by P. N. Elrod
Mourne returned to his place on the opposite bench. “Now for the rest.”
“Sir?”
“The two of you let yourselves into that flat on Hill Street and spent a fair time there. One of my lads spotted you straightaway.”
“But we—” began Brook, who apparently thought better of finishing and cut short.
“Didn’t see anyone. I know. That’s what you should expect from those I’ve trained. Unless you fools were after some private trysting with each other, this missy gave that place a Reading. Why were you there and what did you find? This time don’t leave anything out.”
Alex felt a sick heat in her belly for having been caught. The prospect of dismissal had been easier to consider when on the move and doing things. A lie of omission was still a lie. The Service would not tolerate it. “Sir, I—”
“Your excuse is worth a tinker’s damn to me. Report.”
Next to her in the absolute dark, Brook shifted just a little. Most unexpectedly, she felt his hand on her near shoulder. It rested there just for an instant, patted three times, then withdrew.
Good God. She almost said it aloud and was surprised she didn’t. Even with her barriers up, she got his message of reassurance. One part of her was annoyed at his presumption, another part liked it. She wasn’t alone.
She cleared her throat and pressed ahead with a full report of all they’d found in Veltre’s rooms.
“Ætherics,” the colonel muttered. “Bloody Ætherics and air guns.”
She’d expected interest about the return of the ghost and the woman’s kidnapping, not this. “Sir, a deeper investigation of them might provide solid evidence connecting my father’s murder to that of Lord Richard and the attack on the Service.”
“Evidence? We’re past the point of needing that. If you’d come inside when you were told—never mind. Your running off to Danny may have saved an hour or so. Whether that’s important or not remains to be discovered.”
“What do you mean? Know you other connections?”
“Stew a bit, missy, and see how it feels.”
“No, sir, I will not.”
If he replied to that, then it was not audible above the rumble of the wheels.
“I have a right to know,” she said, her voice far steadier than she felt. “As my father’s daughter, I have a right to know.”
“If they are linked, what of it?” he asked.
“Then we use that to find out who in the Home Office had him investigating the Ætheric Society and why. The death of one peer of the realm might be kept a secret, but not two, particularly when the second man is Lord Richard Desmond.”
“Why should the first be kept a secret?”
“The nature of the Ætherics makes that a possibility. Mrs. Woodwake mentioned the prurient activities they indulge in at their private meetings. If my father discovered something embarrassing about someone in a position of power, then that person would want such discoveries buried. He or she could have arranged that ‘Dr. Kemp’ be killed and hope it be taken for suicide. Kemp was important, but not on the same level as Lord Gerard Pendlebury. Someone knew his real name. The killer planned an attempt on me the same night. There’s no reason why I should be included unless—”
Alex did not want to voice it, for then it might become real.
“Unless…?” Mourne prodded.
“Unless I also know the killer or the person behind him.”
“Indeed? Do you know such a person?”
The idea was monstrous, yet it had been nagging at her since leaving Woodwake’s office. “I-I have a concern that my uncle Leo might be involved.”
“Do you?”
“A concern only. He works at the Home Office and so far as I know is wholly dedicated and loyal to the crown. But Mrs. Woodwake has been insistent that I should be at Pendlebury House. I can conjecture that she might be thinking along similar lines and wants me there to observe. The flaw in that is I would be in danger if … Oh, bother, that’s entirely mad. Forgive me, Colonel. I’m short on sleep.”
“And on evidence, but your reasoning’s sound. That was one idea put forth at the war council.”
“War council?”
“Which you missed. Make no mistake, there is a war on and you two survived the first skirmish. The attack on the Service was a major undertaking and we’ve no reason to think it’s the last. That telegraph message you sent—Woodwake issued warnings to all Service offices. They’re on the alert.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“As for your uncle—fratricide’s not unheard of, what with Cain and Abel inventing the miserable business. If Leo topped your pap, then he’d have to top you, since you might Read something from him at a family dinner.”
“That’s not how Reading works.”
“You and I know it, but those outside the Service think your lot plucks thoughts from their heads. Think how things might have gone last night if you’d not been called to Harley Street. Someone would have identified Gerard, and sent word to you, being next of kin. Once you’re over the first shock, you’d have gone straight to Leo’s house to break the bad news and he might have let something slip. But this ghostlike fellow who did the murder was to keep that from happening by killing you. Leo’s safe from discovery by his niece the Reader.”
Stated in such terms it truly was monstrous—and could not possibly be right. “I cannot believe that. Not Uncle Leo.”
“What about the rest of ’em?”
“Impossible. Teddy’s a boring prig but just as dedicated, Andrina would never risk her place as a lady-in-waiting, and Aunt Honoria thinks anything to do with the psychical is an affront to God, if not proof of madness.”
“What about yourself?”
“What?”
“The possibility was raised.”
“I’ve been cleared by Mrs. Woodwake,” she said, her tone icy.
“Lucky for you, then.”
Alex made herself calm down. Mourne was testing her in his own way, though it was pointless to trouble himself when he couldn’t see her reactions. Perhaps he was something of a Reader himself, though she’d heard nothing of it in her time there. Theirs was an exclusive club and members all knew one another.
“What else was discussed at this war council?” she asked.
“Damn little that was helpful. I left them to it and went after you.”
“What if,” put in Brook, “what if Lord Leo himself sent his brother to investigate the Ætherics? He might have gotten orders to look into the business, but may have been reluctant to trust anyone but his own brother.”
There followed a silence as Alex gave that unexpected idea consideration. She didn’t like her relatives, and had let emotion influence her thoughts. How unprofessional of her.
“Then Uncle Leo would have known where Father was and how to contact him. Why would he not tell me?” she demanded.
“It’s called compartmentalization,” said Mourne. “Is Leo one of those johnnies who doesn’t talk about his work?”
“He was when I lived with them.”
“There it is. He’d not tell you about Gerard. Probably thought you were in contact already. He’d not raise the subject at a family dinner.”
“I don’t go to family dinners,” she snarled. “Aunt and Uncle are tolerable, but not my cousins. As soon as I was able, I moved out.”
Mourne grunted. “Families. Best friends and worst enemies all at once. Can’t fault you for wanting to avoid unpleasantness, but you might have learned something.”
“Perhaps, but that doesn’t explain why my father made no effort to contact me in the last ten years. Yours is an interesting idea, Lieutenant Brook, but it does not cover the facts. My uncle has an important place in the Home Office, but it is not that important. Someone higher up had charge of this. I have to find out who—”
“Devil take it—what is that smell?” asked Mourne.
She couldn’t begin to guess which out of the mélange within these close walls h
ad caught his attention.
Brook spoke up. “Mince pies, sir. Would you like some?”
“I certainly would. Haven’t had a minute to stoke the boiler.”
Lady Lindsey had been generous; there were plenty to go around. Alex managed another, though eating in the dark made it hard to keep track of crumbs and drips.
Mourne was pleased with the feast and made a low rumbling growl deep in his throat. It reminded her uncomfortably of a tiger, and not one held captive in a zoological garden. The last time she’d heard the sound had been on the back of an elephant making its way through tall grass. She and Father had been part of a hunt for a man-eater that had killed over a dozen hapless souls. She thought of the dozen and more men the colonel had taken down with his Winchester.
And the one he’d spared for questioning.
“What did you learn from the prisoner, sir?” She expected to be rebuffed, but he surprised her.
“They’d not got him talking properly when I left. Had to get a surgeon in to sew him up. Squealed like a spoiled toff until they put him out—which I was against. He’d have chattered quick enough if they’d given me a free hand. Woodwake’s too bloody soft. He was our best hope. The other two are in bad shape, like to die. Good shooting on your part, given the circumstances.”
The reminder gave her an uneasy pang. She abruptly lost her appetite for more mince pie.
“Here, you’re not going to go sick on us about that, are you?”
“No, sir.” How can he see me in this murk?
“Some do after a battle and there’s no shame in it.”
“Yes, sir.” Change the subject. “Was anything helpful found on … on the casualties?”
“No papers, a few bob in their pockets, nothing else, not even a tart’s calling card.”
“Keys, watch fobs?”
“Some keys, of course, they have to live someplace. Don’t know about fobs, could have used your eye there, girl. You see more than most.”
“No laundry marks? Shop labels?”
“New clothes, the lot of them, with no clue who made ’em. Someone prepared for the possibility of these chaps getting killed or captured. We’ll find who they are eventually. Woodwake called in the Yard, wants their lot to look at faces, see if they recognize any of ’em. Seems to think they’re from the criminal classes, but she’s on the wrong game trail.”
“Indeed?”
“No thief or cutpurse could be bothered with that sort of work; there’s nothing to gain in it. Same goes for any mad, murdering blackguard. He may have the temper to kill, but needs a reason. That line of shooters were drilled. They followed commands under fire and kept coming until we made it too hot for ’em over open ground. They’re soldiers or I’m a Dutchman.”
“Soldiers? But from what country?”
“Don’t know yet. Could be anyone we’ve insulted in the last decade, which takes in a large portion of the globe. Could be our own; there’s many discontented with how things are run on our own patch. They could be paid mercenaries. Plenty of those about if you know where to look.”
“Colonel,” said Brook, “if I may inquire…”
“Go ahead, lad.”
“The Ætherics—they’re an eccentric metaphysical group that hosts—uh—unusual parties. Certainly one or more members could blackmail others, but why on earth would they want an army?”
“Why indeed? It was also discussed. What do you think?”
“The equipping of even as few as twenty men would be costly. They were in nearly identical clothes, in the same hooded cloaks, carrying the same weapons. While Ætherics might have the money to kit them out, why do so? What return would they get from such an investment?”
“Destruction of the Psychic Service seemed to be the goal today. After the attack on Dickie Desmond all the eggs were in a single basket. If not for Miss Sybil shooting that first man—she saved who knows how many lives, bless her mad heart.”
“But who would benefit most from its destruction?”
“Anyone with a secret to keep. The higher you go, the bigger the secret.”
“There’s no reading of thoughts involved, so you’ve both said. Secrets are safe enough. What if—” said Brook, “—what if the attack on the Service was a distraction?”
“Damn big distraction,” said Mourne. “From what?”
“Lord Richard’s death. Instead of investigating who would most benefit from his removal, we’re led to think the Service itself is under attack.”
“Which it was. If Dickie alone was the only real target, that puts a new face on it. But whoever is behind things sacrificed over a dozen men as a distraction.”
“Sacrifice was never the intent. They expected to win. If Sybil hadn’t anticipated things, hadn’t shot that first man, the assault would have been successful. Who are Lord Desmond’s enemies?”
“Enemies we guard against; let’s instead ask who are his friends. That cuts things down. It’d have to be someone with deep pockets, which leaves me clear.”
“Unless you’re being paid well, sir.”
Horrified, Alex held her breath.
Colonel Mourne suddenly released a boom of laughter. It was too loud for the confined space and she winced at the noise, but at the same time she opened her defenses enough to Read his reaction. It was wholly genuine.
When Mourne regained control of himself, he blew his nose and coughed to clear his throat. “I can see why you were transferred, Brook. Too cheeky and truthful by half. That’s never gotten much respect in the army. The navy would have had you striped, whatever your station. Well, girl? Did I pass muster? No Reader worth the name would let that opportunity go by.”
“Yes, sir, you did. We can trust you.”
“Ah, but can I trust you? Don’t bother answering, you’ll show me.”
“I’ll do that now, sir.”
“Will you?”
“Yes, Colonel. You said it yourself: the higher you go, the larger the secret. Or in this case, the more valuable. Nothing is more priceless than knowing the future. There’s little to gain by destroying the Service, but it could be to someone’s considerable advantage to kill or kidnap Sybil. Who knows of her existence?”
“Too many. Dickie had the influence to keep them quiet, but with him out of the way—but no, this is long planning. She started going off the rails weeks ago. We thought it was her bloody gift catching her up, making her even more mad, then worked out she was being countered by some outside influence.”
“Blinding her from seeing the future.”
“And playing holy hell with decision making. There’s some who don’t take a step forward without her say-so.”
“Who?”
“Never you mind.”
The prime minister, the queen herself? To have such an asset as a Seer and not make use of her was ridiculous. Alex knew her godmother would be open to anything that would preserve and protect the realm. She’d been the target of considerable criticism about the creation of the Psychic Service, but her foresight had proved correct, time and again. Those like Aunt Honoria, who had a horror of supernatural matters, politely overlooked the issue as one might for an eccentricity displayed by a wealthy and powerful relative.
Mourne continued. “If Miss Sybil had been in top form, Dickie would never have been caught out. Who knows but your pap might still—well, never mind. What’s done is done, God help us.”
“Which may be what prompted the Service attack. Yes, kill as many of us as possible, but find her. With her dead, whoever is behind these attacks can proceed toward some goal in happy security. But this is speculation. We must have more facts.”
“We’ll get ’em, missy. We’ve arrived.”
Their wagon had stopped; the driver tapped twice on the wall between.
“I’ll take a reccie. Lieutenant, you’re heeled, you—”
“Out of ammunition, sir,” said Brook.
“Are you now, and you still waved iron under my nose as though you meant business.
Don’t do that again. Here’s my shooter, see to it I get it back. You and Pendlebury stick here and keep sharp.”
Mourne opened the door, bringing a welcome flood of fresher air. After the stuffy blackness, the ordinary night seemed bright. Alex was not familiar with this part of London, but knew from the smell they were close to the Thames. She expected great dirty buildings and a dearth of street lighting and was not disappointed. They were not quite at the address, though, but halted several numbers away.
In addition to their driver, four men on horses were along for the expedition. The colonel issued orders. Each went off in a different direction to reconnoiter the wider area for suspicious hooded characters.
Mourne departed south toward the river, walking briskly. He was soon lost to the shadows.
The buildings were home to a number of businesses, some with foreign-sounding names and few clues to what was made or sold behind their walls. They were, of course, closed and silent with no sign of a watchman or owners living on the premises. It might be a busy place during the day, but seemed as empty as the moon at this hour.
Which was wrong. London, being London, had a surfeit of population to fill the streets. Even unfriendly, deserted ones like this usually had a share of drunkards, prostitutes, and thieves wandering through. What did locals know that kept them away? Brook seemed to sense the oddness as well, holding himself alert and restive, though he was silent.
Alex decided she did not care for, nor was she suited to, sentry duty. She was impatient and cold, but moving around would make noise and possibly draw attention. She kept the solid bulk of the Black Maria to her back and hoped this venture yielded fruit. That alone might (might!) mitigate her ignoring orders.
But in retrospect, it was ridiculous to hang expectations on an old address even if the source was Lord Hollifield himself. On a mere recollection he’d connected the air rifles to a visit from a self-proclaimed inventor. There might be a hundred such engineers roaming about with plans for making air guns with cranking mechanisms.
Which was the problem: someone had obviously executed those plans.
What a nasty yet appropriate word: executed.
