The Hanged Man

by P. N. Elrod

  The next Reader will clear me, though. That done, she’d get back into the middle of things—starting with Fingate. He’d been her father’s valet for ages and would know everything. It might spare her the need to storm the Pendlebury sanctum.

  Inspector Lennon accomplished what he was good at, making an ungodly row, stirring things around far more effectively than she’d expected. He took possession of the front parlor of the house next door, expediting Brook and Fingate’s efforts to shelter the servants from the weather. Alex was included and dragged inside with them, but kept apart. Despite orders, there was considerable conversation going on until Lennon snarled a believable threat to clap everyone in darbies and set them back in the street if they didn’t shut their bloody pie holes.

  Their host, a sturdy-looking doctor named Millcrest, didn’t seem to find anything objectionable about the irregular use of his home. His bearing and clipped manner marked him as ex-military. He set his staff to work making tea, and they hopped to it as though the fate of the British Empire hung in the balance.

  Alex sealed herself within the leaden armor of her imagination to avoid being emotionally overwhelmed by the crowd. She would get through this part of things, get answers from Fingate, and then deal with the looming grief.

  Or not. Her father’s death was still an abstract concept. In her mind’s eye he remained alive, active, and vital. She could hear his voice, see his smile, and almost feel his tall, reassuring presence next to her, as clear as it had been more than a decade ago. However angry she was that he’d sent her away, she had no reason to think she would never see him again.

  Which was simply not sinking in. She was numb and must remain so for the present. Later, when alone and able to let down her defenses, she might succumb to tears, but not now.

  She took a seat at the house’s bay window to keep watch on the street. Fingate approached, silently offering tea. Constrained by Lennon’s orders, neither could speak. It was cruel.

  She accepted the saucer and its cup of sweetly fragrant jasmine, nodding her thanks to him. Fingate winked once, his somber gaze dropping to the tea, then he moved off.

  Under the cup was a scrap of paper. Alex covered it with her thumb and continued as normally as possible, given the circumstances. It took a moment to shift things to make an examination without anyone noticing. The flimsy piece had been torn from the margin of a newspaper, about half an inch wide and an inch long. The message, written in neat pencil, was disappointing:

  Cold duck, 9:00.

  What the devil?

  It appeared to be a dining or drinking appointment, being vague enough for either; it was meant to mislead others, but have a meaning she alone would appreciate.

  It was too outlandish. To cast her mind back ten years to recall some incident involving Fingate and ducks was ridiculous. How could the man expect her to remember?

  Duck—was it meant as animal, action, or drink?

  Ducks swim and duck under water to feed. That covers both animal and action.

  There were plenty of ducks in London. Most of the parks had ponds, and the ponds all had ducks. Did cold mean they were to meet at a park? If so, then which one?

  What about vintners or poultry shops? Impossible, there were too many. He could just as easily written cold goose or beef or—

  Cold duck. Any duck would be cold at this time of year, with some ponds frozen over, preventing them from swi—

  The meaning came in a gratifying flash.

  For decades the maddest members of the Serpentine Swimming Club met in Hyde Park for their Christmas morning race. There were always stories about it in the papers. As a child she’d walked with her father to one such event. Fingate brought a hamper with bread, apples, and cheese. She’d given bread to some wayward ducks, finding them of more interest than the swimmers. Fingate had picked apart his loaf to tempt the ducks in closer, but none would leave the water. They’d fled, quacking with indignation, when the swimmers dove in.

  Alex had not witnessed the race for herself for years, finding the press of crowds and their emotions to be wearing. Why meet her there? Why not wait until things were sorted out, when they could sit for a proper talk?

  She spared a glance toward Fingate, to let him know she understood, but he was no longer in the parlor, probably in the servant’s hall negotiating more tea and seeing about sandwiches.

  She slipped the scrap into her coat pocket just as a black landau rumbled to a stop next to the walk. Its front and back hoods were up, and a curtain covered the window set in the door. That should have been the conveyance sent to fetch her in the first place.

  Not waiting for the driver to descend, a slender, competent-looking woman a decade older than Alex emerged, looking around with a stern face. Lennon hurried to put himself in her way, escorting her to the house next door.

  Alex knew her: Mrs. Emma Woodwake. A widow, she was in charge of the psychical training branch of the Service and rarely ever called to do Readings. She was many rungs up the ladder from those out in the field.

  Lennon returned a moment later, going straight to Alex.

  “You’re for it,” he said, jerking a thumb to indicate the general direction.

  Instead of the murder house, Lennon guided Alex toward the coach, opening the door and assisting her inside. He was a hindrance to balance with his great paw tight on her lower arm, and she dropped with a clumsy bump onto the thinly padded bench. The interior was cold and dark with the black velvet curtains in place. It turned to pitch when Lennon slammed the door and strode off, growling.

  As she tumbled in, Alex glimpsed another passenger sitting opposite: male, wearing black trousers, a walking stick with a worn iron ferrule braced between his polished black boots. The rest blended into the shadows, including his face.

  “Hallo? Who’s there?” she asked.

  On the seat next to the man was a bull’s-eye lantern, as she discovered when he eased open its shutter. The beam of light fell on her, but there was enough ambient glow to fill most of the interior. Her mouth went dry as she recognized the imperious-looking fellow across from her.

  “Lord Richard?”

  “Miss Pendlebury,” he said in greeting. His voice was soft, just enough for the confines of the coach. Any listeners without would hear nothing.

  She matched his level. “Sir, I was not aware of my relation to the deceased, else I would have—”

  “Miss Pendlebury, be assured that had we known, you’d have never been called. This was an oversight. There will be repercussions, but not directed at you.” He fixed her in place with a chill and impersonal gaze. His eyes were a clear icy blue, but the lantern light stole their color so they seemed to be white, the pupils like black pits. “May I offer my condolences for your loss?”

  The question, spoken in the same tone one might use for any mundane social inquiry, caught her off guard, and her breath hitched in her throat. Lord Richard Desmond was the head of the Psychic Service, so far upstream as to be unreachable. He reported and answered directly to Queen Victoria herself and no one else, not even the prime minister. Only the Lord Consort Arthur was higher up. For someone like that to unbend enough to offer Alex sympathy, however formally framed, took her aback.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  She had only ever seen Lord Richard this close on the day three years ago when she’d been accepted into the Service. Shockingly tall, strongly built, a faint red tint to his gold hair, he did not look old enough to have been running things since 1848. When she discreetly asked, she was informed that the Psychic Service had been wrested into existence by Lord Richard’s father (also named Richard) as an outgrowth of the Ministry of Science. Exactly how that happened and how he’d gotten the ear of the queen in the first place were not general knowledge.

  That the son took over his retired father’s duties was hardly worth notice. There were many families in more or less hereditary service to Her Majesty, after all—such as the Pendlebury clan, who’d been at it for gener
ations. Uncle Leo did something at the Home Office. Her cousins held positions in other areas of service, and without a second thought she’d used family connections and the fact that she was one of the queen’s many goddaughters to apply for her own place in the great machine that ran the empire.

  Three years ago Lord Richard had personally welcomed Alex and five other nervous recruits, shook their hands, and presented them with the gold medallions that identified them as bona fide agents of Her Majesty’s Psychic Service. Since then, he had been a rarely seen figure in the distance.

  “Sir, if I may ask, why are you here?” Alex had expected her supervisor to deal with the situation, or perhaps his supervisor, but not the head of the Service himself. She was a small cog in the machine; just how bad were things to bring out the chief engineer?

  “Mr. Jones is unavailable.”

  She didn’t believe him. No need to tap into her ability to know that. It made no sense. “There’s something serious afoot.”

  Lord Richard’s expression did not change, but neither did he contradict her. “Every murder is serious. Please report your initial impressions.”

  “But—”

  “I’m aware of regulations, but there is no reason to think you had anything to do with the crime. Please report to me the same as you would to Mr. Jones.”

  So she did, beginning with her arrival. She felt as though another person had taken over to use her voice to speak. Alex recognized it as a means of getting through the unpleasantness without breaking down. That could come later, if it did come. For the present the emotional recusation was a comfort. She covered everything, even those horrid moments in the foyer until Fingate had gotten her away.

  Lord Richard was silent for many long moments. Sleet ticked persistently on the roof and sides of the coach, and she felt the cold seeping into her limbs.

  “I would hazard to think,” he said, “that you are wondering why Gerard Pendlebury was posing as a certain Dr. Kemp.”

  “Indeed, sir, I want to know everything.” She hoped Lord Richard would respond to that, but he did not. “I last saw him—”

  “A decade ago in Hong Kong. I am aware of your personal history, Miss Pendlebury, but so far as your father is concerned, I have no more information than you and am also mystified.”

  “Perhaps my uncle Leo may be of help. He’s the elder brother.”

  “Do you think your father communicated with him?”

  She hesitated. “Not to my knowledge, sir.”

  “A carefully chosen phrase. Why do you use it?”

  “My uncle is at the Home Office.”

  “A branch of government not given to sharing information.”

  “None of them are. Father was once attached to the Foreign Office. When my mother died, he resigned and collected me, and we traveled, usually calling on embassies. I believe he was an unofficial envoy of some sort—or so I concluded years later. I must stress that if his trips were of a sensitive nature, Father never said anything to me. Neither has my uncle.”

  “Do you think he would have not passed word to you about your father?”

  Leo had his limits. “Family concerns come second to his duty. I don’t think he would, he is absolutely dedicated to his work.”

  “Your uncle could be accused of being overly diligent.”

  “Relations between myself and Father’s family have always been difficult, sir.”

  Lord Richard’s mouth thinned ever so slightly. “It is their loss, then.”

  Just how much did he know of her private life? She felt discomfited under the press of that unblinking gaze. A change of topic was overdue. “Sir, my father’s valet may be of immediate help in this inquiry. His name is Percival Fingate. He’s been in my father’s employ since before I was born. He’ll know everything.”

  “Of that I have no doubt. One cannot keep anything from one’s servants.”

  She’d planned to be at the Serpentine at nine of the clock, but this would make it unnecessary. Lord Richard had the authority to question the man. Alex was certain Fingate would be forthcoming in her presence. If allowed to stay, that is. She would argue for it.

  Lord Richard tapped the door with his cane. The driver climbed down. Instructions were given to fetch Dr. Kemp’s valet; the driver passed the word, then returned to his bench. Shortly afterward Inspector Lennon could be heard bawling orders. A good deal of activity took place between the houses as the constables rushed about.

  Lord Richard remained quiet, but Alex sensed his growing anger.

  Both buildings were turned inside out. Fingate was gone. No one had noticed when. Alex guessed that it had been right after he’d given her that note.

  “Why would he leave?” she wondered aloud.

  Lord Richard said, “You tell me.”

  “I can’t think why.”

  “Do so, Miss Pendlebury. It is your job, after all. Remove your feelings from the facts and tell me why.”

  She felt her face turn hot and red. “One might conclude he had something to do with the crime—which I will not believe. The man’s character is above reproach.”

  “When you last saw him. Time changes people, twists them out of shape, turns saints into monsters, monsters into saints. You have no reason to assume—”

  “Your pardon, sir, but neither do you. For all we know, Fingate might have been forced away against his will by the murderer and be lying dead in an alley hereabouts.”

  “Then he will be found.” Lord Richard seemed to be unused to interruptions, staring in such a way as to make her feel like a bird under the hungry regard of a cobra.

  But she did not back down. “If Fingate had a hand in this then I want him brought to justice, but I believe him to be the same honest and loyal man I once knew. I would urge … prudence.”

  Who was she to make suggestions to the likes of Lord Richard? He could twitch his little finger and swat her sideways into the Psychical Fraud Section to catch out mediums at séances.

  In a mild tone he asked, “Is precognition one of your gifts?”

  “Not that I’m aware, sir.”

  “Then the source of your recommendation would be…?”

  “My instincts, sir.” She refused to feel foolish for stating the truth.

  “Just so,” he murmured. “I am inclined to trust instinct in most situations. Whether this is such a situation is yet to be determined. Why prudence?”

  A good question, and the answer required cold logic. “If treated as a fugitive rather than as a resource, he could be hurt. Fingate is clever and capable and I’m sure he’s aware that his departure will look bad. If he left of his own volition, then I have absolute confidence that he had an excellent reason.” She was risking much on that confidence by not mentioning the note; she should do so now. She really should. He’d clearly planned from the start to get away and meet her later. “Perhaps Fingate has knowledge of a suspect. His temper is such that he would go after that person himself rather than wait.”

  “Seeking revenge?”

  “Oh, no, sir. He would turn the other person over to the police. If he has taken himself away of his own accord, then he has done so as a hunter, not as a guilty man avoiding capture.”

  “Or a fearful man avoiding the fate of his master. It has been ten years, Miss Pendlebury, since you last saw him.”

  “Some people do not change, sir. Mr. Fingate is as constant as the north star.”

  “In which case, his motives are well obscured by fog.”

  “Which will clear, given time and more facts.”

  Good God, the man cracked a smile. It had the quality of an involuntary facial tic, but Alex was heartened by his response. He seemed to be listening. She kept quiet, taking care not to open herself to catch a hint about his internal feelings. The temptation was there, but it was unconscionably rude, and, if he sensed it, unforgivable. She had no idea if Lord Richard possessed psychical talent, but it was best to not test things.

  “Or,” he said, after some thought,
“he is guilty and could not allow himself to be in the same room with a Reader once suicide was discounted in favor of murder. Or he knows who did the deed and is protecting that person. Perhaps he knew he would be unable to successfully lie to you and concluded his best course was to leave. There are a number of reasons to explain his actions.”

  She wanted to protest, to defend Fingate, but Lord Richard’s tone, so soft that she could barely hear him, was speculative rather than accusatory. His colorless eyes were focused inward.

  Then his attention was full on her again. “Whatever the causes, Mr. Fingate is required to aid the police in their inquiries. I will make sure Inspector Lennon understands that caution must be exercised in the search.”

  Tension that Alex had not been aware of left her shoulders. “Thank you, sir.” He was being inordinately generous, and though she was consciously not Reading the man, that did not feel right to her.

  What else was afoot?

  * * *

  It was discovered that Fingate had apparently made his way home, packed, and departed via the mews, slipping past the constable on watch. Mrs. Woodwake lost his fading psychic trace in the lane behind the house. His modest quarters were stripped of clothing, papers, and money. So far as could be determined by the housekeeper, nothing else was missing. The man had efficiently cleared out and vanished.

  Alex admitted that it looked bad, but Lord Richard held fast and did not change Fingate’s status to that of a fugitive. That was a relief.

  None of the servants had any idea where Fingate might have gone, agreeing that he was friendly, but not given to idle chatter. All of them had come to Dr. Kemp’s house from the same agency and had excellent characters, confirmed by Mrs. Woodwake when she questioned each in turn. They thought Fingate was also from the firm; he had never said anything contrary to that assumption. He always addressed their employer as Dr. Kemp, never by another name. No, Dr. Kemp had no patients, he’d not opened for practice yet. He had no need for a practice; his money was from that throat elixir, didn’t you see the sign in the parlor?