by Tim Pratt
Ellie decided to take up a position in the shadows across the street, to wait for Lord Pembroke to emerge. Or, if the entry to the cellar was at any point left unguarded, she could sneak down and see what waited in the dark for herself. Perhaps whatever she found there would answer some of her questions. Lord Pembroke, Value, Oswald, the clockwork courtesans, murdered girls—how were they all connected?
Ellie had the sense that she’d glimpsed a portion of something far larger than it first appeared—the peak of a mountain breaking through clouds, the jagged top of an iceberg visible on the surface of the sea. She’d followed that sense into big stories before. Cooper called it her “woman’s intuition,” not without a certain amount of admiration, but Ellie preferred to think of it as reporter’s instinct.
She crept across the street, finding a likely-looking doorway to shelter in. The entryway had been clumsily boarded-up, so the rightful inhabitants were unlikely to be along anytime soon. Ellie pressed her back against the boarded door, confident the shadows hid her utterly, and settled in to watch the alley.
After a few minutes, the large man who’d helped Lord Pembroke move the woman’s body reappeared, pausing to speak with the guardian of the cellar door, then hurried on his way. Ellie tensed, waiting for Lord Pembroke to emerge, but he didn’t. Ten minutes became fifteen, then twenty, then half an hour, then perilously close to an hour. Her feet ached, her left leg kept falling asleep, and the bindings on her breasts itched. She feared that, if things took a dangerous turn and she had to run, she would collapse on her cramping legs. When she could stand to be motionless no longer, she stepped out of the doorway, sidling along close to the building until the alleyway and its guardian were out of sight. She stretched her arms over her head, flexed her knees, and twisted her torso, wincing as she stretched out her protesting muscles. Once she felt less like a half-carved statue and more like a living woman again, she started back toward her doorway. After no more than five steps, something sharp and pointed pricked Ellie in the back, to the right of her spine, just above a kidney. “I didn’t think you’d ever come out of that doorway,” a man’s voice hissed in her ear. “I was beginning to think I’d have to walk up to you bold as brass and demand you tell me your business.” The man holding the knife on her whistled, and the vagrant-guardian from the end of the alley soon appeared, and trotted over.
“Who’s this, then?” he said.
“Someone spying, but I don’t know who or why,” the man behind her said. Ellie’s stomach lurched as she recognized his voice. It was “Crippler” Crippen from the clockwork comfort house, perhaps banished to serve as a guard in this filthy neighborhood as punishment for his failure to apprehend Mr. Smythe in the brothel. Now he’d remedied that, though Ellie feared his redemption would do her no good. Crippen prodded her with the knife, not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to remind her how easily he could. Ellie hoped the knife hadn’t damaged the coat she’d borrowed from Mr. James, and a moment later, realized the hope was a bit ridiculous—the coat, and the person wearing it, would very likely be sunk into the Thames, or perhaps interred in a dark cellar with the body of at least one other woman.
“But we’ll find out his business, won’t we?” Crippen said. “People are always happy to answer my questions, after they hear how sweetly I ask.”
Footsteps sounded on the stones as another man approached from the alleyway. He stopped a few feet away, frowned, and sighed heavily. “Gentlemen,” Lord Pembroke said. “May I ask why you’re holding a knife on my assistant?”
The Luna Club Unknowingly Integrates
“Sorry, my lord.” Ellie made her voice as gruff as she could. “They spotted me.”
Lord Pembroke nodded. “Yes, well. Subterfuge has never been your specialty, Jenkins. I’m disappointed, of course, but these things happen.”
“Wait,” the vagrant guard said. “You know this fellow?”
Lord Pembroke sighed as only a put-upon son of nobility, forced to deal with the lesser orders, could sigh. “Of course I know him. I am currently doing a bit of work for Mr. Value, but that doesn’t mean I trust him, any more than he trusts me. Jenkins here was meant to follow me at a discreet distance and step in to assist me in the event of any… unpleasantness.”
“What’s he supposed to do?” the vagrant said. “I’ve met ten-year-olds bigger than him.”
“Jenkins is a master of the mysterious Eastern art known as gongfu,” Lord Pembroke said, voice absolutely deadpan. “Though unarmed, he is deadlier than most men who wield swords or pistols.”
“Ha,” Crippen said. “I’d like to see proof of that.” The knife pressing against her back was removed, and Ellie let herself fully exhale for the first time in minutes. Well. As fully as she could exhale, given the bindings wrapped around her chest. “We’ll have to tell Mr. Value you had a confederate skulking around,” Crippen said.
“Oh, dear,” Lord Pembroke said. “Why, then Mr. Value might learn I believe him capable of low acts of betrayal! How will our relationship ever recover from such a crushing blow?” He snorted. “Come, Jenkins. We have work to do. The night is not so young as it was.”
Ellie tipped her hat to the vagrant guard, and started to follow Lord Pembroke. She tried to keep her face averted, but Crippen made a point of circling around and peering at her. His eyes widened. “Halliday,” he growled. “This man works for you? Always?”
Crippen recognized her, she was sure of it, from the clockwork comfort house. He’d seen her only for a moment, when she passed him playing cards downstairs in the brothel—he’d even winked at her—but that glimpse was enough to doom her now.
Lord Pembroke stopped walking, and frowned. “I do not engage his services at every hour of every day, man. Why do you ask?”
“He has a familiar face. Mostly it’s that mustache.”
“Mmm,” Lord Pembroke said. “It is a fairly beastly mustache. Now, if you don’t mind, I have business to pursue.” He started to walk away, then paused. “Crippen, isn’t it? Crippler? I saw your bout against Hamilton in ’59. A truly fine example of the pugilistic arts.”
The suspicious cast left Crippen’s eyes, and he straightened, puffing out his chest. “Hamilton never fought again after that night, you know.”
Lord Pembroke smiled, showing a flash of teeth as thin as a knife blade. “I rather doubt he ever ate solid food again after that night, Crippler.”
“Ha! Too right, m’lord.” Crippen tipped his hat, then nodded to his fellow guard. “Back to our posts, mate. Only a few more hours until relief, eh?”
Lord Pembroke walked on, and Ellie hurried after him. They walked silently for some time, the only sound their footsteps and the click of Lord Pembroke’s walking stick against the ground. At last he said, “I confess, Miss Skye, I found your earlier attire more fetching. And that mustache is beastly.”
Ellie laughed. “I wondered if you recognized me. I’m a bit disappointed. I thought the disguise was rather good.”
“It is, and at first, I took you for a man, and stepped forward only to prevent the murder of a stranger. But once I got closer… there is no disguising your eyes, Miss Skyler. Not even that mustache can distract me entirely from those. You followed me tonight, then? You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“This is no game for me, sir. This is my business. My vocation. Indeed, my life.”
“I cannot be responsible for your safety.”
“And I, Lord Pembroke, cannot be responsible for yours. But… thank you for helping me. Things might have become… awkward.”
“You have a remarkable gift for understatement. Did you learn anything interesting while skulking along after me?”
“I am fairly certain I saw the face of the murderer,” she said.
Lord Pembroke’s footsteps faltered, the rhythm of his step-click-step thrown off, and Ellie allowed herself a small smile.
“That is interesting. Of course, I recently learned the killer’s name, but still, a description is always he
lpful, as names can be changed.”
Ha. Well, he’d outdone her, then. “Why did you take her body away, Lord Pembroke? I am inclined to think well of you based on your past services to justice, and of course because of your recent more personal intercession on my behalf, but… you must recognize that some of your recent behavior lends itself to… misinterpretation?”
“A gift for understatement and diplomacy. You know, I think I’d back you for prime minister.”
“Alas, my sex disqualifies me from such office, even if my good sense did not.”
Lord Pembroke hmmmed. “One might think after three years, the Constantine Affliction would lead to some… flexibility of thinking in terms of men’s spheres and women’s spheres. But it seems to me the plague has only strengthened the divisions.”
“People fight far more desperately to hold on to things they are afraid they might lose, Lord Pembroke.”
“Understatement, diplomacy, and wisdom. I might be tempted to add ‘beauty’—but, well.”
“The mustache.”
“Quite so,” Lord Pembroke said. They rounded a corner and continued walking. Their environs became gradually less atrocious, with alchemical lights replacing the flickering gaslamps, and streets that were quiet because the residents were respectable, rather than lying silently in wait.
“Do most women stop asking you difficult questions once you distract them with flattery?” Ellie said.
“Most women never ask me difficult questions at all. Apart from my wife. Winifred never hesitates.”
“She sounds like a woman I would admire. You will need to answer me eventually, sir, or I will have to ask the questions in print, and then everyone else will be asking them as well. The promise of an interview is all very well, but the things I’ve seen tonight… it’s hard to construe them as anything but the concealment of a heinous crime. Please do convince me otherwise, Lord Pembroke?” She really hoped he could, and not just because he’d complimented her eyes. Because of the intelligence and humor she saw in his, mainly. She did not want him to be a villain.
Lord Pembroke sighed. “Would you like to have a drink with me at my club, Miss Skye?”
“Which club is that, sir?”
“The Luna Club.”
Ellie laughed. “They admit women, now?”
“Of course not, Mr. Jenkins. But why should that concern men such as ourselves?”
They found a carriage for hire and rode toward the West End, conversing in low voices as they went. The dim interior of the cab was curiously intimate, and though they were discussing matters of life and death and crime, it was remarkably like having a chat with an old friend. Ellie told him how she’d seen a fleeing man in the alley, and was apologetic at being unable to provide a better description of the likely killer.
“It’s all right,” Lord Pembroke said. “It’s only in sensational stories that the murderer invariably has an eyepatch, a wooden leg, and a birthmark in the shape of a cello on his cheek. Most people just look like… people. We’re not terribly memorable, as a rule.”
Ellie was glad he couldn’t see her smiling in the dark. He was certainly memorable enough. “If you knew a murderer was operating in the area, why not tell the police?”
Lord Pembroke sighed. “Mr. Value insists on handling the situation himself. He believes the killer is trying to embarrass him, or call police attention to some of his other businesses. His concerns are plausible, though I am unconvinced—I think the killer has more complex motivations than annoying Mr. Value, though that’s clearly part of it. Men like Value believe the world revolves around them, though.”
“That tells me why Value wants the police left out of it. Why do you? Why work for him at all?”
“On that, I can say only that life is complicated, and men of conscience must sometimes make uncomfortable alliances in order to serve the greater good. I know such an answer will not satisfy you, Miss Skye, but… let me only say that further secrets are not mine to tell, all right?”
Ellie shifted uncomfortably, aware of how small and dim the interior of the carriage was, how close together they were—practically knee-to-knee. She didn’t want to think ill of this man she’d admired. “You are working with Value to protect… someone else?”
The interior of the carriage was dim, but she thought he nodded, imperceptibly. “Mr. Value is not above threats of blackmail, and there are those I… care about… who I would not see harmed.” He glanced out the carriage window. “Ah, we’re nearly there.”
Ellie had to admit a certain degree of excitement at the prospect of entering a gentleman’s club. For someone of her sex, such clubs were as mysterious as the distant Orient or the jungles of Africa. It was nearly midnight by the time they pulled up outside the stately brick building on St. James’s Street and alighted from the carriage. “Is it truly open so late?” she asked.
“Indeed. The Luna Club has always been open at all hours of the day and night, though it’s most trafficked during more sensible hours, of course. Some of the gentlemen play cards until dawn almost every night, but that’s about as boisterous as it ever becomes. The new clubs on Pall Mall are more lively and fashionable, but it’s a bit quieter here. I come to the club to relax and think, you see, unlike some of the younger set.”
“Are you a card player, sir?”
“Oh, a bit, of course, but not a serious one. I am not competitive in that way, nor am I terribly interested in either winning or losing money. Which is fortunate. A taste for heavy betting would interact in a terribly dangerous way with my other vices.” He grinned at her, then rapped the knocker on the imposing carved oak door. A moment later the door swung soundlessly open, revealing a middle-aged man with white whiskers. He looked like a perfectly ordinary servant to Ellie, but Lord Pembroke staggered back as if the man had struck him. “Ransome!” he said. “What on Earth are you doing here?”
The man stood ramrod straight, like Dignity personified, and said, “The Luna Club was in need of a night porter, and Lady Pembroke was kind enough to provide a reference.”
“Ah. Well done, then.” Lord Pembroke seemed a bit lost, and Ellie found the effect rather endearing in a man who was otherwise so confident. “I regret that your, ah, prior situation proved untenable.”
“I have only the utmost respect for you, my lord. But this position is simply a better fit for my abilities.”
“Quite.” Lord Pembroke gestured at Ellie. “This is Mr. Jenkins. He will be my guest tonight.”
“Welcome to you, sir.” Ransome stood aside to let them in, and once they entered the foyer, took their coats and hats. “A number of gentlemen are playing cards, sir, if you’d like to join them.”
“No. I believe we will go and talk in the library. Jenkins and I have much to discuss.”
Ransome bowed smoothly, as if he were hinged at the waist, and took their things away.
“Simply a better fit,” Lord Pembroke muttered as they continued deeper into the club. “That man was my valet! Really our all-around servant, he did a bit of cooking, too, but he didn’t have to stay awake all night when he was in my employ! At least, not regularly. I am quite certain I paid him more than the Club possibly could. Can I really be such a dreadful employer?”
Ellie chose not to answer, looking around the club as they walked. She found it disappointingly dull, even stuffy—room after room of dark paneled walls, faded floral carpets, gleaming brass gas lamps (neither alchemy nor electricity here), dead fireplaces, and the occasional framed portrait or landscape or severed animal head on the wall. Lord Pembroke led her into the library, which was the very exemplar of its kind: shelves standing twelve feet high on all the walls, inviting-looking club chairs clustered in the corners, a long library table surrounded by straight-backed chairs. She had no doubt all the furniture was antique, but none of it struck her as particularly beautiful.
“We should have this room to ourselves. Those gentlemen who remain past midnight are not here to read.” Lord Pembroke slid the woo
den doors shut, closing off the library from the corridor, and Ellie felt a fluttering thrill of the illicit. Of course, she had been alone in rooms with men who were not blood relations before, most recently with Mr. James, but that was… altogether different, somehow. Lord Pembroke was only a bit older than she was, and handsome, and married. Ellie’s late mother would have been appalled to learn she was alone with him, irrespective of her unusual garb. For that matter, so would Mr. James.
Lord Pembroke gestured for Ellie to take a seat in one of the armchairs, and she sank down gratefully, still sore from her hours of walking and standing. He opened a cabinet and removed two glasses, then poured himself a measure of brandy from a decanter on the small round table between them. “Drink?” he said. “Or are you an advocate of temperance?”
“Few would call me temperate, but no, I seldom imbibe.” Ellie tried to smile, but it made her mustache itch. “I will have just a splash, for appearance’s sake.”
Lord Pembroke poured her a quarter of an inch in a snifter and passed it over. “Drinking for the sake of appearance. What a peculiar notion. I sometimes abstain for the sake of appearance, but more often, I do not bother. Appearances are given entirely too much weight, I think.” He didn’t savor the brandy, as Ellie had expected, but tossed it back, as if taking medicine, and then poured another glass, larger than the first. That one he sipped. After a moment, he leaned forward, rolling the glass between his palms. “I spoke to a dead woman tonight, Miss Skye. She told me the name of her murderer. I don’t know if that is the sort of story your editor would print. Or, for that matter, if you even believe me yourself.”
“I have met people who claimed they could converse with spirits,” Ellie said carefully. “I did not find them… credible.”
Lord Pembroke shook his head. “This was no spirit. That place you followed me to is the laboratory of Abel Value’s pet scientist. The fellow is a bit odd—that’s an understatement—but he’s undeniably brilliant. He explained that, because the body was freshly dead, it might be possible to… extract information from her.”
