by Emily Larkin
“Their names.”
“Smith,” the postilion said promptly.
“What did they look like?”
The postilion scratched his head. He had a weather-beaten face beneath ginger hair. “They was big men, like you.”
Marcus waited, but Samuel seemed to have nothing more to say. “That’s it? That’s all you can remember about them?”
The postilion shrugged. “They wasn’t men as stood out, sir. I don’t rightly know I’d reco’nize ’em if I saw ’em again.”
Marcus kept his patience with effort. “You’d never seen them before?”
“Not so’s I remember, sir.”
“Your employer says they didn’t stop to dine here. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. They left as soon as we got ’ere. In an ’urry, like.”
“Did you hear anything they said? Either today or yesterday?”
“I was riding the leader,” the postilion said regretfully, looking at the half-crown as if he expected it to be withdrawn. “I didn’t hear but one word they said.”
“Your colleague, Joseph, do you think he might have?”
The postilion shrugged. “I couldn’t rightly say, sir.”
“Where would I find him?”
“He’s got hisself a new girl. Dunno where she lives.”
Marcus clenched his jaw. “When is he due back here?” Some of his frustration leaked into his voice, but the postilion didn’t appear to hear it.
“We’s booked for a ride to Watford at five o’clock.”
“Then I shall return later this afternoon.” Marcus gave him the coin.
“Thank you, sir.” The postilion tugged his forelock and headed in the direction of the taproom.
Marcus strode back to the street. The anticipation that had hummed in his veins was gone. Half an hour. He’d missed them by half an hour.
He wanted to snarl at the elderly lady who stepped unwittingly into his path, wanted to yell at the footman who held the carriage door open for him. Marcus took a deep breath and released it with a slow hiss.
He climbed into the carriage. Albin still slept in the far corner.
* * *
Marcus shook Albin awake as the carriage entered Grosvenor Square. “We’ve arrived, lad.”
Albin sat up groggily. He peered out the window. “What about the Bull and Mouth?”
“I’ve been there.” Frustration leaked into his voice again. The postilion hadn’t noticed it; Albin did.
“What happened, sir?”
“They’d gone. I spoke to the innkeeper and one of the postilions and learned nothing.” The carriage slowed. “I’ll return this afternoon to speak to the second postil—” Marcus gave a snarl of rage and wrenched the carriage door open, jumping down before the vehicle had fully halted.
Albin scrambled down after him.
Eight windows. Broken.
“Does today’s date have any significance, sir?” Albin asked. A cold wind blew through the square, sending dead leaves scurrying. “The fire and now this—”
“And there was shit left.” The steps leading up to the front door were damp. The smell of scrubbing soap was strong.
Impotent rage swelled in Marcus’s chest. He felt like picking up a cobblestone and smashing what was left of the windows himself.
The door opened. His butler hurried down the steps, wringing his hands. “Sir, I’d hoped that by the time you arrived—”
Marcus forced a smile to his mouth. “It’s of no matter, Fellowes.” Two glaziers were at work installing new panes of glass. “What time did it happen?”
“Between two and three this morning, sir. The night watchman was good enough to knock on the door and let us know. The back door, I should say, sir. The front steps were . . . er—”
“Piled high. Yes, I can see.” Marcus turned back to the carriage. The coachman and two footmen were dusty from the journey, their faces unshaven, weary. The coachman had a smear of soot across his brow. “Thank you for your service at Hazelbrook last night,” Marcus said. “You may have the rest of the day off.”
The coach clattered around to the mews. Within minutes the tale of the conservatory burning down would be circulating among the servants.
“Mr. Albin will be staying for a few days, Fellowes. He may have the Blue Room.”
“Very good, sir.”
He climbed the damp steps. Fellowes closed the door, shutting out the scent of scrubbing soap. Marcus could smell beeswax polish, his own sweat, the stink of smoke. “Tell Mrs. Maby we shall both want baths.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m going to bed,” he told Albin. “I suggest you do the same. I’ll be leaving for the Bull and Mouth at four o’clock, if you wish to accompany me.”
Chapter Seventeen
The second postilion, Joseph Timms, reminded Marcus of a cockerel—cocky, confident, a strut in his step. He was flirting with a chambermaid at the back of the Bull and Mouth, but abandoned this activity when he saw them. “Sam told me you come round asking questions.” His manner was expectant.
Marcus extracted a half-crown from his pocket. “Your passengers to and from Tewkes Hollow. I’d like to know everything you can tell me about them.”
Joseph was happy to comply, but he had little to tell: he’d never seen the two men before and doubted he’d recognize either of them again. “They was ordinary, sir.”
“How old were they?”
Joseph shrugged. “Older than ’im—” he jerked his thumb at Albin, “—but younger ’n you.”
“Tall? Short?”
“About as tall as you, but heavier, like.”
“And Smith was the name they gave?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did they call each other any other names that you heard?”
“No, sir.”
“When they reached London, what happened?”
“Nothin’, sir. They paid up and left.” He reached for the half-crown.
Marcus kept hold of the coin. “Did you hear them say anything? Anything at all?”
Joseph gave another shrug. “One of ’em wanted to stop for a glass of daffy. To celebrate their success, ’e said. But the other ’un said no. Someone was waitin’ for ’em and ’e’d be cross if they weren’t there as fast as could be.”
“Someone?” Excitement flared in his chest. “Was the name Monkwood?”
The postilion shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Langford?”
Another shake of the postilion’s head.
“Brashdon? Hyde? Keynes?”
“No, sir, none of them.” Joseph’s brow wrinkled in an effort of concentration. “It weren’t a real name . . . I misremember exactly, but it were something like ’is ’ighness, or ’is lordship or . . . or . . . ’is nibs. That were it! They called ’im ’is nibs.” He held out his hand again.
“His nibs?” Marcus frowned. “And other than that they said nothing that you heard?”
Joseph gave a cocky grin. “One of ’em said he needed a piss, when we got to Clapham.”
“Did they leave here on foot?” Albin asked. “Or by hackney?”
The postilion shrugged. “How’d I know?”
“Might someone have noticed?”
“Doubt it. It were right busy ’ere this mornin’.”
Marcus gave him the coin. “Thank you.”
“What kind of accents did they have?” Albin asked, as the postilion turned to go. “Were they Londoners?”
“They was from Lunnon. Whitechapel, I’d say.” He put the coin in his pocket and headed for the stables, whistling.
“We could ask the hackney drivers,” Albin suggested. “See if one of them remembers—”
“Do you know how many hackneys there are in London?” Marcus kicked a stone savagely across the yard. “Hundreds!” His promising lead had evaporated. He wanted to tip back his head and howl his frustration at the darkening sky like a child.
“If only I’d run faster,” Albin said, his fac
e miserable. “If I’d seen them more clearly—”
“The innkeeper in Tewkes Hollow couldn’t describe them, and he saw more of them than anyone. They must be singularly unremarkable men.” Marcus strode back to the street and climbed into his town carriage.
Albin followed silently.
Church bells were ringing when they reached Grosvenor Square, calling worshippers to evening service. Marcus didn’t want to go to church; he wanted to go to Jackson’s Saloon and hit something.
But it was Sunday, and Jackson wouldn’t be at his saloon.
All the smashed windows had been replaced. The blank, unbroken panes of glass didn’t improve his mood. Marcus scowled, and climbed the steps to his front door. Albin, normally at his heels, lagged behind. His gait had a slight limp.
“Stiff?”
“A little,” Albin admitted.
“Have a hot bath. That’s an order!”
“Yes, sir,” Albin said meekly.
Marcus strode past his study, strode past the library, and took the stairs two at a time down to the cellar where his punching bag hung. He stripped out of his tailcoat and waistcoat and tossed them aside, pulled off his neckcloth, rolled up his shirt- sleeves.
* * *
They dined together, the two of them at the long polished mahogany table in the dining room. The earl no longer vibrated with suppressed rage. He ate silently, a deep frown on his brow.
“At least we know it wasn’t Sir Barnaby, sir,” Charlotte ventured, after the second course had been placed on the table and the footmen had retreated from the room.
Cosgrove lifted his eyes from his plate. “I wish I knew the significance of today’s date.”
“Perhaps there is none.”
“Perhaps.” Cosgrove returned to frowning contemplation of his food.
Charlotte chewed slowly. I could go back to the Bull and Mouth tonight. If the men didn’t leave by hackney, I might find a scent to follow.
A scent to follow.
She looked up. “Sir . . . are the windows always broken at the same time each night?”
Cosgrove pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair. “Between one and four.” He picked up his wine glass. “Are you suggesting we mount watch? Try to catch him in the act? It’s been done, lad. Myself and several of the servants kept watch, back in September. We saw him, but he was faster than Hermes. Gone—” he snapped his fingers, “—like that. And if you think you’re a fast runner, so is one of the grooms. He couldn’t get close to him.”
“What did he look like?”
Cosgrove shrugged. “Too dark to tell.”
Charlotte laid down her cutlery. “What if I didn’t try to catch him, sir? What if I just followed him? To see where he went?”
“I think you’ll lose sight of him.” Cosgrove shrugged, sipped his wine. “You may try if you wish. Rudkin can go with you. He’s the fast runner.”
Charlotte hesitated. How to turn this request down? She lined the knife and fork up on her plate, precisely parallel. “He’s less likely to notice one person following than two, sir.”
“And you’re more likely to get into trouble if you’re alone.” Cosgrove shook his head. “No, you’ll take Rudkin.”
Charlotte bit her lip against further arguments.
“You may start tomorrow night, if you wish. Tonight, I think you’re too tired.”
Charlotte ducked her head. When the earl looked at her like that, with kindness in his eyes—
She turned the knife and fork over on her plate, lined them up again. “You think it’s a waste of time, sir?”
“I do. But if you prove me wrong, lad, I’ll be delighted.”
* * *
Charlotte locked her bedroom door, stripped out of Albin’s clothes, sat on the edge of the bed, and closed her eyes. “I wish to be a sparrow.” The familiar insect-itch of magic prickled over her skin and through her bones.
She opened her eyes. The bed had become a precipice, terrifyingly high, terrifyingly sheer.
Charlotte flinched back. The hands she put out instinctively to catch her balance were wings.
Panic surged inside her. Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut, battling the urge to change back into herself. She took a deep breath. Exhaled it. Took another breath. Waited for her heart to beat a little less loudly, a little less fast. Inhaled again. Cautiously opened her eyes.
The room was a vast cavern filled with looming furniture. Bed hangings towered above her like cliffs. The ceiling was as high as the sky.
Charlotte’s heartbeat became louder again. It was deeply wrong to be this small. Deeply wrong to have wings instead of arms.
No. Not wrong. This is right for a sparrow.
Charlotte sat for several minutes, finding her balance in this new, strange body—the tail projecting behind her, the beak jutting from her face, the wings. The sense of wrongness slowly faded. The sound of her heartbeat quietened.
I’m a bird.
She flapped her wings tentatively, a tiny movement, not enough to lift herself off the bed, but enough to give her a momentary sense of weightlessness. It felt . . . odd.
Charlotte folded her wings and peered over the edge of the bed. It was a long way to the floor. Jumping off felt like an extremely dangerous thing to do.
Birds do it all the time.
She blew out a breath and resolutely spread her wings. One. Two. Three.
Charlotte jumped.
Her heart seemed to stop in fear—and then her wings caught the air. She glided across the bedchamber, as light as a wind-blown leaf.
I’m flying!
The dresser reared at her, colossal, with hard, sharp edges.
Charlotte veered away in a wild swoop, losing height. The floor lunged up at her.
She cheeped in terror, clawed at the air with her wings, found herself plunging upwards.
It took two lurching circuits of the bedchamber before she found her balance in the air. Dip of wing, flap of wing, became natural and effortless.
The wild racing of her heart steadied. See, it’s easy when you know how.
* * *
Charlotte practiced for an hour. Taking off and landing from the bed, the floor, the dresser, the pelmet above the window. Hopping up and down from the windowsill. Using her claws to cling to the curtains. Flying between the bedposts. Gliding. Swooping up and down. Flying in circles. In figure eights.
When she felt confident, she landed on the bed, shook her feathers, and changed back into Christopher Albin.
She dressed in Albin’s night clothes, took up the bedside candle and a blanket, and let herself out of the bedchamber. The house was dark and silent; Lord Cosgrove and the servants were abed.
Charlotte tiptoed down to the drawing room. She pulled aside the corner of one curtain and peered out, seeing moonlight and shadows and the fenced garden in the middle of Grosvenor Square. Nothing moved.
She settled herself on a sofa, wrapped the blanket snugly around her, and blew out the candle.
* * *
Charlotte jerked awake to the sound of splintering glass. Cold air gusted into the drawing room. The sound came a second time. A third.
She threw aside the blanket and ran to the nearest window. Glass crunched beneath her slippers. She drew the edge of a curtain slightly back. A dark figure stood in the square. She saw an arm raised to throw, heard glass break in the next room along.
She hurried back to the sofa, stripped off the dressing gown and nightshirt, and stuffed them behind the cushions. Two more muffled crashes sounded. She kicked off her slippers and pushed them under the sofa, shoved the blanket under, too.
Charlotte changed into a sparrow. She flew up to the windowsill and hopped carefully through the broken pane of glass.
The person was still in the square, still hurling stones. She heard the sharp crack of glass shattering—and from inside the house, the sound of running feet.
The door to Lord Cosgrove’s house slammed open. Lamplight spilled out onto the steps. A
shout echoed in the square.
Chapter Eighteen
The dark figure took off into the mews behind Grosvenor Square. Charlotte followed. Her sparrow’s eyes were confused by the gloom, the shadows. Where was he?
There. Ducking down a narrow alley.
Charlotte followed, trying to keep him in sight. I should have been an owl. Where had he gone? He’d disappeared—
There.
They emerged into a wider street. The runner vanished into the shadows on the other side. His footfalls dimmed; he’d plunged into another alleyway.
Charlotte landed. I want to be Bess!
The night changed around her, became easier to see, less confusing. The runner was gone from sight, but she heard his boots slapping on the ground, caught his scent: sweat, ale, fried onions.
Charlotte loped after him.
After several minutes, the runner’s pace slowed from sprint to steady trot. The route he chose was circuitous—along alleyways, across sleeping squares, through mews—but he never hesitated, never lost his way.
They traversed London, heading east, past sleeping houses, past rows of shuttered shops, past dark churches and noisy taverns. She saw the occasional carriage, the occasional pedestrian, and once a night watchman doing his rounds. The streets became dirtier, the air foul with smells she couldn’t identify. More people were abroad. Drunken revelers staggered home. Women she took to be whores waited in doorways, smelling of gin and sweat. Once she passed a man and woman copulating in an alley.
Finally the runner slowed to a walk. He glanced back over his shoulder, climbed the steps to a tavern, and pushed the door open.
Light fell on him for a second before the door closed.
Charlotte stood, panting, trying to fix his appearance in her memory. Thin face, lank hair falling over a narrow forehead. He was young; the faintest down had shown on his cheeks, glinting in the lamplight.
She looked around, taking note of her surroundings—gutters overflowing with waste, stinking puddles of stagnant water. Something moved, rustling: rats.
