by Emma Newman
“It sounds like you know her well.”
“All too well. Hateful woman, I hope she catches the pox and is scarred beyond recognition.”
Cathy tried not to grin. “I’m sorry, but you are…?”
“Eleanor,” she said with a smile. “Formerly Dame Iris herself, before that spiteful hag destroyed me. Do close your mouth, dear, I have no desire to see your tonsils. We have a great deal to talk about and I have nothing to pack, so I would like to speak to you as soon as we make our escape. I suspect you’re just the person I’ve been hoping for.”
So that was why so many people followed her lead. “I’m surprised you didn’t stand up straightaway.”
“I wanted to make sure people stood up because they wanted to leave, not because they thought I wanted them to.” She took Cathy’s hand and patted it. “That’s the thing about authority, dear, it can get in the way when you want to be certain that people are doing what they want.”
Ekstrand was lying at the bottom of the stairs when Max found him, his neck broken and his right leg bent at an unnatural angle. He hadn’t been dead long enough to look wax-like. When Max closed his eyelids, it looked like he was asleep.
“He’s here,” Max called to the gargoyle and Rupert. “It must have killed him at the top of the stairs. It doesn’t look like he tried to break his fall.”
Rupert came and stared at Ekstrand as the gargoyle huddled in the corner of the entrance hall, its stone claws over its eyes but still seeing the body as he did now.
“I wonder if it really is him,” Rupert said, crouching down to prod Ekstrand’s cheek. “He could have done the same as me.”
He was talking about the dopplegänger he’d had the gargoyle throw through a Way into his property. Max had seen that through the gargoyle’s eyes as he waited in an Oxford street, wondering whether they’d chosen the right Sorcerer to save.
“But I doubt it,” Rupert said.
Max agreed. “He’s wearing his Sunday clothes. I can’t see him having the time to pick the right outfit, nor would he have needed to in order to fool Dante’s sister.”
“Interesting that she just left the body.” Rupert pulled at the smock and Max noticed a spot of blood on it. “Looks like she put a pin in him to test if his heart had turned to stone.” He looked away for a moment. “I think the dopplegänger’s heart would have done the same. Hard to tell, not knowing how she did it exactly. Of course, if she tried hard enough she’d be able to see it had never really been alive, but it looks like she isn’t the autopsy type.”
“Did you make it because you knew about what she did to the others?”
“I made it because he tried to kill me,” Rupert replied. “I didn’t know about this sister until today. What a fucking mess.” He looked back down at Ekstrand. “Poor crazy bastard. Not even his famous wards were enough.” He pointed at the gargoyle. “Is it broken or something?”
“We’re upset,” the gargoyle said.
“Don’t feel guilty,” Rupert said, straightening up.
“You would say that,” the gargoyle replied.
“Look, if Ekstrand had listened to you both, he’d be alive now. Shit happens.” He raised an eyebrow at the gargoyle’s stare. “Wondering if you made the right choice?”
The gargoyle didn’t answer, neither did Max. The Sorcerer of Mercia was so different from Ekstrand he wasn’t sure what to say or do around him. His boss was dead. Arguably, Rupert had authority over him now, but he wasn’t acting like he did. Once the gargoyle had persuaded him to leave the Bodleian he’d acted swiftly and clearly had an emergency plan ready to go at a moment’s notice. Through the gargoyle’s eyes he’d seen images of large artificial men carrying objects out of rooms. Then they’d rendezvoused with him and from an underground room the three of them watched Ekstrand’s house through a scrying glass, debating what to do next. They said nothing as the Sorceress led a group of Arbiters into the house after breaking the formulae she’d painted on. It had taken her moments to break Ekstrand’s wards and they were in the house for less than five minutes, leaving with surprisingly little. Perhaps Ekstrand’s artefacts weren’t anything special compared to the treasures she’d already accumulated.
After seeing her in action, Rupert announced he was going to fake his own death to everyone, not just her, and go underground. When the gargoyle asked if they could go to see if Ekstrand survived, there had been no argument.
“What do we do now?” Max asked.
“I’ve got a few things to take care of,” Rupert replied. “Do you want me to open a Way for you back to Oxford? Somewhere else?”
“That depends on what you want me to do.”
Rupert frowned at him. “Do what you want. I’m not your master.”
“We’ll stay here,” Max said, wanting to look for Petra and Axon. “Someone has to bury him.”
“You are going to do something about Dante’s sister, aren’t you?” the gargoyle asked.
“Yeah.” Rupert put his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his toes and heels. “Haven’t got a Scooby what that’ll be yet, but I’m not going to hide for ever. It’s gonna take a while to work it all out.”
“Is there anything else you want to know from us?”
He shook his head. “The gargoyle told me where I can find her. Speaking of which, if you need any help, or if you find anything else out, call this number and leave a message with a way to get in touch.” He pulled an old receipt from his pocket and grabbed a pen from the table on the other side of the hall to scribble a phone number on the back. “It’s secure and checked three times a day. Give me yours.”
“I don’t have a phone,” Max said.
“Get one. It’s the twenty-first century, for fuck’s sake. Then leave a message with the number. Just in case I need you.”
Max nodded and put the piece of paper in his inside pocket.
“Thanks for getting me out,” Rupert said. “For what it’s worth, I think you made the right choice. Ekstrand was a relic, like all of the others.”
“What about the Chapters and the rest of the Heptarchy?” Max asked. “No one is protecting the innocents.”
“It sucks, but things change,” Rupert said. “Long overdue, now I think about it. We had things nice and cushy for a thousand years, and that’s probably too long. We got complacent but the fittest will survive. It’s the law of evolution: adapt or die.”
“Do you mean us or the innocents?” the gargoyle asked.
Rupert grinned. “Both. Take care, you two.”
He opened a Way with a silver yo-yo and then they were alone in a silent house.
“The clocks have stopped,” the gargoyle said, its stone ears swivelling like a nervous cat listening for trouble.
“Let’s look for Axon and Petra and bury the bodies,” Max suggested. It needed to be done and it was something they were capable of doing without having to make any far-reaching decisions.
Axon’s body was at the top of the spiral staircase leading down to the library. A tray, smashed teapot and shattered cake plates lay beside him. A few slices of Battenberg had tumbled down the steps, leaving a trail of yellow and pink crumbs and fragmented ribbons of yellow marzipan. The gargoyle’s dry weeping rasped through the room.
Max listened to the noise as he closed Axon’s eyes. He felt nothing. The man at his feet had cared for him when he was a day out of hospital with a broken leg, he’d cooked for him, made sure he ate at least one hot meal a day and given the gargoyle privacy when it had hidden in the parlour or under the stairs, distressed on Max’s behalf.
He’d died alone, doing his job, never a threat to anyone. Max had no idea who his family used to be, where he used to live before he became Ekstrand’s butler or what his life was like. It had ceased to be relevant, like it had for Max. They did their work for the Sorcerer and nothing else mattered. There was no one to inform of his death and no one to mourn him.
Max sat on the top step and slowly reached towards the gargo
yle’s back. He lay his hand on the stone and let his own grief fill him. An ache bloomed in his chest, a physical pressure built, pushing up his throat as his skull felt like it was being gripped in a vice. He coughed once, twice, and then the third time there were tears with it. He thought of the house as it used to be, the quiet comfort that Axon provided, the sound of his gentle throat-clearing at the doorway and the eyebrow twitch when he disagreed but was too polite and well-trained to say anything.
Then he wasn’t only crying for Axon, but also for his mentor, for the researchers and staff at the cloister. They were his friends before his soul was dislocated. They made him laugh, they cheered him on, they fought and argued with him and some competed against him for selection. All the people who knew him when he was a whole person were dead.
He was crying for himself, for the boy he used to be. He wept for everything he had lost, from the chance to have children to the moments of pleasure, relief, satisfaction and a dozen other emotions denied him every day. He was once an innocent. He was once a boy with everything ahead of him and nothing to fear but his mother’s disappointment. She never knew what happened to him. She would have died wondering what happened to her little boy, perhaps even blaming herself for not watching him closely enough. He wept for her too.
For a time there were no thoughts. He was consumed by the physicality of his grief, unable to do anything but draw in the next breath to be released in violent sobs. When he finally came back to himself, he realised the gargoyle’s arms were wrapped around him and his arms were clinging to its waist, his head on its stone shoulder.
“That’s better,” it said. “Are we all right?”
“Yes,” Max said and thought about letting go but didn’t. He was afraid, he realised. There was no one to tell him what to do and the case was solved, even if the perpetrator was still free. There were no more leads to pursue and nowhere safe to go. The Chapter was gone, it was likely the other Chapters would soon disintegrate or were already destroyed, and he had no means to find them anyway.
“It’ll be all right,” the gargoyle said, its arms still around him. “We’ll work something out. We could…go fishing or something.”
Max laughed at thought of the two of them in a rowing boat and the sound startled him. He let the hope that everything would work out fill him for a moment more and then pulled back. The gargoyle released him and Max settled back into the neutral state he was used to. His cheeks were still wet; he dried them with the sleeve of his coat and then stood.
“Let’s find Petra.”
They expected her to be in the library. Max sent the gargoyle down the steps, just in case any of Ekstrand’s wards were still active on the doorway to the library. It was empty and there were gaps on the shelves. They searched the rest of the house, from the basement to the attic, even in the rooms that used to be out of bounds. None of the locks had been left unbroken by Ekstrand’s murderer, but Petra was nowhere to be seen.
“Perhaps she was out when it happened,” the gargoyle said. Max could hear the hope in its voice.
“Let’s go and find the best place to bury Mr Ekstrand and Axon,” Max said. “Maybe she’ll come back.”
They went out the back door, using the key Axon had used to get from the Nether house into Mundanus. It was becoming dark so Max headed for the bushy borders at the edge of the lawn to look for a place where they could dig without being noticed.
“Max!” Petra called from a far corner of the garden. By the time he had worked out the direction, she was running towards him. She threw her arms around him and sobbed until the gargoyle arrived.
“Were you in Mundanus when it happened?” Max asked.
“No,” she said with a sniff. “I was in the library. I heard Axon drop the tray and…” She broke down.
After taking her into the anchor property, Max and the gargoyle managed to get enough out of her to piece together what had happened. She believed the library’s wards—more extreme than any others in the house—managed to protect her from the initial attack. At first she hid, then when she ventured out she heard intruders in the house and barricaded herself in the library, carrying out Ekstrand’s instructions to save the most precious books in the event of an emergency.
“And then I came into Mundanus and hid in the garden,” she finished. “I couldn’t go back in there, not by myself.”
Max made tea in the Nether kitchen and brought it through, and they drank it on the back step of the house as the stars came out. Between them, Max and the gargoyle told Petra what they saw in the tower, and how they saved Rupert. Neither of them mentioned the fact they chose to save him instead of Ekstrand.
Unable to rest whilst the bodies were left in the Nether, the three of them dug two graves and buried Mr Ekstrand and Axon side by side beneath two giant conifer trees. Petra knelt at Ekstrand’s graveside, weeping for hours, until Max and the gargoyle agreed to bring her inside and light a fire.
The gargoyle found food for them in the fridge and they ate in silence. More tea was drunk by the light of the fire in the mundane living room and the gargoyle lay at Max’s feet, resting against the toes of his shoes like a faithful dog.
“I know what I want to do,” Max finally said and Petra jumped. The gargoyle rested its head on Max’s knee and he knew that he’d made the right decision.
“What is it?”
“I want to start my own Chapter. I want to protect the innocents. We might need to do it differently, but I want to find a way.”
“I’ll help you,” Petra said. “Those books will be useful and I know how to read them safely. And I know where Mr Ekstrand hid some of his artefacts. They might still be there.”
“We’ll need a new cloister,” the gargoyle said. “This place isn’t safe enough. She knows where it is.”
“Rupert can help us with that,” Max replied. “We’ll have to learn how to use the internet too. It might help us to find breaches whilst we recruit staff.”
“It sounds like a plan,” the gargoyle said and Petra agreed. “Can I just make one request?” it added. When Max nodded, it said, “Can we have just one day off first?”
“Yes,” Max said. “We’ll go fishing.”
28
When the front door wasn’t opened as he reached the top step, Will knew something was wrong. One of the footmen, returned with the released Irises in Oxenford, hurried to open it for him.
“Morgan?” Will called as he entered. He saw two maids rushing across the top of the stairs, bed linen piled high in their arms. There was the sound of people, lots of them, but scattered all over the house rather than the concentrated roar created by a party.
A grey-haired woman came out of a nearby room. “Who’s Morgan?”
“Who are you?” He watched another elderly woman follow her out. “What in the Worlds is going on here? Where is my wife?”
The woman pointed down the hallway, towards Cathy’s library.
“Find Morgan,” Will told the nearest footman. “The rest of you stay nearby in case I need you.”
He passed the two ladies, who were whispering to each other, and caught sight of more people in the drawing room with them. He quickened his pace as much as he could, feeling cheated of the warm and relieved welcome he’d anticipated, the pain in his ankle adding to his irritation.
He could hear Cathy as he approached the door of her library.
“Don’t tell me what I have the right to do or not! You can’t say I’ve stolen those people unless you claim to own them, and I’m certain you can’t do that.”
“They are the property of the Agency.” The man’s voice was familiar. Will stopped and waved a hand to his footmen to stay back. He would learn more if he stayed quiet and listened.
“Quite apart from the fact it’s a foul claim to make, saying they are your property only proves that you’ve been conning us—and the entirety of Society—by charging for their wages. I know for a fact that since I established this household I’ve paid over twenty thousand
pounds in wages and not a single penny of that has gone to my staff.”
“You were paying for their time and our management of—”
“Don’t try and wriggle out of this! And don’t try and tell me that the people who have chosen to work for me don’t have the right to do that, because I’ve given it to them. If you try to take them from this house, or threaten any of them, I’ll tell every single wife that runs a household in Albion that they’ve been collectively paying the Agency millions of pounds for hundreds of years to do nothing but run a slave racket.”
“You think they’ll care?” the man laughed. “All they’ll care about is whether the linen is clean and the chamber pots emptied.”
Will didn’t like the way he spoke to Cathy. There was no deference and no respect. It sounded like he was from the Agency. Was it someone he’d dealt with in the past?
“If you return the staff and patients to the asylum and accept that your staff will be replaced here, your reputation will remain intact,” the man continued. “You know the consequences should you cause any further problems for us.”
Blackmail! Will touched the door handle, about to open the door and slam the man against a wall when he heard Cathy speak.
“Your note stated, very clearly, that should I cause the slightest inconvenience or loss of income to your venerable establishment Dame Iris would be told about my past. I’m rather confused by this conversation. Why aren’t you with her now, telling her all about my terrible secret?”
Her question made Will pause. He wanted to hear the answer. As the man hesitated, Will remembered where he’d heard that voice before: the hospital, the day she was stabbed. He was the Agency man he’d bribed to keep her mundane history secret. He’d done it to protect Cathy, and the vile dog had used the information to blackmail her. He gripped the handle tighter.
