A Case of Possession

by KJ Charles

  “Not so dead, I hope.”

  “No, most of them are hardly dead at all.”

  The inspector tilted his head. “Good friend, was he?”

  “I knew him for a long time.”

  “You don’t seem upset.”

  “I’m reasonably upset. I just found him in small pieces.”

  “Most distressing, my lord. Was the deceased expecting you?”

  “He was, but not at a specific time,” Crane said. “I’d promised him a loan. I came here on my way to my office to drop off the money.”

  “But he didn’t answer the door when you knocked.”

  “No. Obviously not.”

  “So how did you get in?”

  “I opened it. It was unlocked.”

  Rickaby nodded. “Again, my lord, forgive my ignorance, but as an earl, would you normally go round trying people’s doors on the off chance? Because most of us, if our friends don’t answer the door, we walk away, we don’t see if we can let ourselves in.”

  Crane paused, attempting to give the air of a man with a moral dilemma, then spoke frankly. “Inspector, you’ll understand that I’d rather this didn’t get about more than it has to, but Mr. Rackham was an opium addict. It was entirely usual for him not to lock his door. I expected to find him asleep in bed, I wanted to drop off the money and get to work, so I tried the door, and found—as you saw.”

  “Do you have many friends who are opium addicts, my lord? As an earl?”

  “As a China man, yes, I do.”

  “Who do you think killed him?”

  “An animal. Or a lunatic.”

  “An opium addict?”

  Crane pretended to think about that. “Possible, I suppose.”

  “Do you take opium, my lord?”

  “No, Inspector, I don’t. Nor do I butcher people.”

  “No need to be defensive, my lord, I’m just asking the questions. Now—what is it, Gerrard? Can’t you see I’m busy?” Rickaby glared at the young constable standing just inside the door.

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. It’s them, sir.”

  “Them? Which them is that, lad?”

  “The funny ones, sir.”

  The inspector’s face stilled. Then he said, “Where are they?”

  “Up there, sir, in the room. Sorry, sir. Not sure how they got past Motley, sir.”

  Rickaby took a deep breath. “Well, why don’t you ask them to come down here, then.”

  “No need.” Esther Gold strode into the parlour. There was blood on the hem of her long skirt. Stephen followed. He had dark patches on his knees and was wiping his hands on an unpleasantly stained handkerchief. His glance flicked over Crane, without obvious recognition. “A word, please, Inspector.”

  The word took several minutes. Crane waited in the hallway, as requested, taking the opportunity to marshal his thoughts and prepare his story. The inspector had been uncomfortably perspicacious, evidently sensing something off about Crane’s account of events, and although his spotless clothing surely absolved him from serious accusation, his relations with Rackham would not bear close investigation.

  Finally the door opened. “Up to you, Mrs. Gold,” said Rickaby, as he prepared to walk out. “But you know my mind.”

  “Thank you,” came Esther’s voice as the inspector passed Crane without a word. “Lord Crane, could you come in?”

  Crane shut the door behind him, facing Esther and Stephen. “I feel like a schoolboy coming in to see the Head. What’s happening?”

  “We’ve asked the police to leave the investigation to us,” Stephen said. “Rickaby’s not very happy.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” said Esther. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I came to see Rackham. He was dead.” Crane shrugged. “That’s it. I saw nothing that isn’t still there. I sent Merrick for the police and for you.”

  “The inspector told us his door was unlocked,” Esther commented. Stephen said nothing, didn’t look at Crane. He was paler than usual.

  Crane made sure he addressed Esther. “No, it was locked. Merrick picked it for me. I didn’t share that with Rickaby. I felt a locked-door mystery was more than he needed.”

  “I dare say. Why did you break into his room?”

  “Because I wanted to talk to him. I thought he was either doped up or ignoring me on purpose.”

  “Why did you want to talk to him?”

  “This is sounding not unlike an interrogation,” Crane observed. “And I’m reasonably sure I don’t come under your jurisdiction.”

  “Here’s my problem,” Esther said. “How many of you old China hands and Java men are there in London? All these people who lived on the other side of the world and know each other?”

  “I don’t know. A couple of hundred, all told?”

  “Mmm. And a week ago one of you is stabbed, and another kills himself, and now a third is ripped to shreds by rats, just like two more Chinese down in Limehouse. Would you normally expect to lose three members of your club by violence in less than a fortnight?”

  “Not usually, no.”

  “So, three dead men. And a fourth man who belongs to the same club, who is there when we’re finding out about more men killed by rats, who picks a lock to find a body—”

  “Ah, no, wait a moment,” said Crane. “I see your thinking, but you’re making a logical error.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. You’re looking at my involvement with Rackham as a factor, whereas it’s more like a condition. I met Mr. Day because I knew Rackham. Mr. Day asked me to help yesterday because he knew me through Rackham. I came here this morning on an unrelated matter, because I knew Rackham. The coincidence—I know that’s not a popular word—lies with Rackham’s involvement with rats, not mine with Rackham.”

  Esther didn’t look convinced. “You came to see him by pure chance, picking a lock to do it.”

  Crane ignored that. He was trying not to look at Stephen, but peripheral vision was showing him a very white face, and he could almost feel the younger man’s sickening tension. If Stephen felt this was necessary for the investigation, he would speak, Crane knew it, and he willed him to be silent a little longer. Merrick’s words were buzzing in his brain, but this was something he could shape and Stephen couldn’t, and surely that was only sensible. “Look, Mrs. Gold, I’ll grant you the rats tie Rackham and Willetts together, but as to Merton’s suicide and my involvement… Assuming the other death you mean is Merton?”

  “Yes,” said Stephen colourlessly.

  “You think it’s coincidence that another of your friends killed himself a week ago, just before all this?” Esther interjected.

  “Merton was no friend of mine.” Crane paused deliberately. “I don’t have any idea of what’s going on here. But, in case it’s relevant, I will tell you this. Rackham was a blackmailer.”

  Stephen gave a tiny gasp. Esther said, “Rackham?”

  “Yes. I don’t know if he was blackmailing Merton, but I assume so. I know that he was attempting to blackmail at least two other people. Both China hands, like Merton, like Rackham.”

  “Like you?”

  “Exactly like me,” said Crane calmly. “I came here with the intention of beating him to a pulp, only to find him very obviously dead by rat. I can’t say I mourn his passing.”

  “Did you tell Rickaby this?”

  “Good God, no.”

  “What hold did Rackham have over you?”

  “Esther!” yelped Stephen.

  “Nothing that worried me. I’m afraid my profound lack of interest in my family name makes me a terrible subject for extortion.”

  “Is that so. But presumably Rackham knew that,” said Esther. “So why did he try?”

  Crane shrugged as casually as he could. “He probably hoped I’d t
hrow him a few quid to go away. I might even have done.” Esther kept looking at him, dark eyes intent, nostrils slightly flaring. Crane concentrated on keeping his body relaxed, not filling the silence.

  Esther spoke first. “Who else was he blackmailing?”

  “I’m not telling you that. I only know of one other person, and that individual is not a practitioner, has nothing to do with any of this, and has suffered quite enough insult at Rackham’s hands already.”

  “What makes you think the Pied Piper is a practitioner?” asked Esther.

  “What?”

  “It’s what we’re calling the summoner.” Stephen’s voice sounded slightly thin to Crane’s ears. “Pied Piper. Rats.”

  “Yes, I grasp that. How could it not be a practitioner?”

  “It depends on the method used,” Stephen said. “But it could quite possibly be someone with latent talent or very limited powers. Someone we don’t know about.”

  Crane digested that. “So it could be anyone who knew Willetts’ story, who’d learned the incantation or had hold of this amulet?”

  “Anyone who knew Willetts well, and who wanted Rackham and two Chinese practitioners dead.” Esther raised a brow. “Can you think of anyone like that?”

  “According to Rackham, neither of those shamans spoke English,” Stephen added. “So whoever wanted them dead must have been involved with China, to have any connection with them.”

  “I see,” said Crane slowly, mind racing. “I see.”

  “I don’t suppose it was you.” Esther spoke reasonably. “You brought Willetts and the dead practitioners to our attention, after all. But I think you will have to tell us everything you know about who Rackham was blackmailing.”

  “No.”

  Esther took a step forward. Crane took two rapid steps back. “If you’re thinking about putting fluence on me, don’t.” He heard the note of something like panic in his voice. He loathed the very idea of fluence, hated the idea of having someone magically tamper with his mind ever again, but even more, he knew he couldn’t risk the loss of control, for Stephen’s sake or his own.

  Esther’s brows were raised. “How do you know about fluence?”

  “I fluenced him.” Stephen stood behind her, voice unhappy. “And I shouldn’t have, and I swore I wouldn’t do it again. Or let anyone else do it.”

  “Well, that was silly of you,” she observed.

  “Possibly. Don’t, Es. I can’t let you. I made a promise.”

  Esther looked round at him. Stephen shrugged. “Sorry. It wouldn’t help anyway—” He stumbled over the words, stopping himself abruptly.

  “Why not?” said Esther curiously.

  “Because… Rackham had his fingers in too many pies. Well, you know, we had to stop using him to translate, he was getting more and more unreliable. I’m not saying the blackmail isn’t what got him killed but for someone making a mess of things on the scale he was, I am actually prepared to look at coincidence for once. Anyway, look, Es, we’re wasting time, and there’s at least two more pressing issues, one of which is to do with some of the people I met at the Traders last night, and the other is how the rats got in.”

  He had said most of that slightly too fast, to Crane’s ear, and had signally failed to answer the original question, but the last phrase snagged Esther’s attention. “Yes. That.”

  “If the door was locked, then either we missed a really quite large hole in the wall or there was an impressive piece of practice going on,” Stephen said. “You look at that, and I’ll chase up the loose ends among the China hands?”

  Esther tipped her head to one side with what Crane was coming to recognise as her considering look. “Fine. Back at the surgery in a couple of hours?”

  “Good. Lord Crane, will you walk with me?”

  “Certainly.” Crane glanced at Esther. “I’ve no objection to snouting out anyone else with a grudge against Rackham for you. I just don’t propose to drag in someone that I know not to be involved.”

  “Protecting the lady’s name?”

  “I didn’t say it was a lady.”

  “No. In fact, you didn’t use any pronouns at all,” said Esther. “Which does suggest you were avoiding them because they’d be revealing. See you later, Steph.”

  Chapter Ten

  They headed out, down Cable Street, in silence for a few hundred yards, until Stephen let out a very long, shuddering breath. “Hell, hell, hellfire.”

  “Don’t panic. It’s fine.”

  “No, it isn’t!”

  “Yes, it is,” Crane insisted. “Mrs. Gold knows everything she needs to know about Rackham. You’re not hiding anything relevant. I will gladly serve up anyone else Rackham was blackmailing on a plate. Just keep your head.”

  “Keep my— Do you realise what I said in there?”

  “What?”

  Stephen clutched at his hair. “I began to tell Esther you’re resistant to fluence and had to invent a load of rubbish to cover that up.”

  “Why should she not know that?”

  “Because,” said Stephen, with tenuous patience, “the Pied Piper is likely to be someone with latent or undetected talent. Someone with innate resistance to fluence would be exactly the sort of person we’re after. Given the way you’re tangled up in the middle of this web, she’d be mad not to look at you. And the closer Esther looks at you, the more likely she is to find out about you, and the more likely she is to find out about me. Damn it!”

  “No harm done.” Crane wasn’t entirely sure that was true.

  “Esther is not a stupid woman. She knows you’re hiding something.”

  “That’s my problem, Stephen.”

  “No, it really isn’t.” Stephen had led them down to the river with rapid strides. They paused now, looking across the broad sweep of the churning brown Thames. “Lucien, do you know what I have? In life?”

  “What?”

  “My profession. That’s it. I’ve no family, except my aunt, and she’ll never speak to me again. I live on the pittance they pay justiciars. My friends are all justiciars, or married to them. Everyone else hates us. If I couldn’t be a justiciar, I… God, I don’t know what I’d do. If I lost that, I’d have lost everything.”

  “I’m here,” Crane observed, without inflection.

  Stephen propped his elbows on a bit of wooden fencing. Crane joined him, and they both stared out at the turbid waters.

  “You’re going back to Shanghai,” Stephen said at last.

  “What? I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. One day. I’m not an idiot, Lucien. You’re bored. You had this wonderful life of adventure and excitement and living the way you wanted, and now you’re here, no ties, nothing to do, supposed to be in the House of Lords or making a suitable marriage, having to hide how you are, how we are— No, let me finish. I’m not complaining. I…like you, I like spending time with you, but you’re not going to tolerate this life forever, or even for much longer. Why would you? I wouldn’t stop being a justiciar. And that’s the point. You have your life in China, and I have my profession. So I have to make sure I don’t lose that profession, and my friends, over this. Over you. I don’t want it to come to a choice, but if it does, then I have to choose with the rest of my life in mind.”

  Crane stared out at the churning waters. A breeze brought a tang of salty air to his nose. He felt oddly calm, but with an unpleasant quivery sensation in his stomach.

  He wanted to pull Stephen into his arms, hold him, kiss the fear and the loneliness away, and then fuck him till he forgot any ideas he might have of ending things between them. But he couldn’t even touch him, because of the bloody laws of this bloody country that, yes, bored and irritated him beyond bearing.

  Could he really say he wouldn’t leave?

  It didn’t matter if he said it or didn’t. It would have to be Stephen’s ch
oice.

  He took a breath, kept his voice level. “I understand. And I’ve no desire to see you hurt. What do you want me to do?”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t…be together. For a while. Till this is over and Esther stops wondering about you and watching me.”

  Crane looked at his hands, long fingers entwined, so close to Stephen’s on the salt-crusted rotting wood, so far from being able to touch him. “If you insist. If you think it would help.”

  “It might.”

  Crane nodded slowly. Stephen glanced at him, gnawing his lip. “I’m sorry. I realise this is tiresome. But Rackham’s death, and you in the middle of it, and Esther—it’s too much, too dangerous. My fault, for bringing you in, but I needed someone who spoke Chinese and could talk to shamans, and I don’t think there’s anyone in London who fits that bill except you and Rackham, and I had no idea how far this would run out of control.” He gave a little involuntary gasp. “I know what it’s like to lose everything, you see. I don’t want to do that again.”

  “You won’t. Not through my agency. Not at all.” Crane hesitated, but it needed saying. “Do you not think that you should talk to Mrs. Gold?”

  “About—”

  “All of it.”

  “No.”

  “She might understand. She might even not be as surprised as you might think.”

  “No. I can’t, Lucien. I can’t risk it. It wouldn’t be safe.”

  “Because you don’t trust her to know about the power, about me?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Liar,” said Crane. Esther Gold’s fierce rectitude burned as brightly as Stephen’s. He could well understand how the pair of them were so disliked by less upright citizens. There was no doubting Stephen’s desire to keep the Magpie Lord’s power a secret, but Crane would have put serious money on his lover’s trust in Mrs. Gold, and on that trust being well placed. “Try again.”

  Stephen was silent for a long moment, looking out over the Thames. When he spoke, he addressed the words outwards, as if continuing an argument with the river waters. “You see, my friends aren’t all people who’ve lived in China where nobody cares who you share your bed with. My friends live here, where it matters, where it says what kind of man you are. And I don’t want them to know that.”