by C. J. Archer
The only reason I could think why the duke would bring up the subject in our presence was to rile the Prince of Wales and perhaps embarrass him in front of his very masculine yet illegitimate son—the son the Prince of Wales wished had been his legitimate one and his heir.
If Lincoln thought the same, he gave no indication. He hardly batted an eyelid. If he'd been stiff when he'd met Leisl and Eva then he was positively frozen now. I wished I could touch his hand to offer support, but he might not appreciate the gesture. He had, however, brought me here for one thing. To talk. That I could do.
"Sir," I said to the Prince of Wales, "may we speak freely?"
"You may," he said. "My brother knows everything about the break-in and that fellow King. It took some convincing but he believed me in the end. And, as you can probably tell, he knows everything about my private business, too. Her Majesty keeps me informed, and I keep my brother informed, as a matter of insurance, you see."
In case something happened to the reigning monarch, I supposed, although I failed to see why it was necessary for the Duke of Edinburgh to know that his brother's eldest child had been born on the wrong side of the blanket. Perhaps, like most people, royals needed someone to confide in too, and brothers naturally turned to one another.
"We requested an audience with the queen because she spoke to King in private that day he entered the palace under the guise of your father," I said. "We need to know what he said to her."
"Why?" the Prince of Wales asked.
"It's likely someone was paying him. We want to know who."
"There's been a murder linked to King," Lincoln added. "And someone dressed in royal livery is following us."
The Prince of Wales's mouth worked soundlessly before he managed to speak. "Good lord. Not again."
The duke pointed his unlit cigar at Lincoln. "Are you accusing our staff of spying on you? Or of my brother ordering you be followed?"
"That's not what he's suggesting," the prince chided.
"Isn't he?" The duke struck a match. "Sounds like it to me."
"That's because you're not listening, Affie."
His brother shook the match to extinguish it. "Someone dressed in royal livery can only mean one thing," he mumbled around the fat cigar.
Lincoln held up a hand for silence, a bold move considering whom he addressed. Both men quieted, but the duke seemed more startled at being silenced by a nobody than actually acquiescent.
"We don't think the spy received his orders from the palace," Lincoln clarified. "It's likely King stole the uniform and passed it on to someone else before his death. That's why we'd like to know whom he worked for, and to know that we must speak with Her Majesty. She's the only one who can shed light on what King wanted from her."
"She told me he said nothing of importance," the Prince of Wales said.
"I'd like to ask her again."
The duke unplugged the cigar from his mouth. "Are you calling your queen a liar?"
Lincoln let the question go unanswered. The silence thinned and stretched with the duke glaring at Lincoln and the prince looking decidedly uncomfortable.
"I'll write to her," the Prince of Wales said quickly. "I'll emphasize the importance of her being open with us for the sake of the realm. That ought to convince her."
"The realm always comes first," the duke muttered, returning the cigar to his mouth and inhaling deeply.
"Please inform me when you have her reply." Lincoln bowed and held his hand out to me, steadying me as I hurriedly curtsied. He was in a rush to get away.
This time, I couldn't blame him. While I didn't mind the Prince of Wales, I found the duke to be condescending and manipulative. If the brothers actually liked one another, it was impossible to tell from that meeting.
Lincoln would not be drawn on his opinion of either of the royals, no matter how many times I asked on the journey home. I stopped asking when he narrowed his gaze at me on my fourth attempt. I spent most of the rest of the way thinking up subtler questions while he spent it looking out the window.
"Did anyone follow you?" Seth asked when we found him and Gus playing croquet with Alice on the lawn.
"Only to the palace," Lincoln said.
I gasped. "I didn't see anyone."
"He was there," was all Lincoln said.
With Gus and Seth's backs to her, Alice took the opportunity to nudge the croquet ball with her toe. She winked at me. I tried not to smile.
"Now what?" Gus asked.
Alice placed her foot on the ball and rolled it forward.
"Now we return to what we do know," Lincoln said.
Gus and Seth looked to me. I shrugged. "What do we know?" I asked.
"That there is a dead man lying in a mortuary, due to be buried soon. Everything else is supposition, including the witness being a shifter."
"Do we even know the victim's name?" I asked, watching Alice move the ball once again.
"The newspapers haven't reported it," he said. "It's likely it has been suppressed."
"Because it was someone of consequence," Seth muttered, nodding. "How terrible."
Gus swung his croquet mallet in an upward arc and rested the handle on his shoulder. "Just as terrible if it was a factory hand, or hackney driver, or baker."
"I didn't mean that it wasn't," Seth said.
"You implied it."
Seth rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Charlie, if you choose him over me to walk on your left, what will people think?"
"That she got sense and good taste in her choice of friends." Gus turned back to Alice. He frowned at the ball, looked up at her, and the frown deepened.
She smiled sweetly, settled her stance, and swung the mallet. The ball rolled neatly through the hoop.
Seth applauded. "Well done. Good shot."
Gus thrust one hand on his hip. "But she—"
Seth slapped Gus's back, wrapping his hand around the base of Gus's neck. From Gus's wince, I suspected Seth was squeezing him hard. With a firm shake and an innocent smile for Alice, Seth let him go and took his shot. He missed.
"Ah well. I'm having a run of bad luck today." He trotted off in the direction of the ball.
Gus sighed. "I hate this game. Next time he complains about having nothing to do, I'm going to challenge him to a duel. Bit of blood sport'll liven up the day, and he'll get cut to ribbons if he don't play proper." He trudged after Seth.
"You did speak to Seth, didn't you?" Alice asked me. "About his behavior?"
I nodded. "There's been no change?"
"No. He's still sickeningly sweet and complicit. I can't bear it."
"Then I am at my wit's end," I said. "Nothing I do makes him want to be himself around you. I am sorry, Alice."
"Never mind." She put her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun as she watched the men pull the hoops out of the lawn. "It simply isn't meant to be between us."
I decided not to tell Seth that. He would be devastated. Besides, I wasn't entirely sure it was hopeless. Once she got to know him, she would fall in love with him. She just needed to get to know him. The real him.
I set off after Lincoln, who'd headed back to the house. "Wait!" I called out, and he stopped near the terrace at the back of the house. He offered me his arm and I took it. "We didn't finish the discussion about the victim. You said we have to start there. Are you implying what I think you're implying?"
"Yes."
"You want me to raise his spirit?"
"After we find out his name. We'll go tonight."
If a spirit had crossed over to the otherworld for their afterlife, I needed their full name to summon them back. The newspaper hadn't reported it in the article about the murder, and there'd been no more articles since.
I groaned. "You're going to break into the police station, aren't you?" I didn't like the thought of Lincoln doing that, even though we'd both done it before.
"No. I'm going to bribe my contact at Scotland Yard. The breaking-in part will be at the mortuary tonight."
"You want to see the body? Why not just the spirit?"
"Because if the victim knows who killed him, we can confront the murderer straight away and end this. I expect a more dramatic and honest result if the murderer is accused by the man he killed."
"You have quite a unique way of getting results, Lincoln. Effective but unique."
"Will you be all right? I doubt it will be a pleasant sight, considering he was mauled."
"I've seen enough death to not let it affect me." It was a lie, but I didn't think he detected it. "We'll all go," I said. "Seth and Gus, too."
We climbed the stairs and entered the house through the doors leading to the morning room. He made to continue on, but I caught his hand.
"You haven't spoken much since leaving the palace," I said.
"There's nothing to say."
"Are you surprised the prince told his brother about you?"
He considered this a moment and then nodded. "I thought it would be a secret he'd take to his grave. When he found out who I was, he seemed…shocked."
"But he also seemed to accept it quickly after the shock faded."
"He didn't tell the queen."
"Grown men probably don't confide in their mothers very much, even if she does rule the country."
His jaw relaxed a little. "I am surprised he told anyone at all."
"It just shows that he's not ashamed of you, Lincoln. Quite the opposite, I think."
"If it became public, the newspapers would be relentless," he went on.
"His brother is hardly likely to tattle. Imagine the things they must know about each other." I squared up to him and clasped his arms. "Besides, it seems to be common knowledge that your father isn't exactly honorable when it comes to his marriage vows, so a by-blow should surprise no one. That had better not be an inherited trait, by the way."
He pressed his forehead to mine and clasped my hands. "I can assure you, it's not."
"I know," I said gently, and I meant it.
Lincoln's contact at Scotland Yard was a corrupt detective whose career depended upon Lincoln not divulging the man's connection to a smuggling ring operating from the docks. By ten o'clock, he sent Lincoln a message with a name on it: Roderick Oswald Protheroe.
We waited until midnight then drove to the Westminster mortuary with Seth and Gus sharing the coachman's seat. The insipid light from a streetlamp failed to penetrate the dense darkness outside the mortuary building, and with the coach's lamps covered, we could not easily be seen.
Lincoln shuttered his lantern before alighting. The horses shifted, their clanking bridles the only sound in the eerie quiet. Seth climbed down and soothed them with pats and whispers. Perhaps they could sense the death beyond the brick walls.
It unnerved me too.
I held the lantern, the shutter slightly ajar, as Lincoln used his tools to unlock the front door. Two clicks had it swinging open with a groan of hinges. The horses moved again and I glanced back. The coach had stopped in the darkest part of the street, and only its silhouette was visible.
Lincoln pushed open the door just as footsteps sounded on the pavement to the right. A constable emerged through the fog like an apparition, another figure behind him. Lincoln grabbed my hand and pushed me inside.
Too late. We were seen.
"Halt!" a voice barked. "Who goes there?"
"They went in," the other policeman said. "Come on. We got 'em cornered."
Chapter 5
Lincoln signaled for me to flatten myself against the wall. He stood between me and the door, his arm touching mine. Tension coiled his muscles tight, ready to spring. He held no weapons, even though I knew him to be armed.
The larger constable edged through, inch by inch, truncheon raised. Lincoln struck a blow on the side of the man's head then kicked his legs out from under him.
The second constable turned and ran. Lincoln followed, his footsteps so light I couldn't hear them. The man on the floor groaned.
I searched the small reception room then headed into a corridor that led to an office and a windowless room containing a table but no chairs. A body-shaped object covered by a sheet lay on the table. I breathed deeply to steady my nerves and coughed as the tangy scent of carbolic soap cloyed at the back of my throat. The soap didn't quite banish the stench of death.
I lifted the corner of the sheet, but stopped as Lincoln entered, carrying the first constable over his shoulder like a sack. He dumped the body on the floor then disappeared. The constable wasn't groaning now. He made no sound and didn't move. Surely Lincoln hadn't…
He returned with the second constable and set him down beside the first. "They're alive," he answered my unasked question. "They passed out from lack of air."
"I remember when you did that to me," I said without thinking. "You seem to have had no problem silencing those two, but may I request you leave one to me next time?"
He joined me by the table. "I thought you'd be pleased." He sounded put out. "I didn't kill either of them."
"Yes, but I didn't have the chance to put my training into practice."
"A fair point." He picked up the lantern I'd set on the table near the head of the dead man and carried it to the nearby desk. He looked through the papers stacked there, scanning each page quickly until he found the information he wanted. "It was fortunate we came tonight," he said. "He'll be buried tomorrow."
"Has there already been an inquest?"
"The coroner decided it wasn't murder; 'Mauling by a crazed dog' is the official verdict. The police report is attached, and that was their conclusion, too." He returned to the table and held the lantern high. "Ready?"
"Ready."
I peeled back the sheet to reveal the dead man's face. It showed no signs of an attack, only the pallor of death. "He looks young," I said.
"Twenty-four."
"Too young to die." I pulled the sheet down further, revealing gashes to his throat and chest. Most of the blood had been cleaned away but some dried clumps matted his chest hair. The cuts looked very deep, from the way the flesh lay open, but I didn't inspect too closely. "Claws," I said simply.
"No wonder the police and coroner concluded it was a mauling," he said.
"Why haven't we read about it in the papers since that first article was printed? Shouldn't the police warn the public that a mad dog is on the loose in Hyde Park?"
"They don't want to alarm anyone. Not yet. Another attack will change that."
"Then let's hope there're no more attacks." I lifted the sheet back up to the victim's chin. "Roderick Oswald Protheroe, come to me," I intoned. "I call on the spirit of Roderick Oswald Protheroe."
The silvery mist seeped out of the wall and floated gently around the room before settling into the ghostly form resembling the young man lying dead on the table. He looked confused, and I quickly tried to reassure him.
"You're dead and in spirit form," I said, realizing too late that those probably weren't the most comforting words one would want to hear.
The man looked down at his ghostly body. "Yes," he said simply. "I remember. Is that…me?" He edged closer to the table and peered at the exposed face. He shimmered and went to pass a hand over his face but it went right through the mist. "Do my family know?" He had the cultured accent off the upper classes, and the bearing too.
"Yes," I said, assuming the police had informed them.
"And Leonora? Dear God, poor girl. My poor dear Leonora, all alone now."
"Who is she?"
"Leonora Ballantine, my intended. Well, not quite my intended, although we had an understanding. We are—were—in love. I suppose she can do as her father wishes now," he said bitterly. He went to run his hands through his hair, but once again his fingers passed through. "Who are you? Why am I here?"
"My name is Charlie Holloway and this is Lincoln Fitzroy. I'm a necromancer, and I summoned you here to ask your assistance in finding your killer."
He looked to me then to Lincoln and shook his head. "You're mistaken. I wasn
't killed by a man. It was a…a wolf, I think. Bigger than a dog, at least." He indicated the size with his hands, as tall and broad as a man.
Damnation. He hadn't seen the wolf change into its human form. We were no closer to finding the killer shifter, and coming here to the mortuary had been a waste of time. I could have summoned him from home with just the name. There would be no confronting anyone tonight, with or without the dead Mr. Protheroe.
I repeated his answer for Lincoln's benefit. He simply nodded for me to go on with my questions.
"May I see the rest of me?" Protheroe asked.
I exposed a little of the body's throat but not too much. Protheroe's spirit recoiled, breaking up before coalescing into his shape again.
"It's possible you weren't attacked by a dog or wolf," I said.
"I was. I saw it. Big ugly thing. And no human did…" He waved at his body but turned his face away. "That."
"Despite the evidence, you were probably murdered, Mr. Protheroe."
"We think someone set their animal on you," Lincoln said. I supposed it wasn't far from the truth, and it was certainly an easier explanation than the real one.
"What the blazes! Who would do that?" Protheroe dared another look at his ruined body.
"That's what we'd like to find out," I said. "Did you have enemies?"
"None that I know of. I'm quite a likeable fellow. Everyone says so."
"Who gained from your death?"
"You mean financially? No one. I have an older sister, happily settled with a rich gentleman. Everything that was set to come to me upon the death of my father will probably go to her now, but she doesn't need it. Besides, we got along splendidly. None of my family would want me dead."
I repeated his answer for Lincoln then was about to ask more questions when one of the policemen groaned.
