slowly. What did this mean?

  "It has come to Mr Bellmann's attention," he went on, "that you have been making persistent and unfriendly inquiries into his affairs. He is a busy man, with numerous important interests and responsibilities, and such unfounded and ill-informed rumours as those you are attempting to spread, while trivial in the extreme, can only cause considerable annoyance and inconvenience. In order to spare you the embarrassment of a formal communication, and the pain of a legal threat, Mr Bellmann has sent me to convey his displeasure in person, in the hope that you will take it to heart and see the foolishness of continuing in the unproductive path you have sought to follow."

  He folded his hands and smiled at her gently.

  Sally's heart was racing. She could think of only one thing to say.

  "Did you learn that off by heart? Or were you making it up as you went along?"

  The smile left his face.

  "Perhaps you have not understood," he said. "Mr Bellmann. . ."

  "I understand very well Mr Bellmann is frightened, and he wants to frighten me. Well, I'm not going to be frightened, Mr Windlesham. I have a particular reason for making my inquiries and, until I'm satisfied, I'll go on with them. And what precisely is this legal threat you mentioned?"

  He smiled again. "You're too intelligent to expect me to tell you that at this stage. Mr Bellmann will decide whether or not to use that weapon when I tell him of your response."

  "Tell me," she said, "what's your particular function in Mr Bellmann's company?"

  He looked mildly interested in the question. "I am Mr Bellmann's private secretary," he said. "Why do you ask?"

  "Curiosity.Well, you've told me a lot, MrWindlesham. I know I'm on the right track now. I wonder what's making Mr Bellmann so anxious? Could it be the Ingrid Linde?"

  It was a shot in the dark - but it struck home. Mr Windlesham drew breath sharply, and a scholarly frown appeared on his brow.

  "I really would advise great care," he said. "It is very easy for the inexperienced person to make serious errors in the interpretation of quite innocent facts. If I were you, Miss Lockhart, I would stick to financial consultancy, I really would. And may I say," he rose, gathering stick and hat, "as a private person, how much I admire your enterprise? I have always taken a keen and sympathetic interest in the woman question. Stick to what you know, Miss Lockhart. I wish you every success. But don't let your imagination run away with you."

  He raised his stick in salute. Chaka, not understanding, leapt to his feet and growled, but the mild little man didn't flinch.

  Well, thought Sally as he left, he's got nerve. What do I do now?

  What she did do, as soon as he had gone, was to put on her coat and hat and walk to the office of her friend Mr Temple the lawyer.

  Mr Temple was an ironical old gentleman who moved in a faint, perpetual fragrance of buckram and seed-cake and snuff. He had been her father's lawyer, and had helped her when Captain Lockhart had been killed six years before; Sally had so impressed him with her knowledge of the Stock Market and her grasp of financial affairs that he had overcome his old-fashioned reservations and helped her to set up, firstly, her partnership with Webster Garland and, secondly, her own business.

  She told him briefly about the background to the case, and described Mr Windlesham's visit that morning.

  "Sally," he said when she'd finished, "you will take care, won't you?"

  "That's what he said. I thought you'd come up with something more original!"

  He smiled, and tapped his snuff-box.

  "The great strength of the law," he said, "lies in the fact that so little of it is original; thank Heaven. Tell me what you know about North Star."

  She summarized all she knew, which was not much. She left out Nellie Budd, however; she thought Mr Temple was hardly likely to be impressed by trance-revelations from the world of spirits. She wasn't even sure if she was.

  "I don't know whether it's manufacturing, or mining, or what it is," she ended. "There's a connection with a chemicals firm, but that's all I know. What do you think could make them want to keep it secret?"

  "Chemicals," he said thoughtfully. "Nasty smelly things that leak and poison the water and. . . Does he still make matches?"

  "No. There was a government investigation in Sweden and his factory was closed down; but it turned out he'd sold it the year before, so he wasn't responsible."

  "Well, now. I happened to come across the name North Star in another context a day or so ago. A man at my club was talking about cooperative societies, trade unions and what-have-you, and he mentioned some new firm up in Lancashire that's been organized on odd lines - didn't quite follow what he was saying, wasn't really listening as a matter of fact - don't go to my club for lectures on sociology - but the gist of it was that this firm had set out to organize the lives of their workers down to the last detail. Like Robert Owen. Total control, you see. It sounded appalling to me. But the point was that it was called North Star."


  Sally sat up and smiled. "At last!" she said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "A clue. What does this firm do?"

  "Ah, that he didn't know. Something to do with railways, he thought. . . Would you care for a glass of sherry?"

  She accepted, and watched the little motes of legal dust floating in the ray of sunshine that slanted through the old window while he poured the drink. Mr Temple was an old friend, and she'd dined at his house many times, but she still didn't feel quite at ease when they stopped talking about business. Things that other young women could do easily - make small talk, dance gracefully, flirt with a stranger at dinner while unerringly picking up the right knife and fork - were difficult and embarrassing still, and hampered by the memory of humiliating failures. Away from her balance sheets and her files she was really only at home, only truly herself, in the cheerful haphazardness of the Garlands'. She sipped the pale brown nectar, tongue-tied, while he leafed through the papers she'd brought.

  "Nordenfels. . ." said Mr Temple. "Who's he? His name's come up more than once."

  "Ah. Bellmann had a partner called Nordenfels - he was a designer, an engineer. I came across an article only yesterday, in the Journal of the Royal Society of Engineers, where his name was mentioned. He invented a new kind of safety valve, apparently; it worked at higher temperatures, or higher pressures, or something. I must look it up in more detail. But he disappeared - Nordenfels, I mean - oh, three or four years ago. Perhaps they just parted company. But I've got a feeling about him. . ."

  "H'mm," said Mr Temple. "I'd avoid feelings if I were you. Go for facts and figures. You're on the track of something with this Anglo-Baltic business - that's quite clear. Have you checked the insurance on the Ingrid Linde?"

  "It's on that yellow sheet - all in order. It's not an insurance fraud." After a minute she went on: "This Mr Windlesham mentioned a legal threat. Could he mean an injunction?"

  "I doubt it very much. The court would have to be satisfied, firstly that the activity he complained of was wrong in itself, which you would deny, and secondly that the proper remedy for it would not be damages."