The Hand on the Wall(57)

The tunnel. The one that had betrayed Albert, letting the enemy in. It would now be smothered, buried. The sight of the rocks and dirt seemed to trigger something in George Marsh, who set down his bag.

“You know,” he said, “it might be better if I stayed here to keep an eye on things.”

“The foreman can handle anything that comes up,” Albert replied.

“It may be better,” George Marsh said again. “In case any reporters or sightseers try to get in.”

“If you think it’s best,” Albert replied.

Leo took a better look at George Marsh, and the strange, fascinated way he was watching the wheelbarrows full of dirt and rocks that were heading to the back garden. There was something there, on George’s face—something Leo couldn’t quite identify. Something that intrigued him.

Leo had been watching George Marsh since he had learned the truth from Flora, that Marsh was Alice’s biological father—the great, brave George Marsh who had once saved Albert Ellingham from a bomb, who followed the family everywhere, providing reassurance and protection.

Of course, he had not protected Iris and Alice that fateful day, but he could not be blamed for that. Iris liked to go out on her own. He couldn’t be faulted for not retrieving them that night—he had gone to meet the kidnappers and gotten himself beaten to a pulp in the process. He wasn’t a great brain, a Hercule Poirot, who solved crimes in his head while tapping on his boiled egg with a spoon at breakfast. He was a friend, muscle, a good person for someone like Albert Ellingham to have around. And yes, he was with the FBI, but he never seemed to do much for them. Albert had made sure he was made an agent, and there were vague notions about him looking for drug smugglers coming down from Canada, but he’d never seemed to notice the ones Leo met regularly, the ones who supplied Iris with her powders and potions of choice.

Or maybe he had and had looked away.

Right now, George Marsh was lying about why he wanted to stay. Of that, Leo was certain. That people lie was nothing of particular interest. It’s not the lie itself that matters—it’s why the lie happened. Some, like Leo, lied for fun. You could have some excellent evenings with a good lie. But most people lied to hide things. If it was as simple as a love affair—well, no one would have minded that. Whatever it was was secret, not just private.

George Marsh, Leo could see very clearly, had a secret.

“All right, then,” Albert said, ushering Leo, Flora, and Robert toward the waiting car.

George Marsh stood by the front door and watched the car drive off. Once he was sure that the group was a decent distance away, he got in his own car and left the property.

He was gone for several hours, returning near nightfall. He parked on the dirt road, far back from the house. He returned to the house and made note of who remained. The work crews had gone, as had the day servants. Montgomery had retired to his rooms and the other servants to theirs. He checked in with the security men, sending them out to patrol the edges of the property. Once all of this was done, he changed his clothes, putting on work pants and a simple undershirt. Then he took a lantern and walked out into the back of the house, grabbing a shovel as he went. He slid down the muddy ground, into the marshy pit where the lake had been, then he walked to the mound in the middle where the glass dome reflected the early moonlight.

It was unpleasant to go back into the dome now. It smelled of dirt and neglect and was full of footprints from where the workmen had been. There were no rugs or cushions now. He sat down on the bench on the side, exactly where he had been when he faced Dottie Epstein. She had tried to hide under a rug on the floor, but fear and curiosity got the better of her . . .

“Don’t be afraid. You can come out.”

Dottie looked at the things he had put on the floor—the rope, the binoculars, the handcuffs.

“Those are for the game,” he had said.

“What kind of game?”

“It’s very complicated, but it’s going to be a lot of fun. I have to hide. Were you hiding in here too?”

He had started sweating profusely at that part of the conversation, as he felt it all unraveling. How had he sounded so calm?

“To read,” she had replied.

The kid had a book with her. She was clutching it like it was a shield.

“Sherlock Holmes? I love Sherlock Holmes. Which story are you reading?”

“A Study in Scarlet.”

“That’s a good one. Go ahead. Read. Don’t let me stop you.”

At that point, he had decided nothing. His brain was spinning. What to do with her? Dottie had looked at him, and he could see it in her eyes—she knew. Somehow, she knew.

“I need to get this back to the library. I won’t tell anyone you’re here. I hate it when people tell on me. I have to go.”

“You know I can’t let you leave,” he had replied. “I wish I could.”

The words came out of his mouth, but he had had no idea what they meant.

“You can. I’m good at keeping secrets. Please.”

She had hugged the book.

“I’m so sorry,” he said.

George Marsh put his head in his hands for a moment. He couldn’t play the rest in his mind, the part where Dottie dropped the book and made her heroic, doomed leap toward the hole. The sound she made when she hit the ground below. Scrabbling down the ladder—all the blood. The way she moaned and dragged herself along the ground.