Ministry Protocol: Thrilling Tales of the Ministry of Peculiar Occurrences
Page 10
*****
The barman had not put the pub to rights after they had gone. The stools still lay broken where they’d been left, and the men Miss Snow’s smoke concoction had blinded remained where they lay.
They weren’t groaning anymore.
“Jay-sus, Joseph an’—!”
Miss Snow clapped a hand over Miss Kennedy’s mouth before she completed the gasped refrain. “That’s enough of that, I think,” she said, not unkindly for all the girl had gone white as a sheet and possibly twice as fragile. “The last some poor fool had called on saints in such circumstances, they appeared.” Too much peculiarity about the place. Such things were dangerous.
When the girl swayed, Miss Snow cupped a hand under her elbow and navigated her to the nearest stool.
Only once she was sure the girl had no intention to repeat the names did she remove her hand from Miss Kennedy’s mouth. Poor pitiable thing. It was quite obvious that Miss Kennedy had not been prepared for such an outcome.
Unfortunately, Miss Snow had.
The hearty Irish lads trounced so soundly by Miss Snow’s alchemical workings and Miss Kennedy’s pugilistic fists had not been allowed to regain their senses. They lay where Miss Snow had last marked them, each in a pool of blood, with crimson gashes carved in their necks. Ear to ear, no less.
Someone, or something, had spooked.
The facts just weren’t adding up. Miss Snow found herself wishing she had easier access to the archival arm of the secretive ministry she worked for. Surely the sagacious Thaddeus Monk would know at a glance which piece of the puzzle was missing.
The barman was gone, no surprise there. She should have been more cautious. Bertie Bannigan had been listed as an informant in the research delivered with Director Fount’s orders, but in hindsight, it seemed odd that cruach would be forefront of a common informant’s thoughts.
“The universal issue with informants,” she said thoughtfully, surveying the pub with great care, “is that eventually, even the extremely thick ones start to put things together.”
“You lost me,” the girl replied, croaking it a little.
“Did Bertie Bannigan ever work with your father?”
“Some. In fact, the day before he took ill, he—Oh.”
“Oh, indeed,” Miss Snow agreed. The pub was like most—polished wood and relative bric-a-brac showing off its patrons’ love for all things Irish, ale, whiskey and song. There was a certain discrepancy amongst the Irish that Miss Snow had never quite grasped. All their songs about life and love, war and peace, lust and drink, tended towards a merriment that belied the sorrow of a thousand years of death, heartache, and loss.
An extremely resourceful people.
Her gaze narrowed upon a crack in the farthest wall, little more than a seam.
“Do you suppose Bertie made me da ill?” Miss Kennedy asked, a note of steel entering her voice.
Miss Snow looked at her with measured confidence. “And if he did?”
Her fists clenched, roughened hammers of righteous wrath. “I’d like to hear him say it while he’s still got teeth to say it with.”
Teeth were less than essential for speech, but Miss Snow refrained from pointing this out. “Good girl. Take your coat off and turn it inside out, would you?”
“Why?” The girl did as asked without waiting for answer.
Miss Snow did the same. “Caution. Now, we need somewhere quiet, cool, and like as not to be overlooked. Any thoughts on the matter, Miss Kennedy?”
As she expected, the girl’s gaze went straight for the back. “Aye,” she said, and strode for that wall. She rolled her sleeves up as she did, baring sinewy forearms pale as milk save where the natural ruddiness of her colouring tinted the skin. The revolver in her hand remained gripped tightly.
As it turned out, Bertie Bannigan was every bit the fool Miss Snow considered him.