Twin Speex: Time Traitors Book II

by Padgett Lively

  She cursed silently under her breath when confronted with a long brick wall bordering the back of the first three buildings, of which the church was one. The top of the wall was about half a foot higher than her head and, while she could reach it, she didn’t have the leverage or strength to pull herself up.

  She walked the length of the wall and came upon a tangle of honeysuckle. It was an old plant of the thick, woody variety and strong enough, she hoped, to hold her. Evelyn stashed her basket at its base and cast her cloak over it. A quick look around assured her that no one else was about. She grasped the vines and scrambled up as best she could. Her skirts were a hindrance and several unladylike oaths escaped her lips, but she achieved the top with surprisingly little wear and tear to her skin or clothes. She didn’t sit there for long, just a hasty second to catch her breath before kicking off and landing softly in the garden encompassing the graveyard.

  Evelyn had never been one to fear the supernatural or seek vicarious thrills through scary stories. So it surprised her to feel a sense of dread and foreboding close in around her from the surrounding graves. There were no moss covered trees dripping with dew or heavy fog coursing among sinister gravestones. The sun shone down almost hot for this early spring day. Birds flittered quietly among branches barely touched with foliage. Yet Evelyn felt her hands curl into fists and her breathing take on the quick rhythm of fright.

  She had taken only a step before a scream rent the unnatural silence. Evelyn gasped with recognition, and terror sped her feet over the grassy courtyard. In front of the church, she saw a small crowd gathered; a woman on her knees pressed an apron to the wound; a man in a panicked voice called for a hackney; stunned bystanders stood mute with indecision; Billy lay prone on the ground, his white face turned toward her. His eyes glittered with a dull light, and she knew he was dying.

  Evelyn slid to a stop beside him and dropped to her knees. The woman looked up at her. Hands wet with blood, she said through her shock, “In the heart! He’s been stabbed in the heart! God only knows how he still lives!”

  Billy was struggling now, one hand waving wildly in the air. Evelyn grasped it and brought it tight against her chest.

  “Billy! Be still! We’ll get you to a doctor.” Her voice shook with tears, but it focused his eyes with recognition upon her face.

  “Evie,” he said, his last words coming out on a calm breath of air, “she is false.”

  Twenty-Six

  THE DANK CELLAR was warm enough, but it smelled of rats and mildew. She leaned heavily against the wall, her chest heaving with exertion. The hood had fallen off her head, and the ribbon holding her hair back had loosened to allow much of it to fall forward covering her face.

  Her ragged breathing eventually slowed, and her heartbeat returned to normal. She pushed away from the wall and reached up to pull the ribbon completely from her hair. She flung it to the floor and walked over to the long wooden table in the center of the room. The table with its benches and a couple of large sea chests were the only pieces of furniture in the cellar.

  The woman looked down at her hand in which was tightly gripped a bloody knife. She stared at it so long it seemed to freeze into place. She had to concentrate hard to make her fingers loosen, and eventually the knife fell from her hand onto the table.

  This cellar was only one of the many safe places she had secured around the city. It was the least amenable, and she wished matters had not necessitated the use of it. Being, however, only a few blocks from the attack, it was her quickest refuge. Like all of her other places, she had stocked it with a good selection of disguises and should be able to slip with little notice back out onto the street.

  The loud clatter of boots on the stairs made her turn hurriedly around, the knife again clutched in her hand. Two rough-looking men appeared in the doorway, both warmly, if simply, dressed. The first to enter was a large man of middle age. He had a pockmarked face with watery blue eyes and thinning hair. The other, a smaller, younger version of him, could be none other than his son.

  “Er now, the boy?” the man’s voice was uneducated, but not unintelligent. His words held a large measure of shock and disbelief, “We saw ’em laying out there in the street. That weren’t the plan.”

  “He was suspicious,” she said in a hard voice and dropped the knife back down on the table. “He was becoming too great a risk.”

  Father and son exchanged a quick, furtive glance that was not lost on the woman.

  “On orders from the Godfather,” she told them. “It should throw the Franklin camp into disarray. The old man himself will be stricken with grief.”

  “It may strengthen the guard,” the younger man declared in opposition. “They’ll be lookin’ for the killer, an’ we’ve got weapons to move tonight.” He glared at the woman with thinly veiled hostility. “I say it’ll make things harder.”

  She was still shaky, but had regained much of her self-possession. Schooling her features into an arrogant and aloof expression, she challenged, “Are you questioning me? Would you like to state your concerns to the Godfather?”

  The young man looked inclined to take her up on the offer, but the older man quickly interceded. “No, no, ma’am.”

  They had all heard stories of the Godfather, and none of it was good. It was said he came from the Far East, a shrouded and benighted part of the world where normal, civilized men would be tortured and slaughtered for no good reason. His reach was far, and his power derived from enormous wealth. As long as he saw fit to use it to their benefit, the man didn’t see any reason to pursue the murder of one young boy.

  “My son here, ’e’s just worried cuz we’ve got a big shipment comin’ in tonight.”

  “I’m well aware of it,” she countered in a clipped tone, her nerves now completely under control. “You needn’t worry, we have something planned. They won’t be looking to the docks tonight. Mark my words.”

  The men stood for an awkward moment more before nodding reluctantly and shuffling off up the stairs.

  The woman leaned heavily on the table and took a deep breath. It had all been going so well. She had felt sure of the boy. His desire for and resentment of the girl had made him easy to manipulate. The divided love he felt between his rebel grandfather and loyalist father hadn’t hurt her efforts either. The poor thing had actually believed he could bring them together through his actions.

  She straightened and looked at her hands, at the one that had wielded the knife. It was a foolish oversight. She hadn’t taken the time to remove it. She had meant to pull on a pair of gloves to cover the distinctive triangle-shaped mark. But it had been so warm in the coach; she had waited and then forgotten.

  She saw again his furrowed brow, heard the hesitant intake of breath. He had been reciting his findings, the meeting between his grandfather and the native representatives. He had looked at her, confusion and astonishment, and then dawning understanding flashing past in an instant across his face. It had been the work of only seconds to extinguish his life.

  The woman dragged one of the chests over to the table where she could sit and rifle through its contents. A mirror was attached to the inside of the lid, and neatly arranged trays were laden with various containers of cream and makeup.

  She dug deep into its depths and pulled out a dark wig and an artfully bedraggled dress. It took only a matter of minutes to transform her appearance from one of spritely young dandy to unkempt and downtrodden servant. She threw the breeches and blood-spattered waistcoat into the bottom of the chest. She would never use them again.

  Having rearranged everything back to where it belonged, she stood in the middle of the room making final adjustments to her person. She stared hard at the opposite wall as though it held a full-length mirror in which to examine her reflection.

  She could hardly believe her luck when Davis had discovered Odell’s whereabouts: Colonial Philadelphia, a place she knew well. That they were all here, where she had suffered her most terrible loss, was a sign. Unlike Ode
ll, she believed in coincidences. It meant that fate was on her side.

  Her eyes grew wide and blank. A bitter smile played about her mouth. The boy’s death was a pity. She had always meant to kill him, but perhaps not in so brutal a manner. It was better this way though; the boy’s death would cause him pain. He would suffer, question himself and his cause. She could picture the old man in her mind weeping as she had once wept, choking on his tears. His imagined heartbreak was like a salve, bathing her in its soft and restorative essence.

  *

  “Dear Miss O’Sullivan,

  “This request has come as quite a surprise, I must admit. During your prolonged visit abroad, Margaret has been so busy with the management of your various interests, I hardly see her. And now I find that when she does deign to visit her father, it is at your behest. Please do excuse the bitter tone of this opening paragraph. While I admit to a relative antipathy to the devotion some women exhibit for the philanthropic, even at the expense of finding a suitable husband, I cannot lay this entirely at your door. For Margaret has been of that temperament from a very young age.”

  “My goodness, but he does go on,” Cara declared with a subdued quiver of laughter. “You would think, with the many scandals he has known, he would be grateful for the honest and wholesome work of his daughter.”

  “Jonas Bell has never been one to judge too harshly his noble patrons,” Fancy replied. “His, is quite a lucrative business.”

  They sat in the quiet parlor of the rooms they occupied at the Black Swan Inn. Sunshine spilled in warmly from the southern-facing windows highlighting the dust motes drifting in and out of its wake. A low fire burned in the hearth, and the tea tray sat virtually untouched upon the sideboard table. A sense of weary calm pervaded the cozy room.

  It had been only two days since the murder of young Billy Franklin and also the fire at Grays Tavern on the Schuylkill River near the ferry crossing. The fire had left the tavern only partially burned, and it was generally acknowledged by the spy network to have been a diversion. As yet, its purpose was unknown.

  The two women were joined by Odell and Ava, the latter having a particular interest in the contents of the letter. It was weeks earlier that she had asked Fancy to write her friend Margaret Bell.

  “A painting?” Fancy had questioned, “By Jonas Bell?”

  “Yes,” Ava insisted, “But not a miniature, an actual portrait… um, of a rather salacious nature.”

  Ava remembered Fancy’s skeptically raised eyebrows. “Jonas is a bit shady and may deal in scandal, but I have never known him to traffic in smut.”

  “I believe it to be an exception,” Ava had explained. “Perhaps at the request of someone he could not refuse.”

  She had described the painting and her certainty that it was somehow connected to Ettie, as well as a possible clue as to who was behind this conspiracy.

  “I was shown the painting almost as a taunt,” Ava had explained. “It was all very strange.”

  “Why were you there?” Fancy asked in reference to her meeting with Knightly Davis. “It seemed a particularly unpleasant business.”

  “It was my only way to make sense of what Odell had told me. Jonas Bell was a connection between your Odette and my Odette.”

  So Fancy had agreed, and they sat down together to write the letter. And here was the answer many long weeks in arriving.

  “Go on, please,” Ava insisted impatiently, “what does he say?

  Fancy looked down at the letter in her hand and continued reading,

  “You know through your association with Mrs. Wright and, indeed, my daughter, that the particulars of my business are never disclosed—”

  Ava gave a little groan, but Fancy held up a restraining finger and kept reading:

  “However, I cannot describe to you the manner of my shock in reading the description of the painting for which you seek information. I do not know how you have learned of its existence and am very eager for it to remain unseen by all others. I am grateful to you for enclosing the description in a separate, private correspondence to me within that which you sent to Margaret. I would find it deeply mortifying should my wife and children ever learn of the existence of such a painting and my very reluctant part in its creation.

  “That being said, the fact of the portrait itself and the circumstances under which I was forced to paint it have haunted me for over twenty years. It is with a sense of relief that I recount the story to you now.”

  Fancy glanced up briefly to make sure her audience was as equally enthralled as she before returning to the letter.

  “Years ago—I believe around 1755—I was summoned to the country estate of one Sir Alfred Barstow. I had never heard of Sir Alfred, but this was relatively early in my career as not to be unusual. What was most unusual, however, was the estate’s location in the wildest, most remote part of Wales. It took me several days to arrive, and while the coach sent to fetch me was quite luxurious, the roads were, in some places, barely roads at all. A thorough recounting of that journey would take me several pages. Suffice it to say it was a long, rough ride through some of the most fantastical and breathtaking countryside I have ever seen.

  “Unlike the wilderness surrounding it, the manor itself was an oasis of gentility and sophistication. It was clear that no expense had been spared on its construction. The gardens blended perfectly with the natural terrain which ran for miles around with forest trails, rocky gorges, and plunging waterfalls. The house wasn’t large, but built as a smaller-scale castle. It didn’t, however, look fanciful or out-of-place, but exactly as one might imagine the fortress of an ancient Welsh fairy prince. The strange sensation that it had been built as a childhood fantasy never left me and, indeed, proved percipient.

  “I was greeted at the door by the housekeeper and told that the master requested the pleasure of my company for dinner. Since it was several hours until then, I asked permission for a tour of the house and grounds. The housekeeper was a small mouse of a woman, and quite elderly, but she was spry enough to show me the place. While perfectly acceptable in décor and furnishings, the interior also held a childlike, yet more feminine, quality. I was surprised to note that only the housekeeper, cook, gardener, and two rather large, rough-looking manservants staffed the manor.

  “Later that evening, after I had changed for dinner, I was ushered into an ornate dining room. There were three other people present: My host, who I recognized immediately, not as some minor member of the nobility, but as Sir Archibald Brandon, a member of the King’s Privy Council—”

  “Hell and damnation! Dear ole dad!” Odell exclaimed, “I knew it would trace back to him somehow.”

  “… a slight, middle-aged man of quiet demeanor and pale blue, lightless eyes—”

  Ava gasped and sat up straighter. “Knightly Davis! It has to be!”

  Fancy smiled indulgently at their outbursts as she continued, “… who was introduced to me as Doctor Davis, and finally, a beautiful young girl of no more than thirteen or fourteen years of age.

  “Naturally I was a little taken aback to find myself in such august company, but Sir Archibald was so welcoming and jovial, that I was very soon put at my ease. Doctor Davis was described to me as a trusted man of science who collaborated with Sir Archibald on his many experimentations. He was a strange man, but not in any particularly uncommon way.

  “What was most particular, however, was the young girl. She was introduced to me as Sir Archibald’s daughter, Miss Lillian Brandon, and she was a child of great beauty. Large blue eyes were ringed with long dark lashes; smooth, pale skin shone with a rosy hue; long blond hair fell in thick ringlets about her shoulders. While very lovely, she still had the sylphlike grace of a child not yet grown into womanhood.

  “I had expected from her the awkward curtsy of a young girl, but instead received the regal nod and self-possessed greeting of the lady of the house. I’ll never forget her eerily adult words as she graciously gestured me to my place at the table.


  “ ‘So good of you to come all this way, Mister Bell. Papa admires greatly your skill with the paints.’

  “And so it went throughout the evening, Miss Lillian interjecting and conversing as if she were twice as old as her years—”

  Cara abruptly stood up and walked over to the tea tray. “Oh don’t let me interrupt you,” she protested in an oddly hollow voice as she poured herself a cup of tea. “I’m feeling a bit of a chill—just in need of a little fortification.”

  Ava and Odell exchanged an uneasy glance. Fancy shivered as if she too felt a cold draft, but merely swallowed nervously and kept reading,

  “About halfway through the dinner, Sir Archibald announced his intention that I paint a portrait of his daughter. Of course, I knew that I had been summoned for some such task, but was rather surprised Miss Lillian was the subject. As his legitimate child, there was no reason to apply for my skills. Indeed, a much more renowned artist would have made more sense. Nevertheless, I happily agreed and plied Miss Lillian with questions regarding her specific mode of dress and hair. This was the only time I saw her evince any awkwardness. She blushed, looked away, and applied to her father for a response. To which he pronounced a cheery dismissal that it would be discussed the following morning during our first session.

  “From the description you sent me, I assume you have seen the painting. So you can imagine the scene that greeted me the next morning. It became painfully apparent why I had been hired for this commission, and I forcibly refused to do it. Maintaining an outward appearance of good nature, Sir Archibald succinctly let me know that failure to comply with his wishes would have a negative impact on my business and perhaps even my life. On the other hand, painting the portrait in the manner he wished would enrich me greatly.