Ashes To Ashes: A Ministry of Curiosities Novella (The Ministry of Curiosities Book 5)

by C. J. Archer

  He turned to see they'd both followed him and stood in the courtyard as soaked as he was. "Go inside," he told them. "Dry off. Neither of you will be of use to me if you become ill."

  "Neither of us will be of use if we refuse to work for you!" Gus shouted back.

  So it had come to that after all. "Are you leaving my employ?"

  Seth once again held up his hands in a placating gesture. Rain dripped off his hair down his face. He swiped angrily at his eyes. "Can we go inside to discuss this?"

  "There's nothing to discuss."

  "Bloody hell." Seth shook his head, spraying droplets. "Don't you see that this has affected you?"

  That wasn't what Lincoln had expected him to say. "I'm the same as I've always been."

  Gus snorted. "No, you're not," Seth said. "You're acting erratically and have been ever since she left."

  "You're mistaken."

  Gus shook his head. "You don't care about your own safety no more."

  Lincoln had never cared. He went to walk away, but Seth's words stopped him.

  "No, that's not what I meant. I meant you've lost focus now. Answers that were once easy to obtain have become elusive. Details that were obvious are now less so. You do foolish things that jeopardize your own safety because you're distracted. You thought she was a distraction when she was here, but her absence is doubly so. Isn't it?"

  Rain thundered on the tiled roof of the coach house and stables. Drips slid past Lincoln's collar and down his spine, leaving a painfully icy trail in their wake. His men watched him through the veil of rain, their gazes searching, questioning. Hoping. They didn't know for certain. They were only guessing at Lincoln's motives and state of mind.

  He clung to that as if it were a buoy.

  "You miss her," Seth said, more quietly. "You miss her terribly."

  Lincoln squinted up into the sky, ignoring the rain splattering his face. The heavy clouds seemed to blanket the whole world, smothering every breath. He should go inside. He should walk away from his men and not answer them.

  But for a reason he couldn't fathom, he wanted to answer. "Yes. I miss her." He tilted his head forward and looked at each of them in turn. He needed to get his next point across. "But it will pass."

  They scoffed. Gus shook his head. "You're a fool if you think we believe that," Seth said.

  "You're a fool if you believe it," Gus added.

  Lincoln's face heated. He could feel his temper rising from the depths of him, bubbling to the surface. "How would you know?"

  Neither seemed to think it a question worth answering. But the longer the silence stretched, the more Lincoln realized his question was sincere.

  "I owe you much," Seth said, folding his arms up high on his chest and not meeting Lincoln's gaze. “I don't know where I'd be now if it weren't for you. I like working for the ministry."

  Lincoln looked to Gus, but his craggy features gave nothing away.

  "I don't want to leave," Seth went on. "But I feel I must. I can't work for someone who acts irrationally. And she kept you in check."

  "In check how?" Lincoln asked.

  "You shot a man in the foot!"

  "I didn't kill him."

  "You traversed the city over rooftops. In the rain."

  "It was a shorter, faster way."

  Seth threw his hands in the air. "You try," he said to Gus. "I give up."

  Gus blew out a breath. "How can I put it?" He thought a moment then nodded. "I'll be direct with you, sir. If you got rid of Charlie because she got in the way, what will you do with us if we make a mistake?"

  "Don't make mistakes and you won't find out."

  Seth barked out a humorless laugh.

  Gus rubbed his temple. "What if we're no longer useful? Will you shoot us in the foot if we don't do something you ask or do it the wrong way?"

  "Or will you kill us?" Seth said, quieter.

  Lincoln watched them from beneath damp lashes. Did they think pressuring him would encourage him to bring Charlie home? "If you feel you must go, then go. I won't stop you." He turned and walked to the house. He sensed them following at a distance.

  He avoided the kitchen and went through the main part of the house. The salver on the table by the front door overflowed with calling cards. Had Lady Vickers had that many callers, or were some for Lincoln and Seth? His progress up the stairs was deliberately slow, steady, yet he felt like he'd run for miles by the time he shut his door. He shouldn't feel this exhausted after so little exertion. He changed into dry clothes and poured himself a tumbler of brandy, then another and another. It didn't clear his head, only made the fog denser.

  If Seth and Gus left, he still had Cook and Doyle. But it wasn't the same. They weren't fighters. Their duties were in the house. And they didn't know how Lincoln worked, not like the others. They just weren't the same, damn them, and Lincoln wanted the same. He wanted Seth and Gus at his side, complete with their bickering and bad jokes.

  He threw the glass into the fireplace. It shattered, spraying shards over the hearth, the floor, onto the rug, over tables and chairs. He marched over. Glass pierced the souls of his feet. It hurt like the devil and no amount of concentration could deaden the pain. He used to be able to master pain—not eliminate it, just mask it. But now, every cut burned, and soon his feet felt like they were on fire.

  He hobbled back to his desk, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind. He sat down and closed his eyes. Let the pain come. Let it consume him and see if it destroyed him.

  And if it didn't?

  He would get up in the morning and face the day and every day that came after it. He would bury himself in work to the point where it consumed him instead. He would find a way through to the other side.

  What he felt now… it couldn't possibly last forever.

  The Metzger woman.

  Lincoln awoke with a start. He'd forgotten about the Metzger woman! How could he have been so incompetent?

  He set his feet on the floor only to wince as pain spiked through them. He sucked in a breath and blew it out slowly, then sucked in another. He stood. Manageable.

  He'd bandaged his feet himself the night before using the medical kit he kept in his study. Hopefully he'd removed all the glass first.

  He dressed quickly and edged aside the curtain. Light rimmed another gray, dull horizon. It wasn't raining but it probably would later.

  He headed downstairs, avoiding all the creaking floorboards, and outside. His feet stung but so be it. He harnessed a horse to the smaller cabriolet and drove out of the Lichfield estate at speed, heading toward Spitalfields. He easily passed the delivery carts with their yawning drivers and plodding hacks.

  Number forty-four A had once been half of a sizable residence but was now a two-up two-down with four windows, set evenly apart, and a green door. A tanned woman with sagging sacks beneath her eyes and deep grooves around her mouth answered his knock. She shrank back when she saw him. Her eyes turned guarded. It was impossible to tell if she was owner of the house or a lodger. She wouldn't be a maid or cook hired by the landlady. No one living in the miserable district of Spitalfields could afford staff.

  "I'm looking for Mrs. Metzger," Lincoln told her. "Or Miss Metzger. Is she here?"

  The woman chewed on her bottom lip and hugged the door. "Who are you and what do you want?" she asked in a strong Russian accent.

  "Is she here?" he asked again, trying to summon some patience. "It's urgent. Her life may be in danger."

  She gasped and muttered a Russian expletive. "Why?" She didn't tell him he was too late, thankfully.

  "Someone wants her dead. The reason is for her ears only. Please, fetch her for me."

  "I am she."

  He blew out a measured breath and placed his hands behind his back. "Someone is killing people with supernatural powers. I know that you're next on his list."

  She covered another gasp with both hands, or rather, paws. Claws sprouted from her fingertips. When she realized, she shook them and the claws
retracted. Her hands returned to normal. She pressed her lips together and glanced past him, left and right. She tucked her hands behind her back.

  "I belong to an organization that protects your kind," he said. "I need to take you to safety. Now. Fetch whatever you can carry and come with me."

  "But what about my work? My shift begin soon."

  "Where do you work?"

  "Gumm's Boots on Commercial.”

  "I'll tell them you were called away to an ill relative's bedside."

  She continued to chew her lip.

  "Your loved ones can come with you," he told her.

  "I have no one. My husband and son dead."

  He removed some money from his pocket. Her eyes widened. It was probably a year's worth of wages. "You can move out of London and rent a room for yourself. This should last you until you find work." He knew he was asking a lot of her, but if he couldn't save her…if she died because he hadn't alerted her yesterday…

  He swallowed down the bile burning his throat. "I'll drive you to the station."

  "I pack. Wait."

  He retreated to the cabriolet. Another woman emerged from the house and paused when she spotted him. She was younger than Mrs. Metzger, but looked just as tired. She edged past him and hurried off along the street, her shoulders stooped.

  Mrs. Metzger returned barely ten minutes later with a carpet bag that looked like it had traveled the world. Worn and stained, it nevertheless looked sturdy. Lincoln tied it to the back of the cabriolet.

  "I will go to Southampton where there is sea and good air." Her face lifted and the sagging seemed not so pronounced. She held out her hand for the money and he passed it to her. She tucked it into her bodice then climbed up beside him.

  "May I ask you a question about your hands?" he asked as the horse pulled away from the gutter.

  She folded her gloved hands in her lap. "You may."

  "Is that the only part of you that changes? Or is there something more to your magic?"

  "Only my hands change, but I see the dead too."

  "You're a medium? Or a necromancer?"

  "What are these?"

  "A medium speaks to the spirits of the recently deceased, but a necromancer can summon those long dead and bring them back to life."

  She gasped then crossed herself. "I am medium. I see new spirits, before cross over."

  He flicked the reins to drive the horse through the thickening morning traffic. They sat in silence, allowing Lincoln to think. Did the killer suspect Mrs. Metzger was a necromancer and had decided to eliminate her, just in case? Or was he now attacking supernaturals of any sort, no matter if they couldn't be used to reanimate the dead? If so, then everyone in the ministry archives was in danger.

  A half hour later, he'd deposited Mrs. Metzger at Waterloo Station and headed home. She was safe, and perhaps she might even be happier living at the seaside than in London. He'd told her to contact him at Lichfield once she was settled. He would add her new location to the files, and keep those files locked away from untrustworthy eyes.

  The house was quiet when he entered via the courtyard door, and he didn't need a seer's powers to know why. Gus and Seth were gone. He bypassed the kitchen but felt the venom of Cook's glare nevertheless. A resounding thump of the rolling pin left Lincoln in no doubt that Cook blamed him for his friends' departure.

  Lincoln took the stairs two at a time, only to stop dead when he met Lady Vickers on the landing. She greeted him with a smile, which surprised him. Shouldn't she be upset about her son leaving? Shouldn't she be worried that Lincoln would throw her out now? The last time they'd spoken, she'd stoked Lincoln's temper and been determined that he should treat Seth as an equal, at the very least. So why the smile?

  "Good morning, Mr. Fitzroy. I see you've been out already, and in such gloomy weather too."

  "It has only just begun to rain." He stepped aside, but she didn't move to pass him.

  A small crinkle appeared across her smooth brow. "You look troubled," she said, her smile fading.

  "I've got some things on my mind now that your son and Gus have left my employ."

  "Ah. I was wondering if you were going to bring it up or if I should."

  "You are welcome to remain here, madam, whether Seth is present or not. I gave my word."

  She squeezed his arm gently. Her eyes misted but quickly cleared and she resumed the mask of nobility again. It had to be a mask, he'd decided. This woman had run off with her footman, of all people. She seemed above such things, yet apparently she wasn't. Not that he was the best judge of character, particularly where Lady Vickers was concerned. He didn't understand her at all.

  "You are a true gentleman, Mr. Fitzroy. Thank you. If Seth comes to me for advice, I will tell him in no uncertain terms that he must return here. He made an unwise decision, and I'm deeply troubled by it."

  "But you don't want him to be my servant."

  "No, I don't. But nor do I want him to have nothing, not even a roof over his head. He told me you pay him well, Mr. Fitzroy, and I am not so foolish as to think he's above working with you."

  As opposed to for him. "Do you know where he is?" Lincoln asked.

  "No, but I expect him to show his face sooner or later. I am his mother, after all. He can't run away from me too."

  Seth wouldn't see it as running away. More like taking a stand. "Thank you, madam, but it's unnecessary. I won't force him to work for me." Coerce, yes, but not force.

  He went to walk past her since she made no move to pass him, but she clung to his arm. "Did you go through the calling cards?"

  "I haven't had time."

  "You had many visitors, as did my Seth. You could both have the pick of the year's debutants." Her eyes lit up with the same gleam he'd seen when she pushed Seth toward eligible women at the ball. Why was she looking at Lincoln like that? "If you want them, that is."

  "I don't."

  Her grip tightened. She wasn't letting him go yet. "Do you know why I came home to England, Mr. Fitzroy?"

  "No." Nor did he want to know. Unfortunately it looked like she was going to keep her hand on his arm until she told him.

  "I was lonely. My second husband died, and I'd made few friends in New York. Without friends to introduce me, I wasn't received into the right circles, you see. So I came home to be with my son again."

  He nodded. Should he say something too?

  "I loved him, you know," she said before he had a chance to think of an appropriate response. "My second husband was a good man, more of a gentleman than my first, even though he was the one born to gentility."

  "You don't need to justify your actions to me. I don't care."

  "Oh, I know that. That's why I like you so much."

  She did? He couldn't tell.

  "I expect I'll find myself shunned by English society for some time." She sighed. "There will be crude jokes and snide comments, of course, and I'll need to partner either Seth or your intriguing self if I wish to attend parties." Her strong features softened a little, but there was no other sign that she was bothered by these facts.

  "Is there a reason you're telling me this?" he asked.

  "I'm telling you because I want you to know that it was worth it. Even if I'd known George wasn't going to live long, and even if I'd known that returning to England would be difficult, I would still have married him."

  Her face softened more and Lincoln grew worried that she would cry. He steeled himself. "I see," he said, glancing past her.

  Instead of letting go, she held his arm tighter. "I don't think you do. You're trying to escape."

  He cleared his throat and gave her his full attention. Shouldn't she be saying these things to Seth? Why did she want to tell Lincoln these personal thoughts when she hardly knew him?

  "I loved George very much," she said again. "Even though that love cost me a great deal, I couldn't have not loved him. I didn't have any choice in the matter. It simply was. Now do you see?"

  He saw. He saw that Seth ha
d told his mother more than he should have about Charlie. "I have to go."

  She released his arm and he moved past her. "True love doesn't end," she said to his back. "It only deepens with time."

  "Your advice is unwanted."

  "My presence in London is unwanted by most, but I'm staying anyway. Love isn't always easy, Mr. Fitzroy, but nothing rewarding is."

  She'd probably read that in one of the gothic romance novels he'd seen her reading.

  It was too early for a drink and he didn't want to summon Doyle to fetch tea. While he didn't think the butler was the lecturing type, Lincoln would rather not risk it. He'd had enough advice and angry glares from the rest of the household to last a lifetime. Now he wanted peace to consider the developments in the investigation.

  Unfortunately, a knock on the door disturbed him. It was only Doyle, delivering tea. Lincoln was beginning to wonder if the man had some supernatural seer powers after all. Or perhaps he was simply an excellent butler.

  "Sir, I should warn you," Doyle said before exiting. "Cook is talking about leaving too."

  Lincoln sat heavily in his chair. The task of replacing his staff suddenly felt overwhelming. He rubbed his forehead and listened to the door click closed as Doyle left. He sipped his tea and tried to think about work again. He should send someone to warn all of the London-based supernaturals to be vigilant, but there was no one left to send. Not even Cook. Lincoln expected him to march into his rooms with a meat cleaver at any moment. With his excellent aim and fierce temper, Cook would be a formidable opponent.

  He set the teacup down and left. He slowed as he passed Charlie's rooms but forced himself to continue. Anywhere but in there. He headed up to the attic and the files stored there, but found himself detouring to the tower room. It stood empty and cold. The hearth had been swept clean and the mattress stripped bare. The last time he'd been in the room was the day Charlie left.

  Charlie.

  He shouldn't have come to the tower room. The memories of the day she left were too vivid here. But he didn't leave. He couldn't. He wanted to be there, to remind himself that he'd sent her away for bloody good reasons.

  He sat on the windowsill and, for a moment, he couldn't remember those reasons. All he could see through the misty rain was the exact spot on the drive where the carriage had been when Charlie climbed into it that day.