A Scandal in Battersea

by Mercedes Lackey

  “What if I don’t have a dream?” Amelia asked anxiously.

  “I don’t think you will, actually; not tonight anyway,” Nan told her. “The medicine will need time to wear off, and you’ll probably sleep very lightly because you have a stranger and a bird in your room. But we’ll stay until we know for certain whether or not you’ll see visions again, and that’s a promise.”

  “Promise,” Neville echoed.

  “And now—” Nan blew out the lamp on her side of the room. “Lights out. And we’ll see what we will see.”

  Amelia obediently blew hers out as well. “I hope I do,” she said into the darkness, though her voice quavered a little. “I want to help you, as you helped me.”

  “And you will,” Nan promised, closing her eyes. Brave girl. She reminds me of Sarah. I think we’ll do, I really think we’ll do.

  10

  ALEXANDRE woke in a cold sweat, the voice of that entity in the basement ringing in his head. It had woken him out of a profound sleep, and his heart was pounding both from the icy fear the thing induced and from shock at being so suddenly awakened.

  The damned thing could reach him here now! In his bed, in his own bedroom.

  It didn’t seem to care that it had awakened him, which honestly should not have surprised him in the least.

  The offerings were acceptable. I need more. If anything, its tone was even more arrogant, and he hadn’t thought that was possible.

  But it wasn’t finished. And better, it added.

  Better? What the hell is that supposed to mean? he thought, unable to control his reaction. He hadn’t meant the damned thing to overhear . . . but it had.

  Better. The ones who serve must be . . . he thought the entity was struggling with concepts that were utterly foreign to it in order to express what it wanted from him. They must be better cared for. Cherished. Finer.

  Bloody hell. Is it asking for what I think it’s asking for?

  What he thought it was asking for was upper-class girls! Panicked, he couldn’t keep himself from thinking about all those girls—sisters, cousins, sweethearts—that he’d seen surrounding his classmates at University when visitors paid calls on the students. Images sprang into his mind without prompting, memories of well-bred young women, pampered, cosseted, protected. Young women who were never without protectors of some sort.

  Yes! came the emphatic reply. When the witnesses return, they must assemble. The first witness is being kept. This is not acceptable.

  What did the thing mean—“kept”? And “assemble”?

  He didn’t have any privacy even in his own damn head. No sooner had he formed the thought than the thing reacted to it.

  Vague pictures were shoved into his mind, roughly. Girl-shaped creatures all together in a single room. Acceptable. One girl by herself, with two other shapes tending her. Not acceptable.

  Did that mean the girl he’d abducted and sent off down the street had been found, and that she was being tended to by her parents? He shuddered at the thought. He couldn’t imagine any task more repulsive than to have to tend to that lifeless, soulless simulacrum of a human being. So, the entity didn’t like that. . . .

  Had it somehow intuited that well-bred girls reduced to that state were more likely to be hurried off into an institution, hidden away, out of sight, under the pretense that they had consumption or some other acceptable disease? Because the damned thing was right; that was exactly what a rich parent would do. Get her out of the way, lest rumors of insanity creep out and taint the rest of the family, ruining the chances for marriage of the rest of the brood. Well-bred girls might be cosseted, but they were, in many families, a commodity—useful in business negotiations, in making alliances, and in the case of the nouveau riche, useful in giving the family entrance into social circles they could never aspire to, otherwise. And once a commodity is spoiled, the best thing to do with it is destroy it—impractical in the case of one’s daughter—or hide it.

  And the number of such institutions, where inconvenient girls could be hidden away, discreetly, and given decent care, was of necessity rather small. And . . . available only to the rich. That was probably why the parents of the first girl were tending her themselves. That inanimate body wouldn’t last a month in the asylums they could afford. She’d be left in a bed, and there she would stay, to slowly starve to death, or fall sick and die, given the indifferent attention attendants would give her.

  Yes, the entity said, with overtones of satisfaction. The consumed may be anything, so long as they are pure. The witnesses must be gathered. The mental presence loomed over him, as the pillar of darkness had loomed over him, and he shrank into himself, although there was nowhere he could turn to hide from the thing in his mind. You will do this.

  “Yes!” he blurted, though he had no idea how he was going to accomplish such a thing. Abduct an upper-class girl? How? It wasn’t as if girls like that were sent off on errands. Oh, maybe he could find one shopping, or seeing sights, but that would be in the company of dozens of other people. He couldn’t exactly clap a chloroform sponge over her face and drag her away!

  Well, the entity had an answer for that, it seemed. You will find a witness, away from her guardians. You will speak to her. If she speaks to you, I will work through you, and she will obey you and come with you.

  This both angered and terrified him. Angered him, because why hadn’t the entity done this before, rather than put him and Alf to such risk? Why had it forced them to abduct girls, instead of helping them lead their victims away?

  And terrified him, because . . . maybe it hadn’t been able to reach out in that way until he’d fed it. But now that it had been fed once. . . .

  Now that it had been fed once, it could not only reach him outside of the basement, it could work some form of mesmerization wherever he was. With a single feeding, it had strengthened exponentially.

  What would it be like when it had fed three times? And four? Because it had said “the witnesses will be gathered,” which implied there were going to be at least three more abductions to go through with, and maybe more.

  “How—” he quavered, and was not even able to come out with “—soon?” when it answered him.

  No more than seven days.

  Then he felt the thing leave his head, and he lay in his bed sweating and ice-cold. Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell. I can’t wait to hear what Alf has to say about all this. I wouldn’t be surprised if he quits my service over it.

  But Alf, surprisingly, was philosophical. “We got two choices ’ere, guv,” he pointed out over breakfast. “We does wut it says, an’ it says it’ll ’elp thin’s go all smooth. An’ mebbe it’ll toss summat we kin use when it tosses out th’ witness, by way of reward, loike. Or we run, mebbe go move inter yer mum’s ’ouse, or even futher, crost th’ Channel, an’ ’ope it cain’t reach us from ’ere.” He stabbed meditatively at a sausage. “If me old guv’ner learnt me anythin’, though, it’s niver go back on yer bargain wi’ a devil-thin’. Mebbe it cain’t reach us. But moir loike, it can.”

  He thought about that. Thought once more about sending a letter to Alderscroft—anonymously this time—before fleeing.

  But—“It’s in my head, Alf,” he said plaintively. “And it seems to be saying it can stay in my head no matter where in London I am.”

  Alf nodded. “So, on’y one choice then. Make th’ best uv a bad bizness.” He ate his eggs; obviously nothing about this was hurting his appetite. “’Bout them gels,” he continued. “Concerts. Leck-chures. Opry. Thet’s where ye’ll find ’em. Ex-hibits. Mooseums. If thet thing c’n work through ye, we hain’t gonna need t’work by night. We c’n work by day, or arternoon, anyroad. Find a likely gel. Talk to ’er, an’ let th’ thin’ get inter ’er ’ead an control ’er. Bring ’er round t’where I’m wi’ coach. Keep ’er in coach till dark, so’s no one sees us comin’ in’ere with a fancy kinda gel, then go
out, get t’other kind. Easy-peasy. ’Specially if th’ thin’ is gonna ’elp us with both.”

  He felt some of his panic ebbing, now that Alf had put it all so sensibly. Well . . . of course, if the thing really could do what it claimed, Alf was right. And . . . if it couldn’t, well, he’d dress the part, and all it would look like would be a rather good-looking young man in possession of wealth chatting up a pretty girl. If he was accosted by a parent, he could present a card and ask if he might be permitted to call some time. And if he couldn’t get the ideal candidate within seven days, well, the thing would just have to make do with what he could abduct for it.

  “Now . . . we hain’t goin’ out on this ternight,” Alf said, emphatically. “Cuz thet thing’ll jest say get me more an’ give ye th’ same seven days. No, yew an’ me, we’re gonna take our time. Yew go t’them places I tol’ ye, hev a look around. Plan thin’s. An’ teach me t’drive. Oi’ll look better on th’ box than yew.”

  “We can start that today,” he decided. “There’s a new exhibit at the Grosvenor Gallery. I’ll teach you how to drive wearing my shabby coat, then change into my good one when we get there. People see coachmen training stablehands all the time.”

  “An’ Oi’ll chat up t’other drivers, so’s they gets used t’seein’ me an’ the coach.” Alf seemed to have a good answer for everything. “Oi’m reddy now.”

  “And I will be shortly.” He rose and went to his room to get completely dressed. He had to admit he’d feel a lot better being away from this house. It was a very good thing that there was no one living in the upstairs flat—

  —Hmm. I should speak to the landlord and arrange to rent that flat as well, now that I won’t have to answer for the extra expense to my ex-keeper.

  When he joined Alf some minutes later, he was dressed in his shabbiest overcoat and battered coachman’s hat, with his good hat and coat over his arm. It was a bit of a walk to the stable, but the streets were clear, and the walk gave him a chance to get a good, solid grip on himself.

  It took almost no time before they were on the road, and now the benefit of having a really old horse became apparent. The beast was very tolerant of Alf’s initial fumbling. Its reaction to getting mixed signals was to slow down from an amble to a crawl. It didn’t misbehave, or take advantage of having a novice on the box. Alexandre remembered only too well how his pony had done just that—including running away with him, a terrifying incident that had ended in a crash, a damaged pony cart, and a scolding from his father—as if it had somehow been his fault!

  By the time they reached Kensington Gardens, Alf was feeling fairly confident in his ability to keep the horse going where he wanted it to go, so they stopped a block short of the place for Alexandre to get inside, change his coat and hat, and emerge at the Gallery as if he had been in there all along.

  The exhibit was fairly crowded; fortunately the artist in question was not one of the sets that frequented Pandora’s Tea Room, since Alexandre really did not want to be associated with the artistic crowd. He was here to simulate being a potential buyer, not an artist himself. He circulated among the groups examining the paintings in detail and reading their catalogs, though of course he was paying very little attention to the paintings and a very great deal of attention to the patrons.

  Most young women here seemed to be in family groups, or with friends, which was disappointing. But he persisted in his quest, circulating through the crowd for the better part of three hours, until he began to get a sense of what to look for.

  Especially when it occurred to him that he had been looking for women who appealed to him. But the entity in the basement did not really care about a pretty face, or a slim figure. And when he stopped looking for choice specimens . . . he discovered that there was a bit more available than he had thought.

  The bluestocking with spectacles perched on her nose and her face set in a nearsighted frown, for instance. She seemed to be here completely on her own, and while she might be a trifle outside the age limit the thing had specified, he doubted that the entity would care. The mannish one in tweeds better suited to a stroll on a country estate than a visit to a gallery was here with a friend, but that friend went off to talk to the artist, leaving her alone. He probably could get a conversation going based on horses, and if the entity could work its mesmerism on her, then everything would be set. The ill-dressed creature who was clearly too fond of sweets with the bad complexion (and the too-tight corsetry making her pant for air) trailed behind a party of prettier girls, clearly along because she had to be there, not because she was wanted. All he had to do was separate her from the rest, and he’d probably be able to lure her off to a meeting later, even without the entity helping.

  In fact . . . he was spoiled for choice, and he might well have tried his hand at one or more of them, if the gallery had been less crowded. There were too many potential witnesses who would be able to see him clearly right now.

  When he had satisfied himself with his scouting expedition, he made a graceful exit out to where the private coaches waited and answered Alf’s interrogative raised eyebrow with a nod of satisfaction. “We’ll run a few errands, then return home,” he told Alf quietly, before he got into the coach. “Let’s see how you manage without me.”

  Alf managed very well without him; the old horse was utterly indifferent to crowded streets, noise, even urchins running right under its nose, just as long as Alf didn’t ask it to move faster than that amble. One of the errands was to stop at the solicitors; he emerged from that meeting feeling fully satisfied. It had taken very little persuasion to convince the man that as a modest bachelor he really did not need the huge old house . . . the merest suggestion that the firm collect a commission from the sale was enough to clinch the bargain. He suggested that instead, he might rent—or better still, buy—the house he was in now, also for a commission, should the solicitor manage to buy. And after that, the transfer of additional money from the trust to his personal account was a mere bagatelle.

  So the last few errands were stops at a wine merchant, Fortnum and Mason, and Harrod’s, and the loading of the coach with several highly satisfactory hampers and bales and boxes. Pub meals and things put together by Alf had sufficed in the past, but eating and drinking well were some of the finer pleasures of life, and he and Alf deserved to enjoy them.

  So at dinner, Alf got his first taste of several things he’d only heard of, and some he hadn’t . . . and professed himself pleased and amazed. “That ’am, guv,” he said afterward in wonder. “Oi niver knew ’am could taste loike thet.”

  Alexandre didn’t bother to correct his calling Prosciutto di Parma by the vulgar name of “ham.” “I’m very glad to discover you can appreciate such things, Alf,” he replied, leaning back in his chair and savoring his after-dinner brandy. “As you pointed out, if we’re going to be working hard for our guest, we deserve some luxuries. Now, I’d like you to apply your clever mind to what I observed at the gallery, and see if you come up with the same conclusions I did.”

  Alf listened carefully, brows furrowed, and when Alexandre was done, he nodded approvingly. “Yer learnin’ t’find marks, guv. Oi’d’a picked them same ones. Oi’d’a gone fer th’ ones what was alone, fust, an’ if they didn’ work, I’d’a gone fer the one trailin’ the gaggle.”

  “Really?” Alexandre was surprised. “Why?”

  “Cuz odds are, gel loike thet reads romantical books i’ secret, loike. She’s dreamin’ ’bout some ’andsome bloke hack-chully seein’ ’er, seein’ ’ow she’s nicer’n ’er sisters an’ their friends. You oughter pick up a couple’a them kinda books; ye’ll know jest what t’say t’ a gel loike thet, then.”

  Alexandre felt fairly rocked back in his chair. “Alf . . . I knew you were clever, but I will be damned, man, if I had any idea you were that sharp!”

  Alf snorted. “Learnt all thet off me old guv’ner. ’E was a one t’gull the gels, on’y ’e
was arter somethin’ other than them. Niver knew wut ’twas, but thet’s wut got ’im in law trouble, I ’spect.” He shook his head. “Rum old goat, was the guv’nor. ’E weren’t ’arf as clever as ’e thought ’e were. Or ack-chully, mebbe ’e were as clever, but ’e weren’t near careful enough. Clever is as clever does, but careful, thet’ll go yew a lot futher than clever.”

  “Well, I think that I will wait one more day before trying the Gallery in earnest,” he said after some thought. “I don’t want the crowds to thin too much, but I don’t want them as thick as they were today. That will give me a chance to pick up some of those silly novels and do my due diligence.” He toyed with his brandy a moment. “And, I shall have to keep being careful in mind at all times. I don’t know if that thing in the basement has any understanding of how many ways we can fail in this endeavor—and I don’t know what it would do if we did.”

  Alf nodded. “A foine plan,” he agreed. He cast a covetous eye on the wicker hamper with F&M emblazoned on the label. “A very foine plan. Naow, weren’t there some sorta fancy puddin’ in thet ’amper?”

  Alexandre ambled up to stand beside another bespectacled bluestocking. This young woman had her hair scraped severely back and balled into a tight, hard knot at the nape of her neck. She did not acknowledge his presence. Together they gazed at a painting of the Downs. It was, he supposed, very fine. Everyone else who had gazed upon it had said so. For his part, he could not imagine why anyone would want a painting of grass and hills. “Have you ever been there?” he said aloud to the young woman beside him. It was an innocent enough remark.

  “The Downs? No,” she said, her tone cold.

  “I suppose it is very fine, for its type, but this doesn’t do the scene justice,” he persisted. “The light—”