The Hanged Man

by P. N. Elrod

  “Traveler’s daughter—” Sybil’s voice thickened and her accent changed to that of Inspector Lennon. “Keep that pie hole of yours shut, your ears open, and your head down.”

  Alex gripped the edge of the table so as not to fall over.

  “Good advice and he can’t see, but maybe he does, no one’s asked him, but he’s right, he’s right, he’s right, will be right. Head. Down. Soon. Everyone. They’re going to-to-to—everyone. They won’t let me see it, damn them! I can’t even see them in the past. There’s a mirror in my face, looking backward, and it’s a blackness where they are.”

  It was wrong to interrupt the flow, but Alex had an abrupt flash of memory of Master Shan and what he might say. “Then what’s next to their blackness?”

  Sybil’s eyes closed. “Clever tweak … hah! Got you! Red curtains. Mirrors. Mirrors facing mirrors, facing me.” Opening her eyes, she bent toward Alex. “Break them. Break all of them and damn the bad luck, think of England!”

  With that declaration, she slumped and her expression relaxed. She appeared to be a bit less mad. Her gaze fell on the second plate of food Brook had brought and she gave a great smile of delight.

  “Oh, how kind! I’m famished!” she said, and then slipped onto a chair, seized a fork, and began eating, oblivious to all else.

  Sexton finished his hasty scribbling, then stood, his face grim. A finger briefly to his lips, he signed for Alex, Brook, and anyone close by to rise and back away, which they did.

  The three of them retired to a spot near the windows. Alex found herself trembling. She, along with nearly everyone in the room, had a wary eye on Sybil, who continued her meal with no small gusto. Somebody must have had the presence of mind to send for Mrs. Woodwake, for she and another woman cautiously approached the table.

  Sybil noticed them. “Hallo, ladies. I’ve had something of a seizure. It must have been a really good one!”

  Woodwake was unflappable, merely smiling and nodding. “Well, that’s progress.”

  “I feel wonderful! The lad with the squarish face wrote out much of it, I think.” She gestured vaguely at Sexton’s vacated table.

  Woodwake moved dishes and utensils out of the way and gathered up the tablecloth. “I’ll make sure it gets our full attention.”

  The woman with Mrs. Woodwake had the look of a caretaker about her, and placed herself behind and to the right of Sybil, who resumed eating.

  Woodwake came over, clearly in a dark mood. “Pendlebury, where the devil have you been? Never mind, I’ll get your report later. Mr. Sexton, are these your notes?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Every word. In Pitman.”

  “I don’t read shorthand.” She spread the cloth on another table and stared at squiggles that passed for writing. “Translate and make sure to repeat how she said it, not just the words.”

  Sexton did so, running a long finger along each line.

  “What’s that ‘pie hole’ business about?” Woodwake demanded.

  Alex went cold. “It’s just something a friend said to me.”

  “Recently?”

  “How could she have known?”

  “That’s not your concern. When was it said to you?”

  “Last night, after the—incident in that house.”

  “What about the part of something being perfectly awful? What’s the greater context of that?”

  Now Alex felt a blush coming on. “That was-was a friend … offering comfort for my loss—and it was said in confidence.”

  “When?”

  “About half an hour since. Is she also a telepathist?”

  “Not your concern. I shan’t repeat myself on that point.” Woodwake addressed the others in the hall, raising her voice to reach the corners. “Who else did she speak to?”

  No one stepped forward.

  “The three of you, then. Mr. Sexton, come with me and transcribe. You two will not discuss this with anyone. Pendlebury, to your office. Mr. Brook, who else was with you?”

  “Only myself and Miss Pendlebury, ma’am.”

  “You’ve three plates. Who were you expecting?”

  “No one, ma’am. But there’s only two—” His eyes widened as he looked past her to Sybil, who was still wolfing down her Christmas dinner on the third plate. His skin faded to a sickly green tone. “Apparently that lady, ma’am.”

  “Interesting. You weren’t aware of it, were you?”

  He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “Mrs. Woodwake, I’d prefer not to—”

  “No doubt. Stay with Pendlebury. And for God’s sake, no long face, you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s quite encouraging.” Mrs. Woodwake folded the tablecloth, thrust it at Sexton, and departed with him hurrying to keep up.

  Keenly aware of the interested scrutiny of everyone in the hall, Alex considered returning to her interrupted dinner. If that fierce-looking caretaker hadn’t been present, she might have dared it. Sybil had, until now, only been another rumor, one that Alex discounted as an exaggeration. Now that she was over her initial fright, she was intensely curious to speak to her.

  “Who is she?” asked Brook, pitching his voice so it wouldn’t carry.

  “A Seer.” Why did she come to me?

  “I’m sure you’ll explain that shortly.”

  Giving Sybil a wide berth, they found a table away from the other diners. When Sutherland came by with a fresh pot of tea, he made no effort to engage in conversation. Like many of those on staff, he knew when topics were not to be discussed. The look on Woodwake’s face certainly had put the fear of God in everyone; conversation was subdued in the great hall.

  Sybil finished her repast, rose, and left with her companion, apparently unconcerned by so many watching her smallest move.

  “The exhibition, Miss Pendlebury, is concluded,” Brook said.

  “One would hope.”

  “Who or what is a Seer?”

  “An improbability. Not wholly impossible, just improbable.”

  “How could she know what I said to you in the coach?”

  Alex hesitated. Woodwake had made it clear this was a sensitive subject, but some general knowledge couldn’t hurt. Brook would learn about it if he delved into the building’s library. “It’s to do with her Talent. I have a gift for Reading; Seers can see the past, present, and future—not necessarily their own or in order. A certain kind of precognition is common enough in some. For instance, knowing when one might get an unexpected letter from a friend, or taking an umbrella instead of a walking stick when going out on a sunny day. Is that not what you have?”

  His mouth snapped shut into a thin flat line.

  “When you took that extra plate of food to the table I thought you were just very hungry, but you weren’t aware of it, were you?”

  “This is about Sybil, not me.”

  Alex considered pressing him, but understood how that felt. Most of those born with a psychical gift did not want the special attention it brought them. She gave a short nod and returned to the other matter. “Seers are rather more than precognitive. Something special and … frightening.”

  “How so?”

  “Think about it—seeing the future? Would you really want to know what’s to happen? Especially if it was something awful.”

  “But people want to know their future. Fortune-tellers make their living from it.”

  “Their predictions are always general in nature. They can’t tell you that at half past three next Tuesday you’ll encounter a man with a wooden leg. But some Seers are able to do just that, if it’s important enough. The future is in flux. The past is fixed, but all that’s to come is in constant motion. Any action we take at any given moment influences our future. If you choose to walk home by one route, perhaps nothing happens. If you take a different route you could trip and twist your ankle. That’s two possible futures. Now imagine the countless choices made by everyone.”

  “It’s what we do, it’s ordinary living.”

  “Now imagine being able to see all those choices i
n your head at the same time.”

  “Impossible.”

  “The word is ‘maddening.’ The mind cannot hold it all. I suspect the more gifted one is, the more unstable one might become.”

  “But why is she here? Shouldn’t she be in a hospital?”

  “I expect she’s able to predict things that are useful, providing one can correctly interpret what she says. She’s obviously being well looked after. Her clothes are clean and tidy, her face and hands washed. She’s luckier than many.” Involuntarily, Alex recalled a wisp of memory of a desperate, ragged-looking woman with matted hair and wild eyes. She was curled in the corner of a brick-lined room, hugging her knees, crying for a bottle of gin, crying like a child.

  Mother.…

  Then someone, one of the Fonteyns, had grabbed Alex by the arm and dragged her away, scolding. The family had taken care of her mother as best as could be expected at the time. The links between psychic abilities and madness were still being explored—or discounted—by the scientific community.

  To most people, including her mother’s family, madness was a shameful weakness of character to be hidden behind closed doors. They’d kept it a secret even from Gerard. He’d been in a towering fury about it, too, once he discovered the truth. However estranged from his wife, he said he should have been told. He had bellowed it so loudly that young Alex heard him on the other side of the house. She’d hidden under her bed, thinking he was angry with her because Mother had died. But when he came upstairs, he’d coaxed her out and hugged her close and said it was time to go on an adventure.…

  “She wants you to break mirrors,” said Brook, returning her to the present. “That was specific.”

  Alex forced the memories back into their box. “She mentioned red curtains, too.”

  “Do you know of such a place with both?”

  She shook her head, feeling a little sick. “If there’s anything to it, I expect I shall find out.”

  “Is that not the nature of predictions? To come true?”

  “With countless variables keeping the future in flux, not necessarily. I’ve read somewhat of the theories involved. If an event is large enough, important enough, its impact on the future might be such that a Seer sees it across all the variations. For instance, a war. If she sees thousands of military funerals, she should be able to backtrack to the cause of the war and perhaps prevent it. Oh!”

  “What?”

  “Improbable, but not impossible.”

  “What?”

  “Think of the advantage it would be to a government if one could glean a glimpse of the future from a Seer.”

  “If one can sort out the nonsense from her babbling.”

  “Indeed. This is disturbing, but it makes sense. What if our government—”

  “Please. It’s too terrifying a speculation. The prime minister or the queen herself relying on a fortune-teller?”

  Alex raised an eyebrow. “No more so than Scotland Yard relying on Readers to guide investigations. Such a thing was once impossible, but here we are. Why not a Seer to help in making decisions? No wonder Mrs. Woodwake wanted no questions or talk.”

  “Too late now,” said Brook. He finished his tea. “Mind you, if this is true, that woman is exceptionally dangerous to foreign nations. They wouldn’t want an outsider becoming privy to their plans.”

  “If they’re aware she exists. For all we know, they could have their own Seers.”

  “Now you’re going from the terrifying to the monstrous, Miss Pendlebury. The governments of the world influenced by such women, all playing a vast and mad chess match?”

  “It is possible,” she said in a quiet tone. “It need not be mad, but for the good of the country. Think of the last forty years since the queen took the throne. They’ve been the most peaceful in English history.”

  “But we’ve armies in place throughout the empire. They deal with skirmishes all the time.”

  “Yet no major wars. Not like stopping the Armada or defeating Napoleon. Our last great battle was at Waterloo.”

  “Attribute that to excellent diplomacy.”

  “We didn’t have diplomats in place when the Americans were in the middle of that slavery war. English mills were howling for cotton from their southern region and urging us to side with them and lend aid.”

  “Which we did not.”

  “It was a close thing, though. What would the outcome have been if we’d allied with a slave-holding nation in a war against the northern half of America?”

  “I expect life would be much the same.”

  “Not if our respective fathers had participated in the fighting and been killed, changing things for their families. Neither of us would be here.”

  Brook gave this some consideration. “Perhaps it’s better to not worry about might-have-beens and focus on what is at hand.”

  She decided he was right. Just thinking about it got her overwound. How much worse was it for Sybil? Was that even her real name? “Sybil called my father ‘the traveler.’ I think it confirms he was doing work for the Home Office.”

  “How do you come to that conclusion?”

  “Fingate told me. He said it was something delicate.… I probably shouldn’t say more until I’ve spoken to Mrs. Woodwake. We should go now.”

  He rose and saw to her chair and gathered the bag, along with her father’s walking stick, and followed her out.

  * * *

  Alex’s office door was open, its usual state. She shared with three other Readers and people were constantly in and out. Miss Heather Fagan, the youngest and newest of their group, and thus relegated to working on holidays, was at her desk. She was a pretty girl with sharply defined features, fair skin, stubbornly curly dark hair, and remarkably bright clear eyes. Those were focused on a large, complicated machine on the desk before her. It was black, box-shaped, and looked heavy, producing a clacking noise as Heather’s long fingers stabbed at small disks on stalks extending from the main body.

  She bounced to her feet and gave a wide smile as Alex and Brook came in. “Alex! You must see! It finally arrived!”

  Her excitement struck Alex like a large happy puppy. It made a change from darker emotions, but she had to brace herself to move forward. “Your new toy?”

  “This ‘toy’ will be a revolution, you mark me. Oh, Hallo, Mr. Brook. What a shambles you are. Been working?”

  “Yes, Miss Fagan. It’s been interesting.”

  Alex was glad to be spared from making another introduction, but wondered how the two had come to meet. Heather would doubtless inform her later; at the moment the younger woman was too distracted by the machine. The floor around her desk was obscured by the remains of a crate, drifts of excelsior, and crumpled newspaper. A hammer and jimmy, weapons used in what had clearly been a violent assault, were on Alex’s desk.

  “It was here when I came in,” said Heather. “Just arrived on one of the freight airships—all the way from America.”

  “That great beast? What it must weigh!” Alex had no idea what the conveyance cost might be, only that it would start at “exorbitant” and go up from there. Heather came from a wealthy, not merely well off, family. When the Service did not apportion money for her obsessions, she used her own. That she’d chosen swift but expensive air travel over a slower and less risky steamship was typical of her natural impatience.

  “I’ll never have to bother with ink and pen again,” she said.

  “You’ve had typing machines in before,” said Alex. This one looked like those made in England, perhaps less aesthetically pleasing with most of its works showing. The thing would the very devil to dust, if it lasted more than a week.

  “This one’s much better; the Americans have perfected it.” Heather twisted a roller on the top, releasing a sheet of paper. “Look at that! It’s like having your own printing press.”

  Alex cast an eye over the sheet. “Certainly an improvement over your handwriting.”

  “It’s not as fast as writing something ou
t, but I expect to improve with practice, rather like learning the piano. Once I know where all the letters are I shall type-write everything.”

  “You’ll only ever be able to work on reports here. You can’t possibly carry this to an investigation.” Alex attempted to lift one corner and barely shifted the behemoth.

  “Trust you to find the weak point in a marvelous invention, but I’ve thought of that already. I shall take notes as usual but type full reports here. Of course, once I’m proficient I’ll be finished in half the time.”

  “Unless you’re tempted to add in more details.”

  “Bother you! This is so much better than the other machines. It has upper- and lowercase letters, and you can see the paper as you type. Such an obvious thing, that. After all, one really should know where one is in a sentence.” She put a new sheet of paper in, the roller executing a complicated threading maneuver, then haltingly typed the alphabet.

  Brook watched with interest. “The letters are jumbled on the-the—”

  “Keys,” Miss Fagan said, now typing numbers, which were set out in order along the top row. “The letters used the most often are in the middle where the strongest fingers may strike them—or so I’ve read. I must disagree with the placement of the letter ‘a’ though. My little finger slips right between it and ‘s’ and gets stuck if I don’t look.”

  “It’s noisier than pen and ink,” Alex pointed out, going to her own desk.

  “I like the sound. Makes me feel as though I’m doing something. And my hand doesn’t get cramped from holding a pen for hours. The ends of my fingers are a bit numb, but that’s better than a cramp.” She noticed Alex assembling pen, ink, and paper. “What are you going to write?”

  “A scene report.” Alex wouldn’t get much of it done, but she could make a start. She shifted the hammer and jimmy out of the way.

  “I’ll help! You dictate and I’ll type.”

  “Another time? Please.”

  Heather’s enthusiasm faltered. “What’s happened? Oh no, someone’s died.”

  Readers really should have separate offices, thought Alex. “It’s a scene report, of course someone’s died.”

  “Someone you know.”