The Murderer Inside the Mirror, page 1
Contents
Cover
Also by Sarah Rayne
Title Page
Copyright
Praise for Sarah Rayne
About the author
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Author’s Note
Also by Sarah Rayne from Severn House
The Theatre of Thieves mysteries
CHALICE OF DARKNESS
The Phineas Fox mysteries
DEATH NOTES
CHORD OF EVIL
SONG OF THE DAMNED
MUSIC MACABRE
THE DEVIL’S HARMONY
THE MURDER DANCE
The Nell West and Michael Flint series
PROPERTY OF A LADY
THE SIN EATER
THE SILENCE
THE WHISPERING
DEADLIGHT HALL
THE BELL TOWER
THE MURDERER INSIDE THE MIRROR
Sarah Rayne
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2024
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
This eBook edition first published in 2024 by Severn House Digital an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Sarah Rayne, 2024
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Sarah Rayne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0640-4 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-1096-8 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland.
Praise for Sarah Rayne
“Superb”
Publishers Weekly Starred Review of Chalice of Darkness
“In this taut, Gothic-style mystery, Rayne offers a gripping plot with plenty of suspense and period ambience”
Booklist on Chalice of Darkness
“Lovers of British historical mysteries with a dash of romance and gothic atmosphere will clamor for more”
Publishers Weekly Starred Review of Chalice of Darkness
“Frightful fun with haunted history and a blustery thespian”
Kirkus Reviews on Chalice of Darkness
“A dark drama of violence and murder”
Library Journal on Chalice of Darkness
“A fascinating history is folded into a spectral mystery”
Kirkus Reviews on The Murder Dance
“Beautifully written, with a strong protagonist and very cleverly constructed stories … that ratchet up the suspense to a new level”
Booklist Starred Review of The Devil’s Harmony
About the author
Sarah Rayne is the author of many novels of psychological and supernatural suspense, including the Nell West & Michael Flint series as well as the historical mystery series, Phineas Fox and Theatre of Thieves. She lives in Staffordshire.
www.sarahrayne.co.uk
ONE
The Fitzglens were discussing a new filch when the terrible news came.
They had met on the stage of their theatre, which was usually the safest place to plan any filch, but they were waiting for Great Uncle Montague, because he was the one whose filch this was. They were also waiting for Jack, because it was unthinkable to begin any meeting until Jack was at the head of the table.
The youngest member of the family, who was called Tansy Fitzglen and had lately been promoted to its inner ranks, was trying not to seem overawed. It was difficult, though, because some of the elders of her family seemed almost legends. Opposite to her was the formidable Great Aunt Daphnis, with, next to her, blustery Great Uncle Rudraige, who still affected muttonchop whiskers in the fashion of the Eighties. Tansy gazed at them both with fascination. Farther along were Aunt Cecily, in a dishevelment of woolly scarves and mufflers since it could be so draughty on stage, and Ambrose, who – Tansy’s father had once told her – was almost entirely responsible for concealing the proceeds of all filches from the prying eyes of officials likely to demand such nuisances as income-tax payments.
Byron Fitzglen, who was nearest to Tansy in age, came to sit next to her, draping himself languidly in his chair, and opening a notebook.
‘I’m making notes about a Gainsborough portrait,’ he said. ‘I believe Uncle Montague’s plan is that he copies it so we can make a switch and sell the original.’
‘Are you chronicling the filches before they’re committed now, Byron?’ said an amused voice from the wings.
Several pleased voices said, ‘Jack!’ and Tansy turned to see Jack Fitzglen standing in the prompt corner, wearing immaculately cut evening clothes, his dark eyes bright, the glow from a nearby gas jet falling across him, turning his hair to pale brown silk. As he walked across to the table, Tansy was aware that in some incomprehensible way the whole atmosphere on the stage had changed.
Augustus Pocket, who was Jack’s dresser and collaborator in most of the Fitzglens’ work both on and off stage, followed him onto the stage, and reported that he had checked all the doors and everywhere was safely locked. The family nodded, approvingly, because Gus could be trusted to make sure no enterprising prowlers could get in and listen to them – that not so much as an itinerant ghost could sneak its way inside; not that the Amaranth theatre actually had any ghosts, or not as far as anyone knew.
‘But I found this posted in the box at the stage door,’ said Gus, handing an envelope to Jack. ‘It’s addressed to “The Fitzglens”.’
‘That wasn’t there when I arrived,’ said Daphnis. ‘Who would deliver a note at this hour?’
‘Ah, midnight, the witching hour,’ remarked Byron. ‘When orbed is the moon, and the stars glisten and listen.’
‘It’ll be a bill,’ said Cecily. ‘It’s always a bill.’
‘Not delivered at twenty minutes to midnight.’
Jack was already reading the envelope’s contents, and frowning. Tansy thought it was extraordinary that someone with golden brown hair could frown so darkly. It was the eyes, of course. Her mother had always said that Jack Fitzglen had the narrow, compelling dark eyes of several of the Fitzglens, adding it pleased her that Tansy had inherited them.
Jack said, in a voice Tansy had never heard him use, ‘This is … oh, God, this is dreadful. It’s from a neighbour of Great Uncle Montague in Notting Hill.’
‘We’ve been waiting for Montague,’ said Rudraige. ‘He’s going to tell us about the Gainsborough he’s after.’
Jack looked up from the letter. ‘I don’t know how to tell you,’ he said, ‘but it seems—’ He made an abrupt movement with one hand, as if pushing something away, then said, ‘Great Uncle Montague tumbled down two flights of stairs earlier today, and – well, he broke his neck.’
‘You don’t mean he’s dead?’
‘Yes, I do. The neighbour says a doctor was called, but he had died instantly. She says everyone in the street is very upset because they were all extremely fond of him.’
There was a stunned silence. Then Rudraige said, ‘Good God, poor old Montague. He was no great age, either, you know. He always
‘He was such a gifted story-teller,’ said Ambrose, sadly. ‘It’s how I always thought of him, you know. A spinner of stories.’
‘But aren’t we all story-spinners?’ said Jack, still staring at the letter. ‘What else is acting out a piece of fiction on a lighted stage for an audience, if it isn’t spinning a story?’
‘Although you never knew quite how much to believe of his stories,’ said Daphnis.
‘He taught me almost everything I know,’ said Byron, his eyes far away. ‘I thought he’d go on teaching me. He was the most remarkable forger you’d ever meet. Did you know there’s a certain painting in the National Gallery that …’ He broke off and shook his head.
‘And to think,’ said Cecily, dissolving in tears, ‘that he’ll never tread these boards again.’
‘But let’s remember he trod them a great many times,’ said Daphnis, firmly. ‘And he never allowed that limp to hamper him. He’ll have tripped over something, of course – one of those wretched footstools he kept littered around the house, I daresay. That house has always been shockingly untidy – even for someone with two sound legs.’
‘I used to offer to go in with brooms and mops,’ said Cecily, ‘but Montague would never hear of it. I think he even enjoyed living in all that disarray.’
Ambrose said, ‘There’ll be a good deal of stuff to sort through. Certainly there’ll be things we’ll have to search for.’
A sudden silence fell, and Tansy, looking from one face to another, had the feeling that they were all silently sharing something that none of them wanted to put into words.
Then with an air of impatience, Aunt Daphnis said, ‘I suppose we all know what Ambrose means.’
She stopped and Jack said, slowly, ‘The famous iron box.’
No one spoke for some moments, but Jack was aware of shared memories thrusting forward. He thought, though, that what had always snared the family’s attention was not that Montague, the incorrigible story-weaver, had woven a tale around the infamous iron box. It was the fact that he had not. He had merely smiled the slightly mischievous smile, and left it to everyone’s imagination as to what the box might contain.
It was Ambrose who finally spoke. ‘D’you know, out of all the stories Montague used to spin, the hints about the iron box stayed in my mind more than anything else.’
‘Because that was all he would ever say,’ nodded Byron.
Daphnis said, ‘But did anyone ever believe it actually existed?’
‘Of course it didn’t exist,’ said Rudraige, firmly. ‘It was Montague enjoying himself, creating an air of mystery. It was the story he refused to tell.’
Jack was grateful to them all for understanding about this, but he said, ‘Are we so sure it didn’t exist, though?’
‘I always thought it was a myth,’ said Byron. ‘No more real than – than the armour of Beowulf, or the Glamis monster.’
‘In Notting Hill?’
‘Yes, but even if the box does exist, would you ever find it in all that untidiness?’ said Cecily.
‘It probably wouldn’t be in the house anyway. Montague would have stashed it somewhere romantic and gothic,’ said Byron. ‘A crumbling gazebo in the back of beyond, or at the bottom of a lonely lake. Full fathoms five, and suffering a sea-change into something rich and strange.’
‘But,’ said Jack, ‘however untidy the house is, we’ll have to go through all his stuff. I think, though,’ he said, thoughtfully, ‘that we’d better keep the legal profession out of it. At the start, anyway.’
‘Of course we will,’ said Rudraige. ‘When did any of us have anything to do with solicitors? Prying creatures, solicitors – looking into matters that don’t concern them—’
‘And possibly turning up things we don’t want known,’ put in Ambrose. ‘There’ll probably be the Title Deeds to the house somewhere, of course, and we’ll have to find out what’s to be done about the place – how it’s been left and so on.’
‘Left to the family, I’d imagine,’ said Jack. ‘Which would mean we’d sell it and divide the proceeds. Ambrose, you’ll be the best person to look into that. Will you come out to the house with me?’
‘I will, of course.’
‘I’d like to come, too,’ said Byron. ‘We need to find Montague’s notes about the Gainsborough filch before anyone else does, as well.’
‘Are we going on with that?’ Cecily wanted to know. ‘As a memorial to Uncle Montague, perhaps?’
‘It would be nice to think we could,’ said Byron.
Jack said, ‘What do you think about bringing in Todworthy Inkling to help with cataloguing Montague’s books?’
There was a thoughtful silence, then Daphnis said, ‘Would Tod venture as far as Notting Hill? He hardly ever emerges from that bookshop, and he likes to stay in his own part of the City – Covent Garden, a few streets around St Martin-in-the-Fields and Seven Dials. It’s part of his legend.’
‘Oh, rot, Tod Inkling goes out and about far more than he lets on,’ said Rudraige. ‘There are several coffee houses near Drury Lane he frequents. He’s been known to eat at Rules as well – get him in the right mood and he’ll tell you how he used to see Henry Irving there. Mind you, I used to see Irving there myself on occasions. He’d pop in on matinee days. I’ve eaten with him, in fact,’ said Rudraige, with studied nonchalance. ‘Steak and kidney pudding, between his Richard III and his Othello, it was. Jack – tell Tod Inkling we’re prepared to pay a fee for cataloguing the books. That’ll bring him.’
TWO
Mr Todworthy Inkling, sought out by Jack the following day, emerged from his lair at the back of the Covent Garden bookshop, and expressed himself delighted to see such an esteemed and valued customer.
He dared say it would be a business matter that had brought Mr Jack to the shop, would it …? Ah, then in that case they would talk in private, since you could never be sure who might be prowling around.
‘Pickers-up of unconsidered trifles, that’s what we get here – and I don’t just mean the theft of my stock.’ He glanced over his shoulder; rather, thought Jack, in the manner of a player in a Feydeau comedy, where suspicious husbands tiptoed along corridors, hoping to catch errant spouses in bedrooms other than their own.
‘Scandal-gathering, that’s what some people come here for, Mr Jack,’ said Todworthy. ‘Of course, I never allow a shred of gossip to escape these walls.’
‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ said Jack, remembering the many extremely confidential pieces of business that had been conducted on these premises, and following Tod between bookshelves creaking under the weight of their contents, and around tables piled with folios of miscellaneous documents. Tod’s private room was at the rear of the building, and incredibly had not been liberated to the brightness of gas lights, so that oil lamps stood around the room, and there was a general air of paraffin and old leather. Few of Mr Inkling’s customers came in here; Jack thought not many of them even knew the room existed. He noticed, though, that a telephone stood on one side of the desk, which was certainly a recent innovation.
Tod waved his visitor to a chair, rearranged the crimson velvet smoking cap without which he had never been seen, and expressed himself as very much saddened and shocked at the news of Montague Fitzglen’s sudden death.
‘I knew him very well, of course,’ he said, and Jack nodded, because Tod had known the entire Fitzglen clan for a great many years.
‘A very astute gentleman,’ said Tod. ‘Very convivial company, as well. Dear me, this is very sad. I have many memories – even times when …’ He frowned and broke off, as if stepping back from something he had been about to say. ‘Please accept my deepest and sincerest condolences, Mr Jack.’
‘Thank you.’ Jack was intrigued to know what memories Tod had looked back on, but the shutters had obviously come down, so he said, ‘We would like your help with cataloguing some of the contents of his house. It’s crammed to the rafters with papers and books and documents, and we would be very grateful for your expert eye.’
