by Lynn Viehl
The apple and pear brandies remained full, as did all of the smaller schnapps. Only one bottle had been completely emptied, and I picked it up and lifted the stopper to smell it. The strong odor of blue ruin still clung to the inside of the decanter. The selection of spirits made it plain that Bestly often drank at home, but why bother when he could freely indulge at his club? Unless he went there for other reasons. . . .
The door behind me opened. “Fancy a drink, miss?”
I turned round to see a younger man grinning at me. His livery identified him as the lingering footman and, judging by the badly wrinkled state of his sleeves, trousers, and jacket, he’d evidently slept in it. His bloodshot eyes were a light blue made disagreeably insipid by the darkness of his olive skin and the greasy gleam of his heavily pomaded black hair. The distinctive bridge of his nose suggested that at least one of his parents had been Talian.
“I don’t drink spirits. They make my eyes red.” I replaced the gin bottle on the trolley. “And what is your name?”
“Roger Akins, at your service, miss.” He abstained from a bow and tramped toward me. “The pretty gels all call me Jolly. ’Cause I am, you see.”
The smell rolling toward me told me what fate Lord Bestly’s blue ruin had met.
“Is this jolliness a perpetual state,” I asked, “or something you enjoy only after you help yourself to the master’s liquor?”
“Posh talk for a shopgel,” he said with a sneer. “What you come here to sell her? Gloves? Hats? Sashes? Give it up, she can’t wear nothing new.” He squinted at me. “Or are you one them what chases out unwholesome spirits? What they call them, exormages?”
“I am here to tidy up,” I agreed.
“Should have said.” Giving me more of a wary look he veered away and went to the trolley, where he filled a tumbler with whiskey. “Sure you don’t want a sip? It’s top notch, best quality. Still burns going down, but won’t leave you with a raw gullet.”
“I never indulge, thank you.” I saw Lady Bestly appear in the doorway behind him. “It’s also rather early to be drinking.”
“Bah.” He swatted at the air between us. “Herself’s like you, don’t take no spirits. Rest of household’s run off in the night.” He leaned forward and added in a mock-whisper, “So if someone has a bit of a nightcap when the day’s work’s done, or even before it starts, who’s to know, ay?”
“As you say, mate.” I kept my gaze on him. “What did you sample besides the drink?”
“Couple of them cigars.” He made a hideous face at the humidor. “Don’t smoke easy like cigs. Couldn’t hardly keep them lit.”
He hadn’t been in the upstairs chambers or he’d have stuffed his pockets with his lordship’s pins and watches. “Nicked anything good for yourself?”
“Stealing from a widow’s a sin.” He drained his glass and belched. “I did see some of her good silver’s gone. Bet it walked off with that Jarvis, the coin-grubber.” He nodded as if he’d just convinced himself of that fact before giving me a leer. “Want to give the brandy a taste, then? It’s wretched sweet, but you might fancy it.”
I glanced past him. “I believe that’s all, milady, but I recommend you have his cases checked before he leaves.”
“What? Who?” Akins spun round, staggering as he saw Lady Bestly and grabbing a chair to right himself. “Your ladyship, I—I—I found this shopgel in here, drinking up the master’s gin—”
“Forgot to say,” I murmured to him. “Not a shopgel.”
Lady Bestly strode into the room. “You are dismissed for drunkenness and thievery, Mr. Akins. Collect your belongings and leave the house at once.”
“Blind me, I wouldn’t steal from you, milady—”
“She heard everything you told me,” I advised him. “Dunce.”
“I’m owed wages, I am,” Akins whined. “It’s the only reason I stayed long as I have.” He gave Lady Bestly an ugly look. “And I ain’t leaving till I get what’s due me.”
I coshed him smartly with the empty gin container and watched him pitch forward into a heap. “Is Mr. Akins due anything more, milady?”
“I should think that will suffice, Kittredge.” Lady Bestly gave the unconscious footman a final glance before ringing the bell. When Annie trotted in she ignored the scullery’s wide-eyed gasp and said, “Hartley, please summon a patrolman to remove Akins and his belongings. Oh, and before he is taken away, do see that none of the family silver has fallen into his baggage.”
“Right away, milady.” Annie scurried off.
Lady Bestly regarded me. “If you would join me in the drawing room, Hartley has kindly prepared tea.”
“Thank you, milady.” I put the decanter back on the trolley. “I am a little thirsty.”
Once in the drawing room I accepted a dainty cup of the blackest tea I’d ever seen, and held it as I surveyed what appeared to be a feast for twenty crammed haphazardly on the serving table. I counted five loaves of bread, seven bowls of fruits and nuts, a quivering gold and pink tower of diced ham in aspic, and more crumpets, scones, and cakes than a busy bakery could sell on a morning before a holiday.
“You will need a cook, milady,” I said as I stared at one platter containing a cold roast of beef as big as my head that Annie had surrounded with a dozen unpeeled red apples. “Tonight at the very—is this everything in your cold panty?”
Lady Bestly’s expression was serene as she offered me the cream pot. “I do believe it is.”
• • •
Once Akins’s baggage had been searched and his person removed by the nobber, I returned to the study to continue my search. I rechecked the decanters of spirits, this time with dippers, but found no trace of poison or drugs. I also went through every paper, letter, and other document in Lord Bestly’s desk, all of which pertained to either his social schedule or his household routine. His lordship had not kept a journal or diary, and reading his brief, dry personal correspondence made me yawn so often I nearly nodded off.
Bored, I performed a final, methodic search of the furnishings, cabinets, and walls, but once more I found nothing hidden or bespelled. Everything was as it should have been, and it frustrated me. This was not the lair of a lunatic killer; nothing suggested Lord Bestly had been committing atrocities in secret or making a slow descent into madness. Everything indicated he’d lived a proper gentleman’s life occupied by the usual pursuits of his class, one that was so ordinary it seemed colorless.
“What life?” I muttered as I paced the room. “The man had no life here. He didn’t sleep in his bed or shave or bathe or—” I stopped in my tracks.
Lord Bestly hadn’t lived in the house. He’d put on a ruse of it, but he’d been sleeping and bathing elsewhere. But where?
Rina’s voice echoed in my head. Founded a gent’s club . . . practically lives there . . .
“Miss?” Annie peeked in at me. “Your carri’s waiting outside.”
“Thank you, Annie.” Distracted now, I turned to her. “Where is Lady Bestly?”
“Milady went into town to see her physick. She’s been feeling poorly in the mornings.” Annie twisted her hands in her apron. “Sorry about the tea, miss. I didn’t know what to put out from the panty, so I put out everything. That was wrong, I knew it, but . . .” She hesitated before she said, “Will she give me the sack for it, you think?”
“She’d be daft if she did. You’re the only one who hasn’t walked out on her. But if she does”—I dug a calling card out of my reticule and offered it to her—“you come and see me in town. I’ll find another position for you.”
“Would you, really?” Her face brightened as she took the card. “That’s ever so nice of you, miss.” She hesitated before she added, “I know what they been saying the master done, but he weren’t like that at all. He always had a kind word for everyone, even me.”
“Is that right?” In any other household a scullery would never have had any dealings with family. “When did his lordship speak with you last, Annie?”
/>
She smiled. “Every day, miss. He liked to come through the kitchens when he was leaving for town. Once, when Cook was at market, he stayed and had a talk with me.”
I nodded. “And what did he say to you that day?”
“He asked after me parents, and said he was sorry when I told him they’d passed on. Then he wanted to know what I been doing on me half days. He told me about this nice place for a picnic.” She sighed. “Honestly, miss, he made me so nervous I forgot to watch the fire. Burned a whole pot of stew. Thought Cook would pull me ear off when she got back.”
Bestly had been up to something, but with the scullery? “Did you ever go and have a picnic, Annie?”
“Oh, no, miss.” Annie shook her head. “I stay in me room on me half day. Only chance I get to sleep past dawn.”
“This nice place he told you about,” I persisted, “did it have a name?”
She nodded. “Rosings Park. The master liked to visit it, too.” Her face clouded. “It’s where they found him when he died.”
CHAPTER FIVE
When I returned to the city I went to the office and paid a visit to the Dungeon to see if Docket had recovered, but the old mechanic was nowhere to be found. I spent the next hour going door to door to make my apologies to the other tenants. Most of them were familiar with my business, and gracious enough to accept my explanation, which was a politic retelling of some of the truth: a poorly addressed parcel of powerful farming fertilizer had been sent through the tubes for weeks before being accidentally delivered to me. My clumsiness had caused the parcel to fall into a bucket of old tea, which had saturated it, activated the fertilizer, and resulted in the unpleasant smell.
I would have given myself the credit for eradicating the stink, too, but I couldn’t think of a lie to explain how and instead credited an unnamed mage of my acquaintance whom I’d brought in for the cleanup.
Everyone seemed to believe my tale except for Fourth, who was having none of it.
“There are no farms or farmers in the city,” Gremley informed me, “and even if there were, the merchants who sell to them do so in such quantities as would never fit in a tube.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Perhaps it was a sample of some sort.”
“I should say not. The properties of fertilizer are universally known.” He regarded me. “To my mind I think this some sort of attack on you and your business, Miss Kittredge, and if it was, that cannot be tolerated.”
“Your concern does you credit, Mr. Gremley.” And wishing he was a little stupider wouldn’t make it so. “I have met with Chief Inspector Doyle of Rumsen Main, however, and I know the police will be looking into the matter.”
“I do not mean to badger you, Miss Kittredge,” he said, “but it is ever a gentleman’s strictest duty to protect the fair sex.”
I smiled. “I feel safer already, Mr. Gremley. Now I will stop taking up your valuable time and return to my own labors.”
“Oh, please, not just yet.” His cheeks pinked as he added, “Forgive me, I dislike imposing on you, but would it be terribly inconvenient to ask for your opinion on a matter of feminine taste?”
“I am the least feminine woman I know,” I admitted, “but I certainly have more opinions than New Parliament. Please, ask.”
“It is only this.” Fourth opened his desk drawer, from which he removed a small white velvet-flocked box. He held it as if he expected it to explode. “I intend to ask Mr. Skolnick for permission to marry Maritza.” His hand trembled as he held out the box. “This is what I shall be offering my beloved. Unless you think it hideous.”
I took it and removed the lid to reveal the contents.
“I know it is not especially grand,” Fourth said quickly, “but I rather liked it.”
I held up the thin filigree engagement ring. The dainty thing sported five small citrines and a garnet fashioned into the shape of a bloom.
“Why do you choose a daisy?” I asked, looking up at him.
He went red. “Maritza is always picking them when we take a turn in the park. She has never said, but I think it her favorite Torian flower.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I would give her diamonds and rubies, but such are beyond my means. Is it too humble, do you think?”
“On the contrary, sir. I think it the most lovely and thoughtful engagement ring I have ever beheld.” Carefully I returned it to its case and handed it back to him. “I also predict that Miss Skolnick will be offering much in the way of gratitude to the luckiest of her stars. Just after she says yes.”
He beamed. “Oh, you are very good, and surely the best of friends, Miss Kittredge.” He seized my hand and tried to shake it off my arm.
As soon as I could politely extract myself I said, “I must get on with my business at hand. I meant to ask, did you see Mr. Docket this morning?”
Sorrow replaced his joy. “Mr. Billson from Talbot’s Shipping on two told me that he’d seen the poor old gent last night at hospital, when he went there to visit his brother. From what he described I fear Mr. Docket is very ill.”
“Hospital.” My throat tightened and I hurried out, turning round and dashing back in to ask, “Did Mr. Talbot say which hospital he visited, Mr. Gremley?”
“I believe it was Saint Albert’s on the North.”
I gave him my thanks and ran out to the street, where there were no carri-cabs in sight. Going on foot was out of the question; Saint Albert’s on the North lay on the other side of the city, at least twenty miles away.
An only too-familiar gray coach stopped at the curb in front of me, and the door with Dredmore’s spike-and-fist crest swung open. At the same time a carri trundled to a stop just behind it, and Doyle peered round the back of the coach at me.
Here then were my prospects of immediate transportation; I had only to decide if I wanted to go with the assassin or the copper.
I spotted a trolley coming to a stop on the other side of the street and darted between the two. “Another time, Inspector,” I called back to Doyle. I glanced over at Dredmore’s coach, shrugged, and ran to board the trolley.
I paid the fare for two transfer exchanges and a return before I went to the back and sat in a rear-facer so I could watch the back. I didn’t think Tommy would follow me crosstown, but Dredmore might. Once the coast was clear I heard the sound of huffing on my left and glanced at the pudgy clerk occupying the other half of the seat. “Afternoon.”
He sniffed and turned his face away, watching the buildings we passed with a permanent glower of disapproval.
The older man seated across from us lowered the top half of the newspaper he was reading. “You should have a maid with you, young woman.”
What he meant was I shouldn’t have been on the trolley at all; real ladies never stooped to make use of such public transport.
“I just learned that a friend of mine is in hospital, sir,” I told him. “I couldn’t wait for a maid, even if I did have one.”
“The violence of one’s affections must be tempered with the proper attention to one’s reputation.” He snapped his newspaper back up.
What he said made me go still, but not because I took it to heart. The violence of one’s affections . . .
Lord Bestly hadn’t been sleeping or bathing at his home for months, but he’d maintained the appearance that he was. I sensed that his facade hadn’t been merely for his wife’s benefit, either. Everything at the house had felt staged, as if Bestly hadn’t wanted to leave a single clue about the life he had been living elsewhere.
I didn’t know his reason for such absolute concealment; they could be anything from a gambling problem to a second, bigamous marriage. It wasn’t a penchant for the company of harlots; Rina would have known about that. Whatever his lordship had been up to, however, had been something so unworthy as to make him beyond reticent; he’d probably gone to great lengths to erase all evidence of it.
“Because if he hadn’t, his reputation would have been destroyed,” I muttered to myself. “But what could be so ruinou
s?”
The clerk gave a second, stronger sniff and shifted another inch away from me.
• • •
It took another hour and two changes of trolleys to reach Saint Albert’s on the North, which like so many across the territories had once been called something else but was renamed in honor of Her Majesty’s father, Prince Albert. We had so many, in fact, that some people had taken to calling all hospitals Berties for short.
This one was very old, the very first built in the province after the occupation. It had always been run by the Conscientious Claires, an odd order of nuns who had long ago broken from the papists to take up marriage, nursing, and an unwavering devotion to the Church of England. They were easy to spot in the city, for they always wore bright blue frocks with red-and-white-striped pinafores.
I was met in the front entry by a young, brisk-looking nurse holding a notebook and pen. “Welcome to Saint Albert, miss,” she said, looking me over with expectant eyes. “Patient or visitor?”
“I’ve come to see Reginald Docket.” If he was very ill they would only permit family access, so I added, “I’m his niece, Kit.”
She consulted her notes. “Docket, Docket, ah yes. Sir Reginald is in the Recovery Hall.”
Sir Reginald? “Where is that, please?”
She used her pencil to point to the right. “Just down that hall, on the left at the end. Your uncle’s room is on the right, 714. Visiting hours end at six, but you’ll hear the bell.”
I thanked her and followed her directions to a narrow hall of patients’ rooms, and nodded to some other nurses pushing linen and medicine carts. Although most of the rooms stood open, I found the door to room 714 closed, and knocked twice before I stepped inside.
Two beds stood divided by a hanging blue-and-white-striped curtain, and the first was empty. I approached silently, drawing back the curtain with a trembling hand as I braced myself for the worst.
Docket lay huddled with his back to me, his body shrouded beneath a heavy wool blanket. I’d never realized how old he was until now, seeing him like this, so frail and helpless. I didn’t want to wake him, but if he was dying . . .
