hugged a long goodbye outside Madame Tussauds. After walking down Baker Street a bit, he turned and called to her, “What’s his name again?”
She walked back to him. “Nigel.”
“What’s his real name?”
“It doesn’t matter, David. Names are just names.” Susan glanced to the side. “I love you, David. Do take good care.” Then she had touched her finger to his lips, turned, and walked away.
Tears now unaccountably clouded his vision as he approached the great oak door at the end of the passage leading to the farthest corner of the foundation. Morgan had tried it before, and it had been locked. He was at an impasse. The door led to Mrs. de Cuchilleros’s place if it led anywhere. The projected walkway between the houses hadn’t been abandoned, just moved underground. It would have to come out in her carriage house or connect to her basement or go up into her garden. Was that how Griffin had crossed over in those early mornings when Mrs. de Cuchilleros said she had found him beside her pond, standing vigil — a memorable description? And then she had said he would simply disappear.
The elaborate array of iron bolts and flanges on the door was held in place by a single padlock. He hadn’t noticed that before. One good knock would open it. He ran his fingers over the padlock, then turned and trudged back through the stone and shadow passageways. He wanted to surface into the light, to walk in the garden.
5
Doitsu Showa
Miranda returned to find Morgan contemplative under the trellised portico, perched on a feed barrel. As they ambled through the garden, she handed him a sandwich, assuming he had forgotten to eat lunch.
“Thanks,” he said. “I forgot to eat lunch.”
“I’m off the case,” she said, looking at him with odd satisfaction. “And guess what, Eleanor Drummond doesn’t exist.”
“She’s a very convincing illusion.”
“Do you think so?”
“She was Griffin’s witness. Does that mean you’re not his executrix?”
“Executor. I had my signature notarized downtown. I’m it. You can call yourself anything you want as long as there’s no attempt to defraud. It isn’t illegal to be Eleanor Drummond. Just strange. She’s alive for a few hours a week, then what becomes of her?”
“Vampire?”
“She has no past.”
“Or too much. What about a driver’s licence?”
“Dead end.” Miranda wondered for a moment if irony was innate, then continued. “She listed this as her address. Her credit cards are paid up and use this address. Griffin is her guarantor. But she’s never lived here, Morgan. It’s like she’s Griffin’s creation. There were no birth records, no health insurance card. She must have one in another name …”
“Or never gets sick.”
“Maybe she’s Jekyll and Hyde — one self doesn’t know the other.”
“Dr. Jekyll knew about Mr. Hyde,” Morgan said. “Is this the good side or the bad, the woman we know? Which face of Eve?”
They weren’t going to resolve the mystery of Eleanor Drummond’s elusive identity, whether it offered her refuge or power, by talking about it. He was anxious to show Miranda the cellar but taunted her, suggesting her status on the scene was open to question.
“Look, Morgan, I’ve got more access than the police. You need me just to get into the place.”
“You have the only set of keys?”
“Griffin wasn’t carrying keys, you realize. Maybe it was his version of leaping from a bridge — lock yourself out of your house, wearing no shoes. It’s the fish pond or nothing.”
“Except he was murdered,” said Morgan.
“There were keys up in his study. They’re at the lab.”
“What about the cellar? Some of the doors in the dungeon are locked.”
“We’ll have to bring in the locksmith.”
“Or batter them down.”
“Not in front of me. I’m the executor. I’m on compassionate leave.”
“Compassionate! You didn’t even know the guy.”
“It makes grieving easier. Do you realize I’m in charge of the dearly departed’s remains? I’m thinking cremation. Burial’s too claustrophobic.”
“For whom, not the dead?”
“You don’t know that for sure. Ashes are easier — mixed with crushed shrimp for the delectation of his familiars. Consumed by his passion, so to speak.”
“He’d like it that way,” he said. “Is the coroner’s report in?”
“Yeah, they confirmed he didn’t drown. I’ve been trying to check him out, but he’s almost as elusive as Eleanor Drummond. He really is rich, like you said, and you can always find money. He’s old money and new money and moneyed enough to blur the distinction. Legitimate credentials, but close to anonymous in legal and financial circles — a solitary wanderer in academe. Has money in a gallery in Yorkville, probably a hobby or a tax writeoff for collectibles. Listed with the Law Society. That’s about it. His investment manager never met him in person. He kept an office downtown with a skeleton staff — two clerks and a legal secretary who said he was hardly there. He never had mail forwarded, they didn’t know where he lived, except it was Rosedale. I mean, where else? This guy wasn’t a commuter.”
“He’s got a nice car.”
“Yeah, Jag XK 150, 1959. I saw it last night. Do you know his secretary was blown away that I was technically her boss? It made her nervous.”
“Because you’re a woman?”
“Because I’m a cop.”
“You think she’s the killer?”
“She knew when I walked in who I was.”
“We’re famous.”
“Contain yourself, Morgan. Someone called from headquarters, looking for next of kin. The secretary had no idea how to reach Eleanor Drummond.”
While they talked, they wandered around to the front and went in by the main entrance. Miranda needed to go through papers in Griffin’s desk, and Morgan wanted to explore. The stairs and hallway were filled with the hush of an empty old house after someone’s death. The hush spread ahead of them as they walked to the study and pushed open the door.
There was an audible explosion of surprise as they looked down into Eleanor Drummond’s glazed-over eyes, staring past them at nothing.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Morgan.
Miranda
