“Five thousand.”
Daniel gave a short laugh. “The idiot. And he owes me two.”
“I’ll have it out of him. I’ll have it out of you. You took all his money.”
“No, I won it fair and square. What he owes you is between him and you.”
The light from the match showed Daniel a table beside him loaded with trinkets. A hurricane lamp waited in the midst of the clutter, and Daniel lifted its chimney to touch the match to the wick.
The glowing light fell over the hard-faced man who lay stretched out on the floor. He looked less intimidating with his arm over his stomach, his face sickly green.
“I can’t go back until I have it,” the man said, struggling to breathe. “It’ll be my life.” He had a London workingman’s accent.
“Hired hand, are ye? What’s your name?”
“Simon. Matthew Simon.”
“Nice and biblical. So it’s kill me or go back and be killed, is that it? Brutal times we live in.”
“That’s the size of it,” Mr. Simon said grimly. “Sorry and all that. But don’t really see a way around it, sir.”
The man did sound regretful. But not apologetic. He had a job to do, and he would use any means to get that job done.
“Tell you what, Mr. Simon, why don’t you come and work for me? Right now. You won’t need to run back to your master empty-handed. You can stop beating on me for the cash, and I’ll pay ye a decent wage.”
“Work for you?” Simon gave Daniel a long, suspicious stare. “Doing what?”
Daniel shrugged. “Lifting and carrying, keeping an eye on things, helping me with my engines when I need it. What do ye say? If ye have another go at me, I guarantee, I’ll do my best to make sure you crawl home.”
Simon’s breathing was easier, but he made no move to get off the busily patterned carpet. “No man’s ever knocked me down before. I thought I was too big.”
“There’s a trick to it.”
“Ye know about fighting.” Simon sounded admiring. “Dirty fighting.”
“I was raised by men who fight dirty. Rules are for the polite. How about it, Mr. Simon?”
The man went silent. Daniel could almost hear the gears turning in Simon’s head as he went through the possibilities open to him. Finally he heaved a long sigh. “I’m your man.”
“Good,” Daniel said. “Now, how did ye get into the house? Ye didn’t hurt that poor little maid to do it, did ye?”
“Naw, I just scared her a bit.”
“Hmm. I think she needs a rise in wages.”
From the dining room, Daniel heard excited voices—Did you see that? Ellingham, it’s behind you!—but in this room all was calm.
Daniel looked thoughtfully at the kerosene lamp amidst the trinkets on the table. He saw by the lamp’s light that, as in the next room, a gaslight chandelier hung overhead, unlit, and gas sconces adorned the walls. Yet Mademoiselle Violette and her mother kept kerosene lamps in here and candles in the dining room. For the ambience? Or because the gas had been shut off?
Simon sat up and drew a long breath. “You have a mean punch, Mr. Mackenzie.”
“You know who I am then?”
“Everyone knows who you are. Me and me mates always have a little flutter on your dad’s horses. Sir.”
“Wise of you.”
Daniel looked around at the wood paneling that covered the room, which was much older than the furnishings. He put the house as built in the last century. In those days, covering the walls with raised panels outlined with molding had been common, and much more tasteful than the garish wallpaper that adorned most people’s houses these days.
The paneling was also convenient, because it could hide any number of things. This sitting room was in the front of the house, the dining room behind it. But the dimensions of both rooms did not match the length of the hall that ran from the front door to the back of the house. Daniel, who could keep calculations in his head to the nearest inch, had noted that immediately.
He rose and made his way to the wall that divided the sitting room from the dining room. Not an easy journey, because the room was crammed with potted palms, potted ferns, side tables, sofa tables, rugs on rugs, and bric-a-brac of every size, shape, and color.
A narrow door through which Simon had dragged Daniel, closed now, led to the dining room. Daniel ran his hands over the wall panels next to it.
His fingertips found a catch. Working it, he pried open a panel about five feet high and a foot and a half wide. Behind this lay a shallow niche full of thin ropes and wires attached to gears. Two metal levers a little below Daniel’s eye level controlled a couple of the wires, but the rest of the ropes and pulleys ran up into the wall as far as Daniel could see.
“Oh, you clever, clever lass.”
“Wha’ is it?” Simon asked, still on the floor and not very interested.
“The secret of Mademoiselle Bastien’s success.”
Simon grunted again, which Daniel took to mean he cared more about his immediate circumstances than unraveling secrets of fraudulent mediums.
Daniel craned to look upward, wishing he had better light. Whoever had set up this rig had taken advantage of the bell system—ropes and wires woven through the house so the lady upstairs could summon a maid from the depths of the servants’ hall without bestirring herself too much.
The bellpull systems were sophisticated enough that a specific servant could be hailed from a specific room. Daniel had delved into the paneling in the walls in the house he’d purchased in London to put in pneumatic speaking tubes, so he’d be able to communicate instantly with his staff—whenever he got around to hiring staff.
Daniel closed the panel and made his way back through the overstuffed parlor to the door to the hall. Simon heaved himself up and followed Daniel, rubbing his bruised face. Daniel took pity on him and told him to rest himself on the hall bench while he explored.
The housemaid was nowhere in sight. Daniel ran lightly up the stairs, which were lit only from a glow from above. He found another kerosene lamp burning in the upstairs hall, set on a table between two doors. Another flight of stairs continued upward, but Daniel was fairly certain he’d find what he sought on this floor.
The first door in the hall opened to a dark and empty room. No furniture, no people, nothing. But that room was over the parlor. The room next to it lay above the dining room where Mademoiselle Bastien held court.
Daniel opened the door of the second room. It too was bare of carpeting, although it contained a few pieces of furniture pushed against the walls. Two kerosene lamps on one table lent their glow to the housemaid, who was kneeling in the middle of the floor. Several floorboards had been lifted away, and the maid was gazing into the opening, her hands on something inside.
So intently was she focused on her task, she never heard Daniel until he walked around her and crouched down in front of her.
The maid lost her hold on a lever with a little cry, and stared at Daniel, her eyes round. Below Daniel heard Ellingham say, “What the devil happened? Where did it go?”
Daniel glanced into the opening. Beneath a series of levers, a square spy hole opened into the dining room ceiling, right through the chandelier—probably one reason the gas was not on. The chandelier swayed a bit from residual motion, but the otherworldly wind and noises had vanished.
“Oh, sir,” the maid whispered, face paling. “You ought not be in here.”
“Neither should you. Get on up to bed, and leave the theatrics to me.”
The maid’s mouth popped open. She was about thirty years of age, pretty, with dark hair under a white starched cap, her accent putting her from South London. “To you, sir?”
Daniel gave her his warmest smile. “You must be exhausted, lass, with Mortimer tramping in with his friends in the dead of night. You go up and make sure your mistress is well, and go to bed. I’ll take over for you. I know a bit about manipulating machinery.”
“But you can’t . . . I can’t . . .”<
br />
“It’s all right, love. Your mistress sent me up. Let me give this a whirl.”
The maid eyed Daniel in sharp suspicion. “Did she? Where did Miss . . . I mean Mademoiselle Bastien find you?”
“Oh, lying about.” Daniel winked. “Her secrets are safe with me.”
The housemaid came to a decision. She truly did look exhausted, wanting the relief of sleep. “Well, get a move on. She’s needing a bit more down there.”
She climbed to her feet, shook out her skirts, and left the room. Daniel noticed that rather than shoes, she wore soft slippers, which made only the faintest of noises on the board floor.
Once the maid had closed the door behind her, Daniel lay flat on his stomach, stripped off his gloves, and looked through the opening to the dining room below.
The room was in darkness now, the gloom relieved only when Mademoiselle lit a single candle in the candelabra. The candle’s light fell over the openmouthed faces of the gentlemen and haloed Mademoiselle Violette’s pale face and ringlets of dark hair.
She spoke in soothing tones, though she sounded a bit breathless. “Sometimes the spirits go suddenly, just like that. The ether closes, and the connection is lost.”
“Not entirely.” Ellingham pointed upward at the chandelier, which started to sway again, its facets tinkling.
Violette looked up, the extraordinary attractiveness of her face softened by the lone candle.
Daniel could expose her at that moment, call down to those below that he’d discovered how she’d tricked them all. But he knew he never would. Not because Mortimer was a bully, and not because of Mademoiselle’s anger, though she showed plenty of that. And not because of her pleading look, though it was nearly lost under all the anger.
It was her cheekiness. In the middle of the night, Mademoiselle Violette sat alone in a room of gentlemen, which could spell ruin for any other young woman, and played upon them like a master musician played his piano.
These bachelors of London’s best families, who cut dead anyone who didn’t fit their extremely rigid rules of behavior, sat like tame puppies while Mademoiselle Violette made fools of the lot of them.
She ought to look gleeful and revel in her power. But Mademoiselle only looked worriedly upward, frightened that someone was about to end her show, possibly for good.
The desperation she tried to hide while she looked up through the chandelier—realizing her trusted maid was no longer above her—decided it.
Daniel gently pulled another lever, and a rap sounded deep inside the dining room wall.
“What was that?” one young man gasped.
Daniel pulled the lever again, producing another loud knock. Mademoiselle Violette must have rigged a block of wood or something to bang against a wall or another block, to make a hollow, rapping sound.
The lever operated smoothly, needing the lightest touch. After a little experimentation, Daniel discovered he could control the pacing and volume of the knocks.
“Is it trying to send a message?” Ellingham asked.
Violette took a deep breath and forced her gaze from the chandelier. “It is indeed. Hush now, while I listen.”
Daniel wondered how many of the club fodder below knew Morse code. Had they ever operated a telegraph machine? Or were telegrams only what they dictated to lackeys to send for them?
Daniel rapped out . . . I am the ghost of . . . No, wait.
Mortimer is an ass.
From the expressions below, none of the gentlemen had so much as seen a telegraph machine. They waited patiently for Mademoiselle to tell them what the sounds meant.
Violette kept her countenance serene. Wonderful woman. “The spirits are unhappy,” she said in her whispery contralto. “They wish us to stop. To leave them alone.”
Daniel kept knocking in code. You are lovely, do you know, lass?
A blush spread over her face. She knew exactly what Daniel was rapping out, which meant she knew Morse code herself. Interesting.
How did a fine lady like you become a confidence trickster?
“Enough!” Violette said abruptly, rising to her feet. “Evil spirits, be gone from this place!”
Daniel left off the knocking and pulled the chandelier again. It swayed and rocked. He tried another lever, which released a cluster of tiny spheres on thin wires. The spheres, painted with phosphorescent paint, swirled and danced like ghost lights. Yet another lever released a groaning sound, probably through bellows or a bag of some kind.
He also found the lever that controlled whatever machine had blown the cold wind—it not only turned on the machine but regulated the speed. Wonderful. Daniel wanted to get his hands on this machine, more sophisticated than the other tricks. He’d take it apart and see how it worked.
The wind blew out the candle again. Daniel worked levers until the room below was filled with moaning, the chandelier swaying, ghost lights dancing in the wind. Violette plopped down to her chair, giving up.
Ellingham and the others stared, round-eyed, as the room lost control. When Daniel decided they’d had enough, he slammed all the levers back to their resting places.
The wind died, the ghost lights vanished, the noise stopped, and the chandelier creaked slowly to a halt. The facets gave one last shiver, then went still.
Violette rose, and another match flared to life in her hand. “Well . . .”
Her words were drowned out by thunderous applause. Ellingham got to his feet, face glowing, gloved hands clapping hard. “My word, Mademoiselle, you have a wonderful gift. I’ve always said so.”
“They didn’t hurt you, did they, Mademoiselle?” another man with a little more compassion asked. “Are you well?”
“I will be.” Violette took out a handkerchief and delicately dabbed at her forehead. Oh, she was a master. “I have some protection from them. But I fear, gentlemen, that I feel a bit faint.”
The gentlemen climbed to their feet, suddenly solicitous, assuring her they’d leave her to rest, that they were grateful to her. And when could they come back and bring their friends who needed to see, to believe?
Daniel watched Violette as she handled them all, on her feet, but holding the table as though barely able to stand. She encouraged them to make return visits, but with an appointment, so they might be better able to reach the spirits. Violette apologized for her weak talent—her mother’s was much better. Worth it to wait until her mother was well.
The gentlemen fell all over themselves agreeing with her, only Mortimer silent.
Daniel also heard the lads speculating on what had happened to Mackenzie. One said he’d seen Daniel run out of the room, no doubt in a fright when the spirits had started up in earnest. Ah well, everyone knew the Scots were yellow.
Mortimer was the last out of the dining room. He paused at the door. “A fine show, Mademoiselle,” he said. “You are to be commended.”
Violette inclined her head, managing to look haughty and meek at the same time. “I thank you, sir.”
“Hmm.” Mortimer kept his hand on the door frame. “Well, I’ll be back, Mademoiselle, in the daylight. To speak to you.”
“I look forward to the meeting,” Violette said.
She didn’t. She’d rather eat a toad. But she only wrapped a light shawl about herself as she spoke, her exhaustion not feigned.
Mortimer gazed at her another long moment before he made a bow and said good night. Daniel heard him join the others at the front door, the door close behind them, and their voices on the street. None of them mentioned Simon, so Simon might have ducked away out of sight, or perhaps he’d gone home to nurse his wounds.
Daniel lingered, fascinated by the pulley system. There were more levers he hadn’t tried. One sent a deep bell tolling—a person could imagine the specter of Death himself following such a noise. Another . . .
A pair of feet in white leather boots stopped in front of his face. The laces of the boots covered a fine pair of ankles. Better still, from his position, Daniel could glimpse the legs tha
t rose from the boots, gossamer black stockings fitting tightly over shapely calves.
He rolled over onto his back and put his hands behind his head. From this angle, he looked all the way up her straight skirt to the tight bodice that swelled over her bosom. “As grand a setup as I’ve ever seen,” he said. “The pulley system, I mean. What engineer strung this for you? Whoever it was, I want to meet him.”
Mademoiselle Bastien’s schooled face remained carefully blank. “I did it,” she said.
“Did you, now?” Daniel’s eyes widened in amazement and he brought his ungloved hands together in a burst of clapping. “Brilliant. I think I’m in love with you.”
Chapter 4
Arrogant, impudent . . . Violet and her mother were about to be ruined by this scion of aristocracy, and he was laughing at her.
Mr. Mackenzie returned his hands behind his head and lay full-length on Violet’s floor, relaxed and confident. What did he intend to do? Expose her? Alert the newspapers? The police? Violet’s heart beat hard. She needed to wake up her mother, to pack what they could, to leave.
But Mr. Mackenzie remained unmoving, eyes glittering in the lamplight, his handsome face and athletic body the best things that had ever decorated this room.
Violet had no business thinking of that, absolutely no business. Existence was difficult enough. Men believed that women’s lives were theirs to dictate, to own. Look what had happened the last time Violet had thought a man sympathetic to her, had trusted him. Absolute disaster.
“You used the bell system,” Mr. Mackenzie was saying. “Piggybacked on the pulleys and tubes already available to you. Very wise. Though a bit inconvenient if you want to summon someone to bring you hot water.”
“The consultation is over, Mr. Mackenzie,” Violet said, keeping her voice brisk and businesslike. “The other gentlemen have gone.”
Daniel pushed himself up to a sitting position and crossed his legs. His kilt fell modestly over his knees, but not before Violet caught a glimpse of the strong thighs beneath. Oblivious of her scrutiny, Daniel pulled a cigarette case from his pocket, extracted a black cigarette, and put it between his lips. He shoved the case back into his coat, took out a match, and struck it on the bottom of his boot.
The Wicked Deeds of Daniel Mackenzie hp-6 Page 3
