The Hanged Man

by P. N. Elrod

  “You’re on Baker Street?”

  “Yes—and Father could have walked over any time he wanted. Did he not even look me up?”

  Fingate was both shocked and ashamed, his emotions jumping to her like static electricity.

  “Oh, never mind, we’ll speak of it later. The other man is Teddy Pendlebury, Uncle Leo’s son. I wouldn’t bother with him, he’s hidebound and unhelpful. Never learned how to listen.”

  Fingate wasn’t listening, either. His nervous attention shifted; looking back the way he’d come, he gave a start. “Bloody hell, they’re here. Stay with your cousins. I’ll lead them away. It’s me they want. I’ll get word to you when I’m clear.”

  She glanced around him. Lieutenant Brook strode purposefully from the east side of the bridge. He fit Teddy’s description of a “rum-looking savage” to perfection. He’d improved his disguise as a cabman. A shabby coat, beaten billycock hat, and chin blurred by emerging whiskers made for quite a transformation, too great of one to judge by Fingate’s reaction.

  “No, he’s here to help.” She held on to Fingate’s hand, but he shook free.

  “This was your father’s, take it.” He shoved the walking stick at her and darted away, slipping and stumbling.

  Teddy and James ceased watching from afar and hurried forward. Teddy moved to intercept Fingate, and managed to lay hands on him. But Fingate executed a swift block and shift. Teddy gave a surprised whoop as he was deftly flipped forward in a full spin and landed flat on his back, to the startlement of passersby.

  Alex had not been Master Shan’s only pupil.

  James shouted something and went to aid the fallen, but was more hindrance than help; Fingate did not look back and kept running. He made it off the bridge, cutting right to the path that led toward the Italian Gardens. There, even in winter, he could find cover in the dense growth of trees and bushes.

  Brook charged in like a sight hound after flushed prey. He was much younger than Fingate and those long legs would eat up the ground, closing the valet’s lead.

  She’d promised to keep Fingate safe, and though Brook was Service and had been vetted by a Reader like herself, she did not know him. A remnant of Fingate’s terror, of not knowing who to trust, clung to her, and though it was not her emotion, it raised the same physical reaction, the instinct to run or fight.

  Alex chose to fight—or at least delay.

  She put herself between and ordered Brook to stop.

  “Sorry, Miss,” he said. He changed course just enough to avoid her.

  As he passed, she bodily launched herself.

  She was too small to stop him, but few men could ignore eight stone of anything hitting them from the side. Alex struck him hard, wrapping her arms around him. For once, it was her own emotions that dominated the contact: mostly shock at the solid muscle under the concealing clothes. It was like tackling a mountain.

  Brook was thrown off stride, of course, and she intended to hang on for as long as she could to slow him.

  She did not intend for him to slip on a patch of ice and tumble over the bridge rail, taking her along.

  Alex let go, but too late. She gave a short cry, cut off when they struck the freezing water with a great splash. The stuff went straight up her nose, filled her mouth, and what breath she had was lost to overwhelming, paralyzing cold.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  In Which Family Demonstrates to Be Useful to the Case

  She thrashed in blind panic, reaching for the surface. Her fingers brushed slimy mud.

  She pushed against it, tried to still herself enough to let buoyancy take her up, but her coat and skirts dragged in the current. Her chest hurt from holding out the water. She willed herself to not breathe, just a few seconds, another few—she had to find light and swim toward it.

  But the day, so dark, the murky water the same color—

  Mud again.

  She put both hands into it and shoved as hard as she could away.

  Bubbles. Air slipping from her mouth, floating free.

  Follow them.

  She reached, kicking, and could not quite catch up to them.

  But it was getting lighter.… Just a little farther.…

  She slipped into a strange limbo where the desperate need for air ceased to drive her. Her lungs were empty; the next breath would be water, but her body desperately held off from that action. Instinct told her she had but a few counts of her laboring heart before that changed.

  The bitter cold numbed her flesh, her mind. She’d perish from it, not drowning.

  Then the water rushed in. She choked, gasped, more water painfully clotted her lungs. She ceased moving. A tiny ember of thought, that it was over and she’d see her father soon, winked and went out.

  Something brutally strong seized her arm.

  Such single-mindedness.

  The emotions were simple and clean: worry, desperation, triumph. She didn’t want them, but couldn’t break the contact.

  Triumph … relief …

  Someone shouting in her ear. She was too listless to respond, just wanting sleep. If they’d only go and give her some peace.

  * * *

  Alex’s nose, no, the whole front of her face ached, as though someone had struck her with … she didn’t know what. So did her chest, constricted by a hard and heavy weight.

  She rolled on her side, coughing. Water spewed, and again it hurt, hurt, hurt up inside the front of her head and deep in her chest. She gasped and gagged until more air went in than water came out. Her throat … an utterly revolting taste in her mouth.

  Gradually, she became aware of being surrounded by people, and a man asked repeatedly how she felt. She waved him off, shivering uncontrollably.

  She struggled through the shreds of emotions, fighting them as she’d fought the water. Which were hers, which were Fingate’s, which belonged to others…?

  “Still on this side of the veil,” pronounced a familiar voice.

  A cheer went up, along with applause.

  She rubbed her blurred eyes. Lieutenant Brook?

  He knelt next to her and was the source of one set of emotions. She felt his gladness as a physical thing. Soaking wet and shivering, he had no mind for his discomfort, and was focused wholly on her. There was a warmth in his soul such as she’d sensed in Master Shan and a very few others: no pretension, he was as presented.

  Which was greatly comforting. She’d trained to avoid embracing the feelings of others—too addictive—but this one time could do no harm.

  “A blanket,” he bellowed, standing. “Quickly!”

  Lying on muddy ground, surrounded by concerned onlookers, she lost sight of him. In a break in the forest of trouser-clad legs she glimpsed two excited youths pushing through with a long wicker basket. It looked just like the one the ambulance men used to carry her father.

  She choked and tried to get up, but well-meaning rescuers held her down.

  The man in the medals who had directed the swimming race was one of them; he and two others lifted Alex into the long basket with little effort and tucked a blanket over her. She bucked and would have screamed, but her voice had been stolen by fresh panic. She was weak and—it hardly seemed possible—colder than when still in the lake. Her teeth chattered, fit to snap.

  The helpful man, part of the Royal Humane Society and thus trained in the saving and resuscitation of the drowned, put a calming hand on her forehead. “There now, missy, settle down. You’re safe.”

  Her armor was gone, but his warm reassurance flowed over her like balm on a raw wound. Her panic faded. After so many years of protecting herself from unwanted feelings, this was a day of revelation.

  “Brook—where’s Brook?” she demanded, her voice thin and raspy.

  “That was no brook, my girl,” he said, “but a great big lake you went into.”

  “The man who fell in with me.”

  “Which one? No matter, they’re seeing to them all.”

  All?

  They carried h
er, an odd floating sensation, to the Society’s receiving house on the north side of the Serpentine.

  A fit-looking matron took over her care and keeping, shooing the men away from the females-only area. She delivered Alex from the dreadful basket. In a remarkably short time Alex’s soaked clothes were removed, and she was bundled into a long tub of unexpectedly hot water. Her skin puckered with painful gooseflesh, then abruptly smoothed as the heat took hold. It was better than any blanket. She’d never been so deliciously warm before. She tried not to moan, but one leaked out.

  “There now, it’s all right,” said the matron. “A doctor’s been sent for. How do you feel?”

  “Bloody awful.”

  “No surprise in that, my dear. Such a nasty shock.”

  Alex was not done coughing. She felt the wet bubbling in her throat and whooped and wheezed into a bucket. When it was all out, the woman gently washed her hair, reminding Alex of some of the kindlier nannies of her childhood.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Came that close, did you?”

  A simple question and yet so much to it as Alex realized just how easily she’d given in to death, fighting one instant, ceasing the next, with no transition from one to the other. She’d wanted peace, rest, to be left alone—but not forever.

  The matron smiled down at her, as though able to follow her thoughts.

  Or my feelings.

  Not all the psychically gifted were in the Service.

  “I almost—”

  “But you didn’t. The Lord spared you for another day, so there’s a use for you yet. Never doubt that.”

  Years ago, Master Shan had expressed a similar outlook. Alex had been in a low mood, desiring a cure for her ability to Read. She did not want to learn to live with it. He’d been gently adamant that she should. It had been a struggle; nevertheless, he managed to persuade her that she and it had a purpose.

  Alex hiccupped and felt hot tears. “Oh, not this. Not now.”

  “What better time?” The matron patted her hand. “It’s perfectly normal, dear. Have it out now while there’s no one about to tell you to stop. I won’t mind.”

  Alex couldn’t hold off her reaction; sobs shook her small frame, even as part of her mind looked impartially on, analyzing.

  Weeping for myself, but not for Father. I didn’t die; he did. I’m mourning for the living.

  Her analytical side decided she was indulging in self-pity because she was thinking too much. She shut that side down, recalling Inspector Lennon’s comment about meeting herself coming around corners. His deep rough voice seemed to sound right between her ears. He’d show her budding self-pity to the door—or rather kick it through headfirst, a strangely comforting image.

  The storm was intense but brief, and when it passed, the matron, God bless her, brought a cup of strong tea and a warning that it was hot.

  “Do you get many in here?” Alex asked. The tea stripped the taste of the lake from her throat with a single sip. She nearly gulped the rest, suddenly thirsty.

  “Too many by half. Some don’t know how to swim well, get tired and sink, then there are the poor souls who throw themselves off the bridge, hoping they’ll be gone by the time they reach the sluice at the end. That’s why we’re here. They said you jumped in, is that true, dear?”

  “It was an accident. If he’d not slipped on the ice…”

  “Oh, you’ve not done one of those lover’s leaping acts of desperation, have you?”

  Alex coughed again, clearing her throat, and handed back the teacup. “Absolutely not. Please, would you see if he’s all right? His name is Brook. Tall, with a moustache, hasn’t shaved today.”

  “If it’ll settle you down, of course.” But first she helped Alex from the tub, wrapped her in a Turkish towel, and sat her before a large iron stove. “Dry your hair, dearie.”

  The matron soon returned. “That first young fellow is fine, and so are the others. They’re getting sorted out and their clothes dried. He’s like to get a medal for this day’s work, being the one who got to you first. Said you were limp as a water weed when he pulled you to shore. I let them know you’re coming along just fine.”

  Alex had underestimated Brook and, influenced by Fingate, had unfairly judged him. Recalling Brook’s concern, his unabashed warmth, she grimaced.

  “There now, half the swimming club saw you go in, they weren’t going to leave you. Several people jumped in to help, including a doctor—oh, here he is.”

  Looking like a theatrical ghost with a blanket wrapped Turkish-style around his body, a towel draped over his head, and his feet bare, James Fonteyn pushed through the door. He cast about with brief curiosity before spying her. For once he presented a serious face.

  He came over, eased onto a chair next to her, and took her hand. She was tardy getting her armor up and caught a wretched tug of his guilt and worry.

  “You look a right mess,” he said. “I’ve never seen you so dreadful and that’s saying a lot.”

  The matron lost her kindly expression.

  Alex found herself responding with a feeble laugh that threatened to devolve into more coughing. “You jumped in after me?”

  “Certainly not before, as I’ve better sense than to do such appallingly ridiculous acrobatics. My suit will never recover. What were you thinking?”

  Devil take it. Now they’d demand explanations, not just James but everyone. It was bloody inconvenient.

  “Doctor?” said the matron, moving closer.

  “Thank you for the reminder. Her pulse is steady enough.” He let go of Alex’s hand, where he had indeed been pressing a thumb to the right spot on her wrist. “The patient is alert, but I’ll hold judgment on her sanity until she can answer my question.”

  “It’s a state secret,” Alex said, looking at him steadily, and for the first time saw her cousin at a loss for words. A sweet moment.

  “To do with the party last night?” he finally asked.

  She nodded.

  His expression shifted back to its habitual self-satisfied lines. “Oh, that won’t serve at all. Reports will be written, witnesses interviewed; there’s a few fellows without who claim to be with the newspapers, though one is with The Times and I wouldn’t put that in the same class as the Police Gazette. Shall I mention policemen as well? They’ve a station just behind this place. They want to make sure you weren’t drowning yourself on purpose, as suicide is against the—” He cut himself off, mouth open in honest horror. “Oh, my God. I’m sorry, Alex. I forgot. I’ll stop babbling. Infernally stupid of me.”

  She chose not to speak, lest she damned his eyes.

  “I’ll make them go away, shall I?” He hurried out.

  The matron shut the door firmly. “Calls himself a doctor?”

  “He is a medical man, and my first cousin—and is usually far more foolish than that.”

  “Good heavens. How?”

  “Will the police question me? I don’t want my name in the papers.”

  “Of course you don’t. The police are only here in case you’re in a despondent state of mind, but if it was an accident, then there’s no need.”

  James returned a short while later, damply dressed, apparently too impatient to wait for his clothes to dry. His great coat was fine, he’d shed it before leaping in.

  “My hat’s dented, but I want a newer one anyway,” he told her.

  “Bother your hat, is Mr. Brook all right?”

  “He’s bursting with good health and energy for his morning tub.”

  “Please, James, be serious.”

  “No, sorry, none today, thank you. He wants to see you as soon as is decently possible. I’ll put him off for longer if you like. While it would be entertaining to see how you manage things with a colleague while looking like a water rat, it would be better to receive him after you’re dressed and on your feet.”

  That was uncommonly sensible of him.

  “The newspapers?”

  “I worked a miracle,
little cousin. I was brilliant, even inspired. The curious have been routed. The story will have mention in several London journals; that can’t be helped. A Christmas swimming race is of minor interest, but a daring water rescue involving several participants and a helpless maid of tender years is something else again. Mr. Brook was modestly loath to have mention in the saga, so I provided the press with false names, and gave full credit to Mr. Ashburn Poultreen of the Royal Humane Society for recovering a schoolgirl of fourteen years, six months, who had fallen in by accident. Miss Violet Kettle of Basingstoke is now safe and well in the bosom of her family, thanks to his heroic efforts.”

  It could have been worse.

  “Much as it went against my desire for fame, I downplayed my part and provided a false name as well. I’ve my reputation to protect. Can’t have eye surgeons leaping into the Serpentine, it might cause a patient to blink in dismay, and that would interfere with a proper ocular exam. Don’t you think so, Matron?”

  The good woman ventured no opinion. “More tea, miss?”

  “Please. Are my clothes dry?”

  “Not nearly. You need to rest, give yourself a bit of time to get past it. Doctor, it will be best if you leave now.”

  “People are always telling me that. One of these days I’ll sort out why. And if no one has mentioned it before, I want to express my appreciation on behalf of the family for looking after my soggy cousin.” He presented a genial smile to her, along with five gold sovereigns.

  She gasped, staring at them. “Oh, sir, I couldn’t!”

  “You most certainly can or I’ll lodge a complaint. Not sure where, but it will be lodged. If you don’t want it, then donate it to the Humane Society.”

  She gave him a shrewd eye, surrendered to the largesse with a soft “thank you.”

  “James?” He was well off, as were many of the Fonteyns, but the princely sum—not to mention the generosity—startled Alex.

  He continued as though she’d not spoken. “If you’re in a hurry to leave, I’ll send someone to fetch clothes from your house. Boodles Churchill is here with his fiancée and they have a carriage to take us to Baker Street. She can find something appropriate if she has access to your digs.”