The Hanged Man

by P. N. Elrod

  Futile as it was, she was thorough, but the psychic scent of Mrs. Veltre was long dispersed.

  By his very absence, Alex knew who was responsible for the abduction. There was no trace of him, not in the hall, the stairway, or the door leading to the yard.

  “It’s the ghost,” she told Brook, coming back inside. From his puzzled look she realized he’d not heard of it yet. She explained.

  “Someone with no emotions at all?” he asked.

  “None that I can track.”

  “But everyone has emotions. We can’t help ourselves.”

  “Inspector Lennon suggested an automaton without its box, but only as a joke.”

  “I’d prefer to believe that than a man without emotions. Perhaps he puts himself in a mesmeric trance or something so it’s impossible for a Reader to find him.”

  “If so, then it works too well. I’ve found all there is to find here.” But on the way to the front room Alex paused at the bedroom door, staring in. “That’s … that’s not right.”

  She hurried back to the desk and looked at the receipts again, noting the number of items and whether they’d been delivered.

  “I’m a fool,” she muttered. “Tea gowns, hats, evening gowns—look at the number of them, the prices.”

  Brook did so. “I didn’t know fashionable ladies paid so much for their things.”

  “They generally do not; these are outrageous and she’s got two wardrobes for storage. Unless she’s let another floor in this building, there’s no room to hold all this.”

  “Perhaps she bought them for a girls’ school or something.”

  “I doubt any academy has need of three dozen identical ball gowns. See the handwriting? These invoices are from different shops, but the writing is the same. The venues must be false, I don’t recognize any of the names. No addresses, either.”

  He went through a stack. “She’s done a good deal of shopping in the last six months. Where’s her bankbook?”

  “Not here. The money amounts are probably correct, but the items themselves are not what was purchased. This sort of substitution code is not a new invention, but I’ve not seen it for sums like this. Thousands and thousands of pounds, but for what? And why was she recording them in this manner?”

  Alex remembered the heavy envelope she’d brought up. The elegant handwriting did not match the invoices. No matter. She put the letter opener to use. The single card within had that day’s date and 8:30—“Masters Impart” perfectly centered on its cream-colored surface.

  “An invitation with no address,” he observed.

  “I think she gave that to Father.” Alex located her reticule next to the settee and pulled out the worse-for-wear calling card.

  “Is that what you found in the—”

  “Yes, Father’s walking stick.”

  He glanced at the card. “Twenty-five Grosvenor Square. We could walk over. A meeting, you think? The Ætheric Society?”

  “It could be an ordinary gathering. Christmas dinner.”

  “And I’m the king of Siam. You’re going to go, aren’t you?”

  “How can I not?”

  “I’m sure there are a dozen good reasons you will ignore. You will still be lumbered with me as a bodyguard, though.”

  “Not lumbered, you’re needed. It would be foolish to go alone.”

  “Again, I am relieved. But why not telegraph the Service with this information and let them send in people? They could have half of Scotland Yard in tow.”

  “Because at this point we have no empirical evidence that my father’s death is connected to the Ætherics. We have no evidence his death and the attack on Lord Richard are connected. One followed close upon the other, but the methods differed. For my father, someone went to much trouble to make it appear not to be murder. For Lord Richard it was a determined and prolonged attack until the objective was achieved, and they were untroubled by the presence of witnesses. The man had enemies, so the timing of the two events could be coincidental. I do not like coincidences, but this could be one. Invading a meeting of the Ætheric Society might resolve only one issue.”

  “And possibly get you killed if that murderous ghost-man is there and recognizes you. There’s no doubt this Veltre woman was involved with the Ætherics and knew your father. For all you know, she betrayed him in some way. You said someone kidnapped her?”

  “I know they did. It’s mad. On one hand, a sly, stealthy murder, on the other, two violent, public attacks against the Service by hooded men with unusual weapons.”

  She focused on the invitation card, intent to get some sense of the person who wrote it, but only a general feeling of ennui came to her. That might mean the writer had the thankless task of filling out a large number of similar invitations. All to the good; she and Brook would be less noticeable in a crowd. She abruptly realized the light was going. The short winter day was slipping by. “Time to get moving.”

  She donned her cloak, hat, and gloves, shoving the invitation into her reticule. Brook collected all the receipts and put them in the carpetbag.

  “Shouldn’t we question the other residents in this building?” he asked, handing her the air rifle after she locked up.

  “We can come back. I want to get this weapon to Lord Hollifield’s house before tea time.”

  “He’s your air gun expert?”

  “The closest I have to one. What little I know I learned from him.”

  “Lord Hollifield? You’re serious?”

  “Well, somebody has to be the queen’s brother-in-law.”

  * * *

  Less than a two-minute walk away, but a vast social distance from Veltre’s modest rooms, the frontage of Hollifield House took up a large portion of the northwest corner of Berkeley Square. Its red brick was complemented by fresh white trim, the proportions of the windows and balconies were pleasant to the eye, and Alex noted with relief that there was no decorative death mask–like head above the door. Now that she’d become aware of the damned things, she cast about at other houses, looking for more. None were to be seen, at least on this part of the square.

  A liveried footman on post outside opened the door with the correct angle to his bow, neither too low to overstate, nor too shallow to insult. His smile was warm and welcoming. The Hollifield household was a cheerful one, and Alex fought an impulse to relax her defenses. However pleasant, she had to avoid distraction. This visit must be short and to the point, with them leaving before his lordship got too curious about her deadly artifact.

  Rather a lot to expect, she thought.

  A maid and another footman were on duty to take charge of coats and wraps, but Alex put them off and asked where his lordship might be found. She was about to give a calling card to the maid when Lady Lindsey Hollifield came to greet her newly arrived guests. She smiled hesitantly at Mr. Brook, not knowing him, and looked expectantly at Alex, who raised the veil on her hat.

  “Why, Alex! What a lovely surprise!” her ladyship said with much affection. She did not extend her hand, being one of those who knew that Readers were shy about physical contact.

  “I’m sorry to intrude, Lady Lindsey, but I need to see Lord Daniel on Service business.”

  “Oh, how boring for you. You’re not intruding at all, child. We’ve had the house open all day for friends to call in, it’s very informal. If you’re not too pressed, I insist you have tea and a nice mince pie.”

  “Very kind of you.”

  “You’ll do me a kindness. The cook went quite mad and made enough to serve everyone at Buck House twice over. This place will smell of cloves for a week. Now, please introduce me to this handsome and patient fellow.”

  Alex did the honors, giving Brook’s rank in lieu of a first name.

  “Oh, my dear girl, is this your young man?” Lady Lindsey looked enormously pleased at the idea.

  Alex hadn’t expected that question, though she should have; her ladyship always inquired whether Alex had set her cap for anyone yet. Where she’d gotten that
phrase was a mystery, but she was far too fond of it. By heroic effort, Alex held a fierce blush in check and managed not to choke. “Mr. Brook is assisting me, filling in for Sergeant Greene today.”

  Brook, managing to grip his hat and the carpetbag in his left hand, touched a gloved forefinger to his forehead. A proper salute would have been inappropriate since he was not in uniform and her ladyship held no military rank.

  Lady Lindsey was disappointed as she eyed the bag. “That is really too bad. I’d hoped that you’d come by to show him off and let me know you were eloping.”

  Dear God.

  Brook kept his face neutral, but despite her defenses, Alex picked up that he was inordinately amused.

  “Oh, well, there’s time for that another day. Let’s see where Daniel’s gotten himself. The billiard room or the gun room; he does like his toys.”

  She led away, Alex and Brook keeping up with her brisk but graceful pace. Alex had been to the house many times after a shooting club event, but its size still astonished her. They passed room after room, each with a specific purpose, each decorated in the most perfect taste, some boasting paintings that would have been gratefully accepted by the National Gallery.

  The place was full of brilliantly turned-out people. Lady Lindsey was no exception. Her dark auburn hair was beautifully dressed with diamond-trimmed combs. Her gown at first look appeared understated compared to others, but at second look a richness of detail emerged to delight the eye and stagger the household purse. She wore it and her diamonds with an easy buoyancy that few women of her caste could carry off. She would have the same self-possession had they been glass and herself draped in rags.

  Alex was rarely ill at ease about her own mode of attire, but in this instance and in such a glittering crowd she felt shabby even in her best cloak. She would have been invisible on her own, but simply walking in her ladyship’s wake drew attention. At least the cloak covered the battle scars adorning her blue ensemble, as well as the air rifle, which would have certainly caused alarm. She recognized several guests as longtime friends of the Pendleburys and was glad she’d pulled the veil on her hat down again. This was no time for social exchanges.

  The Hollifields moved in somewhat more exalted circles of the nobility than the Pendleburys, but had always made her feel welcome. Being much closer to the queen by means of family connection (Hollifield having wooed and wed the sister of Lord Consort Arthur), they saw the inside of Buckingham Palace far more often than even Cousin Andrina.

  Hollifield House itself was something of a miniature palace, boasting a dining room that could seat forty, though Lady Lindsey preferred smaller groups of twenty, as there were fewer names to remember, but today was an exception. In the ballroom an orchestra played a sprightly waltz for a score of dancers, and Alex felt a pang of envy for their carefree turns across the floor.

  But more imperative matters were afoot. She could not allow herself distractions.

  One importuned itself, nonetheless.

  James Fonteyn was in profile just within the ballroom, speaking to—Oh, corks—Teddy Pendlebury.

  She nearly blundered into Brook in an attempt to turn away and duck. Even under a veil and cloak her cousins would certainly recognize her and if not herself, then they’d know Brook for sure.

  He glanced down at her, and then above and past. His mouth popped open, but she seized his arm and conveyed the urgency to keep moving.

  Her gentlemen relatives appeared to have become the fastest of friends, which was no surprise since they shared hedonistic tendencies. Teddy was the stuffier of the two, being constrained by the demands of a stuffy job, but was an expert at keeping his pleasures apart from his duties.

  James had no such constraints. Alex could easily imagine him leading a willing Teddy into gradually lower levels of depravity. Compared to some things she’d seen on her travels, the debauches would be mild, but enough to damage, if not destroy, Teddy’s professional reputation. What was acceptable in China was a scandal in Belgravia.

  Doubtless Andrina would find some way to blame Alex.

  Oh, bother the lot of them.

  Why her cousins were here was no mystery. Her ladyship was famous for her hospitality. Anyone with a title, honor, family connection, or some other distinction would be made welcome with or without an invitation, particularly on Christmas Day.

  Alex and Brook were soon out of view of the ballroom, but she could not relax, expecting any instant to be hailed and then delayed by tedious explanations for her presence.

  Lord Daniel was in the billiard room the next floor up, along with a number of other men. The gas sconces and fireplace blazed, and the balcony doors were wide open to the cold, which was the only way one might be able to breathe. The air within was exceedingly thick. The large chamber doubled as a smoking room and those present were taking full advantage, including his lordship, who had a massive meerschaum ensconced under his fierce-looking white moustache. His attention was on the green baize table as one of his cronies considered a difficult shot.

  Lady Lindsey waited until ivory clacked against ivory, a ball rolled and vanished into a pocket, and a rumble of approval for the player’s skill circulated through the audience. She then murmured in her husband’s ear. Lord Daniel cast an interested eye upon first Brook and then Alex, gave a brisk nod, and excused himself to those close by.

  “Hallo, Alex,” he said as they emerged from the smoky reek. “Wouldn’t have known you standing there covered like a rani in purdah. Why aren’t you having a holiday? I’ll have a word with Desmond about it. He runs his patch as though we’re at war.”

  He didn’t seem to expect a reply, so Alex made none. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Lord Daniel, but I’ll keep things brief. May we speak in private?”

  He put some thought into that and glanced at Lady Lindsey.

  “The gun room,” she said.

  How convenient.

  “Had to lock it for the duration,” she explained, again leading the way. “There are children about and they do get curious.”

  “If they’re properly trained, there’s naught to worry about,” said Daniel. “Most of ’em are and are welcome to look, but they have sticky hands. Drives poor Sebbings to the edge wiping jam smears from the glass cases, y’know. The place smells of vinegar afterward, makes my eyes water. Now where’s the key?” He paused, slapping his pockets.

  Lindsey rescued him, producing a key ring from a discreet pocket and unlocking the door. “Will you need me for this? I must be in ten other places for another three hours.”

  “Thank you, Lady Lindsey,” said Alex. “And if I might make one small request? Please don’t let anyone know I’m here. I saw many acquaintances and at least two cousins, and I’ve no time to spare for them.”

  “Certainly. It was lovely to meet you, Lieutenant Brook. I’m so sorry you’re not eloping with our Alex.” She winked at her husband and glided from the hall.

  Lord Daniel made a noise to indicate amusement, then went into the gun room. He did not bother to ring for a servant, but found matches in his waistcoat pocket and lighted the gas himself, then looked at Alex with some expectancy. She brushed away her veil and again introduced Brook.

  “What regiment?” asked his lordship.

  Brook had a ready answer. “None, sir. I’m now attached to the Psychic Service by special order.”

  “Huh. That means you did something ingenious and helpful that offended someone. Not to worry, lad, I won’t pry. If Dickie Desmond approved you, then you’re all right. He’s an arrogant bludger, but knows people. Alex is one of his better decisions, aren’t you, girl? Now, what brings you to my roof on Christmas if you’re not eloping?”

  The gun room was not large, but packed with an astonishing array of weaponry, each wall having glass cases holding numbers of firearms within. The collection was a mix of antiques in prime condition and modern pieces. In the middle of the floor was a tall table covered with a thick felt pad to protect anything that might be brought
out for inspection.

  “This,” said Alex. Indulging in a theatrical flourish, she swept her cloak aside and set the air rifle on the table in one smooth movement.

  It brought about the reaction she’d hoped for: Hollifield’s instant attention. He fairly rocked back on his heels and dropped his pipe. Fortunately, it bounced on the rug and did not break. His lordship stared at the rifle, then snapped his gaze up at Alex, his eyes wide.

  “I apologize in advance, Lord Daniel, but I cannot tell you how I acquired it. This is part of an ongoing investigation. I’m hoping you will shed light on its origins.”

  He threw a look at Lieutenant Brook, then back to the table, then to Alex.

  “Have you seen anything like it before?” she pressed.

  His lordship got past his surprise and shook his head. He cleared his throat. “What the devil have you got here?”

  “You tell me,” she said. “It’s capable of shooting multiple rounds with deadly force. I’ve not the same experience as you do with air-powered weapons. It seemed best to have you see it and perhaps—”

  Lord Daniel was now wholly immersed in examining the thing. His first act was to shift it around so the muzzle pointed toward an outside wall. Should there be an accidental discharge, the bullet would smash into plaster and brick, not his guests or the display cases. He went over its mechanisms, muttering a bit, grunting with satisfaction as he worked out where the ammunition went in and the means by which pressurized air was introduced to the chamber.

  “Where’s the crank?” he asked. “There should be a crank or handle or some whatsit to fit into this bit here.” He’d unscrewed a plug set in the right side, revealing a hexagonal socket.

  “Sorry, don’t have one. What sort of crank?”

  “Hard to say, but a good size, one third to one half the length of the piece. You lock it in place, turn it enough times and that’s what pumps the air in. The longer the crank the more leverage you have, the more pressure you can store in the reservoir. Sturdy goods, this is. I’ve nothing but admiration for whoever designed and made it. This is miles ahead of anything I’ve ever seen.” He replaced the plug and tried opening another. When it refused to yield, he held off from forcing the issue. “I think the rounds go in here, but they’re part of the pressure lock. There should be some means of reloading.… Ah, here we go.” He pressed an indented circle that Alex had missed before, and they all jumped when the thing made a long loud hiss as though protesting its treatment.