by K Childs
The office itself retained a small front desk where Sergeant Forester held at bay any lost lambs who found us. Behind him a grave hush fell over the building. We’d hired a Tenebrologist to charm the rooms so the chaos of the other departments wouldn’t intrude on our work. The AOC required a calm environment. The smell of sandalwood incense, the wall of beads, and dreamcatchers imported from the Americas barred the meanest gribblies from the office.
“Inspector Pearceson is expecting you… He has a guest.” Forester waved me on through. He wasn’t saying more.
I didn’t know why the Superintendent had called for me. I felt like a guilty child called to the Dean’s office.
Squaring my shoulders and lifting my chin, I ran over the reasons I would investigate Charlie’s murder. She was my damn cousin; I could maintain my professional resolve.
The department was asleep; constables and sergeants lay in neat cots. Charlie might still be alive if she had been here instead of at home. I’d selfishly suggested that she could do her beat easily enough from home. Perhaps in the office, warded as it was, Charlie would be alive.
The ceiling overhead, enchanted to channel the All-Seeing Eye’s visions, was murky, not currently focused on any particular part of the demi monde. His Majesty’s Eye was not in residence.
It was Monday; the Eye ought to be in his bed.
“This must be handled discreetly, Pearceson.”
I didn’t recognise the voice. The worn face of Morpheus stared at my fist as I raised it to knock, the sound of raised voices inside making me hesitate. A good subordinate didn’t walk in during a row.
“Constable Beaumont will be here within the hour, Your Grace. We will have this matter sorted then,” The Superintendent said.
Your Grace. Pearceson had nobility in there—I certainly didn’t want to go in now—and he wasn’t known for his cool temperament. There remained the fact that Constable Beaumont would not be joining them. They were waiting for Charlie. Why would a Duke be calling for Charlotte? She ran in privileged social circles, but not that lofty. Only one way to work out what was going on.
I knocked.
“Come in Con—” Pearceson’s words died on his lips upon my entrance. “Inspector Beaumont. I sent for Charlotte, not you.”
“Constable Beaumont is dead, Superintendent.” It wasn’t getting easier to say.
Both men paled.
I stepped into the room and closed the door. The blinds were drawn. This was a private meeting. The tang of incense clung about the room, sandalwood so thick I might choke on it.
The Superintendent kept a pristine desk which he was seated behind now. He had two glasses of what looked like brandy poured for himself and the Duke. Pearceson was sixty if he was a day: dark eyes, square jaw and a chin so precisely groomed that his moustache appeared to float over his top lip. His head was grey and white, his skin tight and his mouth grim. His uniform, buttoned and starched within an inch of its life. There was a look on his face, a greying of the gills.
The Duke, on the other hand, looked a few years older than myself, perhaps mid-thirties. I’d never met him in person but there was only one Duke who wore an Animancer’s signet on his collar. Darrien Montagu, the Duke of Cardigan. I had nothing against Animancers—a good healer was worth their weight in gold, and the consensus was they were key in contributing to Britain winning the last few wars.
He had a handsome face, sharp blue eyes that were ringed red with fatigue. His immaculate clothing cut around an athletic body and held him with a great deal of confidence. Rings glinted on his fingers. A magnetic force of character oozed in the tilt of his head and gaze. I was used to folk cowering before my uniform, not throwing a smile at me as though I were an old friend. “Charlotte is dead?”
I was surprised he knew her name. I frowned at him. “Yes. How did you know her, Your Grace?”
“Inspector, this is not—” Pearceson looked like he would strangle me, but Montagu waved Pearceson’s ire down.
The Duke’s smile wilted.
“I didn’t. Last night… something happened.” He folded the brim of a hat he’d been crushing in his palms. A nervous gesture. Hiding his nerves well enough, but the smile was too fleeting. He cut himself off and took a hearty sip of brandy.
“Rose, this is Darrien Montagu, Duke of Cardigan,” Pearceson said. “Your Grace, Detective Inspector Rose Beaumont.”
The Duke took my hand and kissed it. Hardly normal. His lips sent a small jolt down my spine. “Please sit down, you look ill.”
I thought I was putting on a better face than that. I glanced at Pearceson and he motioned wordlessly to a chair. I sat.
“What happened?” Pearceson asked me.
“When I woke this morning, Constable Beaumont was dead in her room.”
“You are sisters?” the Duke asked. His guess was a common enough one. Charlie and I shared the same slightly curled blonde hair, fair to pale skin, height, and body shape. We’d been exchanging clothing for as long as I could remember. She liked to blush her cheeks and apply a coat of bright red lipstick, to bring out the green in her eyes. Three years between our ages, Charlie still had that shiny glimmer of optimism about her. I think I lost that shine when I saw a monster eat a policeman’s leg in broad daylight.
“Cousins.” I took the opportunity to ask a question of my own: “You met Charlotte last night, in a dream?”
He crushed the hat, looking at me directly. “I don’t believe in nightmares, Beaumont. A man ought to control his dreams, ought to control his world. What happened last night was harrowing.”
I’d seen the Duke’s worn-out look before. A victim of something tearing at his mind, trying to pull him from normal dreams into the Dreamscape itself. For the untrained mind, the Dreamscape could be a terrifying experience. It was a place of wild, subconscious magic, monsters, and fears. He’d entered the Dreamscape last night. Something had been there. Something that had killed Charlotte. I poured a brandy. “But you had a terrible dream last night.”
“More than a dream. I wouldn’t be here if it were a bad dream alone.”
“Of course.”
Montagu nodded, his mouth opening and closing a few times. He took a fortifying sip of brandy and continued. “I was shaken, running from something, it was all shadowy dreams—you know, vague and indistinct. I just thought if it caught me, I would die. Charlotte appeared and told me I had to come here to the Agency today, or it would kill me. I didn’t think anything of it when I woke at first, but…”
“His Grace was rooming at Lord Howard’s house here in London. This morning the maid found Lord Howard dead in his bed,” Pearceson said.
I’d been awake for less than an hour, but even I could piece this together with the crowd gathered at the front of the building. Lord Howard, His Majesty’s All-Seeing Eye, had been making talk along the lines of running for the office of the Prime Minister in the elections next year.
His death was more personal for the AOC. The Eye served as our monitor for disturbances in the Ether—creatures coming from dark nothings, or gatherings of Ether that might create storms in the Dreamscape. After the War, we only had the one. The Eye’s death blinded the Agency. It is one thing for an Oneironaut to see Ether being manipulated right in front of us; Lord Howard had a unique ability to monitor the Dreamscape over most of the city. Charlie had been on the beat with the Eye. Now both were dead. What were the chances this sat in the land of coincidence?
I drained the brandy in a single swallow. “I’ll need to see the Eye’s body, sir.”
“He was quite dead; his Anima totally drained. I checked myself,” Montagu affirmed. He looked concerned there was some doubt as to his ability to tell. Anima was the word Animancers used for life-force. No bright sparks or explosions, not in the true art of magic you might learn in a university. The study of Animancy, what little I knew of it, primarily involved tactile transmission.
“I need to examine him to determine wh
at killed him, Your Grace.”
It was the last thing I wanted to do. I needed to get back into the Dreamscape and find what had killed Charlie. But the Superintendent was handing me this case personally. As much as I objected, I had little choice except to follow both.
Montagu made a noise of surprise; clearly, he hadn’t thought of that. “Of course. We’ll go there right away.”
“We?” I looked at the Superintendent for support. I didn’t need a noble hovering over my shoulder.
Pearceson nodded. “Yes, please escort His Grace to Howard’s house. Report to Chief Inspector Caudroy when you return.”
It was no use. Pearceson was throwing me to the wolves. I stood and brushed my coat down, nodding. “Superintendent.”
The Duke followed me out of the office and into my own office where I grabbed a few supplies.
“I am sorry for your loss, Inspector,” he began, clearing his throat.
Irritation laced through me. I didn’t want to hear condolences. I wanted to check on the Eye’s body and then retreat to the research library in the basement. I wanted to find out what I was dealing with. I glared up at him, my mouth a thin line. “Thank you for your sympathy, Your Grace.”
“Please, I prefer Darrien.” He flashed me a stunning smile, clearly designed to make a girl simper. Obsequious to women; he was probably used to the finer sex fainting at such dazzling charms.
I placed my notebook and pencil on the table; I badly wanted to snap at him. I didn’t do tears and fainting. I did anger. Charlotte was dead, and this man was flirting with me. The people skills I’ve always lacked were more up Ben’s alley; I’d give a week’s pay to trade places with him and work the crime scene rather than extract information from His Grace. Ben had a way with people. The best I could do was stern examination. It was a fine approach for interrogating suspects, but I lacked the finesse to question witnesses… or engage in polite conversation.
“Darrien. Please tell me more about the dream last night.” I forced myself to at least try the friendly approach; his name tasted flax on my tongue.
That smile increased in volume, as though he had never heard a woman speak his name so dulcetly. I didn’t think that was true; he was good at smiling at women. I didn’t know how to deal with flirting. I didn’t go in for men’s games.
“Inspector Beaumont… may I call you Rose?”
That felt a little weird. He was very familiar. I was having trouble staying angry and stern. “I suppose so. Please tell me about the dream.”
He took my hand and held it between his palms. “A beautiful name for a beautiful woman. I am delighted to have you on the case, Rose.”
“Full of thorns and feasting on blood and bone.” I pulled my hand away. Montagu was good, but I was focused. “Your Grace, you were telling me about the nightmare.”
Flirting seemed to give him some verve back. Perhaps it was his way of rebuilding after a rough morning. I could cut him some slack; I understood, though I took a more prickly approach to dealing with the turmoil in my head and heart.
The Duke of Cardigan raised an eyebrow at my tone but finally relented before his behaviour become boorish. “I don’t remember it well. Are the contents important?”
A lot of dithering about something that had driven him to terror. Two people were dead; surely the importance of what he had to say was self-evident. I hoped he hadn’t forgotten the dream. A lot of Oneironautic crimes went unsolved when the victims or witnesses couldn’t remember the dreams after a few hours.
“I am afraid they are. Any details you can recount? Do you remember when you woke up?” Starting at the end might help jog disjointed memories.
I wanted to ask him about specific images, but Dreamscape to the untrained mind was a fragile thing—you could put a dream in someone’s head that was not there. And I needed to know what he did remember.
He pursed his lips and took my nameplate off the desk, spinning the triangular cut wood between his fingertips. A fidget. “I was dreaming about sleeping soundly in my bed, but then the bed cracked in half and something black and green came out of the hole. I ran out of the door- and it chased me. It was huge, towering over all the buildings and streets and it was screaming something at me—I don’t remember what. I saw a police officer and ran toward her—Charlotte—and she took my hand and told me to wake up. She stabbed me in the dream.” He held up his palm; there was a small wound. “And she said something else, but I didn’t hear it. I think she was talking to someone.”
Lord Howard. She probably saw Lord Howard in the Dreamscape. “Did you ever see what was behind you? Catch a glimpse of it? Anything?”
It stood to reason that Lord Howard and Charlotte were killed by the same monster. She’d been on a patrol for him near Lord Howard’s tower in the Dreamscape.
“It had claws, I’m sure of that.”
I tried not to let the disappointment show on my face but failed. I needed more to work out what we were dealing with.
“I am sorry, Rose, I don’t remember my dreams very well. And I didn’t think much of Oneirology as a magic until last night, either,” he said.
Most people didn’t. Oneirology didn’t have a large amount of application for the layman. There was a belief that it wasn’t much better than charlatan fortune-telling to the voting public. Magic was supposed to be in your blood; noble families had sold the image of Sidhe-blooded families and power from birth as some sort of destiny. If you had Animancy or Tenebrological inclinations, you were “destined” for fame, wealth, and fortune. The study of magic was merely to hone natural talent.
A basic control of the Dreamscape could be taught to the amateur, and even though Parliament had recognised the study, Oneirology still garnered the moniker of peasant magics. Anyone could pick up the talent of lucid dreaming—entering and leaving the Dreamscape at will—but the deeper aspect of the magic, controlling Ether, was carried in the blood. In recent years, Oneironauts were needed to keep His Majesty George V’s kingdom from turning into a playground for the foreign nasties that had come with the spice trade and wars from faraway nightmares. We did have a few of us born with the same natural talent that Animancy and Tenebrology boasted. Old bloodlines in Oneironautics existed, even without the Eye. Lord Howard’s death left only two of us active in London who boasted those bloodlines.
I finished writing myself a note of permission for the Armory and ushered the Duke to follow me out of the office. “Thank you, Darrien. Any information is helpful.”
We stopped at the front desk manned by Sergeant Forester and I passed him the note. “A shock-stick, Allan.” He nodded.
“You are taking a weapon? I don’t know that it is necessary for a woman to go armed when I am her escort.” Darrien’s dazzling smile was back.
“There is a high probability we are dealing with something that has spilled in from the Ether. Frankly, I doubt the shock-stick or Animancy will slow it down. But it is standard procedure.”
He lost the smile; I was almost prompted to gain one.
Forester returned with the rod and I slid it like a baton into my belt. I scribbled down Lord Howard’s address in Piccadilly. “Have Ben meet us here when he returns, Allan.”
“Yes, Inspector.”
I departed with the Duke, determined to extract any possible clue from the body of His Majesty’s All-Seeing Eye.
Lord David Howard’s wife and children were in the parlour crying. The Due of Cardigan tried to walk in, but I grapped his wrist and yanked him back from the door.
“Not right now.”
I didn’t want to see another person crying. I wasn’t sure I would endure.
Montagu halted and searched my face for a moment. “Of course. Please, Rose, his apartment is on the third floor.”
I hadn’t been able to shake him. I would take my victories where I could get them at this stage, and I needed someone composed. The constables were in the parlour, taking notes or trying to make sense of th
e tears.
Despite his flirting and enthusiasm, he looked tired… worn out. Lack of sleep. The house was an impressive mansion in the heart of Piccadilly. I didn’t dare estimate the costs, but His Majesty’s Eye came from a wealthy family of rank and privilege. Howard was a man with a rare gift, one that his young son would soon inherit. A constant monitor for the Ether; the rumour was the family was directly blessed by Phobetor during ancient pagan times. I didn’t hold much stock in rumours—I preferred to assume it was a rare strain of Oneirology and leave it at that. Sidhe blood, Greek God’s blessings… whatever it was that ran in the veins was poorly understood by a lowly plod like me.
The chill from the white metal balustrade seeped through my gloves as we ascended the stairs. Gloomy faces of family long dead and buried stared out of portraits, and polished suits of armour guarded the halls and the expensive Persian carpets. The house breathed history.
“I am here with a few friends; I sat in Parliament last week. I had intended to return to Cardigan today, but with everything as it is, I could hardly march out the door,” Montagu supplied.
“Do you often stay with Lord Howard?” I hadn’t realized he was a member of Parliament. It didn’t change the fact that he was a Duke, and I imagined he was used to getting his way.
“When the family comes with me. I have apartments in the city… if you’d like to inspect them.” He winked. Despite my head telling me Montagu’s measure—his freeform flirting and his attraction to anything winsome—his persistence was impressive.
The house guard snapped to attention outside the Lord’s room. He eyed my uniform for a second, his mouth thinning in an unhappy line. I didn’t expect guards to protect the Eye from a monster in the Ether coming out and killing him. They dealt with threats who couldn’t reach through your dreams. No, that was the AOC’s job. We’d dropped the ball.
I nodded at the closed door. “Has anyone been in the room?”
“No, Inspector, not since the maid this morning… then I suppose the Duke came, and Lady Howard was here, with Lady Winchester and Lady Montagu…”
