Grave Expectations (The Ministry of Curiosities Book 4)

by C. J. Archer

  "Something did happen, and if you give me a chance, I'll tell you." I rose. "But first, may I make you tea? Or would you like something stronger?"

  "Sit down."

  I sat. "Very well, but I'm only thinking of your comfort." Where to begin? With the worst incident or best? Which one was the worst? "The imp escaped from the amber, but we caught it and returned it to the necklace where it fell asleep. Now, the tea…"

  He perched on the edge of the table, his arms and ankles crossed, and watched me prepare a pot of tea. I tried not to feel awkward, but his silence eventually grew too taut and I felt compelled to break it.

  "The imp understands English. Isn't that clever of it?"

  "And you spoke the words in English to release it."

  "Unintentionally, of course."

  "Of course."

  I handed a cup to him. "It then escaped from the house, despite the doors and windows being closed and locked."

  "How?"

  "It distorted itself to fit through the keyhole."

  "Magic," Cook added with a knowing nod.

  "Then it ran off. We chased it, caught it and said the words for it to return, which it did. Simple."

  He set the teacup aside and picked up the necklace. The amber dangled from his fingers as he held it up to the light. "What did it look like?"

  "Ugly," Cook said.

  "Like a hairless cat," I added. "It moved like a cat too, and it sounded a little like one. It was quite a friendly little thing once it tired itself out."

  He put the necklace down again and fixed me with one of his penetrating glares. "It was fast?"

  "Very."

  "And yet you caught it."

  I sighed again. There was no point delaying the inevitable. "It grew very tired after it saved my life."

  He stiffened. "Go on."

  "Someone was in the tree near the front gate. I followed the imp to the street and the person shot at me. The imp pushed—"

  "Shot at you!" He grasped my shoulders and searched my face.

  "I'm unharmed, Lincoln. The imp pushed me out of the way and the man ran off without firing another shot."

  His jaw set hard. "Did you see him?"

  "No. It was dark, but I'm quite certain it was a man, and an agile one. He must have been camped out in that tree, waiting for me to reappear. I wonder how long he was up there."

  "This reinforces my opinion that you must remain in the house."

  "Only for the time being, until he's caught."

  "As for the imp…" He collected the necklace again and frowned. For a moment, I thought he was going to pocket it so he could hide it from me, but instead, he held it out. "Store it somewhere safe."

  "And don't speak the words to release it?"

  "In any language." He stalked out of the kitchen and I had to run to catch up with him.

  "Where are you going?"

  "Outside to look for clues to the shooter's identity."

  "I doubt he left a calling card."

  He gave me a withering glare. "Lock the door behind me, and don't open it until you hear my voice. Lock all the doors."

  By the time he returned, Seth and Gus had joined us. Lincoln checked that every door and window was locked before sitting us all down in the library and going through his new rules, most of which involved not letting me out of the house or leaving me on my own.

  "Go and change into your exercise clothes, Charlie," he said once we'd all agreed. "We'll resume your training."

  "Now?"

  He gave me a blank look.

  I pointed to the clock on the mantel. "It's almost eleven."

  "Tomorrow morning then. Early." He once again strode out of the room, his hands behind his back. He took the stairs two at a time and disappeared. He didn't even say goodnight.

  With a sigh, I followed him, only to find that he was waiting for me at my door. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, apparently seeing something of interest on the floor at his feet.

  "Lincoln? Are you all right?"

  He watched me approach through his thick, dark lashes. "I believe that's my question." He opened his arms and folded me against his chest. "Are you all right?"

  "I am. I wasn't hurt."

  "You could have been." He rested his cheek on the top of my head and drew in a deep breath.

  "Let's not dwell on that. The imp saved me." I'd slipped the necklace into the top drawer of my dresser, beneath my unmentionables. I didn't want to release it accidentally again, but if I felt threatened, I knew where to find it quickly. "It was quite a strange experience, and I still can't fathom it."

  He held me without speaking for a moment, then kissed the top of my head. "Goodnight, Charlie. I hope you can sleep, in spite of everything."

  "I'll sleep better if you're with me."

  He kissed the tip of my nose. "You and the imp are well suited to one another."

  * * *

  Training was more intense than usual. There was no teasing, hardly any talking, and certainly no kissing. After two hours, my muscles ached and my knuckles sported a graze from punching the rice-filled bag. I was relieved when Seth interrupted us—until I saw his face. It was lined with worry.

  "You have a visitor, sir." His gaze flicked to me then away. "It's Governor Crease."

  "From the jail?" I looked to Lincoln, but he'd not reacted. "This can't be good if he's calling on us in person."

  "Tell him I'll be down in a moment," Lincoln said.

  I raced from the ballroom to my bedchamber and quickly washed and dressed in my deep green day dress. Although I hurried, Lincoln beat me to the parlor, where he was already deep in conversation with the governor of the Surrey House of Correction

  "Good morning, Mr. Crease," I said.

  The governor rose. "Miss…er…I didn't catch your name, last time."

  "Charlotte is my fiancée." Lincoln sounded a little more distracted than usual. "You were just about to tell me why you're here, Crease."

  Crease stroked his woolly sideburns. "It's with grave concern that I have to inform you that Holloway has escaped."

  Chapter 6

  My stomach flipped. I clutched my throat where Holloway's knife had nicked my skin the night he'd attacked me in the courtyard. In order to keep my name and identity out of the papers, Lincoln had told the police that Holloway attacked Cook but Cook had managed to capture him.

  Lincoln placed a steadying hand at my lower back. "How?" he asked. "I thought he was too ill to move."

  "The medic thought he was dead."

  "Dead!" I echoed. "Didn't he check?"

  Crease winced. "He claims he did and that there was no pulse. The body was removed to an outbuilding that isn't guarded. When the mortuary staff came for him in the morning, the body was gone."

  "So he may indeed be dead," I said.

  "You think body snatchers took him, Miss…Charlotte?"

  "Oh, er, yes. The city is rampant with them. Didn't you know?" I wasn't sure which was worse—a living Holloway on the loose, or a resurrected one.

  "Ordinarily I would agree with you, but the door was bolted from the outside and the windows are nailed permanently shut. The police surmise that someone opened the door, carried the ill Holloway out, and locked it again from the outside."

  "And the lack of a pulse?"

  He shrugged. "The medic was mistaken."

  "That is quite a serious mistake."

  "Quite," he said with a twitch of his sideburns. He cleared his throat and seemed to be waiting for something. "I thought you should know, since he was arrested here and you showed interest in him recently."

  "Thank you," I said, because Lincoln had gone quiet. "It was good of you to inform us."

  "It was, wasn't it? I doubt the police would have bothered." Crease did not move toward the door.

  I was beginning to think we might have to offer him tea when Lincoln strode to the door and called for Seth. He whispered something and Seth disappeared, returning a few moments later with an envelope ide
ntical to the one Lincoln had handed to Crease when we'd visited Holloway in jail.

  Crease tucked it into his jacket pocket. "Good morning, sir, miss." He put on his hat, touched the brim and saw himself out.

  "Do you think he's alive or dead?" I asked as soon as Crease had climbed into the hackney waiting for him. "He can't be alive, surely. His health couldn't have improved enough for him to escape unassisted, and nobody cares enough about him to risk freeing him. He must be dead. But that throws up another horrible prospect."

  "Who raised his spirit and helped him re-enter his body."

  Seth and Gus joined us and I repeated what Crease had told us. "There must be another necromancer," Gus said with a shrug. "Someone we don't know about, like the Brumley woman. There ain't no other explanation."

  Lincoln dragged his hand through his hair. "Either way, someone helped him. Are you certain no one cares about him enough to orchestrate an escape?"

  "No," I said. "No one."

  "A family member?" Seth asked.

  "He has no family."

  "A parishioner?"

  "The only parishioners who ever visited us at home were a handful of old ladies, and I can't see them as the sort to assist in a prison escape." I began to pace back and forth across the entrance floor tiles. "This is a mystery. Perhaps we should double check the archives for necromancers. You may have missed one."

  "I didn't," Lincoln said.

  "There must be another. After all, you didn't know about Joan Brumley. Perhaps someone you thought didn't have children in fact did and their descendent has kept their magic a secret. Joan Brumley might have children."

  "It's possible." From his tone, I think he meant it was also very unlikely. "If there is another necromancer, the ministry is not aware of her."

  "Yes, you're right." I began pacing again. Lincoln watched me with a frown, but it was Gus who intercepted me by stepping in my way.

  "It'll be all right, Charlie," he said gently.

  "Will it? Because this morning I had only one killer to worry about, now I have two, one of whom may be dead."

  "He won't kill you," Seth said. "He's your…was your father. I'm sure a part of him still cares for you."

  "If he thinks killing me will save me, then he'd rather see me dead."

  "We'll find him," Lincoln assured me. "But it may take time with only three of us."

  I didn't tell him that we were four. There was no point trying to argue with him when he was entirely correct in keeping me in the house. I hated it, but I saw no other way—for now.

  He lightly touched my fingers then drew away to bark orders to his men. It wasn't long before they headed out to investigate, although I wasn't sure how they were going to find Holloway. Without knowing whether they were even looking for a dead body or a live man, it was impossible to know where to begin.

  The day wore on, as did the next and the next. By the third day, they'd learned that Holloway wasn't hiding out at his parishioners' homes, nor that of any acquaintances. As Gus had put it, it felt like they were wading through mud into a head wind.

  There was a little more news about the murders of Drinkwater and Brumley. First of all, neither had any children recorded against their names, so I was able to complete their ministry files. Lincoln had managed to break into Joan Brumley's house and had brought home a stack of research papers for me to go through. While I learned much about several historical figures, there was no direct mention of her necromancy or any clues as to why she may have died. I could only guess that someone took offence to her suggestion that our national hero, the Duke of Wellington, had been a condescending bully.

  Despite my thorough search through her documents, and Lincoln's search through her house, we'd found nothing to point the finger at a particular individual and no connection between the victims. Brumley had died a spinster and lived alone in the house that had once belonged to her parents. She had few friends, only one cousin, and no true enemies. She was considered a harmless crackpot by her fellow historians and was mostly ignored.

  Drinkwater had left behind a widow but no children. Mrs. Drinkwater had departed London immediately after her husband's funeral to stay with a sister in Acton. It wasn't clear if that would be a permanent arrangement or if she would return to her own home. I supposed she must, at some point, if only to sort through his belongings. Her hurried departure meant Lincoln was easily able to get inside the house and the upstairs workshop to remove any paperwork.

  I sifted through the records of Drinkwater's so-called patients and gave Lincoln their names and addresses. With the help of Seth and Gus, he learned as much as he could about their movements at the time of Drinkwater’s death. After three days they'd not singled out a likely suspect. Indeed, since all patients lacked at least one limb, they were considered highly unlikely to have been able to kill Drinkwater. That didn't rule out their family members taking out their anger on him, however. The man had given those poor people false hope. While I was in no doubt he thought he was doing good, and he hoped to improve their situation, he should never had tried his magical limbs on real subjects until tests proved positive.

  The arrival of Seth's butler was a welcome relief from the monotony. He was a distinguished looking fellow with gray flecks through his brown hair and a cleanly shaved face that bore few lines. After speaking with him for half an hour in the parlor, I began to wonder if the lack of lines was due to a lack of expression. Fortunately I was an expert at deciphering the meaning behind a mere lift of an eyebrow, and we got along quite well.

  He moved into one of the attic rooms reserved for servants recently vacated by Seth and Gus. They now occupied the larger bedrooms on the second level. I hadn't discussed the change with Lincoln first, but he'd not objected when he found out. In fact, I was almost certain he was satisfied with the new arrangement.

  With Doyle settled, and taking smoothly to his new position, I set about reading through the applications for housekeeper, but quickly realized I needed help. Doyle's first job as butler was to go through the references and pick out the applicants who had worked for London's best families. One stood clearly above the rest.

  The following afternoon, Mrs. Webb arrived at Lichfield, bringing an air of grimness with her. Dressed in severe black, and with dark hair and smooth, marble-white skin, she reminded me of a photograph of a dead woman I'd once seen. It seemed rather serendipitous that Mrs. Webb would come to work in a place where the mistress was a necromancer.

  Despite her macabre appearance, she moved with grace and poise, and spoke well.

  "And why did you leave your previous position, Mrs. Webb?" I asked.

  "I remarried, miss." Her face fell. "Sadly, he lived only a year after our wedding and recently passed away."

  "Oh, I am sorry."

  "I find myself in need of employment again. Your advertisement seemed like a gift when I saw it in The Times. I like the idea of finding my own maids. I can be sure of their character first, you see. A gentle, simple nature is very important in a maid, in my opinion. You don't want a girl with airs, and certainly none too pretty."

  "You've had experience employing staff?"

  "In my previous post, in the course of five years, I hired four maids, all of whom proved excellent workers. Would you like a list of my other duties?"

  "Yes, please."

  She proceeded to rattle off everything she did at her last placement, with a gleam of pride shining in her otherwise lackluster eyes.

  "It will be a lot of hard work at first," I said, "getting yourself—as well as maids—settled. We've been short staffed for some time, and there's much to be done."

  "I'm not afraid of hard work. It will help keep my mind off…recent events." She gave me wobbly smile.

  Poor thing. The death of her husband must have been a blow. "Mrs. Webb, my fiancé and I will be very pleased if you can begin immediately."

  "Fiancé?"

  "Mr. Fitzroy. You'll meet him tomorrow, if you can start then." And if I could keep Lin
coln in the house long enough.

  "Miss Holloway, I…I'm a little nonplussed. I didn't know there was a gentleman living here. I assumed you were all alone. His name wasn't listed on the advertisement."

  "Since you will report to me, we decided only my name was necessary. Is our situation here at Lichfield a problem for you?" If she turned out to be a prude then I would be sorely disappointed. She seemed suitable in every other way.

  "No, but I must insist that propriety be observed. For the sake of the young maids, you understand."

  "Let me assure you that propriety is very much on Mr. Fitzroy's mind." Too much, damn him. I was growing quite frustrated with merely kissing.

  "Then I shall see you tomorrow. Is eight o'clock too early?"

  "Not at all."

  Doyle saw her out then offered to bring me tea.

  "Serve it in the kitchen," I said.

  His brows almost flew off his forehead. "The kitchen, miss?"

  It was at that moment I realized our quiet, unconventional household was about to change, and I wasn't sure I would like everything about the new arrangement. "I need to speak to Cook about meals…and such." I needed to do no such thing. Cook decided what we ate and was given a weekly allowance with which to purchase whatever he needed. I'd never had cause to interfere. "Perhaps send him in here instead. With the tea."

  I waited until Cook arrived, followed by Doyle carrying a tray. There was only one teacup on it. Cook watched Doyle pour the tea, his arms crossed, foot tapping on the carpet.

  "Thank you," I said, accepting the cup from Doyle. "Now please bring another for Cook."

  Doyle's eyes widened in horror. "Miss! That would be quite inappropriate."

  "I say what is and is not appropriate here, not you. If you dislike the way I manage the household, you're free to leave."

  Doyle's jowls shook. His eyes widened even more. I expected him to storm out and gather his things, but after a moment, the jowls settled and his eyelids lowered. "Of course, miss. I'll fetch another cup immediately."

  "You summoned me, miss?" Cook asked once we were alone.

  "Miss? It's still Charlie to you, Cook."