The Clockwork Wolf

by Lynn Viehl

  “He’s a deathmage, Kit,” he reminded me, seemingly unaware that he’d used my given name. “He wasn’t even born innocent.”

  That didn’t seem fair to me. “Dredmore can’t be blamed for the unfortunate circumstances of his birth, any more than you can scrub Uncle Arthur’s blood out of your veins. Does anyone at the Yard know you’re the grandson of a duke?”

  “Grandda relinquished all claim to the title before he left the Motherland.” His upper lip curled. “As for the lads, they know me to be what I am, the son of a farmer and their chief.”

  I liked that he wasn’t a snob, although he would have done much better for himself by using his family’s connections. If he hadn’t become a cop, he might have been the perfect man for me. Not that I wanted a husband; they always expected wives to clean and cook and carry children. On the list of things I disliked immensely, those three ranked in the top ten.

  Back outside the building Doyle informed his beaters that the premises were safe to reoccupy, and to notify the landlord of the same. He then drove me to the goldstone, and even walked me to the door.

  “Thank you for the ride, Chief Inspector.” I felt too tired to work up a properly cheeky grin. “I promise to report any suspicious parcels delivered to my office in the future. After I immerse them in my tea, of course. I don’t think it matters what color it is.”

  He didn’t laugh. “I’m assigning a beater to stand watch at your office.”

  I suppressed a groan. “For how long?”

  “As long as I bloody wish.” He saw my face and sighed. “Look, Kit, when I was assigned here my parents came along. The bought a farm just outside the city. I know Ma would love to have you there for a long visit. Let me arrange it.” When I didn’t reply he put a hand on my shoulder. “This sort doesn’t like to fail, Kit. They will be coming for you again.”

  “Then I had better find out who they are before they do,” I said lightly. “Good night, Chief Inspector.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I took a carri-cab to the Hill the next morning and gave the driver a good tip along with instructions to return for me at noon.

  “You sure you want to stay here so long, miss?” he asked, casting a wary eye at the windows of Bestly House, all of which had been draped from the inside with dark blue mourning blinds. “They’ve not even put out the doves yet.”

  “Noon, if you please,” I said firmly, hefting my case before I took the walk round the house to the servants’ door.

  It took several minutes before my knock was answered by a very young maid with disheveled hair and a soot-dusted apron. She looked me up and down. “The house ain’t receiving, miss. Master’s died. Don’t you see the windows?”

  From her appearance and tone she was probably the scullery gel, which meant the butler had already abandoned his post. “I’m Miss Kittredge, and your mistress is expecting me. Let me in, and go and tell her I’m here.”

  Doubt screwed up her face. “Not supposed to go upstairs. ’Sides, I’ve got to see to the cooking.”

  “Come on.” I pushed past her and led her through the storeroom and into the kitchens. Unwashed crockery, leftover food, and other rubbish covered nearly every flat surface. On the stove something was busily burning. “Cook leave with the butler, then?”

  “Aye, slipped out last night after her ladyship told us about the master becoming a beast before he died.” The gel fiddled with the sides of her apron. “All the maids are gone, too. Still got a footman, but I think he’s only here ’cause he’s due wages.”

  Scandal turned servants into rats; they never stayed to sink with the ship. I went over and removed a smoking pan of charred sausages from the stove. “What’s your name, gel?”

  “Annie.” She flapped her hands about trying to dispel the smoke. “Annie Hartley.”

  I put the lid back on the open burner. “Why didn’t you go with the others, Annie?”

  “Ain’t been in service but two months. Got no references but what her ladyship might give me, but I didn’t want to ask. Seemed a bit mean-hearted.” She coughed into her sleeve and then gestured at the mess. “ ’Sides, someone’s got to look after herself, right?”

  “Very commendable of you,” I said. “I’ll go upstairs and wake her ladyship. You put on the kettle, see what’s in the cold pantry for tea, and set it up in whatever she uses as her morning room. And for God’s sake, don’t cook.”

  On my way to wake Lady Bestly I noticed other glaring signs of the staff’s negligence: vases of dead flowers, blackened lamp glasses, and doors standing ajar or open. None of the family portraits in the halls had been veiled yet, and as I passed the butler’s room I spotted unopened post and several packages sitting in several heaps on his writing table. I found her ladyship’s bedchamber by following the trail of footprints left on the unswept rugs.

  The neglect of the house should have made me feel a bit smug; servants sneaking out in the middle of the night was only the opening ceremony of the ordeal yet to come. Lady Bestly had always been popular among the ton, for whom there could never be enough rules or kowtowing; to protect their own reputations they’d see to it that her fall from grace was immediate and ugly.

  In a week or less Lady Bestly would occupy hell on earth, or as close to it as her friends and neighbors could make it.

  I rapped on the door. “Milady, it’s Kittredge.” After hearing a muffled “Enter,” I walked in.

  Some sort of fruity cologne saturated the air but failed to disguise the sour scent of puke. A full blue-and-red-striped mourning gown stood at the foot of an unmade bed; something trapped inside it writhed before sighing.

  “It seems my maid has chosen to pursue another position,” the gown said, “and I have never dressed myself. Would you be so kind, Kittredge, as to provide some assistance?”

  I set down my case and went to her, straightening the wadded bodice and sleeves. “Annie Hartley, your scullery gel, was playing at cook when I arrived. You might have her bathe and bring her upstairs before she sets fire to the place.” I glanced at the necessary pot sitting beside the bed and the dark, damp spots on the rug where she’d missed it. “Are you unwell, milady?”

  The face that popped through the high collar of the bodice looked pale and tired under the thick paint and powder. “I am grieving, Kittredge. It does not put roses in one’s cheeks. I can manage the sleeves, thank you.” She presented her back to me so I could button, and I frowned at a large bruise covering her shoulder. “So Cook has vacated her post? And without notice, like the others. How do they expect to find suitable employment without a reference, I wonder.”

  “They’ll use whatever you accepted when you hired them.” I started at the top button and worked my way down. “Everyone will know they were working for you, but once word gets out they’ll all pretend it never happened.”

  “I should have suspected as much when Jarvis left last week.” She tugged at the scarlet lace of her cuffs. “Thirty-two years of service to my husband, and not so much as a farewell to me. Perhaps he’ll have second thoughts.”

  I could have lied to her, but it was time the woman faced facts. “None of them will be back, milady. To return to this house after the story about Lord Bestly is printed would be the same as publicly condoning what your husband did. They’d load bricks in their pockets and jump into the bay first.”

  Her shoulders slumped a little. “I cannot acquire any new servants until after the end of my first mourning. Even then, no one will wish to serve a maniac’s widow.”

  “Lord Dredmore might arrange something, or there are the day-service agencies in town. Their hires aren’t as respectable as live-ins, but they’ll look after you.” As was the custom I left one button unfastened and surveyed the length of her untidy night braid. If she’d never gotten dressed by herself she’d probably never touched a brush, either. “Come and sit by the vanity, and I’ll do your hair.”

  She faced me. “You, attend to my person? I think not.”

  “I can f
etch Annie to do it, if you’d rather,” I offered. “Or the footman waiting on his wage packet.”

  “There’s no one else?” When I shook my head she closed her eyes and swayed a little. “I cannot bear this. It is intolerable. It is indecent.”

  “Don’t dwell on it, milady. You’ll only be sick again.” I took her by the arm and led her over to the vanity, where I eased her into the chair. “I can manage something simple,” I said as I untied the end of her braid. “I won’t pin it too tight; that will only make the throbbing worse.”

  She watched me in the mirror. “How did you know I have a headache?”

  “I always do after I, ah, have bouts of indigestion.” I picked up a brush and began working on the ends. “We do have to talk about your husband, and how he was before he died. All right?” When she nodded, I asked, “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary with him before the incident?”

  She sat back and closed her eyes. “If you mean did he behave differently toward me, no. He spent much of the day in his study, of course, but we always shared luncheon and dinner together. Our conversations were normal. He did not mistreat me or the servants.”

  She was presenting a rather rosy image of her husband, but few wished to speak ill of the dead, who often became such angels in memory. I ran the brush through the white curtain of her hair before I reached for the pin minder. “Where was he spending his nights? At the club, or with a friend?”

  Her shoulders went rigid. “That is not your business.”

  “None of this is,” I agreed. “But if your husband had a particular friend, I will have to know.”

  She pressed her fingers to her mouth before she dropped her hand. “My husband did not seek out such women. He regarded the vows of marriage as sacred, and when he felt need of conjugal intimacy, he came to me.” She caught my gaze in the mirror. “You may regard this as fantastic, Kittredge, but Terrance was an excellent man and a devoted husband.”

  She said that in her president-of-the-Rumsen-Ladies’-Decency-Society tone, which told me two things: either the late Lord Bestly had been genuinely devoted to his wife, or he had shown his deference to her by being extremely discreet. Given that she had as much personal warmth as a mountaintop in December, I’d put my stakes on the latter.

  “Very well, no particular friends.” I tucked a hairpin in place. “Can you recall what he did on the day before he died?”

  “I can’t say for the morning. I hadn’t slept well so I rose rather late that day.” She cleared her throat. “I had luncheon with Terrance at one, and we discussed the weather and gardens. I was concerned about another frost harming the sweet pea vines. He directed Jarvis to speak to the groundsman and have him blanket the new blooms—it was all very normal, Kittredge. Nothing to indicate he entertained violent plans, or felt guilty or remorseful.”

  “Why would he? He hadn’t done anything yet.” I tucked some stray strands under the coil of her chignon. “After your luncheon, did he return to his study?”

  “Yes. No. I believe he went direct to his dressing room to change. I spoke to him in the hall a little before three.” She frowned. “He left shortly after that, and he didn’t return.”

  I picked up a comb and came round to smooth out the front of her hair. “What did you say to him in the hall, exactly?”

  “If you must know, I told him he looked deplorable.” Her jaw tightened. “My last words to my husband were to suggest he sack the valet. Such a warm memory to cherish, don’t you think?”

  “You weren’t to know you’d never see him again. There.” I lowered the comb and stepped back. “I’ve done as much damage as I can.”

  Lady Bestly examined her reflection. “This is good work. Somewhat simple but quite tolerable.” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re very familiar with a maid’s duties for someone who has never been in service.”

  “I’ve played the part a time or two, most often for my mother. Mum loved having her hair brushed.” I let the comb fall onto the vanity table with a clatter. “I directed Annie to put together morning tea for you. She can’t cook so you shouldn’t expect anything hot. While you’re downstairs I’ll have a look at his lordship’s rooms, with your permission.”

  “Of course,” she said. “His bedchamber and dressing room are at the end of the hall. The study is at the back of the house, across from the dining room.”

  “Thank you, milady.” I retrieved my case.

  “Kittredge, any evidence you might locate must be brought to me directly, that I may examine it for myself,” Lady Bestly said. “Nothing you find is to leave the house, is that understood?”

  She doled out insults much more deftly than she did compliments—and she was also frightened, maybe even terrified, of what I might find. “Absolutely, milady.”

  • • •

  I started my search in Lord Bestly’s bedchamber, which appeared to have been tidied but smelled musty, as if no one had entered since the night of his death. I drew back the curtains only to confront the dark blue funeral blind that had been tacked to the frame. Removing it would only further scandalize her ladyship’s neighbors, so I left it in place and instead lit the lamps.

  The chamber could have belonged to any successful gentleman. Several carefully polished trophies marched along the marble mantel above the cold hearth; I read one engraved plaque that proclaimed a hunting victory some thirty years past. The others were of the same age and boasted of his lordship’s prowess at shooting, archery, and tracking.

  “Quite the sportsman in your youth.” Lady Bestly had likely put an end to all that after their wedding; an unfortunate clash with some native hunters twenty years ago had made outdoor sport uncongenial, and therefore unfashionable, among the tonners.

  After taking the magnifying glass and some other tools from my case I looked through Lord Bestly’s armoire, secretary, and boot cases, finding nothing but costly garments and ruthlessly polished leather. He’d dressed mainly in the dark, conservative style of his rank with some startling contradictions; he’d liked complicated cravats that must have bedeviled his valet, and had amassed an astonishing variety of bejeweled lapel pins. I also found a watch case containing a dozen pocket watches, all solid gold and set with diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and other precious stones.

  If he’d left the house on the day of his death looking deplorable, as her ladyship had indicated, it hadn’t been because of his wardrobe.

  The stark cut and sober color of his clothing didn’t fit with the flashiness of his neckties and personal adornments; pairing them would have made him resemble a magpie. Perhaps that was what his wife had found so objectionable. The garments were intended for wearing at home, definitely, but the pins and the watches . . .

  When I went downstairs I’d have to ask her to explain what exactly about his garments had prompted her withering observation.

  The silk coverlet on the bed appeared unwrinkled and spotless, and when I drew it back I found his linens in the same condition. Beneath the bed the necessary was bone dry and occupied by a small, deceased house spider, a dusty web, and a tiny broken egg sac, indicating the pot hadn’t been used or cleaned for quite some time.

  I bent over the bed and sniffed the linens, detecting a strong version of the musty odor. The bed hadn’t been stripped or slept in for weeks, perhaps months. I lifted the mattress on either side to probe it with my ticking pick, but found no cache beneath the edges, and nothing stuffed or hidden in the ticking.

  “The only thing really living in here was that poor spinner,” I muttered.

  I went from the bedchamber to the dressing room, which I found in much the same state. The adjoining lavatory held a large bath, sink, and washstand that hadn’t known water in months. An expensive assortment of pomades, colognes, and soaps filled the toiletry cabinet, but most were dried up or showed the cracks of nonuse. His hairbrush held plenty of dust but not a single hair; his straight razor sported an edge of uneven rust, and lay resting beside a cake of shaving soap so desiccated it had s
hrunk from the edges of its porcelain dish.

  I made a second sweep of both rooms, this time searching for any cashsafes or hidey-hole in which Lord Bestly might have stashed his secrets and warded with concealment magic. After running my echo across every wall and finding nothing, I stomped downstairs to the study.

  The cold of the interior gave me pause on the threshold, and I took a moment to take it in. Here was a room that had been regularly occupied, unlike what I’d seen upstairs; signs of Lord Bestly’s presence were everywhere. A copy of the Rumsen Daily lay partially unfolded on a table by the hearth-side armchair; a half-empty carafe of some dark amber liquor stood sparkling by several crystal tumblers. Neat stacks of correspondence sat on one side of the desk opposite a hefty book with a monogrammed brass marker poking out of its pages. A pair of riding boots, shining with a mirror finish, stood near a cloak stand hung with three different gentleman’s coats.

  Years of the master smoking cigars, handling paper, and sipping strong drink had permeated the study with the pungent but not unpleasant scent of all three. According to his wife, Lord Bestly had spent much of his time in his study. My impression was that his lordship had practically lived in here, although Rina had said lately he’d been entrenched at his club. Perhaps he’d divided his time between both. . . .

  Because this was where I would likely find any real evidence of what had happened to the gentleman, I moved into the room with slow, deliberate steps, turning my head from side to side to inspect everything. I studied the arrangement of the furnishings, read the titles of the books in the glass-fronted shelfairs, and eyed the measures of liquor left in each bottle standing on the libation trolley.

  With the latter I saw something very wrong: three of the decanters had less than an inch of liquor in them. Tonners prided themselves on being able to offer their cronies a drink whenever they came to call; whenever a bottle ran low Lord Bestly would have ordered the butler to refill it.