The Hanged Man

by P. N. Elrod

  He put his hat back on. The hole in front was just center of his forehead.

  She focused on his eyes instead, truly noticing them for the first time. They were a deep and merry blue. She quashed a rush of warm awareness. She’d felt that sort of thing before and it never ended well. Better to not let it get a foothold. Disappointment was inevitable.

  She concealed the rifle under her cloak and led off again. “I’m no expert, though. Best we get to one. This won’t take long.”

  They had the good luck to acquire a hansom and sorted themselves within its confines: Brook with the carpetbag squashed on his lap, Alex with the rifle pointed at the floor and out of sight. She took advantage of the respite while it lasted, closing her eyes and clearing her mind. The near-meditative state was almost like sleep, but she remained alert to the gait of the horse, the movement of their conveyance, the chilled air … and Brook’s solid body next to hers.

  Undeniably pleasant, even with her barriers up. She could enjoy that for its own sake and no harm done.

  “We’re here,” said Brook.

  She snapped awake, chagrined that she’d nodded off after all.

  He handed her out. “I should mention that we are not quite at Berkeley Square.” The bare trees of the square were visible a hundred yards ahead, along with a few hardy strollers taking the afternoon air.

  “Intentional. I’ve a call to make first and she lives on Hill Street.”

  Number three proved to be a tall structure on the corner of Hill and Farm. The entry was too grand for such a narrow street. Four Doric columns supporting a false balcony overwhelmed the doorway, but the step’s chessboard pattern of black and white tiles was pretty. No light showed in the narrow windows on either side of the black-painted door.

  Above the door was a faux Roman arch, the keystone decorated with a head like a death mask. It was a common enough embellishment, but the address used by “Dr. Kemp” also had one. They were, in fact, identical.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Brook.

  A bit late, she got control of her features and offered him the air gun. She dug in her reticule for the Webley and the box of spare cartridges. She broke both open and reloaded.

  He watched, one eyebrow up. “Are we to expect trouble?”

  “I prefer to be prepared for it.” She chose not to point out the coincidence of the keystone. It might be a chance thing, after all.

  “Who are we visiting?”

  “Rosalind Veltre, widow, member of the Ætheric Society, and possibly one of the last people to see my father alive.”

  “How do you know of her?”

  “Her calling card was in his walking stick. I found a hidden compartment once I had a closer look. The precognition that compelled you to leave it on the desk instead of propped in the corner is what brought us here.”

  Brook’s mouth twisted in a strange way, and he looked like a man who wanted very much to express something, but there being a lady present, he could not.

  She smiled. “I won’t suggest that you’ll ever get used to it, but perhaps you’ll be able to come to a working tolerance of such an ability. It’s proved useful twice now.”

  He settled for a long sigh, which might have been taken for a soft groan. “Well, at least in the Service no one gives such things a second thought.”

  “That’s it, see the bright side.”

  “Perhaps you will afford me the use of your revolver until we know the lay of the land?”

  “Your Bulldog wants feeding?”

  “And I am without reloads.”

  She traded her Webley for the air gun, again concealing it under the cloak.

  Alex tried the door. Locked, but her skeleton key collection solved that, and they were soon in the kind of vestibule common to houses with multiple residents. A long hall extended ahead; its two doors on one side were closed. A staircase led up. The wood was polished, the floors swept. There was no indication where in the building they might find the home of Mrs. Veltre. A table on one side served to hold mail, and it was evidently up to a servant to sort whatever dropped through the letter slot. Two untidy stacks, the first for a Mr. Smoles, the other for Veltre, remained unclaimed from yesterday’s post.

  Most of Veltre’s letters seemed to be bills from dressmakers, milliners, and the like. With a satisfying disregard to the woman’s privacy, Alex ripped one of the bills open and examined the totals. An expensive establishment indeed—a single tea gown had cost as much as a year’s income to Alex, who considered herself fairly well off. Even Heather would have thought twice, but the widow Veltre had ordered half a dozen. She could well afford to indulge eccentricities like those and the Ætheric Society, so why not have a private house and staff?

  “Well, well,” Alex muttered aloud, plucking out a cream-colored envelope and dropping the rest. It was heavy card stock; someone had used a pen with a fine nib, the writing fair and regular as engraver’s art, and most important, it gave Veltre’s full address. She was on the first floor. “Hand delivery for this one, I think.”

  She hurried up the stairs, hampered by the air gun, until shouldering it like a soldier on the march. Her skirts were a nuisance. Perhaps she could persuade Brook to stop at Baker Street so she could change to more practical and cleaner garments. Rolling about on wet pavement while dodging bullets had left its marks.

  There was a single door off the stairs to assault, and she made a vigorous action of it, making enough row to rouse the heaviest of sleepers but getting no response. Handing the air gun to Brook, she used the skeleton keys again and pushed the door wide.

  The dim interior was silent, the air still and clammy.

  As he had for her home, Brook went in first. He left the carpetbag in the hall and swiftly paced through the flat, pronouncing it empty.

  “Wait out here a moment,” said Alex. “I’m going to Read.”

  She and Brook changed places. She removed her gloves and bit by bit lowered her internal barriers as she paced around, getting a feel for the place.

  The general impression left by the resident was that of frustration and anger. This was not a happy house.

  The front room with two tall windows overlooking Hill Street was comfortably furnished, tidy, and nearly as cold as the outside. She moved toward the grate. Within lay the remains of the type of ash one got from burning paper, not coal. What had Veltre been so inconsiderate as to destroy?

  A writing desk held only invoices for more expensive dresses and hats. Those were stacked according to date. She kept track of her accounts. Little emotional trace remained, just a residue of annoyance. Alex felt the same herself when dealing with bills, though not to this degree. She picked up a silver letter opener and a thrum of anger left by the last hand to hold it almost made her drop it again. Perhaps bad news had come in a previous post and the letter was burned.

  No sign of a bankbook or money box; there were just a few stray coins in the corners. Disappointing and oddly sterile. Not one letter or even a visiting card, though there were empty shelves where such might have been stored. The blotter was well used, so Veltre did plenty of writing, but nothing of it lurked in the alcoves. She must have taken it with her or fed it to the fire. Damn the woman.

  Alex signed for Brook to come in. He did, closing the door. She moved toward the back, finding a small study littered with theater programs and magazines. The books, not many, were on esoteric themes of interest to the sort of eccentrics who patronized séances. A stack of pamphlets for the Ætheric Society lay on a table. Topics were varied, from the true origin of Atlantis to dreams as a means of communication with the High Masters, whoever they might be.

  Each issue bore the motif of a black sun with two white eyes staring out from its face. She’d never liked that emblem; it seemed to grimly demand that one take it seriously, and she could not. Black rays extended from it and beneath was a phrase from no language she could recognize. Such declarations were usually in Latin, and she understood that the Ætherics had their own lang
uage, chants of power supposedly passed to them by their High Masters.

  “That’s interesting,” said Brook.

  “What is?”

  “That sun face thing. It looks like the one over the door.”

  “You noticed that?”

  “I noticed you. Gave you a turn when we were on the step. Why was that?”

  “It was on the Harley Street house, a new addition to the entrance facade. If my father was looking into the Ætheric Society, he’d have joined them. Perhaps that thing is common to their members, a way of recognizing one another.”

  “Or he happened to see it here, admired it, and had one put on his house.”

  “No.” She said that without thinking twice. “He never gave a fig what a place looked like on the outside so long as it was organized on the inside. That was always Fingate’s job. He will know for sure.”

  “You’ve no idea where he might have gotten to?”

  “We could call on my cousin. I told Fingate he could trust James, but I don’t know if he really heard me on the bridge.”

  “That would be Dr. Fonteyn?”

  “Certainly not Teddy.”

  “Yes, the doctor is a steady sort.”

  She shot him a “What the devil?” look. “Steady? James?”

  “He was at the Humane Society building. Checked me over along with the others who dove in for you, made sure we were—”

  “James did that?”

  “He’s a doctor, why shouldn’t he?”

  Any reply would be too complicated and take hours. Alex reluctantly conceded that James must put the fool aside now and then, else he’d never have gotten through medical college. People behaved differently with friends and strangers than they did toward family, after all. She knew that rather too well, but it hadn’t occurred to her that James wouldn’t bother to put on a foolish front before others. One needed less protection from strangers than family.

  She continued through the flat. A room with a bathing tub, a nice deep one, and a gas water-heating device above it—the woman enjoyed her comfort. The tub was dry. Alex opened a cabinet above the washstand and rocked back.

  “What’s the matter?” Brook asked from the hall.

  “Just the unexpected.” Not touching it, she pointed to a bottle of Dr. Kemp’s Throat Elixir on the lowest shelf. “I didn’t think it was real.”

  The label was a smaller version of the framed poster in the Harley Street house.

  “May I?” Brook removed it, pulled the cork stopper, and sniffed. “Smells like flavored liqueur, has some mint in it. You all right?”

  “Father went to considerable trouble and detail to present himself as Kemp right down to having this made up. One doesn’t go to such lengths on a lark.”

  “Perhaps someone saw through it, recognized him as Lord Pendlebury. But why would the Ætherics want to be rid of either of them?”

  “It need not be the whole society, just one member in fear of exposure would suffice. Mrs. Woodwake said that at some of their gatherings they indulge in activities that”—How to phrase it?—“would leave a person vulnerable to blackmail. If he thought my father presented a danger, then he acted decisively and with imagination to stage things. This Veltre woman might well have played a part and fled. Whatever inspired her departure, it was before the last post arrived yesterday.”

  “Long before your father was … Well.” Brook did not complete his thought and Alex was grateful for it.

  She went on, “Fingate said a woman was helping Father. It might be a different lady than this one, though. I wish to God she’d been here, I’d have throttled answers out of her. Keep looking—an engagement diary, names of friends, anything useful.”

  Alex crossed the hall to Veltre’s bedroom; it was less tidy, the bed unmade and clothing strewn about. She had two wardrobes containing the clothing, boots, and shoes needed for every season and social event. A dozen hatboxes were stacked on the floor, each labeled, each containing a pretty bonnet.

  The dresses were lovely and favored certain warm colors, but no trousers, no cycling or walking clothes. Veltre was a lady’s lady, like Cousin Andrina. A pleasant floral scent permeated things.

  Alex took down her remaining barriers to determine more of the woman’s personality.

  Appetite … unsatisfied, a longing for something, a need, a hole in her soul, anger, frustration, fear, worry, grief—a lot of that. The young widow desperately missed her husband. Alex pulled back. Her own grief was too fresh.

  What could be determined without Reading?

  Vanity, to judge by the cosmetics crowding the dressing table. No prints or paintings, a few photographs, family perhaps. The table by the bed held more pamphlets, theatrical programs, nothing of note or practical use.

  No photographs of the dead husband were on display. She should at least have the wedding portrait somewhere, if one had been taken. Alex checked the drawers and cupboards, wanting to know what her quarry looked like, but for a vain woman, Veltre kept no images of herself. How annoying.

  Ah—what was that between the bed and table? A reticule, apparently in recent use and shoved out of the way. Alex usually hung hers from a doorknob. She emptied the contents on the bed: house keys, coin and paper money, calling cards in a gold case, a pencil, but no paper or address book. Was the woman friendless, or possessed of an excellent memory for house numbers?

  Why would she leave this behind? Just how hasty was her exit?

  In a bottom drawer was the type of family Bible given as a wedding gift. Between the Old and New Testament was a section for births and deaths and pages where small photographs might be slipped in. One held a single image of the Veltres in happier times, she in a wedding dress and he in a morning coat. Unfortunately it was too small to show much detail of their faces. Alex memorized the woman’s features as best she could given the limitations. For a woman obsessed with expensive clothes, the bride’s dress was plain and modest. Perhaps she’d not been able to afford better back then and was making up for it now with her inherited wealth.

  “The servants’ door in the back is unlocked,” said Brook. “That’s careless.”

  Alex wanted a Reading of that. She moved past him to a small kitchen and scullery. It was in good order, clean, but the bread in the box was moldy.

  She bent for a close look at the outer side of the door lock. Just the usual scratches, nothing to suggest a breaking-in. She stepped into the back hall.

  The icy pressure of the Serpentine seized her body and dragged her into darkness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  In Which Lord and Lady Hollifield Provide Information and Mince Pies

  Alex fought frantically against it, breath trapped, chest aching.

  “There now, you’re all right,” said Brook in a steady voice.

  Her eyelids shot wide.

  Brook held both her wrists; his concern was as solid as a physical embrace. She tried to break free, and he instantly released her. “You fainted is all.”

  Not underwater. Not dying.

  Deep breath. A gasp, really. A shaky series of gasps. “I nev—I don’t faint.”

  “’Fraid you did. Dropped like a stone.”

  They were on a level, she lying on a long settee in the front room, and Brook on one knee next to her. Her hat was gone and the top buttons of her collar undone. Good God.

  Brook had a damp cloth in hand and put it on her forehead. She forced herself to remember … the kitchen … a door … the back hallway—the rush of utter terror had snaked through Alex and slammed her flat. “Faugh. I walked into that one like a green apprentice.”

  “Walked into what?”

  “If-if an emotional imprint is strong and you’re not braced, it’s like stepping blind from a cliff. You get a nasty jolt. That one was … exceptional.”

  “What caused it?”

  “Someone took Mrs. Veltre against her will. She was frightened to death, tried to fight but—did you smell ether?”

  “I was busy getting you
off the floor. Anything injured? You made quite a thump.”

  She took stock. “I’m fine. I haven’t as far to fall as some people.” Barriers restored, if brittle, she sensed his amusement. “What, no alarm? You’re getting used to the job?”

  “Plenty of alarm, I thought you’d been shot by one of those damned air rifles.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was a considerable relief to find you breathing and unpunctured.”

  He would have left that emotion behind, contaminating the area. She’d allow for it on a second Reading. “Have you much experience dealing with fainting females?”

  “Not directly. I read a lot. Ladies seem to faint in books and in plays far more often than in real life. In your case I went with my instincts. Couldn’t find any smelling salts, though.”

  “For which I am grateful.”

  With some caution, she sat up, found that standing was possible, and did so. She had collected a few more bruises but nothing worse.

  “You’re not dizzy?”

  “It was a psychical shock, a bit different from a theatrical swoon.”

  He offered his flask.

  She shook her head, lips going tight.

  Gently eschewing his offered arm, she made her own way toward the kitchen. Doing up her collar, she was careful to block any emotions he might have left when he’d touched the buttons. She did not want to know what he’d felt. That would complicate things and … distract her.

  This time Alex entered the back hall with more caution, slowly easing open her internal barriers. She separated Brook’s fresh traces and sought the older imprint of sheer panic. The intensity of emotion was like an explosion, brief and devastating. Veltre had been surprised, fought desperately, and then abruptly faded. Though no scent remained, Alex was sure the smothering feeling was due to ether having been used. Her inner mind had linked the sensation to her next closest memory, taking her back to that ghastly immersion.

  She proceeded down to a courtyard that served two more buildings. The court opened to Farm Street. Veltre could have been carried out and loaded into a conveyance after dark with no one noticing. On Christmas Eve most people would be indoors at dinner.