Vow of Deception: Ministry of Curiosities, Book #9

by C. J. Archer

"I don't," I said again. "What's done is done."

  "Don't let her come between us, Charlie."

  I kissed him lightly on the lips. "I won't. I know she's not a part of your life anymore."

  "Not part of my life or my thoughts. And now we'll see even less of her."

  I leaned my head against his shoulder, but not for long. Lord and Lady Gillingham lived only a few streets from Lady Harcourt and the coach already slowed.

  Lord Gillingham was not at home, but Harriet was pleased to see us. As always, she welcomed us enthusiastically. How this vivacious young woman had ever come to like a toad such as Gillingham was beyond me. Their marriage had been arranged when she was just a girl. At twenty years her senior, and a nasty, self-important man at that, she had every reason to hate him. Yet she didn't. Instead, she enjoyed marriage now that she'd leveraged her shape changing abilities and shifted the balance of power in her favor. Now she appeared to rule him. It probably helped that she was carrying his child.

  "We're sorry for calling at such an early hour," I said.

  She waved a hand. "You just missed Gilly. He has gone to see a man about horses."

  "It's not him we wish to see," Lincoln said. "Although if you could pass on a message, I would be grateful." He asked her to tell her husband to come to Lichfield for a committee meeting at three.

  "Is something the matter?" she asked, directing us to sit on the sofa in the drawing room. "Why the urgency?"

  "Yesterday's papers reported another mauling death."

  "I don't read the newspapers." She pulled a face. "They're always filled with such ghastly things. Another mauling you say? By a werewolf?"

  "I cannot say without seeing the victim's injuries."

  "But it's likely," I told her. "How many wild dogs are there in London's East End?"

  "You'd be surprised," Harriet said. "I've seen some poor starved animals attack out of sheer hunger."

  "But why attack a man? Why not another dog or a rat, something easier to kill and eat?"

  "I see your point." She pressed a hand to her stomach. It was not as flat as I expected. At three months along in her pregnancy, I thought she wouldn't be showing much yet, but clearly that wasn't the case. Perhaps she'd got her dates wrong.

  "Do you still run with Gawler's pack considering…?" Lincoln indicated her swollen belly.

  "Not run, no, but I do visit them. As much as I adore my Gilly, I do want to speak with people who understand me. They're my friends now. I'm looking forward to running with them again after the baby's born."

  "You won't switch allegiance to Sir Ignatius Swinburn's pack?" I asked, genuinely curious. Harriet was a countess who'd led a very sheltered life. She seemed more suited to Swinburn's shifters than Gawler's, and yet she'd not shown signs of wanting to run with people more like herself.

  "Of course not. One does not merely change one's allegiance as one would an outfit. I belong to Gawler's pack and that is that. I have no intention of following Sir Ignatius, particularly after he and his friends showed their true colors. I don't associate with murderers."

  I wondered how much of her allegiance stemmed from her dislike of those with humble beginnings who'd risen high thanks to their money. She could be quite the snob when she wanted to be.

  "Did you see anyone from your pack yesterday?" Lincoln asked.

  She shook her head. "Surely you don't think one of them attacked the victim. Come now, Lincoln, you're not being fair. The last attack was orchestrated by Lord Ballantine, a member of Sir Ignatius's pack. You must look there for a murderer, not to Mr. Gawler. They have a history of doing that sort of thing; we do not."

  "This attack occurred in the East End."

  She bristled. "So?"

  "So Gawler's pack runs in the East End, and Swinburn's pack contains itself to the West End. That's the agreement they came to themselves."

  "That doesn't mean Sir Ignatius would keep his word and stay out of the East End. He's a slippery upstart. I don't trust him, and you shouldn't either."

  "If you could find out what you can from your pack mates, I would appreciate it."

  "I will, but I can already assure you they're innocent. Gawler isn't a killer, and his pack do as he asks."

  "And yet he's weak," Lincoln pressed. "He inherited the pack because King died, not because he won the leadership. Doesn't that make you question his worth? Surely there is talk of overthrowing him."

  "Certainly not. No one mentions such a thing. We are quite happy with his leadership, thank you, and kindly do not imply otherwise. We're loyal to Mr. Gawler."

  "Even you?"

  "Yes!"

  "A countess loyal to an itinerant laborer?"

  Why was he challenging her like this? She was our friend, for goodness’ sakes. I tried glaring at him but he did not look my way. I doubted he would have stopped even if he had seen.

  "Rank and fortune do not have a bearing on one's position within a pack," she said stiffly. "Only strength does."

  "And yet Gawler is not strong. He lost the leadership to King. Perhaps he'll lose it again to another challenger."

  "That's the point, Lincoln. There are no challengers. None of us are strong enough to defeat him."

  "Swinburn is."

  She blinked owlishly at him. Her lips parted to speak then she closed them again.

  "And strength does not always imply physical capability," Lincoln went on. "There are other kinds of strength, such as courage, fortitude and an ability to understand and lead people."

  "That's where Swinburn fails," Harriet said. "He does not understand good people, only wickedness. Take his affection for Julia. What a horrid pair! I suppose that makes them quite suited to one another. I do see your point, but I must reassure you that Mr. Gawler's pack won't make the same mistake they did with King. He risked their lives and the very existence of the pack itself. They won't let that happen again, particularly not with me there to remind them." She gave us both a smug look.

  "You have influence with them?" I asked.

  "I do now that I've settled in. At least, I like to think so."

  She offered us tea but we refused and bid her good day. She walked us to the front door, her hand resting on her belly. I couldn't help saying something, and I only hoped she wouldn't take it the wrong way.

  "When are you due?" I asked.

  "December."

  "Are you sure?" Lincoln asked, saving me from posing the question. "You look further along."

  Her spine stiffened. "Quite sure. Gilly and I were not…" Her face reddened and she looked away. "We only became reacquainted with one another this spring."

  "You mistake me," Lincoln said with an apologetic lift of his hand. "I believe you when you say you are only three months along. I'm questioning the fact that you are one third of the way through the pregnancy."

  Harriet and I gave him blank looks. "You're not making sense," I told him.

  "The gestation period for a wolf is less than three months."

  Harriet glanced at the footman, standing by the front door. "But I am not a wolf," she whispered. "Not really."

  "You are not human either but something else entirely. It stands to reason that your pregnancy will not follow the pattern of a human woman's."

  "Oh. I must ask my pack mates. They'll know." She rubbed her belly and smiled. "I do hope it will come soon. I can't wait to tell Gilly the good news. He'll be quite shocked at first, but he'll grow used to the idea of a little wolf prowling around the house soon enough."

  She had more faith in Lord Gillingham than I.

  We left the Gillinghams' residence and traveled to New Scotland Yard to speak with Lincoln's police informant. The corrupt detective owed his job to Lincoln and proved to be a good source of information on occasion. It was easier going to him than attempting to sneak into the secure building. Lincoln ordered me to remain in the coach, however. I acquiesced on this occasion so that I could save my battles for more interesting and important occasions.

  He returned f
ifteen minutes later and ordered our coachman to take us home.

  "What did you learn?" I asked.

  "The victim's name is Reginald Lander, a baker's apprentice who worked in Threadneedle Street," Lincoln said as the coach rolled forward. "He was killed on his way to work in the early hours. His body was found by two constables at four-thirty in the morning. There were no witnesses, although the police continue to question the local residents. Considering the extent of Lander's injuries, they speculate that someone must have heard him scream."

  "No one heard the Ripper victims scream," I said darkly. "How extensive were his injuries? Did they match Protheroe's?"

  "In every way, according to the report." He indicated where the wounds had been inflicted and described claw marks.

  "That does sound like Protheroe's injuries." Once upon a time, such injuries would have sent a shiver through me, or made me nauseated, but I'd seen so much death in the last year, it no longer shocked or sickened me. "We need to find out if Reginald Lander was known to either Gawler's or Swinburn's packs."

  "We can ask them now," he said.

  "Or we could simply ask Lander's ghost."

  "I had a feeling you might say that."

  "And I can see you've already decided that I will question the ghost." At the arch of his brow, I added, "You told the driver to return home, not travel to Gawler's or Swinburn's house."

  He huffed out a laugh. "Would you rather do it now or wait until we arrive at Lichfield?"

  "Now will do. What's his middle name?"

  "William."

  "Reginald William Lander," I intoned. "I call on the spirit of Reginald William Lander. I need to speak with you about your death."

  The ghost filled the cabin like a sketch come to life, and settled on the seat beside me. The baker's apprentice had been huge, as big as Gus, with shoulders and arms that strained the seams of his clothes.

  He looked around then addressed Lincoln, sitting opposite. "How'd I get here?"

  "I summoned you," I said. "You're dead."

  "Aye." Usually the newly deceased were a little confused, but Reginald Lander was quite composed. "But why summon me?"

  "I called you here because I need to speak with you about your death. I'm sorry to rip you from your afterlife—"

  "I weren't in my afterlife. I stayed near where I died."

  "You remained to haunt?"

  He passed a massive hand over his face, but it went right through, disturbing the outline of his bulging forehead. His face resettled in the same pattern of oversized nose, lips and brow. "Aye. I wanted to catch the dog what did this, but don't seem to be able to leave the street. I need to go further."

  "You can't," I said. "That's a limitation of haunting—you must remain where you died."

  "Then what's the bloody point?" The spirit dissolved into wisps that swept around the cabin twice before reforming again on the seat beside me. "Who're you and why'd you bring me here?"

  My name is Charlie Holloway and this is Mr. Fitzroy, my fiancé. We're investigating your murder," I said. "We hope to bring your killer to justice."

  "Murder? By a human?"

  "We believe so. A human in wolf form, that is."

  "A what?"

  "You called your killer a dog just now, so I thought you knew, or had guessed, that a shape shifter murdered you."

  He screwed up his face, drawing his heavy brow to plunge over his eyes. "You ain't making sense, miss. What's a shape shifter?"

  I quickly explained the situation. He didn't look like he believed me but he didn't outright dismiss me either. "Is there anything you can tell us about your killer?" I asked. "Anything we could use to identify him or her?"

  "It were a big dog," he said with a shrug. "Could have been a wolf, I suppose, although I ain't never seen one before. It were all brown fur and big teeth. And claws." He looked down at the shredded clothing at his chest. "You saying that were a person in there?"

  "Yes."

  "Why did they kill me then?"

  "Did you have enemies?" I asked.

  "No." Another shrug of those big shoulders. "I worked hard, helped out my ma at home, got me a nice sweetheart, too."

  I repeated his answer for Lincoln. "Were there any rivals for her hand?" he asked.

  Lander shook his head. "None. She weren't the prettiest, but I ain't either." He laughed, revealing crooked teeth. "She's the daughter of my employer. Her parents were happy for me to court her. They said we made a good match, being alike in temper and all." He sighed. "I'm going to miss her."

  "I'm sure she'll miss you too," I said. "Mr. Lander, does the name Gawler mean anything to you?"

  He shook his head. "That your suspect?"

  "Not at this point. What about a man named Swinburn?"

  Another shake of his head. "You got clues? Witnesses?"

  "No, nothing."

  He grunted. "You're going to give up, aren't you? Another body turns up in the East End and you don't care. You pigs won't find my killer, just like you didn't find the Ripper. What's it matter if a whore gets murdered, or a dock worker, or a baker's apprentice? It's just another less mouth to feed, another voice what won't rise up."

  "Mr. Lander, I don't appreciate your insinuation that we won't work hard to find your killer. Besides, Mr. Fitzroy and I do not work for the police. Our organization accounts for the supernaturals, and I can assure you, we have every intention of finding your killer before he strikes again. So, it's important to answer my questions fully."

  "I have, miss. I don't know no Gawler or Swinburn, and I ain't got any enemies what would murder me. I didn't see no one attack me, just a big dog." He spread out his hands, palms up. "Any other questions you want to ask?"

  "Lincoln?" I said. "Do you have any questions for Mr. Lander?"

  Lincoln asked if he knew the Ballantines and the other members of Swinburn's pack. Reginald Lander didn't. Nor did he know Harriet or any members of Gawler's pack. He had never ventured past any of their places of residence either, including Gawler's in Myring Place.

  "I don't usually go through the Old Nichol," Lander said. "It ain't a good area, miss. But it's the shortest way to work and I got lazy these last few days. But I ain't been to Myring Place."

  Lincoln ran out of questions and I had no more. I sent Lander on his way and suggested he might as well cross over.

  He looked as if he'd refuse but nodded instead. "There ain't no point staying if I can't leave the place where I died. You promise to catch my murderer?"

  "We do." I watched him until he dissolved into a mist and finally into nothing at all. "He's gone," I announced. "He wasn't very helpful."

  Lincoln studied the view out the window. When we finally arrived home, he took my hand and assisted me down the coach step to the gravel drive.

  "Care to walk with me through the garden?" he asked.

  I took his arm and kept pace with his slow, easy strides. We ambled across the lawn and passed by the orchard. It was a lovely day, but I didn't care about that, and I didn't think that was why Lincoln invited me to walk with him.

  "You have a plan," I said.

  "No. Do you?"

  "No. Do you want to toss ideas around away from prying ears and eyes?"

  "Why does it matter if Seth or Gus hear us?" he asked.

  "Because you don't want it known that you have no ideas and are asking me for advice?" It sounded rather stupid even to me.

  He chuckled. "My self-worth isn't that inflated. Don't," he added when I opened my mouth to speak. "No need to disagree with me."

  "I wasn't going to! I was simply going to ask you why you suggested a walk in the garden."

  "Because it's a beautiful day." He glanced back at the house then diverted our path toward the brick wall surrounding part of the garden. "And because I wanted to kiss you without anyone observing."

  He hustled me through the doorway and gently pushed me back against the wall. I reached up and linked my fingers behind his head. He settled his hands at my waist
and skimmed his lips over mine.

  "You're wicked," I said on a breath.

  "Very."

  "Kiss me properly."

  He smiled against my mouth. "If you insist."

  * * *

  Due to events over the previous months, the ministry's committee consisted of Lords Marchbank and Gillingham, and Lincoln. Marchbank arrived first, and on time, but Lord Gillingham was half an hour late. I thought he wouldn't come at all but then his gleaming black coach arrived. The gold family crest painted on the side glinted in the afternoon sunshine so that the serpent wrapped around the sword looked as if it winked.

  "You're late, Gilly," Lord Marchbank said as Lord Gillingham strolled into the library.

  He undid his jacket buttons and sat in one of the deep leather armchairs. "I only just received Fitzroy's message from my wife. If she'd given it to me earlier, I would have gotten here earlier. You know how she is."

  "And how is she?" I asked sweetly.

  "Stupid."

  Well, that wasn't very nice. At least he answered me, I suppose. Once upon a time, he would have ignored me completely unless it was to goad or hit me. "I disagree," I said. "I think Harriet is quite smart but has never had the benefit of a good education to capitalize on it. Granted, she is quite naive regarding some matters, but it's hardly her fault since she has been treated like a child for so long. I'm just glad she now lives her life as a shape-shifting countess ought to." I shot him a winning smile.

  He sank into the armchair.

  Seth handed him a glass of brandy. "You look like you need this."

  "I still can't fathom it," Lord Marchbank said. "Harriet is such a gentle woman. To find out that she has the strength of several men, the speed and senses of a wolf…it continues to amaze me."

  Gillingham downed the contents of his glass and held it out. "Another."

  Seth pointed his chin at Gus. "You get it."

  "Why?" Gus whined. "Because I'm the servant and you're the lord?"

  "Because you're closer to the sideboard. But if you insist on being the servant, then by all means, act like one and get him another drink."

  Gus crossed his arms over his chest. "Ring for a footman. Let the proper servants do it."

  Gillingham leaned on the silver lion's head of his walking stick and pushed himself to his feet. "This is a bloody circus." He marched to the sideboard, the walking stick hardly hitting the floor, and removed the stopper from the decanter. "Lichfield Towers has gone to the dogs."