The Hanged Man

by P. N. Elrod

  “What’s happened?” asked Brook.

  Hollifield seemed embarrassed. “Hmm. I’ve vented the pressure in the reservoir, I think. Probably just as well. Wouldn’t want the thing to blow up, now, would we? Let’s see if this will open.…” He tried the second plug and a great number of round metal balls scattered across the felt padding. “Right, pressure gone and unloaded. I hope you weren’t planning to put this to use later.”

  “Not at all, Lord Daniel,” Alex said, peering close. “They’re lead slugs, no points to them.”

  “I expect they have to be round to feed into the firing chamber, but that’s going to play hell with accuracy. If you want to shoot at a decent distance you need rifling; this thing seems to kick ’em out with brute force.”

  “They are highly damaging at close range.”

  “Useless for hunting, but perfect for killing people before they know what’s hit them.”

  Alex bit back the temptation to inform him of the attack on Service offices. “I’ve also seen a smaller version of this, a pistol.”

  “Have you now? Well, that would cause a lot of damage if it’s got even half the power as this one must. This … this is a terrible weapon, Alex. I do not say that lightly. Who gave it to you?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, sir. As it is, I’m likely in a good deal of trouble for showing it to you at all. If there is anything you can tell me about who might have made it, I assure you that it will be of great help to the Service and to England.”

  “Just how desperate is this? Should I speak to Desmond? Not that I’ve much influence on the young sharp, but he might bring me in unofficially if I insist.”

  Hearing Lord Richard Desmond spoken of as a young sharp and arrogant bludger would have been amusing a day earlier. Alex shook her head. “That won’t be necessary, sir. Please, if you know anything at all…”

  He grunted, frowning through his white beard, eyes narrow with thought. “Well, let’s do the obvious and look for a maker’s stamp.” He took a magnifying glass from a drawer and went over the rifle as carefully as a diamond cutter searching for flaws. During that time, Brook picked up the fallen pipe, gently placed it on the table, and made a quiet tour of the displays. Alex, already familiar with the room, sank wearily onto a settee.

  There came a discreet double knock upon the door, then it was opened quietly, and one of the footmen entered, pushing a tea trolley in ahead of Lady Lindsey who said she required a short respite from her hostess duties. She dismissed him and sat next to Alex.

  “Close your mouth, girl, or you’ll catch flies. I know there’s something up and it’s got to be grim.” She poured tea into a deep and delicate cup with gold edging. “Get this into you, dear; you seem to need it.”

  Alex accepted with gratitude and reflected that her ladyship must possess an intuitive side.

  “Lieutenant Brook? Will you join us? I’ve something stronger than tea if you want it.”

  “Tea is fine, Lady Hollifield. Thank you.” He took a chair opposite the ladies, along with cup and saucer and a little plate with one of the pies. He made an admirable job of juggling things, indicating he’d had practice at it.

  This could almost have been a normal social visit, but for the murders and deadly attacks.

  “What’s that toy Daniel’s playing with?”

  “A new type of air rifle, m’dear,” answered his lordship, still poring over the thing.

  “That should keep you happy. Are you going to acquire it?”

  “I should hope so, if only to see how the deuced thing works.”

  “Goodness knows where he’ll store it,” she observed to her guests. “I expect we’ll have to convert another room to look like this one if he keeps on collecting. Eat, Alex, you’re looking rough about the edges, if you don’t mind my saying. Having a bad patch with your family?”

  Alex relaxed somewhat. She had a great fondness for the Hollifields. Not only were they friends from the shooting club, but they were genuinely kind people. They’d also done considerable traveling, giving her much more in common with them than with her own relatives. “I was at Pendlebury House this morning. Cousin Andrina was her usual charming self.”

  Lady Lindsey was aware of the ancient feud. “Families can be difficult. It’s a pity you girls got off on the wrong foot, but such things happen. She does quite well as a lady-in-waiting to Princess Alice and her daughters. They think she’s charming.”

  Alex could not imagine Andrina, with her sour and condemning temperament, being pleasant to anyone, therefore she must be better at dissembling than Ellen Terry.

  “Mr. Brook?”

  “Yes, your ladyship?”

  “Are you by chance connected to the Brookes of Park Crescent?”

  “The name is spelled differently, but I expect I am, distantly. We probably shared a grandfather or great-uncle a hundred years ago.”

  Although he gave no outer sign of it, Alex sensed his evasiveness and reluctance. “Lady Lindsey, your cook has done an admirable job on the pies. I’m so glad to have a chance to sample them.” She spoke the truth; the crust melted like butter on the tongue, surpassed only by the excellent filling, the sweet perfectly balancing the spice. “I hope we are not imposing too much on your time.”

  “Not at all. Things can run themselves for a few minutes. It takes a good three weeks to arrange a reception like this and I’ve been on my feet since dawn. I’m glad to see so many here to make it a success, but next year I may forego the excitement and have a quiet time in the country. But of course one can’t, not really, given our place in the world. Daniel and I will have to polish up and get over to Buck House. Formal family dinner, you know. I hope I can stay awake through all the courses.”

  This seemed to require a show of amusement. Alex provided, but was distracted by a satisfied exclamation from his lordship.

  “Cracked it,” he announced.

  “You found who made it?” Alex put her saucer and cup on the tray and went to the table.

  “No, there’s nothing I can find on that, which is damned peculiar. Work like this usually means someone wants the credit, but it’s clean as a boiled egg. I had to think who might have made it against who could afford to make it. Those capable aren’t in this country, but I’ll wager my fortune that this is British made. This is Sheffield steel or I’m a codfish.”

  “Really, dear,” said his wife. “There are some perfectly good foundries in Germany.”

  “Bah! They can’t cook a proper sausage, never mind work steel.”

  “Well, please don’t say anything at the palace. Your sister-in-law has relatives on that side over as guests. Someone told me her cousins Albert and Ernest from Saxony-Coburg will be there—with their wives. We’ll be swimming in German speeches and tiaras for hours.”

  “Not if my brother has anything to do with it. Arthur’s sensible about such time-wasting rot, but I’ll behave. I’ll talk shooting with them if I must. Where was I?”

  “British made.”

  “Hah. Yes. So here’s the problem: there’s one fellow in England who is capable of designing and making a piece like this, but he’s not got the money to do so. There’s not many interested in air guns, so even when he has a likely project, no one’s keen to back it. He came to me, oh, about two years ago with some plans, but his timing was wretched. We were just taking ourselves off to Egypt or Rome or someplace for the winter.”

  “Rome,” said Lady Lindsey.

  “Right, nasty hole, rats, ruins, forged art, and the worst food.”

  She shook her head, observing to her guests, “The man is a darling, but I am certain he only ever consents to leave the country so he may prove to himself the superiority of all things English.”

  “Which they are. But never mind that. The visitor—I had no proper time for him. The plans he showed were a bit like this, but not quite as ambitious. The stock reservoir was smaller. Didn’t hold so many rounds. I remember it had a crank attached, and I didn’t care much for th
at. He’s changed things—if it’s the same fellow.”

  “A name, Lord Daniel, please,” said Alex.

  “Don’t remember. Left a card, though. Polish mechanic, mad, of course, they’re all mad. Heavy accent, couldn’t take in half what he said, the drawings did all his speaking. Give me a moment.…” He poked and rummaged in a writing desk. “I know it’s here, I keep running across it, meaning to write him to come again, but then one gets busy with other things. Surprised he’s not returned on his own. Must have turned up a patron somewhere. Can’t say I like the design—not being able to reload without depressurizing the reservoir? That’s a flaw, but if it carries a hundred or more rounds—but why the devil would you want that many?”

  “To kill people, I expect.”

  He paused. “Oh, well, yes, I suppose so. You know me, I’m more for target competition than anything else. But a hundred rounds for hunting—that’s hardly fair. Doesn’t give the game a sporting chance, takes the suspense out of it, reduces it to mere butchery, though there’s some chaps who love their blood. Few of them under the roof today—ah, here it is.” He produced a tattered card. “W. Nabadenski, if that’s how y’say it. Didn’t catch his first name.”

  “A London address,” said Alex. It was on the other side of the city. She and Brook might be able to go for a quick look and still get to the Ætheric meeting, but it seemed unlikely, especially after dark.

  “If he’s even there. That was two years ago. If it’s his home he might be in, but if it’s a workshop or factory he’ll be closed for the day.”

  A good point. Tomorrow, in full daylight, would serve. Or I telegraph Woodwake with this news and let her handle it. That would be better. Let the woman know progress was taking place. Alex told him, “This is perfect, better than I’d hoped for; I can’t thank you enough. You’ve been of enormous help.”

  “As much as all that?” Lord Daniel’s eyes twinkled. “Am I to get the full story about this?”

  “As soon as I know it myself—if I’m allowed.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I can always pry it out of Desmond.”

  She looked away, not wanting to reveal any hint of Lord Richard’s violent demise, and began collecting the scattered rounds, putting them back into the rifle. The bulky middle seemed to have the capacity to hold at least a hundred. “Is it gravity fed?”

  “It would seem so. That puts a limit on your angle of aim. If you wanted to take out a bird or shoot down from a hill, you’d have to shift it level between rounds. That’s another flaw. Be the devil to pay if it jammed.”

  Alex had noticed no tendency for jamming under repeated fire.

  “Leaving without finishing your tea?” asked Lady Lindsey.

  “I fear so, but it was lovely. Thank you so much, both of you.”

  * * *

  Additional assertions that they had to leave were needed, but after stowing a large bundle of the tasty pies in the carpetbag, Alex and Brook were eventually allowed to depart. By request, to avoid any chance of encountering James or Teddy, one of the footmen bowed them out via a side door. They were on Mount Street with Hyde Park behind them and Berkeley Square ahead. Just two streets north was Grosvenor Square. She was tempted to take a quick walk over to have a look at number twenty-five. It would have to wait, though; better to launch that campaign after making proper preparations.

  “That was interesting,” said Brook. “Not what one might expect.”

  “In what way?”

  “A lack of pretension.”

  “They are lovely people. I like them better than my own fam—” Alex cut herself off. What business was it of Mr. Brook’s to know anything like that? It did show her to what degree she’d let down her guard in the presence of friends. She cleared her throat and began walking east, crossing the street into the concealing shadows of Berkeley Square. The winter darkness was fully settled, and the cold eagerly rushed in to steal away the moments of warmth they’d gained.

  “We need to break into another telegraph office,” she said brusquely. “I’ll get this information to Mrs. Woodwake. I think there’s a place just along—”

  She halted as a man unexpectedly emerged from behind one of the vast trees of the square’s park, putting himself in their path. She had not sensed or seen him. Instantly thinking of the ghost Alex backed away in alarm. Brook was better prepared and had his empty Bulldog up and aimed, getting between her and the threat.

  The lean, tall figure did not react, but held in place. “Put that away, Lieutenant,” he growled.

  “Identify yourself,” said Brook, unfazed.

  “Pendlebury will tell you.”

  She recognized the voice and her heart sank. They needed more time, the freedom to move and act. If she grabbed Brook’s arm they could make a dash for it … and likely get only yards away before being brought back in disgrace. A number of mounted people were about, more than might be expected considering the day and the hour. They were there for her, of course. Had she not been distracted by the wealth of good feeling at Hollifield House, she might have given greater notice to the street.

  The man struck a match, lighting a small black cigar. The flame gave her a glimpse of a craggy lined face with a stubborn jaw and a long, cruel mouth. His eyes were as green and as hard as polished jade, a cutthroat’s eyes, but by reports and action, he was unflinching in service to queen and country.

  And he had saved their lives not two hours ago.

  “Stand easy, Mr. Brook,” she said. “This is Colonel Sebastian Mourne. He’s on our side, God help us.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  In Which Mince Pies Are Consumed

  Mourne seemed unoffended by her observation and puffed on his cigar. “I knew you’d head here, Pendlebury. Took your time about it.”

  Alex noticed that the gas lamps on this side of the square had not been lighted. That was no oversight, not in this part of London.

  “Get along, the both of you. In there.”

  He gestured at the sinister shape of a Black Maria that blended with the night. You’d have to be on top of the thing to see it. The metal door was open, yawning like a mouth into hell.

  “Shift yourselves before some lunatic shoots you. You know the situation we’re in.”

  Alex twitched her cloak aside to extend the air rifle to Mourne. “If you would, sir. I’ll need both hands.”

  “Cheeky baggage,” he muttered, accepting it, and there was a remote coloring in his tone indicating that he just might be amused. Briefly. Perhaps to the count of one.

  She climbed in, feeling her way—it was pitch black—and tucked herself onto a narrow bench, sitting bolt upright. A drunken stink clung to the interior and she had no desire to accidentally touch any lingering emotions even with her gloves on. Her leaden walls were in place and a foot thick for this situation. She caught the hot metal smell of a dark lantern, which was an unfortunate reminder of Lord Richard’s four-wheeler. This moving box, certainly commandeered from Scotland Yard, was better able to protect its occupants from bullets, though that was cold comfort. It was still a transport for prisoners.

  Brook sat next to her, then Mourne climbed in and secured the door. He gave a last look through the grilled opening, slid the shutter in place, and knocked twice on the front wall. They lurched forward. The confined area soon filled with the heavy smell of the cigar, which was an improvement.

  “May we have light?” asked Alex, her gaze drawn to the cigar’s intermittent glow, which was useless for illumination.

  “No.”

  “You don’t wish to examine the rifle?”

  “Seen a dozen of ’em. When we counted bodies there was a weapon short and Woodwake knew you’d blagged it. There’s only one expert in London on air guns you’d take it to, so I gathered some lads and set up a blind across from Danny’s lair.”

  “Why didn’t you stop us from going in?”

  “Because as long as you were there you might as well get information. His lordship’s more likely to spill
to a pretty young thing like you than to an old goat like me. You are expected to report, in full, starting with how the devil you ended up out front and under fire with Miss Sybil.”

  Alex noted how he spoke the name, which indicated he had respect for the woman. Their interplay after the shooting … friends, certainly. Colonel Mourne was a harsh, forbidding sort and did not award his regard lightly.

  “Is that her name or a designation?” she asked.

  “What does it matter?”

  “If a designation, then why not call her Cassandra?”

  “Because no one believed her prophecies. We take everything Sybil says very seriously.”

  “She’s a true Seer, then.”

  “And damn good at it, when she’s not being blocked. Now get on with it.”

  Alex gave a swift recounting, beginning with Sybil backing out of the building and ending with Lord Hollifield’s remarks on the air gun.

  “She wanted us to take it, sir,” Alex concluded. “I’m not excusing myself from disobeying orders, but after the attack it seemed expedient to keep moving. Lord Hollifield provided a name and address. If this Nabadenski designed these weapons, he might lead us to whoever is behind the attacks on the Service.”

  “I expect he will, one way or another.” There was a sound of movement and Mourne rapped on the wall. Another sliding panel opened. He asked for and got the address from Alex and repeated it to the driver, adding, “Have a rider telegraph where we’re going and that I want a flying squad to meet us there. Make sure himself gets the message.”

  Their pace picked up, along with her heartbeat. She thought they’d be going back to the Service offices. What in the world was a “flying squad”?