by KJ Charles
“Butchery,” Stephen said. “Someone went mad with a knife. More than one person, perhaps. This must have taken hours. Did the neighbours not hear screaming? But,” he hurried to add as Rickaby opened his mouth, “what it doesn’t look like is my area of expertise. Why is this other than a straightforward killing?”
“The neighbours did hear screaming. Heard it, came up, kicked the door in, and saw… Want to guess?”
“No.”
“Nothing. Not another soul. Just him on the bed, screaming, and cuts opening up all over him. Like an invisible man was attacking him with an invisible knife, they said.”
Stephen repressed a groan. “And you think this report is accurate?”
“A constable saw it too. All the accounts tally. And, do you know who this gentleman is, Mr. Day?”
It sounded as though he was expected to, but the face was a mass of blood and muscle and white bone that Stephen had no great desire to examine. “I have no idea.”
“No idea? Don’t recognise him?”
As if the corpse’s own mother could. “No.”
“Funny, that. You knew him well enough once.”
Stephen looked at the body again, reluctantly. The hair was sparse, and faded ginger tufts were visible under the blood. The agonised eyes were of a peculiar pale blue, and as Stephen stared, his memory shifted the pieces into place.
“It’s not Fred Beamish, is it?” he said, barely able to believe his own words. “Oh God. It is, isn’t it?”
“Fred Beamish,” Rickaby repeated. “Inspector Beamish. The Council’s police liaison officer, as was, before you lot ruined him. And now here he is, murdered by magic.”
“Hell’s teeth.” Stephen pulled his gloves off, mind skittering as he attempted to understand the scope of this disaster. “But why would anyone hurt Beamish? He’d retired.”
“Resigned,” Rickaby corrected. “When he lost his nerve. When he saw one too many God-rotted filthy thing.”
Stephen remembered it all too well. Beamish had been a decent enough man, but like most of the men of the Metropolitan Police, he had not signed up for unnatural evils, and there had been a lot of those last year, when the warlock Thomas Underhill had abandoned all caution, drunk on power, and had operated in plain sight. Beamish had been one of the first on the spot when they had found a child, alive, its ribcage gaping and heart gone, wandering along the Embankment crying emptily for its mother. He had resigned from the police force the following day, and started drinking. Stephen had meant to go and visit him, to talk, or to see if he could draw some of the venom out of Beamish’s memories, but he had had to hunt down Underhill first, and nearly died in the process. Then there had been the long months of recovery, and then Crane had landed in his life like a falling star. He hadn’t found the time after that. In truth, he hadn’t thought about Beamish at all.
Rickaby was watching his face, obviously seeing the guilt there. “Yes, your lot broke Fred Beamish’s nerve. Broke his nerve, broke his mind, then you killed him.”
“Now wait,” Stephen said. “Underhill, the man who did those things last year, he’s dead. I killed him myself. His accomplices too.” At least, Sir Peter Bruton was dead. Lady Bruton, the third of the warlocks, had escaped, and Stephen’s efforts to have her tracked down had faltered, failed, and never restarted. The memory jolted him with a stab of shame. It was yet another important task that he’d delayed acting on, day by day, until it had somehow come to seem less important by virtue of having been undone for so long, and had been buried by a torrent of other tasks.
He really ought to do something about Lady Bruton. He had, after all, promised Crane he would.
He didn’t intend to share any of that with Rickaby. Stephen shoved the guilt back, speaking briskly. “There’s no reason to suppose there’s any link between that business and this.”
Rickaby nodded. “No, that’s true. Maybe it’s two lots of murdering practitioners, not one. Three, even, what with Superintendent Raphael lying dead by practice too. Just tell me, how many killers do you have in your ranks, Mr. Day? How many dead policemen do you think I’ll stand for?” He jabbed a finger at Stephen’s face as he spoke, leaning into him. Stephen set his jaw and stepped away, to the head of the bed, feeling the etheric currents wash around him. There was a lot of blood and pain.
“Five dead on Ratcliffe Highway, this summer!” Rickaby bellowed. His face was deep puce with anger. “Two in Limehouse, and one out Tower way and two more bodies in a cellar in Holborn—ten unlawful deaths, all down to your bloody rotten murdering lot, and did anyone stand trial?”
“The guilty men were dead,” Stephen pointed out, keeping his voice level. “You can’t put corpses on a stand.” There was nothing useful coming to his hands through the air. He was not looking forward to touching the body.
“So you say.” Rickaby’s voice dropped, so he sounded unconvincingly calm. “Strange, that. It always turns out that there’s a dead man to blame, or someone’s left the country. Or the matter isn’t to be pursued, and two weeks later I see the culprit walking the streets bold as brass. There’s never a conviction. There’s never a punishment.”
Stephen stopped bothering with the corpse. “Are you really suggesting you want to take things like this in front of a judge and jury? ‘An invisible man stabbed him, Your Honour’?”
“I want to know what’s going on,” Rickaby said. “I want punishments. Eight months I’ve been working with you people, and not a single case brought to trial. Well, I’m not having it. There’s two dead policemen now, murdered by practice, and I’ll damned well see someone swing for this, do you understand?”
“I do, actually. I understand, and I sympathise, and you have my word that I will—we will find the culprits here. I’m not going to promise you a public trial because, well, you know how it is. But I swear to you, whoever did this will pay for it.”
Rickaby shook his head. “I’ve been taking your say-so long enough. Taking your word, walking away, and watching more people die.”
Stephen breathed deeply, keeping his temper. Rickaby might want a shouting match, but giving him one would scarcely help, and God knew the man had a point. “I don’t set the rules. I just try to make sure justice is done, much like you.”
“One man’s judgement isn’t the same thing as justice. Justice happens within the law, and it’s seen to be done. That’s what I want for Fred Beamish and Superintendent Raphael. What you do, Mr. Day, that’s what I call revenge.”
“Nonsense,” Stephen said, startled. “I’m doing my duty here, Inspector, nothing else.”
“Maybe you are,” Rickaby said grimly. “But I don’t think much of your duty, or your justice, or your Council either. Fred Beamish was worth ten of any practitioner I’ve met. He deserves a devil of a lot more than to be brushed under the carpet while you keep your secrets.”
Stephen flushed at the accusation in his eyes. “Noted,” he said stiffly. “Why don’t I try to find out who did this to him, and then we can decide what to do about it?”
Two long, miserable, fruitless hours later, Stephen left the charnel room and Rickaby behind. He made sure he was several streets away before he propped himself against a wall and took some very deep breaths, willing the stench of blood and excrement out of his nose.
He hated this, hated it so much. It was his job and it had to be done, and of course whoever had turned Beamish into chopped liver needed to be dealt with, but dear God, if he never saw another revoltingly mutilated corpse, he would be a happy man.
His fingers felt contaminated from the touch of the body. He moved to rub them on his trousers, realised that he was wearing a decent suit of clothes, and had to dig inside a pocket for a handkerchief. He scrubbed it over his fingertips, one by one and then all together. There were no marks left on the white linen, but his fingers still felt stained by the dead man’s blood and pain.
; Stephen leaned against the cold, damp brickwork, because while he stood here, he didn’t have to do anything, and he couldn’t bear any of what he had to do. Rickaby was furious, and accusatory, and right, curse him. Two policemen, decent men, were dead, crying out for justice that Stephen would not give them. Saint was a thief. Crane was trammelled, frustrated, visibly losing patience. And worried too, Stephen was sure, though he never showed it.
Stephen didn’t want to go back to the flat.
It seemed ludicrous to feel so reluctant. He loved Crane’s home, with its comforts, its warmth, Merrick’s effortless competence and bone-dry sarcasm, and Crane’s presence, so powerful that he could feel the man’s imprint in the ether whether he was there or not. Most of the happiest moments of his life had taken place there, in the last few months. Every time he caught himself thinking of the flat as home, Lucien’s bed as the place he belonged, he felt dizzied by his own privilege. Arrogant, beautiful, domineering Lord Crane, with the caring that made Stephen’s heart break, and the vicious streak that made his knees bend, had chosen him among all the men’s men of London, and treated him with a loyalty, generosity and almost painful honesty that made Stephen’s heart hurt. And his reward was a few doled-out crumbs of Stephen’s time in a country he hated.
Time Stephen was wasting now. He forced himself upright and made himself walk, jamming his hands in his pockets against the chilly bite of the winter wind, and wondered how long they could keep this up.
Four months ago, in the unhappy knowledge that he had fallen helplessly and irrevocably in love with a man who wanted to be on the other side of the globe, he would have given anything for Crane to have ties to England. Then Crane had told him that he was the tie, that he wouldn’t leave England without Stephen by his side, and Stephen had fully understood why one should be careful what one wished for.
His life had worked before Crane, more or less. He’d had friendships, his time had been more than filled with the demands of the job, he’d managed the occasional backstreet encounter, even. It hadn’t been the life of his dreams, but then, Stephen had never really had dreams, and if he had, he would certainly not have presumed to dream of someone like Crane. All he had wanted to do was survive, manage, to keep on top of his life and work without anything going terribly wrong, and he had done that in a quite satisfactory manner.
Now he had a lover and a life that still seemed the stuff of fantasy, and it was driving him to distraction. Every minute he spent with Lucien was stolen from his duty, every minute on the job was a theft from his lover, everything he did left something more important undone.
I wish I had time for him, Stephen thought miserably. I wish… He couldn’t wish to leave the job. Not knowing all there was to do, all the people who needed him, his duty. But I wish to God I could.
Stephen turned a corner into the icy wind, huddling into his heavy topcoat. He was trying to think of ways to make more hours in each day as he stepped onto the Strand, and saw Crane in smiling, flirtatious conversation with an attractive young man.
Chapter Five
Crane had had a thoroughly unrewarding day. The messages he’d sent for Stephen had gone unanswered, as usual, and since he had no desire to be within fifty miles of Esther Gold when she learned that his manservant had deflowered her charge, he had not felt able to take Saint’s alibi elsewhere. Not that he was much looking forward to putting the matter to Stephen.
He had visited Leonora, gone to the gymnasium, and done several hours’ desultory work in the office to kill the time before he might expect Stephen to return, and he was striding along the Strand towards home, considering precisely how he would word his explanation, when he heard the call.
“Excuse me, sir?”
Crane stopped under a gas lamp and turned as a young man hurried up with something white in his hand. “I think you dropped your handkerchief.”
Crane glanced at the little square of linen. It was definitely one of the vast stocks of handkerchiefs they’d brought from Piper, with a small magpie embroidered in the corner. He couldn’t imagine how he’d dropped the thing. “Yes, that’s mine. Thank you.” He took it, except that the other man didn’t release his grip, and Crane looked at the fellow’s face in surprise.
He was worth looking at. Midtwenties, perhaps, with slightly shaggy, windswept black hair, shot through with a streak of early grey on one side. It was a lopsided but rather attractive feature. Not tall, but substantially larger than Stephen—who wasn’t?—with an athletic build. And he had a face made for misbehaviour, with deep blue laughing eyes, and a wide mouth curving into an irrepressible grin.
Good God, Crane thought appreciatively. This country’s breeding them better these days.
He tugged again at the handkerchief. The other man pulled back, a look of mischief sparkling under dark lashes, and then released it.
“Thank you.” Crane pocketed the handkerchief with a smile.
“Oh, it was no trouble.” The young lovely returned the smile, along with a lingering glance. “In return, could I beg you for a match?”
“None on me, I’m afraid. I don’t smoke.”
“Oh, but you should. It’s the only way to protect the lungs against this cursed fog. And it’s a pleasant vice.” His grin widened. “Perhaps not the most pleasant.”
“Indeed not,” Crane batted back. “Not while there’s drink.”
A wicked smile glinted in the gaslight. “Of course. And would you care to come and take a glass with me, sir? Perhaps at my lodgings?”
“Ah…no,” Crane said, with a little regret. “I think not.”
“Really?” The lovely’s deep blue eyes met Crane’s in a darting look before his long lashes swept down again. “I’m very entertaining company.”
“I’m sure you are. I’ve other commitments.”
“None you can’t break, I dare say, sir.” The young man put a light hand on his forearm. “Perhaps you could spare five minutes to discuss the matter, somewhere close by?” His gaze flicked over to one of the many little alleys that ran off the Strand. Indiscreet, undoubtedly, but it was dark, and probably safe enough for a quick suck…
In another life. Crane shrugged the hand off, feeling a pulse of annoyance at the blatant approach that he doubtless wouldn’t have experienced if he’d been able to take advantage of it. As it was, there seemed to be far too many people on the Strand to play silly buggers. Policemen, flower sellers, even the street artist who seemed to be constantly around these days, sketching under the gas lamp’s circle of light not six feet from him.
“No, but good hunting.” Crane gave the young man a smile and a nod of farewell, and walked off without waiting for a response, stuffing the handkerchief into the pocket.
Fidelity had never been part of his life before. Not that he’d rejected it as an idea; it simply hadn’t come up. Very few of his previous lovers would have batted an eye at his taking up the young man’s offer, nor would Crane have expected any of them to refrain. He wouldn’t, truly, have cared.
Stephen would care. Stephen would care so much it hurt. Crane hadn’t ever discussed the matter with him, because—he realised with incredulity—this was the first time it had crossed his mind in eight months that he might bed anyone else, but he knew, without question, the flinching pain he would inflict if Stephen saw him with some bit of stuff.
Good God, does he expect me never to fuck anyone else for the rest of my life? Crane thought, and then, No. Of course he expects me to fuck other people. He’ll be waiting for me to do exactly that. Waiting and dreading.
One more obligation that came with Stephen, Crane thought as he entered his building and headed up the four flights of stairs. One more restriction, along with the secrecy and the life in England, and the demands of the bloody justiciary. Another set of chains.
Admittedly, Crane had had all the lovers a reasonable man could ask for, and he was old enough to appre
ciate a pretty mouth without feeling compelled to put his cock in it. There was nothing the blue-eyed smiler could give him that Stephen could not, except, probably, the clap. Most of all, he could not imagine taking pleasure in an act that would cause Stephen pain. Nothing was worth that. But the realisation took him one more step away from China and home; bound him one notch tighter to England and duty and all the things that tied Stephen down, and Crane with him.
If I’d wanted a life trammelled by obligation, I could have stayed in this bloody country in the first place.
Then again, if I wanted a life without Stephen I’d be back in Shanghai already.
Crane reached his front door and heard rapid footsteps behind him, hurrying up the stairs. He turned and saw Stephen sprinting up to catch him, face set.
“Who the devil was that?” Stephen demanded.
“Good evening to you too. I’ve no idea. He was returning my handkerchief.”
“Really. Was that all?”
Crane arched a brow at the expression on Stephen’s face. “As you saw.”
“He didn’t look like he was returning a handkerchief.”
Crane opened the front door, waved Stephen in, and shut it safely behind them. “Well, he also wanted to suck me off, but I just accepted the handkerchief. Are you jealous?”
Stephen went scarlet. “No.”
“You are.” Crane grinned at him, waiting for him to see the absurdity, for the familiar light of amusement in his eyes and the irresistible snag-toothed smile.
It didn’t come. Instead, Stephen threw his coat onto a hook. “It’s scarcely jealousy if I expect you to be a little more courteous than to be fondling other men right in front of me.”
“Oh, come. I did nothing of the kind. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong?” Stephen repeated angrily, and then flopped back against the wall. “Oh God, Lucien, what isn’t?”
“Here.” Crane pulled him through to the sitting room, shoved him onto the sofa and poured them both a generous whisky. “Talk to me.”
