by Amanda Quick
He knew there was a set of servants’ stairs here at the back of the house. He had seen Montrose’s housekeeper use them.
With his excellent night vision he could make out the opening to the stairs next to the kitchen. He gripped the door frame cautiously, half expecting another flash of seething energy. But nothing seared his senses. The killer had not come this way. If he was upstairs, he had used the main staircase. That made sense, Gabriel thought. Why would the villain trouble himself with the cramped stairs designed for the servants?
He started up the narrow stairs, listening intently. There was someone in the house, someone who had no right to be here. He could sense it. But nothing moved in the stillness.
When he reached the top of the stairs he found himself looking into another hall. This one was weakly lit by the moon filtering through the windows of the main staircase. If there was anyone waiting in the corridor, the person was not breathing or moving.
He glided out into the hall, gun at the ready. No one leaped at him. That was very likely not a good sign, he thought. He was not the only hunter here tonight. The villain was lying in wait for him.
He knew that Montrose’s study, the room that had been lit when he arrived in the garden a moment ago, was located to his right at the back of the house. From where he stood he could see that the door to that room was closed.
There was nothing for it, he thought. He would have to open the door.
He moved down the hall to the door of the study and stood for a few seconds, reaching out for information with all of his senses.
There was someone inside the room. He touched the doorknob very lightly. Another sizzling jolt of energy flashed through him.
The killer had entered the study.
The knob turned easily in his palm. He flattened himself against the side of the wall and opened the door.
There was no flash of exploding gunpowder. No one rushed at him with a knife.
Someone was inside the study, though. He was certain of it.
He crouched low and peered cautiously around the edge of the doorway. He did not need his psychical senses to make out the silhouette of a man seated in a chair near the window.
Montrose squirmed awkwardly and made muffled noises. Gabriel realized that the old man was bound to the chair. A gag muffled the sounds he was trying to make.
“Mmmph.”
Relief blazed through Gabriel. Montrose was alive.
He glanced quickly around the room. Montrose was the only occupant but Gabriel’s hunting intuition was riding him hard, making him intensely aware that the killer was still inside the house.
Ignoring the desperate sounds Montrose was making, he turned his attention back to the heavily shadowed hallway. He could see the outlines of at least three more doors. Toward the far end of the hall a narrow, rectangular object loomed against the wall. A table, he thought, with a pair of candlesticks on top.
“Mmmph,” Montrose mumbled again.
Gabriel did not respond. Keeping his back to the wall, he edged along the corridor. When he came to the first closed door he put his hand on the knob.
He sensed nothing of the foul psychical energy that had been left on the door of the study. The killer had not entered this room.
He shifted to the opposite wall and went to the next closed door. When he touched the knob he got the all-too-familiar splash of roiling energy.
Anticipation leaped within him. He kicked the door inward and simultaneously threw himself to the floor, gun gripped in both hands.
It was the faintest whisper of sensation behind him that told him he had miscalculated badly.
The door that he had just checked and dismissed as untainted had been opened.
He barely had time to register his grave mistake when he heard the near-silent rush of oncoming death.
There was no time to get to his feet or even his knees. He twisted awkwardly onto his left side, trying to get his right arm and the gun directed toward the approaching threat.
He was too late. Like some faceless menace in a nightmare, a dark figure leaped out of the deep shadows of the other bedroom. Gabriel could see that the villain’s features were obscured by a mask made of dark cloth. The weak light from the far end of the hall glinted on the blade of a knife.
There was no time to aim. Gabriel knew, even as he pulled the trigger, that he was going to miss his target. He could only hope that the shot would distract his attacker. Nothing like having a gun go off nearby to make one reconsider one’s original plan.
A great roar of sound deafened his heightened sense of hearing. The acrid smell and smoke of gunpowder filled the hall.
The attacker did not waver.
It dawned on Gabriel that the villain was coming at him with great precision.
He knows I’m down here on the floor. He can see me as clearly as I can see him.
There was no time for further reflection. The attacker was upon him, kicking out violently with one foot.
The blow slammed into Gabriel’s shoulder, rendering his arm instantly numb. He heard the gun clatter to the floor and slide away into the bedroom.
In the next instant the villain was slashing downward with the point of the knife, aiming for Gabriel’s midsection.
Gabriel wrenched himself violently to the side, rolling to evade the strike. The blade flashed past and thudded into the floor. The attacker was forced to jerk it violently in order to free it.
Taking advantage of the second’s respite, Gabriel surged to his feet. He flexed his nerveless fingers, trying to regain his sense of feeling.
The attacker got the knife out of the floor and sprang toward him.
Gabriel danced backward, putting some distance between them while he searched for a weapon. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of the table at the end of the hall on his right.
Using his uninjured hand, he grabbed one of the heavy silver candlesticks that decorated the table.
The nightmare man was closing in again, clearly expecting Gabriel to keep retreating toward the staircase.
His only chance, Gabriel thought, was to do something unexpected.
He hurled himself to the side, instead of moving back. He came up hard against the wall. The attacker whirled with terrifying speed but Gabriel was already swinging the candlestick with all of his strength.
The heavy candlestick struck the killer’s forearm near the wrist. The man grunted in pain. The knife bounced onto the floor.
Gabriel swung again, aiming for his opponent’s skull. The man dodged reflexively, stumbling backward. Gabriel closed in on him.
The villain whirled and made for the main staircase. Gabriel dropped the candlestick, collected the knife and went after his opponent.
The attacker was three full strides ahead. He reached the stairs and plunged downward, one hand on the banister to keep himself from tumbling headfirst to the bottom.
He arrived at the foot of the stairs, yanked open the front door and fled into the night.
Every instinct Gabriel possessed urged him to pursue his quarry. But logic and reason surfaced through the haze of his bloodlust. He reached the bottom of the staircase and went to the door. He stood looking out into the street for a moment, trying to determine the direction in which the would-be killer had fled. But the night and the fog had swallowed up all traces of the fleeing man.
Gabriel closed the door and loped back upstairs and down the hall to the study. He turned up the lamp and removed the gag from Montrose’s mouth.
Montrose spit out the fabric and gave Gabriel a disgusted look.
“I tried to tell you, the villain went through the connecting door between these two rooms.” He angled his head toward the side wall of the study. “He didn’t go out into the hall. He was lying in wait for you in that other bedroom.”
Gabriel looked at the door that he had ignored earlier when he had done a quick survey of the room. He thought about how he had been so certain that his paranormal sense of touch would prov
ide him with the clues he needed to determine the killer’s hiding place.
“So much for relying on my psychical abilities,” he said.
“Psychical senses don’t replace logic and common sense,” Montrose growled.
“You know, Mr. Montrose, you sound a lot like my father when you say things like that.”
“There is something you should know,” Montrose said. “Whoever he was, he took the photograph of the strongbox lid that you gave me. I saw him tuck it inside his shirt while he waited for you. He seemed surprised to find it but he was clearly very pleased.”
30
WHAT DID YOU TELL the police?” Venetia asked.
“The truth,” Gabriel said. He downed a healthy swallow of the brandy he had just poured. “After a fashion.”
Montrose cleared his throat. “Naturally, we did not burden their inquiries with a great deal of extraneous information that would have been quite useless to them. We explained that an intruder had entered my house, bound and gagged me and was searching the place for valuables when Gabriel arrived and drove him off.”
“In other words, you didn’t mention the alchemist’s formula,” Venetia said. She did not bother to conceal her exasperation.
Montrose and Gabriel exchanged glances.
“Didn’t see the need, quite frankly,” Montrose said smoothly. “This is Arcane Society business, after all. There’s not much the police can do.”
“You didn’t see the need?” Venetia drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair. “You were both very nearly murdered this evening. How can you say there was no reason to tell the police about a possible motive?”
Her nerves would never be the same, she thought. When Gabriel had walked into the front hall a short time ago, disheveled and bruised, the cold fires of battle still glittering in his eyes, she had not known whether to sob with relief or rail at him like a fishwife. It was only the fact that the elderly Montrose was with him that had constrained her from doing either.
One look was all she needed to understand that some great disaster had befallen them. There would be time enough for a lecture later, she told herself.
The entire household was awake and crowded into the small parlor. She was in her dressing gown and slippers. So were Amelia and Beatrice. Edward, having heard the commotion, had rushed downstairs in his nightclothes to see what all the excitement was about.
Beatrice had taken charge of administering to Montrose and Gabriel. To everyone’s relief, she had announced that the damage did not appear extensive.
Mrs. Trench had rushed back and forth between the kitchen and the parlor several times, checking to see if the gentlemen need anything else. A slice of meat pie, perhaps, to build up their strength.
Venetia had thanked her and urged her to return to bed. When Mrs. Trench had reluctantly departed, Venetia poured tea all around, although Gabriel appeared more interested in the large glass of brandy in his hand.
“The thing is, we can’t be certain of the villain’s motive,” Gabriel said, placating. “We can only surmise his intentions. When you come right down to the crux of the matter, there really was not much we could give to the police.”
Venetia looked at Montrose. “Did the intruder say anything to you, sir?”
“Very little.” Montrose snorted softly. “I didn’t even know he was in the house until he surprised me in my study. Thought at first he was just a common thief. He tied me to the chair, gagged me and then set about searching the room. As soon as he found the photograph of the strongbox he appeared quite satisfied. He did make it clear that he knew that Gabriel was on his way, however.”
Gabriel absently rubbed his jaw. “He must have intercepted the message you sent me earlier, sir.”
Montrose’s bushy brows bunched together. “What message?”
They all looked at him. Montrose became even more confused.
“You didn’t send a message to Mr. Jones?” Venetia asked.
“No,” Montrose said. “I haven’t made much progress in my research into the family connections of the various members of the society, I’m sorry to say. Every time I spot someone who might make a possible suspect for Gabriel to investigate, it turns out that the individual is either deceased or living in some foreign clime.”
A terrible dread swept through Venetia. She turned to Gabriel.
“The message was intended to lure you to Mr. Montrose’s house so that the villain could try to murder you,” she whispered.
Beatrice, Amelia and Edward stared at Gabriel.
“Actually, he intended to kill both Mr. Montrose and myself,” Gabriel said. His tone suggested that the plan for a dual murder was somehow a mitigating circumstance that left him blameless.
Venetia wanted to pound her fists against his chest in frustration.
Montrose cleared his throat apologetically. “Among the few things the intruder did tell me was that he intended to set fire to the house after he’d dealt with Gabriel. Planned to use the gas. Doubt if anyone would have thought twice about the disaster afterward. Certainly wouldn’t have been able to prove murder. Such accidents are common enough.”
Beatrice shuddered. “That is true. So many people fail to take proper precautions with the mains and the jets. Well, sir, I must say, you are fortunate that the villain did not murder you in cold blood while he waited for Mr. Jones to arrive.”
“The fellow explained that he couldn’t do that,” Montrose said.
Amelia tilted her head slightly. “Never say he had some scruples about murdering you, sir?”
“None whatsoever,” Montrose assured her cheerfully. “The villain claimed that the smell of blood and death would warn Gabriel as soon as he opened the door of the house. I think he feared that in such a situation Gabriel would do the intelligent thing and summon a policeman before he went inside to investigate.”
“I think it is safe to say that it is highly unlikely that Mr. Jones would have done such an intelligent thing,” Venetia muttered darkly. “It is quite probable that he would have rushed straight in to see what the matter was.”
Gabriel was amused. “Just as you did the night you went into the darkroom at the exhibition hall and discovered Burton’s corpse?”
She flushed. “That was another situation entirely.”
“Indeed?” he raised his brows. “In what way was it different?”
“Never mind,” she said, putting as much frost into her words as possible.
Beatrice peered at Montrose over the rims of her spectacles. “I understand the villain intended to murder both you and Mr. Jones, but why did he plan to set fire to your house?”
Venetia saw Montrose and Gabriel exchange what could only be described as veiled looks. She’d had enough of Arcane Society secrets.
“What is going on here?” she demanded.
Gabriel hesitated and then an air of stoic resignation settled on him.
“It is one thing to do away with a person who has no important connections,” he said. “One incurs considerably more risk when one murders someone who possesses powerful friends or relatives.”
“Yes, I see what you mean,” Venetia said. “If you and Mr. Montrose had been found murdered, there would likely have been an extensive investigation by the police. The killer was no doubt aware of that and hoped to cover his tracks by leaving his victims’ corpses to be consumed by what would appear to be an ordinary house fire.”
Montrose chuckled.
Edward watched him curiously. “What is so amusing, sir?”
Montrose bobbed his eyebrows at him. “I doubt that anyone would have paid too much attention to the murder of an elderly man who did not go out much and who had no important social connections. But it would have been quite another affair if Gabriel Jones had been found stabbed to death. Why, there would have been hell to pay and that’s a fact. Pardon my language, ladies.”
There was a short, startled silence. Venetia looked at Gabriel. He was even more grim-faced than he had been a moment ago.
“What,” Beatrice said very deliberately, “do you mean by that, Mr. Montrose?”
“Yes,” Amelia added. “We are all quite fond of Mr. Jones, of course, but I do not think that we can claim to be what anyone would call powerful friends. I doubt the police would have paid much attention to any of us if we had tried to insist upon an extensive investigation.”
Montrose was clearly bewildered by their reaction. “By powerful friends, I was referring to the Council of the Arcane Society, of course, to say nothing of the Master himself. I assure you, there would have been an enormous amount of pressure brought to bear if it transpired that the heir to the Master’s Chair had been murdered.”
31
I THINK,” VENETIA SAID COOLLY, “that you had better explain precisely who you are, Mr. Jones.”
He had known that he would have to deal with this sooner or later, Gabriel reminded himself. He had hoped to put it off for a while but fate had conspired against him. The entire household was watching him. Montrose, aware that he was the one who had created the problem, was paying close attention to his tea.
“Are you really going to become the next Master of the Arcane Society, sir?” Edward asked, clearly enthralled by the notion.
“Not until after my father decides to retire,” Gabriel said. “I’m afraid it is one of those old-fashioned ceremonial posts that is handed down through families.”
Montrose coughed and sputtered on a swallow of tea. Beatrice handed him a napkin.
“Thank you, Miss Sawyer,” Montrose mumbled into the napkin. “Ceremonial posts. Hah. Wait until your father hears that one, Gabriel.”
“What will you get to do as Master of the society?” Edward continued, intrigued. “Will you carry a sword?”
“No,” Gabriel said. “There is no sword involved, fortunately. For the most part, it is a rather dull career.”
