Trust her to be able to quote chapter and verse. “We must protect our interests,” said Keating.
“He’s supporting the rebels!” Scarlet almost shouted in his fury. He was half out of his chair, but the Violet Queen pulled him back into his place by the sleeve.
“You’re seeing rebels everywhere, my dear,” she said calmly. “Calm yourself. They generally don’t hide under the furniture, much less at our council meetings.”
“You’re wrong,” Scarlet shot back, though with more self-control. “It’s this damned Baskerville affair. It’s not just the rabble anymore. The gentry are getting involved.”
“That’s nothing more than wishful thinking on the rabble’s part.” Violet pulled out her handkerchief, a delicate fluttering of lawn and lace, and dabbed at a faint gleam of perspiration on her cheeks. It was hot in the room, and tempers were making it worse. “All gentlemen of quality pass through my houses sooner or later, and if they have secrets my employees have a way of finding them out. I’ve heard nothing about the Quality taking up arms against us.”
That seemed to reassure Scarlet, but Keating’s interest was piqued. Whatever Violet thought, not every gentleman went whoring, and not every one who did struck up a conversation about politics with his doxy. More to the point, what was this Baskerville business? And why hadn’t he heard about it? The gap in information irked him, especially so soon after his shipment went awry. He hated being caught by surprise.
But Gray saved him the trouble of asking questions. “What’s Baskerville?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t know,” snarled Scarlet.
“Baskerville is a phantom,” wheezed King Coal, his chair letting off a gust of steam as he leaned forward. “A rumor. A vaguery. There are whispers of a shadow government that will sweep in and seize control when the time is right, and we shall all end up on the gallows.”
A ripple of laughter went around the room, some voices less confident than others.
“It’s all nonsense. The crown prince will never stand for it,” the Blue King added. Victoria’s pleasure-loving heir was deeply in debt to the Steam Council. “He will never make a move against us as long as we give him a golden teat.”
“And yet they say Victoria is willing to oppose him in the name of duty. Turn him over to the rebels if need be,” argued Scarlet. “They say those were the Prince Consort’s final instructions to his wife.”
That sounded like Albert, who had loved progress until he realized it rendered old institutions like the monarchy redundant. But even so, Keating doubted that the queen would do anything that risked her children or the throne. “The Prince Consort might have frustrated our fathers’ version of the Steam Council, but he is dead.”
Scarlet stared at Gray. “Let’s not forget that he had faithful friends.”
“Too true.” Keating saw at once how he could use this Baskerville hysteria to his own advantage. Keating pointed a finger at Gray. “Mr. Thane, I believe your older brother was one of them. In fact, wasn’t he one of the gentlemen who worked alongside the Prince Consort during the planning of the Great Exhibition?”
“That was over thirty years ago!” Gray sputtered.
Green broke in, her harsh voice slicing the air. “But isn’t your family motto something about remaining faithful after death? Your brother is a lord, and that makes you one of the aristocracy. You’re one of them far more than you’ve ever been part of the business community, to be sure.”
That was met with a rumbling of dissent, particularly from the Blue King’s corner of the table. It was all Keating could do to keep from rubbing his hands with glee. This was too easy.
“Maybe if we dig deep enough into Harter Engine, we’ll find a few more lords and ladies, and perhaps a duke or two.” Keating gave a predatory smile as he piled assumption on wild assumption. Truth didn’t matter once blood was in the air. “Old friends of the Thane family, every one of them. Imagine what they could do with those combustion engines. No doubt they’d be trying to light up their fancy houses without paying us our due.”
“And that would just be the start of their treason,” Scarlet muttered.
Gray flushed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. You have no proof of any of this.”
“Of course we do, you little idiot,” Keating scoffed.
“You don’t!”
Which was true, up to a point. The Harter Engine Company had done its best to operate quietly, and Keating had next to no idea who was involved, outside of the public shareholders. Gray might be entirely unaware that the warehouse even existed. But none of that really mattered. Devious or stupid, Gray was weak and Keating’s spies had done their work. The man had been caught with the one kind of contraband that mattered to the barons.
Contraband that Keating now had under lock and key.
“We have a treaty!” Gray looked wildly around the table. “You are supposed to protect me!” His retainers were already backing away, fear twisting their bluff, hearty features.
“Treaties matter,” King Coal wheezed, “until they do not.”
Green gave a smile as sharp and unpleasant as her voice. “Gentlemen, I think we have an agreement. My bridge in exchange for this traitor’s lands.”
Gray reached out a hand to Scarlet, who shrank back. “You’re next.” Flecks of spit flew from Gray’s mouth, and he wiped his lips with his sleeve. “You or Violet. You know that.”
“Not yet, little man,” Scarlet said coldly. “I still have a pretty good hand of cards.”
And the stakes are so irresistible. Fool. Keating turned and gave a nod to Striker, who gave a signal to the other streetkeepers in the room. At the same instant, the Gray party surged for the door, desperate for escape.
There was only one way treason against the council ended.
Keating’s hand snaked across the table, catching Gray’s wrist. A pitcher of water smashed to the floor, papers scattering into the wet. The man was strong, but Keating’s fingers dug in as he tried to pull away, refusing to give even as Gray dragged him sprawling over the table. Tendons and bone slid under his grip as Gray cursed in pain.
The sound caused a twist of satisfaction in Keating’s gut. Got you.
Then Striker was at Gray’s side, wrenching the man’s free arm behind his back. “Come on, guv’nor.”
“No!” Gray squirmed, but it was pointless.
Reluctantly, Keating released his prey and let the streetkeeper march him away. Seven steam barons walked into the guildhall that day. Six would leave. Harsh rules, but it was a harsh world out there, and it demanded a strong hand. And someday there will be only two, and then one.
There was another minute’s commotion—a babble of voices, scraping chairs, the thump of a body hitting the door frame. Keating sat down again, gratefully accepting the glass of water Mr. Jasper set on the table, a doily underneath to protect the shining wood. Someone was already cleaning up the shattered pitcher.
Keating took a sip of the cool liquid, making a conscious effort to calm the pulse pounding in his ears. The crisis was over and the battle won, but he felt oddly sad that it was finished. Now it was just a workaday matter—Green taking over Gray’s plants and gas lines, changing the streetlamps, hooking one pipe to another. The drama was over.
“Expertly done, sir,” Jackson whispered in his ear.
Apparently King Coal thought so, too. He gave Keating an enormous wink. A strong hand. That’s what they respect. And it’s better that I keep these dogs in check than let them run wild, however cruel it might seem.
Mr. Fish leaned forward, speaking for the first time. “I’m curious,” he said in a light, almost quavering voice and fixing Keating with damp, pale eyes. “What do you do with the corpses afterward?”
Chapter Eleven
MYSTERIOUS DEMISE OF BARON GRAY
The body of Mr. Bartholomew Thane, principal shareholder of the Stamford Coke Company and the soi-disant steam baron of the Gray District, was found floating near the Lambeth Pier in the early ho
urs of the morning. It was estimated that he was in the Thames overnight and did not enter it of his own volition.
—Front page of The London Prattler
MELANCHOLY PASSING OF A GREAT FRIEND
With great sadness we report the untimely passing of Mr. Bartholomew Thane, principal shareholder of the Stamford Coke Company. His noteworthy career was crowned in recent years by the seat he occupied on the Steam Council as representative of the Gray District. He was found this morning after having passed peacefully in the night. He is survived by his loving wife and two sons.
— Page five of The Bugle
London, April 5,1888
HILLIARD HOUSE
11 a.m. Thursday
The day after Grace’s murder, the garden of Hilliard House glistened in shades of green and pink, which almost precisely matched Imogen’s dress. She was perched next to Evelina on a stone bench at the corner of the garden wall. The sun warmed the masonry there, giving the illusion that summer had already arrived. The girls wore only the lightest of shawls over the flounced, bustled, and fluttery confections that passed for a plain day dress for a privileged young lady.
Imogen was looking far better today, almost back to herself. Evelina hoped the nightmare was an isolated incident. If she kept her health, Imogen would definitely be the belle to watch this Season, especially with that interesting air of fragility that made men melt and mothers cosset.
It was convenient camouflage. Evelina knew that beneath that languid demeanor, Imogen had the will and temper of a wolverine when roused. One didn’t survive a dangerous illness without backbone.
Imogen reached over and clasped Evelina’s hand. Little speckles of light fell through the holes of her straw hat, scattering like stars across her nose. “I can’t believe you didn’t wake me. You shouldn’t have had to face the horrid incident alone.”
Evelina laughed. “You’re just sorry you missed out on the excitement.”
“You can’t blame me, can you?” Imogen caught her lip in her teeth. Her handwork sat idle in her lap, the needle poked carelessly into the cloth. “Mama sent Maisie home. She offered to let Dora have time off, but she wouldn’t go. Not with Mama’s birthday party the day after tomorrow.”
A party seemed trivial, but Dora was right. The business of Hilliard House would go on. Guests would flood the lawns, play croquet, and eat too much. A herd of Imogen’s hopeful suitors would no doubt descend in hopes of winning fair maid and fortune. Evelina looked forward to it. It was one event she could attend whether or not she’d been presented to the queen.
And yet, it would seem odd to sip tea and make small talk so soon after a tragic and violent death. “Do we know who Grace Child’s people were?”
“Yes. They live over in Whitechapel.”
“Has anyone told them?”
“Mama took care of that, too. Someone from here will go to the funeral, of course. Papa gave them a handsome sum to pay for the funeral and more besides. Or at least that’s what Tobias said.” Imogen turned to Evelina, the clean angle of her cheekbone catching the sunlight. Her gray eyes looked almost translucent, like the eyes of a wolf. Despite a discreet application of powder, Evelina could tell she’d been crying.
“I heard that Tobias was talking to Grace just before she was killed,” Imogen added.
A bird warbled high in the branches, a throaty whoop of joy. Evelina squinted up seeing only a black speck hopping through the elms that rimmed the lawn. Not her bird. It wouldn’t be back yet—but she hoped when it did, it would have answers that cleared Nick and Tobias.
Evelina squeezed her friend’s hand. “I know what Dora saw.”
But Imogen went on anyway. “Maisie found Grace just after one o’clock. Dora saw him with Grace not long before.”
Evelina frowned. She didn’t like to see Imogen fretting. “Who told you all this?”
“No one. I heard Dora talking with Bigelow.” Her friend swallowed hard. “I honestly don’t think Tobias did it. He’s my brother. But the timing looks very bad. The problem is, if it wasn’t Tobias, who was it? No matter how you turn it around, there was a killer in our house.”
“I know.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Yes and no,” Evelina replied.
“Yes I understand, but why no?”
Evelina hesitated. She didn’t want to involve Imogen in any of this, but doubt was an insidious foe. That had to be worse than talking it through, and frankly Evelina welcomed the chance to go over what had happened. She wanted, even needed, Imogen’s support.
Evelina’s immediate problem was simple: she wanted answers, but she wasn’t sure where to begin. She’d lain awake all night, trying to get the details straight in her own mind. Uncle Sherlock would tell her to get her facts in order before making a single move. Anything less, and he’d give her that eyebrow-raise and accuse her of sloppy thinking. “There’s more to Grace’s death than meets the eye.”
Imogen’s brow puckered. “What makes you say that?”
Evelina reached into her work bag and withdrew the envelope she’d pocketed right under Lestrade’s nose. In all the commotion last night, she’d all but forgotten it until she had undressed for bed. “I think there was a reason Grace died. She had this hidden in her clothes.”
“And you took it?” Imogen’s eyes widened.
“I had my reasons.”
“But this is evidence!”
“The police aren’t going to understand it.”
At least, not until they started hiring experts who could detect the magical signatures—she was sure there were two—clinging to the envelope. The residue was so disturbing to be around, she’d packed the whole thing in salt to neutralize the bad energy. It was mostly gone now. Otherwise, she’d hesitate to let Imogen handle it.
She turned the envelope over in her hands, feeling her friend’s curiosity like a flame. Despite the seriousness of the subject, Evelina had a showman’s thrill anticipating the reveal. One could take a girl out of the circus …
“Look at what’s inside.” She tipped it and a bright silk bag fell into her hand with a clinking sound.
Imogen reached over and picked it up. “What is it?”
“Another layer of mystery. Keep looking.”
Imogen pulled the drawstring open and peered down into the silk mouth. Evelina watched in amusement as her friend’s eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, dear!” Imogen dipped her long fingers into the bag and pulled out a rectangle of bright gold. “This is …”
“Worth a fair bit of money, I’d guess. I weighed it. That’s three ounces by the scale in the pantry. And there’s more in the bag.”
Imogen fished out a handful of tiny stones, looking at them curiously. Evelina could see the shock fading and curiosity taking over. Imogen had a mind every bit as good as her brother’s, but was rarely pushed to use it.
“These are emeralds,” she said, excitement thrumming in her words. “But roughly cut. Not like any I’ve seen. And the gold is so pure, but there are no markings on it. I’ve seen Papa with gold that has come from a bank. There’s almost always a stamp to say where it was minted.” Imogen’s eyes were bright with interest. “It looks like someone melted this down.”
Someone who uses magic, or else the gold and gems were close to magic long enough that it left a trace. Metal and gemstones would absorb the residue of power faster than almost any other substances. That was why there were so many magical swords and crowns and whatnot in folk tales. “Any of your family heirlooms have emeralds? Anything missing?”
“No. Nothing we have would boil down to this.” Imogen slipped the items back into the bag. “The gold puts another light on the matter entirely. What was Grace doing with it? What had she got herself into?”
A bee zipped by, stirring the flower-scented air. In a moment, it was lost in the shivering shadows of the leaves.
“She was delivering it, probably.”
“But why kill her and not rob her?”
“Maybe the killer
was interrupted—or maybe she was killed for an entirely different reason.” Evelina pulled a paper out of the envelope. It was plain, the cheap kind that could be purchased anywhere, and it bore a few lines of block letters. The words were printed by hand with ordinary ink. “Look at what was with the gold.”
The paper was folded in half. Imogen flipped it open, the breeze fluttering its edges. Her chin tucked back as if the words had offended her. “This is pure nonsense.”
“It’s written in a cipher of some kind.”
Imogen gave her a blank look. “One of your uncle’s specialties, I suppose?”
“He’s written what he describes as a trifling monograph on the subject in which he analyzes one hundred and sixty separate ciphers.”
Imogen raised one fair brow. “He would have, wouldn’t he?”
“He doesn’t have many friends.”
“Except that poor doctor he used to live with. He must be a very patient man.”
Evelina gave a slight shrug. There was no point in trying to explain Uncle Sherlock. It just couldn’t be done. “Anyhow, if I’m right about what this is, ciphers of this type are extremely hard to figure out.”
A stubborn look came over Imogen’s face. “But we have to, don’t we? To clear Tobias?”
Evelina held up a hand, a wave of unease urging her to caution. “Nothing good can come out of poking around murders and thievery. You have your presentation and Season to worry about.”
“So leave it to you?” Imogen shot back. “Not bloody likely, Evelina Cooper. You’re not the only girl with wit and daring. By this time next year, I could be an old married lady. Give me an adventure to remember!”
Evelina’s heart caught. After the Season, their paths were sure to part. They would still adore each other, they would write letters, but hours together would become a treat rather than the general rule. Their youth would end with all the predictability of a clock striking midnight.
Evelina swallowed an ache. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Figuring out a code?”
“Cipher. There’s a difference.”
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