The Kraken King Part II: The Kraken King and the Abominable Worm (A Novel of the Iron Seas)

by Meljean Brook

  “That is Wills.” He studied her with unreadable eyes. “He wouldn’t let anyone through.” Without my leave, Mina finished for him. And perhaps he was correct, though of course she would verify it with the gatekeeper, and ask the housekeeper about deliveries. Someone might have hidden themselves in one. His gaze fell to her glove again. “There we are,” Trahaearn said. “Now to . . .”

  She pulled her hand away at the same time Trahaearn gripped the satin fingertips. He tugged. Satin slid in a warm caress over her elbow, her forearm. Flames lit her cheeks. “Sir—” His expression changed as he continued to pull. First registering surprise, as if he hadn’t realized the glove extended past her wrist. Then an emotion hard and sharp as the long glove slowly gave way. Its white length finally dangled from his fingers, and to Mina seemed as intimate as if he held her stocking. Her sleeve still covered her arm, but she felt exposed. Stripped. With as much dignity as she could, Mina claimed the glove.

  “Thank you. I can manage the other.” She stuffed the glove into her pocket. With her bare fingers, she made quick work of the buttons at her left wrist. Mina looked up to find him staring at her. His cheekbones blazed with color, his gaze hot. She’d seen lust before. This marked the first time that she hadn’t seen any disgust or hatred beneath it. “Thank you,” she said again, amazed by the evenness of her voice when everything inside her trembled. “Inspector.” He inclined his head, then looked beyond her to the stairs. And as she turned, the trembling stopped. Her legs were steady as she walked to the steps, her mind focused. “Tell me, captain: Did you plan to assist her, or undress her?” she heard his companion ask. Trahaearn didn’t reply, and Mina didn’t look back at him. Even the pull of the Iron Duke was not stronger than death.

  ***

  Mina had come to recognize patterns to death—when calculation or passion drove violence, when it was accidental or deliberate. But as she bent over the body on the stairs of Trahaearn’s mansion, she could make no sense of this pattern.

  Naked, the brown-haired male lay facedown, his left arm trapped beneath him, his legs splayed. No markings or wounds marred his flesh. But this was not a freshly dead body. The skin had blackened, and was shockingly cold—much colder than the surrounding air. The tissues hadn’t swollen, but the impact against the stairs might have deflated the gases like a burst balloon. Only a small amount of blood, thick and congealed, had splattered the stairs. Mina turned the head. The face was completely smashed. Identification would be difficult. She opened the broken jaw. The teeth shattered, and the tongue . . . Frowning, she slipped her fingers into his mouth. The thick muscle at the back of his tongue felt as solid and as cold as ice. Though he was thawing now, at some point this man’s body had been frozen. She glanced over her shoulder at Newberry. “Have you finished with the photographs? I need to turn him.” When the constable nodded, she slid her hands beneath the shoulder and hip and rolled him. The torso remained a solid block. The leg flopped over like a half-cooked pudding stuffed into a sausage casing.

  From behind Mina came the sound of Newberry retching, though he held it in. St. John didn’t. The Iron Duke’s companion muttered something before turning away. Mina had to swallow hard, but she continued her examination. The bones had apparently been pulverized when he’d landed, but she couldn’t see any wounds aside from the smashing. Perhaps he’d been beaten around the face and the evidence had been erased by the fall. When she lifted his left arm, it remained stiff, as if still in full rigor. How strange. Unlike the legs and his right arm, the bones hadn’t shattered. She scratched lightly at the gray skin, and her nails didn’t leave a mark—probably a prosthetic constructed of mechanical flesh. If so, someone would be looking for this man. Mechanical flesh didn’t come cheaply.

  But she would have to finish her examination at the station. She pulled the cloth back over the body as the house’s front door opened. A stout, curly-haired woman came out, keys jangling at her ample waist. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but a gram from Mr. Wills has just arrived. A police wagon has come for the body.” The housekeeper sounded uncertain. Mina wondered if she expected the duke to deny the wagon entrance to the estate. And Trahaearn did appear as if he resented the idea of them taking away the body—his lips had thinned, as if he struggled against an automatic response.

  Trahaearn met her eyes. Another moment passed before he said, “Let them through.” Behind him, his companion shook his head, looking ill. He started up the stairs. “And I intend to drink until I can imagine that leg is stiff again.” Mina stood before the duke could join him. “With your permission, I would like to see the roof.”

  St. John stepped forward. “Certainly, inspector. I will—”

  “Remain with the constable while I show her the roof,” Trahaearn said.

  St. John flushed. Mina glanced at Newberry, and he nodded. She didn’t need to give him an instruction out loud. Newberry knew to stay with the body until they loaded it onto the wagon. She followed the duke into the house. Though the foyer was enormous and gas lamps lighted the entrance, dark paneling on the walls gave the impression of a cave. She had little opportunity to look farther. Trahaearn turned left into the first shadowed parlor and strode toward the far wall, where a metal grating formed a gate. He slid the grating aside, revealing a small lift, and stepped into the cage. As soon as she crowded in next to him, he threw the lever. With a sharp rattle, the lift began to rise. Mina pushed her back to the side of the car. The Iron Duke stared down at her like another man might examine a worm. Only inches separated them, and her imagination—so useful when determining a murderer’s motive—was not so helpful when she shared a confined space with a pirate. The newssheets might spread rumors that he’d never raped anyone, but they’d also called him a privateer.

  She tamped down her nervousness and forced herself to focus. “Does anyone else use this lift?”

  “No.”

  “Is there stair access?”

  “Yes.”

  She would ask the staff members if they’d seen anyone use the stairs. Mina suspected that the dead man hadn’t fallen from the roof, however, but from something higher. To her relief, the lift rattled to a stop a moment later. Even before Trahaearn opened the grating, she could see that the roof had been designed with defense in mind. Cannons and rail guns lined the balustrade like a ship’s hull. The great lawns provided no cover for anyone attempting to cross the park. Past the fence lay the docks and the warehouses, the buildings crowding the riverside, and beyond them, the lanterns of the ships and barges on the Thames. With no traffic and no nearby residences, the night was quiet. Shockingly so. She almost said as much, until she glanced at the Iron Duke and found him watching her.

  Unsettled by that penetrating gaze, she looked up. Airships weren’t permitted to fl y over the city unless they’d been granted special permission. Cloud cover and haze could conceal one, however. As long as the crew didn’t fi re its engines, an airship could sail silently over London without drawing notice. She turned to the duke. “Were you outside when the incident took place?”

  “No. I was at dinner.”

  If he’d been interrupted, a peek into the dining rooms would confirm that. “Do you recall any unusual noises while you were dining? An engine, perhaps?”

  “No.”

  “And after the body was discovered?”

  She saw the speculation in his gaze before he said, “No.”

  “Have you received any threats?” That question would be of the utmost importance to Superintendent Hale, and everyone else Mina answered to. The Iron Duke must be kept safe.

  “Yes.” A brief smile accompanied his answer.

  Of course he had. “Threats from anyone who would dare act on them?”

  “No.”

  And if someone had, Mina suspected that she’d never have been called. A law unto himself, he’d have concealed the evidence. Indeed, she was surprised he hadn’t hidden this—or handled it on his own. Which begged the question, “Why did you contact police headqu
arters?”

  When he didn’t answer, she realized, “You didn’t. Who did?”

  His gaze sharpened, as if she’d surprised him in return. Still, he offered her nothing else. Protecting his people? She could not decide.

  “Tell me, sir—how long has Mr. St. John been a member of your staff?”

  This time, he said, “Three days.”

  So the new steward hadn’t known better, and contacted the police rather than letting Trahaearn deal with the corpse in his own way. “And if I have questions to ask of him in three more days’ time, will I find him still in your employ?”

  “That depends, inspector. If you discover that he knew the man under the sheet, then you will not find him.”

  Had he just promised to kill St. John if the steward was connected to the dead man? Anger began a slow burn in her chest.

  “And if he doesn’t know him?”

  “Then St. John will be here.”

  But less eager to talk to her, Mina suspected. So it would have to be now. “I’ve finished here. If you’ll arrange for my use of a room, I would like to speak with your staff.”

  His gaze ran over her before he nodded. She preceded him into that tiny lift again—though it would not have seemed so small and crowded if the Iron Duke had not taken up so much room. With so little space between them, she was aware of his every breath and movement, the faint scent of smoke and cedar that clung to his overcoat. Pressing back against the side of the cage, she focused at a point beyond his shoulder and ignored the uneasiness gnawing at her nerves. Trahaearn pushed the lever forward, and the lift began a smooth, slow descent. “So he was thrown from an airship.”

  “That conclusion is premature. We’ve seen no concrete evidence of an airship, only the suggestion of one.”

  He frowned. “His bones are shattered, yet you must see an airship to know what happened to him?”

  “I must see evidence of an airship,” Mina repeated, controlling her irritation. “Most likely, the body will give that evidence to me. But it requires further examination before I will say definitively that he was thrown from an airship, because I have seen other bodies similarly damaged by pulverizing hammers. And if I draw conclusions too hastily, I risk overlooking information that points to his murderer—or making assumptions that will lead to the wrong man. I will accept neither of those outcomes.”

  His gaze searched her features. Finally, he gave a short nod—as if she needed his permission to proceed. He certainly had a high opinion of himself. Unfortunately, everyone else in England shared that view. But aside from his arrogance, Mina could not pin him at all. Meeting his eyes, she said, “I was called away from a ball that was partly in your honor.”

  He smiled slightly. “Yes.”

  And that was all he had to say? It told her almost nothing.

  She tried again, this time hoping to get a rise from him. “Did you choose not to attend, Your Grace? Or perhaps you did not receive an invitation.”

  “I received several.” Humor had touched his eyes. And so he was amused rather than offended—but she could not determine if he laughed at the question or at her.

  The lift reached the main floor, stopping with a clang and a jolt. The duke looked down at her for another moment before sliding open the gate. She swept past him into the parlor, thinking aloud. “You are well-loved in this town, yet a corpse falls on your steps.” She turned to face him. “Perhaps it is not a threat, but someone trying to get your attention.”

  “They should have chosen another method.”

  Not even amusement now—just detachment again. Mina frowned at him. “Do you care that a man is dead, sir? Beyond the possible threat to you, or the insult, or whatever motive his murderer had—do you care that a man is dead?”

  He met her gaze squarely. “I don’t know him from a Castilian trapping for furs through American forests or a Hindustani enslaved by the Horde in India. Do you weep over the fate of every man you don’t know?” She wasn’t weeping over this one, but she did feel the injustice of it. “I don’t know his name, but he isn’t a stranger to me now, some hypothetical individual who lives across the globe. Nor is he to you—and odds are, he is here because of some connection to you.”

  His eyes narrowed, and although humor glinted within them again, it was a cold and dangerous light. Mina suppressed the urge to step back and draw her weapon. “Then find out who he is and why he’s on my doorstep . . . and I will make whoever did it sorry they caught my attention.”

  She had no doubt he would. And although Mina had every intention of solving both the mystery of the man’s identity and his death, now she had even more reason not to fail. She didn’t want to be the one who attracted the Iron Duke’s notice.

  Meljean Brook lives near Portland, OR with her family.