by P. N. Elrod
Eyes shut to stem the flow, she slowly drew a long breath, ignoring the taint of blood and gunpowder in the air. She held for the count of five and slowly released, letting the turmoil of her emotions go out with the exhalation.
Master Shan could never have anticipated her applying his training under these conditions.
Or perhaps he had. She imagined his serene eyes, a hint of a smile always in them and amid the fine lines of his face. What would he do?
Another deep breath and exhale.
He’d tell her to step up and bowl her best. Unlike many of his countrymen, he had a keen interest in cricket.
Eyes open, Alex went to work. Centered and in control, she moved toward the entry, her internal senses open for clues about the armed men. Emotions washed over her: fear, excitement, and a bright exultation from the act of killing. She pulled back from it as though recoiling from contagion. The feeling was so strong that it threatened to overtake her. She was well schooled to avoid that trap. Apprentice Readers often had a hard time, especially when it involved pleasant emotions. Such mad joy could be perilously addictive.
Then the calmer and stronger impression of Lord Richard’s feelings swept through her: fear, not for himself but for others. It had raised him to his feet to defend them. He’d not allow it … righteous anger, contempt for faceless cowards, sudden bursts of surprise as they shot him and finally a weakening as his body slipped past the point of return. She pulled back to avoid experiencing his death, but the last trace from his psychic spoor was, oddly, annoyance and exasperation. He knew he was dying and instead of a final prayer to his Maker he—
“Alex, wake out of it.”
James was before her, concern on his face. She slammed her lead barrier between them before his emotions could intrude. That was enough Reading for one night.
“You’re not all right, so I shan’t inquire if you are,” he said. “You will sit a moment. You will sit now.”
His hand on her arm, not pinching this time, he guided her to the settee. She noticed its back was full of holes, as were the walls.
“We’re lucky no one else was killed by those bas—bounders. Terrible shots.”
“They were aiming high on purpose,” she said. “Lord Richard was their target, not the rest of us.”
James gave no reply, but glanced at the room as though to confirm her assessment.
Mrs. Woodwake, moving like a sleepwalker, drew the remnant of a sheet over Lord Richard’s body. Dr. Hamish was still on the floor, and he looked ill. James went to what was left of his liquor stores and found an unbroken bottle and a glass. He poured and pressed the contents of the glass upon Woodwake and gave the bottle to the doctor.
“Get up, John. Drink to a fallen warrior, not a dead patient.”
Hamish gave a great weary sigh and stood and drank, then handed the bottle back. “We need to find a policeman.”
That snapped Woodwake out of her daze. “Absolutely not. This is a matter for the Psychic Service, not Scotland Yard.”
“Bit late for that, ma’am,” said James, nodding behind her. Flanked by Lieutenant Brook and two wide-eyed constables, Inspector Lennon stood in the entry taking in the scene of battle with a great scowl.
* * *
Mrs. Woodwake had a barrage of instructions for him once she got his attention, and Lennon had an objection to all of them, apparently. His low rumblings were reminiscent of a lion with a bellyache. He never actually roared, but made his opinions clear.
The guests in the house were asked to stay on the stairs for the time being, until they could be interviewed. They retired, grumbling and full of questions. Dr. Hamish sat with them. He wore a black look and perhaps needed the company of friends.
Alex kept to herself on the settee, thinking it best to stay out of the way until called for; James joined her, taking a swig from the bottle.
“What the devil is going on?” he asked quietly. He looked to be a dangerous creature with his bloodshot eyes, hair a wild mess, and blood halfway up his arms and streaking his face, but his manner was composed. Events had boiled the fool out of him. “Who were those men?”
“I don’t know,” Alex whispered. “I was called to a case over on Harley Street … and … and things went wrong. Lord Richard arrived…” She faltered over her story. It was no proper report made to a senior in her department, but a rushed and disjointed muddle of random words, conjuring images she wanted to forget. Beneath it all, she knew she’d have to tell the whole thing later again and again and that there would be no ease in her spirit from it, no catharsis of release. This would be with her forever.
“What happened?”
“Father.” She felt herself choking. “My—my father’s dead, James.”
“Gerard? When did he get back from—dead? Good lord … was that the case?”
She nodded. “I didn’t know. Not until after. I didn’t know. Murdered … and I didn’t know it was him.”
“Oh, my poor little Alex.”
She used to resent him calling her that, but not now. He put an arm around her. He’d never done that before, not even when they were children. But she couldn’t relax against him, couldn’t allow herself to break down and howl her grief—she had none. She was numb inside. That wasn’t right. She should feel something. That was her trade, feelings. Emotions of death and life and truth and lies—but belonging to others, not her.
“What’s to be done?”
She shook her head. “The Service will deal with it. Why didn’t he write to say he was home?” Why didn’t he write at all?
“Are they connected?”
“What?”
“Your father’s death and this attack. Are they connected?”
“I don’t know.”
“One did follow hard upon the other.”
Indeed they had. She slipped free of his arm and went to Mrs. Woodwake, breaking in on what looked to be an increasingly tense exchange between herself and Lennon.
“Ma’am, I need to know—”
“Know what, girl?”
Alex repeated her cousin’s question.
Woodwake glared at her, mouth tight, eyes hard. “I cannot answer.”
“You must have some insight, ma’am.”
“If I do, then this isn’t the time or place to impart it to you or anyone else.”
“But—”
“The matter is closed. Protocol was violated at Harley Street, accidentally, but there’s to be no repetition. Miss Pendlebury, you are excluded from both investigations except as a witness.”
“I can’t be excluded!”
Woodwake rounded on her like Medusa, and with the same effect: everyone froze in place. When she spoke, her voice was low yet penetrating in the hush. “You will follow orders. I am aware of the unique circumstances of tonight’s events and how difficult this is for you, but rules are in place for a reason. You cannot be involved.” Her face softened. “Reverse things: If it had been my father, what would you be telling me this moment?”
There could be no argument for that. “May I know how things progress?”
“So long as it does not compromise the inquiry—inquiries.”
Alex hated it, certain that she would be told nothing.
“I require your attention, please.” Woodwake raised her voice, directing it at the others present. When they were looking at her, she delivered the startling order that Lord Richard’s demise, indeed, all that had happened tonight, was not to be discussed with anyone.
“I rely on your discretion and loyalty to the crown,” she said. “Until further notice this whole incident is a state secret. Anyone speaking of it will be prosecuted for treason.”
This resulted in a near-collective gasp from those present.
Only James did not appear awed. He stood, still holding the bottle. “What did you say, madam?”
She repeated the order.
“That’s mad,” he drawled. “How the devil do you expect this lot to not talk? Everyone talks. First thing to
morrow someone will share a hint with his barber or her dressmaker, another will wink at an old school chum at his club or get to yarning over the port and in an hour it’ll be in every paper in the land. You cannot possibly hope to keep this secret.”
“I fully expect it to remain so, sir,” she snapped. “Or will you accuse any here of being disloyal to queen and country?”
“Not disloyal, merely careless. Come now, you lot. Which of you has never dropped a word when you shouldn’t? The more important the word, the more dire the promise, the faster it fell, am I right? You can’t get more important than Lord Richard. Unless it’s the Lord Consort Arthur, God forbid. This thing’s a proper blister, masked hooligans tearing through London and murdering men.… One word in the wrong ear and it’s all up.”
Mrs. Woodwake’s glare had no effect on James, but the whole house seemed to hold its breath. “For the sake of Her Majesty’s feelings, we must keep this quiet. I will not have the queen reading of the death of a dear friend and faithful servant in the paper. How do you think she would feel? How would your own mothers feel?”
The small crowd stirred, and frowns of anger for James subsided into a sheepish awkwardness.
“To a man, we’ll swear on the Bible that this goes no further,” said Hamish. “Is that right, lads? For the queen’s sake?”
They responded, as loyal subjects must, with growls of affirmation and stubborn faces. “We know our duty,” confirmed one, the others agreeing.
“I’m proved wrong,” said James. “If you lot can keep such a secret, then the Empire is secure. Count me in as well. Swear on a Bible or this bottle of excellent whiskey, whichever you hold more sacred.”
Woodwake and Brook looked appalled at the blasphemy, but Lennon was amused. Alex was too tired to show her disgust. James was incapable of being serious for longer than a minute, even with the shrouded body of a murdered man at his feet.
“I’ll swear on both, if you don’t mind, sir,” said Lennon, stepping forward. He accepted the bottle and drank to the pact.
Alex spoke to Mrs. Woodwake, keeping it between them. “What about my family? My uncle needs to know his brother is dead.”
The woman shook her head. “No. Not yet.”
“He has a right to know, ma’am.”
“He will be informed, but not yet. It’s impossible. Until we know what your father was doing posing as Dr. Kemp, until we know how or if his death was connected to the attacks on Lord Richard, you are not to speak of this to your uncle or any member of the Pendlebury family. The nature of a state secret is that it overshadows personal considerations. I realize this places a heavy burden on you, but you must find the strength to bear it.”
How?
“You’re all in, girl. I’m sending you home.”
“It’s just up the street at the end. I’ll walk. I need the air.”
“Not alone and not there. You’re to pick up what things you’ll need for the next few days and stay with your uncle’s family for the time being.”
Alex was initially too stunned to speak. “I-I can’t. Your pardon, ma’am, I simply cannot go there.”
“They’re your family, of course you’ll go.”
“You don’t understand … my dealings with them are not—congenial.”
“A state of affairs you share with many others in the Service, including myself. Our gifts are often misunderstood by those closest to us.”
“That’s not it—”
“Are they a danger to you? Have they ever done you physical harm?”
“What? No, but—”
“Then you’re to stay with them.”
“I’ll put up in a hotel or the Service dormitory with the apprentices. Either will be fine.”
Woodwake leaned close. “Miss Pendlebury, put your feelings aside and consider that if someone murdered your father then that same person might have similar designs on your uncle or the rest of the family, including yourself. I want you there to keep an eye on them. There is safety in numbers. You should not be alone and vulnerable in a hotel, and you cannot look after your family hiding among the apprentices.”
Alex went red. “Hiding? Madam, you’ve no—”
“I’ve every right,” she said. “You’re the only one in the whole damned Service who can get under the Pendlebury roof without raising questions. You’re keen to be on the investigation; this is as much of it as can be allowed. I’ll arrange to have armed people on watch in case there’s another attempt like this. Now for God’s sake, do as you’re ordered and see to your duty.”
Woodwake’s startling language and the force behind her words seemed to steal the strength from her. She swayed; Alex steadied her without thinking and felt a rush of feelings strike like the lash of a whip. The woman was on the edge of screaming from the turmoil within. Panic, guilt, terror, rage … held in check by sheer will, and there were cracks in that brittle barrier. Her greatest fear was that she would lose her tenuous control, break down, and fail to uphold her facade—and Alex was not helping.
She backed off, ending the contact. “Of course, ma’am. Whatever is required.”
Woodwake shut her eyes a moment, composing herself. When she looked at Alex again they were softer and infinitely tired. “Go. However horrid, go be with your family. Whether you like them or not, you need them. I’ll send for you tomorrow to give a report at the head office. Have a detailed account ready to hand in. Keep your wits about you and your eyes open. I don’t want another body in the morgue.”
Lennon put himself forward. “You hens done clucking? Right then, Mrs. Psychic Service, you were telling me my job on what to do with that toff doctor.”
“Yes, Inspector. That case is now fully under Service jurisdiction. We will see to it and to this one here and you’ll speak to no one about them.”
“That serves me fine. The wife has a fine goose for our supper and I’ll be pleased to enjoy it and forget this botheration. I won’t grass on you. There’s not a jack at the Yard who’d believe it, anyway. I’m off, then.”
“Not yet,” she said. “I would be most obliged if you would escort Miss Pendlebury to her home. Mr. Brook, is your hansom outside? You’ll take them, then return here.”
* * *
Lennon had no objection to having a Service driver instead of a constable at his beck, even for a short time. He crowded into the cab next to Alex, and Brook took them up the street to her house.
It looked exactly the same as when she’d left, and that felt odd. The atmosphere of serenity within was untouched by the hideous chaos she’d been through.
It’s the same, but I’m different. The changes aren’t apparent yet, but they will overtake me.
She decided to not think about them. Later would do. It would have to do.
Not knowing how long she’d be, she told the men to come inside to wait. The wind and sleet had died, but the damp cold was the kind that sank into the bones and stayed. She unlocked the door but Brook went in first, pushing past her. He had a pistol in one hand.
Alex almost spoke to tell him not to worry, but changed her mind as she remembered Woodwake’s last order.
Lennon noticed. “There’s a wise little tweak,” he said. “Let the big strong soldier do his job. He’ll feel useful.”
“Clear, miss,” said Brook, some minutes later. “Leastwise this floor. I should like a look upstairs if you don’t mind.”
She did not and stood with Lennon in the entry. When Brook returned with a negative report she went up to her room. It was as she’d left it, the bed unmade, nightclothes tossed on the pillow, the sweet scent of rosewater lingering in the still air. She wanted to burrow under the familiar comfort of her own soft sheets and thick blankets and shut herself away from this awful night.
She should have been allowed to stay in the sanctuary she’d so carefully built here. She should have been able to convince Woodwake to set Brook or some other man to keep an eye on her. Forsaking this peace for the stifling atmosphere of Pendlebury House was
wrong.
She’d be sent for tomorrow, though. Perhaps she could make other arrangements by then.
Alex abruptly remembered Fingate and his cryptic message.
She gave a groan.
Bloody hell.
It wouldn’t count for anything that she’d been about to tell Lord Richard of her nine o’clock meeting in Hyde Park. Or that she’d forgotten it until now, when it was too late to mention to Woodwake.
I’ll just have to meet him and get him to come along to the Service head office.
And hope that would be sufficient to keep her out of trouble. God knows, being attacked by masked lunatics was a damned good excuse, but Woodwake might not see it that way.
Alex removed her clothes. By the time Mrs. Harris got back on Boxing Day the bloodstains would be set.
“It’s too absurd,” she muttered, realizing she never wanted to touch those things ever again. She bundled them up and shoved them into the inadequate wastepaper basket by the small writing desk.
She spent some while in the washroom at the end of the hall, scrubbing blood from her hands and trying hard not to think of lines from Macbeth.
I should be weeping.
She was alone, she could allow herself to break down and grieve for her father. The distress of the last hours were enough to lay anyone flat for weeks. She’d learned that emotional injuries were every bit as damaging as physical wounds and needed longer to heal. Some never healed at all, the poor souls bearing them for life, bleeding out day after day.
I don’t want to be one of them.
She’d have to release it.
But feelings were not like water from a tap to be turned to flow and turned to stop. Perhaps actors could do that, and certainly self-serving criminals she’d met in the course of her trade were adept at conjuring grief in an attempt to deceive Readers or gain sympathy.
Alex could not call or force such expression. Her training at the Service and her lessons from Master Shan had taught her control and defense, lest the emotions of others take her over. It was of no help in dealing with her own. She’d shut down. At some point the barriers might lift. Or not.
“Just have to wait and see,” she said to her reflection in the washstand mirror. What a sad face it was that looked back, almost a stranger’s face, and she could hardly bear looking into her own eyes.
