“I think I’ll join you.”
It meant a lot of walking, but walking in masculine clothing was a positive pleasure. With so little being pleasurable these days, it was nice to find something that could bring a smile to their faces.
The birds had no difficulty keeping up with the ’bus, given how many stops it was making. The girls got down about a block from Baker Street, went around to the back entrance, and tapped on the door.
A wary Mrs. Hudson answered it, but her expression changed to one of relief when she saw who it was. She had seen them in their disguises before. “Are you girls going to keep arriving here as boys from now on?” she asked, letting them in. Sarah was unsurprised to see her putting a pistol back in the pocket of her apron.
“Probably,” Sarah replied. “It seems safer.”
“Aye, it does. Well, go on up, the Doctor is frettin’ because he’s supposed to be prostrate with grief and no one’s telling him anything.”
They ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and knocked on the door of C. John Watson opened it immediately, and he managed a smile at the sight of them. “Thank heavens, someone that can tell me something! Come in.”
They entered and Nan immediately went to the flat window that overlooked the rear entrance. She opened it wide, and when she turned back to the room, she had a bird on each arm.
“Lestrade called on us this morning,” Sarah said, sprawling inelegantly on a chair, clearly reveling in the freedom her trousers gave her. “He’s found another body.”
“Well we knew that was bound to happen,” Mary Watson put in, coming from the pantry with four glasses of lemonade on a tray. She put the tray down on the sitting room table and they each took one. The birds were already on their stands, watching them all.
“Well, this one is a bit different.” Sarah went on to describe exactly how different the body was, and in what ways. “I think all this is significant,” she concluded.
Watson had been listening with a frown on his face. “I think you are right. It does suggest the appearance and even race of his victims are not important, but something else about them is. Perhaps it’s just the costume?”
Mary tapped her fingernail on the side of the glass. “The costume seems to be the single commonality,” she agreed. “And I cannot imagine any way those girls were obtaining clothing like that on their own. It might have been used, but it was simply too expensive for girls who were clearly going barefoot most of the time because they could not afford shoes.”
“Well, let’s concentrate on that, then,” Watson decided. “What kind of meaning could it have?”
“Perhaps the sort of woman who can afford white tea gowns. He could be revenging himself over and over on some woman who jilted him, or something of the sort,” Mary offered, frowning a little. “Or he is revenging himself on women like that as a class.”
“It could represent a bridal gown too,” Sarah put in. “If he’s been rejected as a suitor.”
“Or purity,” Nan pointed out grimly. “In which case he’s probably also doing black magic—” she pointed at Mary Watson “—which is exactly what nearly got you, Mary.”
Watson cursed under his breath. “By Jove, you’re right! It makes more logical sense to think that these are for some devilish ritual purpose than that they are the work of a madman. If this was a madman, based on our past cases, his mind and cleverness would be degrading over time—or at the least, he would become overconfident. And it makes more sense that we have one single practitioner of powerful black magic out there in London than two. And in that case, it also makes more sense to assume that he is not only aware we are in pursuit of him as the murderer, he is aware we are in pursuit of him as the magician that cursed Mary and me.”
“And he is certainly also the necromancer Alderscroft wants us to find.” Nan made the statement flatly. “I absolutely refuse to believe in multiple practitioners of the dark arts running in and out of doors all over the city as if we’re in some kind of twisted French farce. I cannot believe some garden-variety curse nearly drove both of you, both Elemental Masters, into stuffing your faces full of poison. If he wanted us to think that, well, he tipped his hand by making the curse too bloody strong.”
“This still gets us nowhere,” Mary said dispiritedly. “We’re no closer to finding the necromancer than we were before. All we know—or guess—is that the necromancer is the murderer.”
“I thought you were going to look into the sewers, John,” Sarah pointed out.
“Unfortunately . . . there are many complications with that,” he replied grimly, then got up, secured a roll of paper from above the mantelpiece, and unrolled it. “Here is where the mouth of that sewer system emerges into the Thames,” he continued, tapping the paper. “But look at what leads into that final sewer tunnel!”
Sarah gazed at it with deep dismay. It looked like some ancient tree. Branches led into the main tunnel from everywhere. This was another dead end.
“And I promise you, there is not one single Water Elemental, not even the worst of the worst, that will go in there to trace where the bodies are coming from,” he continued glumly. “Even at high tide, what’s in there is not exactly water, after all.”
“I don’t see any hope for it,” Mary sighed. “We’ll have to contact his Lordship and tell him that we’ve done everything we can and we’re at a dead end.”
“I’d rather tell him to his face,” Nan said firmly. “Mary, can I have something to write a note with?”
By way of an answer, Mary pointed to a little secretary desk in the corner. Nan swiftly wrote out a note, blotted it, sealed it in an envelope, and wrote something on the outside. She went to Neville’s stand, picked him up, and handed it to him. He took it politely in his massive beak.
“The club. If Alderscroft hasn’t left any of his windows open, give it to the doorman, he knows you.”
Neville quorked around the note held in his beak and launched off her arm as she held it out the rear window. She turned back to the rest. “If he’s in, we should have an answer soon.”
In fact, it took less time than it would have to send a human messenger for Neville to return, landing on the windowsill with a note of a different color paper in his mouth. Nan took it from him, gave him a piece of cheese as a reward, and opened it. “He’s on his way,” she said, reading it.
“I’ll go tell Mrs. Hudson to expect a distinguished visitor,” said Watson, who went downstairs.
Mary sighed. “I don’t want to complain . . . but I’m already very weary of these four walls.”
“Then why don’t you disguise yourself?” Nan suggested.
“As what?” She raised an eyebrow at Nan. “I don’t think I could fool anyone as a young man.”
“Some relative of Mrs. Hudson. Or a scullery maid. It’s not as if you actually have to do the work to pass as one,” Sarah suggested. “Watson could come by and wait outside for your half day off as your beau.”
Mary’s expression lifted a trifle, then gloom overcame her again. “It seems wrong to be joking when there are girls being horribly murdered by this awful person.”
Watson entered just as she said that and sat down beside her, taking her hand in his. “My dear, whether or not we joke has no bearing on their fate. We’ll do them neither good nor harm by trying to be as normal as we can.”
It’s one thing to say that, but quite another to accomplish it, Sarah thought sadly, as they all attempted, and failed, to keep “small talk” going while they waited for the arrival of Alderscroft. The difference in sound that carriage wheels made on the road outside—as opposed to those of hansoms or even growlers—alerted them to his arrival, which was confirmed by the bell and the sound of Mrs. Hudson showing their distinguished guest up.
Watson opened the door before anyone could knock and ushered Alderscroft inside. Even before Alderscroft could sit down, he held out one hand in a gesture of failure and said, “I’m sorry, milord, but we’ve run ourselves to earth. You a
re going to have to summon the Lodge.”
Alderscroft sat down, heavily. “It’s that bad, is it?” he asked, with no hint of accusation in his voice.
“It’s rather worse than bad,” Watson admitted, and related everything they had discovered or reasoned out.
“In all the time I have worked with Holmes, I have never known a murderer of this sort to change the race of his victims, so we are forced to conclude as you originally thought that the murderer and your necromancer are one and the same,” he finished. “And as Nan pointed out, since having black magicians popping up all over London is rather too much like a twisted farce, the necromancer must be the same person who tried to murder Mary and me, and that means he knows we were on his trail. We can’t do anything more. Outside of the protections of this flat, he is probably spying on us somehow. The Lodge is our only recourse.”
Alderscroft bent his head for a moment. “And I am sorry to tell you that I had already come to that conclusion and summoned the Lodge after the attempt on your lives, and we . . . were able to find nothing.”
Silence fell. The street noise through the windows seemed unnaturally loud.
“How?” Nan asked, finally.
Alderscroft shrugged. “Enough power at his disposal and he can effectively conceal himself from almost anything. And I need not tell you that blood and death can raise an enormous amount of power.”
“Well . . . now what do we do?” Sarah demanded.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” Alderscroft replied, sadly. “But I have no idea.”
* * *
The message had arrived by a courier; Mrs. Kelly had accepted it, and brought it to Spencer as he sat eating luncheon. It was contained in a cream vellum envelope of very high quality, and sealed with a curious Chinese stamp in the wax holding it shut. He opened it.
Have something very special for you, it said. Come at once.
He didn’t need to be able to read the pictograph at the bottom to know that it came from Shen Li.
“Som’thin’ important?” Kelly asked.
“Could be. I’ll be going out.” But before he did—he went back to his room and changed into his best suit. The last thing he wanted to do at this point was to insult Shen Li in any way. Chinese, Tartar, whatever—the man was going to supply him with something he desperately needed, and was clearly no “old Don.”
The servant was waiting outside at the shop door for him, and hurried him into the room in which he had met Shen Li the first time. This time the furniture had been removed and replaced with two comfortable chairs facing each other, with nothing else in the room. Shen Li was already in one. He gestured to the other.
Spencer gave him a slight, but respectful, bow, and only then did he take his seat.
“I have made some inquiries into your activities, Mister Spencer,” said Shen Li. “And I became . . . impressed. I sense that you will go far. And so I determined to give you more assistance than merely supplying you with raw materials.” He leaned forward a trifle, his face somber. “I am going to supply you with allies on the other side of death.”
Spencer was startled at first . . . then it occurred to him for the first time to utilize mage-sight, and both the room and Shen Li himself lit up with the energies of Fire. This man was at least a Fire Mage, and possibly even a Fire Master. And he had not been taking precautions about concealing what he was the last time he had come here. Well, that would end—although so far as Shen Li was concerned, it was definitely closing the stable door after the horse was gone.
Spencer looked at him skeptically. “How do you propose to do that?”
Shen Li leaned back in his chair. “The Chinese live within a strictly regulated society. If one is born a peasant, it is wildly unlikely that one will ever rise above that status. A man only has the hope of passing certain examinations, and going to work for the Imperial bureaucracy. Women, of course, may not even apply to take the examinations. So rising beyond peasant status is even more unlikely for a woman, and impossible for an ugly woman.”
Spencer couldn’t see where this was going . . . but he was a patient man. He nodded.
“The path to status and rank for a woman is only achieved by beauty,” Shen Li continued. “To catch the eye of someone in high rank. To become a cherished concubine. Or, most desired of all, to become an official wife. This path is closed to an ugly woman.”
“How unfortunate for her,” Spencer said, since it seemed Shen Li was waiting for a comment.
“And yet—” Shen Li held up one elegant finger. “Hope. There is always hope. Hope that if the path is closed in life, it may be opened in death.”
Spencer shook his head, finally. “I am very sorry, Shen Li. I don’t know the Chinese ways well enough to have any inkling of what you are talking about.”
Shen Li smiled. It reminded Spencer of a patient, but hungry, tiger. “Let us say, I have come into possession of an unattractive slave, but one with imagination and dreams. I have told her that you have seen her spirit in dreams, and you know it is beautiful, and wish to wed her—but obviously a man of your rank and power could not have a Chinese wife. I have told her that in order to become your true Chief Wife, she must shed her body as a worm sheds its skin and rise as the butterfly she is. She has agreed to this. Am I correct in thinking that this will be the first woman you have chosen who is literally willing to die for you?”
Spencer’s jaw dropped.
Shen Li smiled with the deep satisfaction of the tiger who has just eaten a particularly succulent lamb.
“That would be worth . . .” he shook his head. “If I am actually going to have her cooperation . . .”
“She will quite literally willingly be your slave in the next world, and will ask nothing more,” Shen Li assured him, and held out his hand, palm upward. There was no need to ask the meaning of that universal gesture.
Spencer didn’t even count the money he dropped into that long hand. Whatever magic Shen Li had worked on this girl, it was going to be worth every penny. It must have been enough, because the old man’s smile did not falter. He folded his hand around the money and gracefully tucked it into his sash, then rose. “Come,” he said. “This must be done properly. There must be a wedding feast. Please be kind and show your deep admiration of this girl. She is about to enjoy the best day of her entire life, and any lapse on your part may put all my work in jeopardy.”
Spencer followed the old man into the next room, where a table had been set up, and a young woman dressed in red brocade robes and an elaborate wig with beaded hair ornaments waited. She looked up at him with the hopeful eyes of a puppy.
Her eyes were the most attractive thing about her. The rest of her . . . well, the body beneath the expensive robes was lumpy, her face was like a ball of dough, her teeth were bad when she smiled shyly at him, and even her movements were clumsy.
But he’d had plenty of practice in wooing by now, and he set his face in an expression of pleasant cheer, and took her hand, which was as rough as sandpaper, and kissed it. She giggled and her big eyes grew moist. So did her hand.
He continued to hold her hand until one of Shen Li’s servants appeared and began to serve a meal. Her expression of astonishment told him that she had never seen what was set before them before, much less tasted it. This was not at all unlike the rest of his brides, so he encouraged her to eat, sampling only a morsel or two himself. He didn’t recognize any of the foods himself, but they were actually quite good. Thank goodness he had been supplied with a fork—he could never have managed the use of the two sticks she was eating with.
When she’d eaten enough for two—literally, she ate all of her portions and most of his—a gong sounded and servants came to clear away everything, including the table and chairs. He took her hand again, and to his surprise, it was not some Chinese priest who turned up at Shen Li’s side, but his own street preacher.
The man did not seem at all nonplussed by the appearance of Spencer’s new bride, nor did he show any sign that he co
nsidered her to be as monumentally unattractive as Spencer did.
“I am here to translate for Xi’er,” Shen Li told them both. “You may begin.”
Xi’er dutifully repeated everything she was told to in a lisping, thin voice. He held her hand the entire time, and she never stopped smiling up at him. And in the end, when the preacher asked her if she would obey him in life and after, and Shen Li translated for her, she whispered “Yis,” and clutched his hand desperately, He nearly reeled with the strength of the spell as it snapped home around them both, although she showed no signs of feeling it.
But Shen Li clearly did. He nodded with satisfaction.
He ushered the preacher out. When he returned, he had two small porcelain cups, and two bottles. He handed Xi’er one cup, and poured out what was in the white bottle for her. He handed Spencer another, and poured out what was in the green bottle.
“Now you must drink to your eternal bond,” he instructed.
Xi’er sipped tentatively. Her eyes widened and she finished the cup of liquid, and looked as if she was contemplating licking the cup clean when Shen Li took it from her. As for Spencer, his highly educated palate could distinguish nothing but water.
“She should fall into a slumber in your cab,” Shen Li said. “This should facilitate your work.” He made a slight shooing motion with his hands. “Go now. It is after sunset, and no one will see you carrying her into your home.”
Geoff the Elf looked as if he was going to laugh out loud at the sight of Spencer’s Chinese bride, but he was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.
Sure enough, the girl fell into a coma-like slumber before the ride was half over. But not daring to ruin the promise, Spencer allowed her to pillow her head against him, only interposing his hand kerchief between them so that she did not drool on his suit.
When they arrived, he picked her up and carried her into the house himself. He thought about pausing to change her into the customary white dress—but then, the white dress had never been anything more than the symbolic representation of the girl’s bridal status, and for this girl, that was represented by the crimson brocade robes. Best to leave her in them.
The Bartered Brides (Elemental Masters) Page 25
