The Hanged Man

by P. N. Elrod

  He read, “8:30—Masters Impart. Well, well. It must not be an exclusive gathering if that sort of fellow was invited.” He nodded toward the office.

  “If this was addressed to him, and I think it was. Look at his boots.”

  “What about them?”

  “They do not match the drabness of the rest of his clothes. Those are a gentleman’s boots. As for his hands … he’s no laborer. Does a bit of writing to judge by the ink stains and—oh, bother this minutia; look at these invoices. Does the handwriting seem familiar to you?”

  “Mrs. Veltre again—with an order for five thousand tea gowns?”

  “We’ve found her dressmaker.”

  “What’s this?” asked Richard.

  She gave him a truncated report of the coded receipts they’d found at Hill Street.

  “How did you know to go there?”

  That was somewhat more difficult to report.

  He was ill-pleased at the answer. “Why did you not pass this information to Mrs. Woodwake?”

  “I discovered it after she interviewed me. She gave no indication that my father’s death and-and yours…” She faltered, voice fading a bit. “… were connected. I wanted to be sure of things before bringing it to her attention.”

  “The truth, if you please, Miss Pendlebury. You knew she’d send someone else.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Whatever the outcome, there will be consequences for your ignoring orders.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “But not right now. Continue with what you’re doing.”

  Before she could, Alex caught the word “regret” from Colonel Mourne and the prisoner raised his head and declared, “No, sir. Not one! If you had a shred of true honor you’d see to your duty as I have. England for the English!” he called out in a ringing tone as though it were a triumphant battle cry.

  Lord Richard, battered and weary, reacted with a marked straightening of his already straight spine. On an altogether different level, Alex felt such a powerful wave of anger coming from him that she almost staggered from the force.

  “Sir—” she began, but cut off when Richard raised a finger.

  He left them, had a quiet word with Mourne, and took his place as interrogator.

  Richard put one hand under the prisoner’s chin, forcing him to look up. His lordship’s full attention was in play; the man visibly trembled. Alex was glad not to be under the focus of those ice-blue eyes. They were intimidating enough when he was being friendly. Now, well, whatever it was, it looked intense and unpleasant.

  However, she had endured and overcome that gaze. She was prepared to wait until he finished and could explain things.

  But Colonel Mourne snorted and gestured for them to follow, muttering, “Get along, you two. Over here.”

  Flying squad men were busy throughout the place, opening bins and poking at machinery. When Mourne came to one of the long benches, he eased down with a groan of relief, abruptly looking old and tired.

  He sniffed. “Lieutenant, any of those mince pies left?”

  Brook obligingly opened the carpetbag and Mourne fell on the supplies like a starving man. Alex made use of another bench, pulling it close. A wave of cold fatigue seized her, stifling even her rampant curiosity as countless little aches and bruises began to make themselves felt.

  Eyes closed, she slowed her breathing, creating a calm center within until the physical distractions subsided. When she could face things again, she opened her eyes to find both Brook and Mourne staring at her.

  “Emma Woodwake teach you that?” asked Mourne.

  “It’s what I learned when Father and I were in Hong Kong.…” Treacherously, her control slipped and she gulped to keep from breaking into mortifying sobs. She would not allow it. “The man … the thing I shot—that’s the ghost. That’s what killed my father.”

  “You saying or asking, girl?”

  “Both. What is it?”

  “I’ve never seen the like before, but officially, things have gotten worse.”

  “What things, sir? Worse than Father’s murder, worse than an attack on the Service, worse than what we’ve just been through?” She managed to keep her voice from rising, but her throat was tight.

  “Yes. I’m deciding how much to tell you. I’ll talk to a calm member of the Service, but not to an excitable outsider. Choose.”

  Brook took one of her hands and pressed his flask into it. “Drink,” he ordered. “You’re thirsty.”

  Indeed, she was parched, and she wanted water more than anything else, but choked down enough peaty fire to steady herself. The stuff had a more immediate and powerful effect than controlled breathing. She gave back the flask with a nod of thanks.

  By then Mourne had finished off the mince pies and produced his own flask to wash down the last morsel.

  Even with the rush of alcoholic heat making her head feel heavy, Alex plunged forward. “Lord Richard said he’d explain. He gave his word on it.”

  “Of course he would. He’s a sentimental fool when it comes to pretty girls, and he should know better.”

  “This very morning he was shot dead right in front of me. Please don’t say I was mistaken.”

  “I won’t, though it’s true. He was in a bad way for a bit, but it takes a lot to put a dent in our Dickie. I imagine there’s times when he’d like it to take him away for good, but he wasn’t killed. Not today.”

  He paused for another drink.

  She recognized the kind of hesitation that preludes a difficult task. He’d speak in his own time, but perhaps a topic change and some small prompting would help. “I’ve seen tigers in India—but never ones with green eyes.”

  “How long were you in India?” he asked, giving her a sharp look.

  “Several months.”

  “Get to see some of the stranger things their fakirs got up to? Listen to any of their stories? Doesn’t matter if you did or didn’t, what those johnnies flog to the crowds for begging bowl money ain’t the real show. There’s hardly a handful in the whole damnable country able to do it … and they keep it to themselves lest some raja wants ’em dead or chained up as a slave.”

  “Sir, of what are you speaking?” asked Brook.

  “Nightmares, Lieutenant. Legends that are real and shouldn’t be.”

  “Like the ghost?” suggested Alex.

  “No, missy. Like myself and Dickie over there. You’ve got your ability to Read. Is it a gift or a curse?”

  “Equal parts of both, sir,” she said drily.

  “I’ve heard the same from all of those with psychical talent. Some are born this way, others come to it late, and others acquire it. Dickie and I are in the last lot. He volunteered God knows how long ago; mine was against my will but I’ve made the most of it since. We serve queen and country, which is all that matters. Before you say you don’t understand, don’t bother. It’ll come with time.”

  “This is ridiculous,” said Brook. “Conjuring tricks. Magic lanterns. You can’t ask me to be a part of such flummery.”

  “Too late for that, Lieutenant. You’re square in the middle, like it or not. There is the psychical and then there is the supernatural, and for that there’s no proof but your own eyes, but don’t expect me to go the whole tramp. I’m all in.”

  With that, Mourne closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  Alex held her own, not knowing what to expect. Brook froze.

  Mourne’s features, his whole body, seemed to ripple like air over a hot oven. For an instant his form stretched in a wholly impossible manner, skin and clothes melding, changing color and texture. She glimpsed the supple, dangerous beauty of black and yellow stripes, deadly grasping teeth, and arresting green eyes set in a wide, flat skull.

  Then it ceased and he was as solid as before, a savage-faced old hunter showing dour regard, as though expecting the worst.

  “Rakshasa,” Alex whispered.

  “Close enough,” he grumbled. He looked at Brook, who remained frozen. “Shap
e-shifting demon to you, Lieutenant, but leave off the ‘demon’ nonsense. I’m a man, same as you. Most of the time.”

  “Impossible.”

  “Believe your eyes or not, I’m too tired to do a full shift. Makes me hungry and we’re out of mince pies. The tiger would be ravenous. He’s fond of raw meat and sometimes not too particular where it comes from.”

  Brook glanced helplessly at Alex. “Shape-shifting demon?”

  “It’s from Indian folklore, a myth,” she said, recalling what she’d read as a child. “Rakshasas are supposed to take any form and haunt graveyards looking for human flesh.”

  “That’s the myth part, at least so far as I’m concerned,” the colonel added. “Thank your lucky stars.”

  “How is it possible?”

  “Any number of nasty things can happen to a soldier when he’s off in a strange place. He might bring home a case of malaria to haunt him for life—or worse. This is what I brought back. There’ve been times when I’d have gladly traded.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “I’m not giving my life story. Suffice that when I was much younger and more foolish I was in the wrong place at the right time and you don’t need details. I’m all for females having an even footing with men on most things, but the rest of the tale ain’t fit for a lady’s ears.”

  Alex considered arguing the point, for she had read a number of books that were outside of what was thought to be “fit” for her sex. But it would be useless to press. Once a man got it into his head that he was being protective, there was no shaking him.

  “Very well.”

  “Sensible girl.” Mourne lifted his flask again, seemed to think better of it, and put it away. “I came back changed, we’ll leave it at that. So what is it? Gift or curse? I’ll say along with you that it’s both. What matters is we’re on the same side.”

  She glanced toward the office. Lord Richard must have been making progress, for the prisoner appeared to respond to questions. That was a good sign, though his lordship did not seem pleased with the replies.

  “Does … does the queen know?” asked Brook.

  Mourne gaped with naked disbelief for a moment, then barked a short laugh. “That’s your first question?”

  “A reasonable one, I think.”

  “Of course she knows, though it’s the Lord Consort who usually deals with us. He and Dickie’s family have a long history. They haven’t always gotten on, but times have changed. There’s too many dangers afoot to be choosy about one’s allies, but Lord Richard’s always been bound to defend the throne, and I mean that in a literal sense.”

  “Is he also … a rakshasa?”

  “No.”

  “What is he?”

  “The official title is Queen’s Champion, though you won’t find it written down anywhere. As for how that came about, he’ll tell you himself if he’s so inclined. He’s older than he looks, stronger than any half dozen of my men together, and it’d take more than a few rounds from some pop-gun toy to remove him from this life, the poor devil.”

  Alex could not imagine Lord Richard as an object of pity, though the memory of his bloody body on her cousin’s floor was yet fresh. How had he survived that? She repeated the question aloud.

  “Once upon a time, they called it magic,” said the colonel. “Now young squibs like Crookes and Sexton are trying to explain us with science. Good luck to them.”

  Brook shook his head, a thread of helplessness in his tone. “Sir, this is impossible!”

  Mourne was nettled, but he kept his voice low and even. “Raise your voice to me again, soldier, and I’ll have you transferred to the Hebrides. I know this is hard, but at least pretend a respect for what I’ve said.”

  “We’re getting answers,” Alex whispered. “Even if they are impossible. No more so than Miss Sybil, and you believe what she tells you.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?” demanded Mourne. “She pulls her prophecies out of thin air and you accept ’em over what you’ve seen firsthand? What you fought out there in the street? You laid fists on that creature. It was real enough to do injury.”

  Brook seemed about to speak, then shook his head. He tipped his flask and finished it off.

  “Hold strong, lad. You might get used to the impossible. Right, let’s move on to what’s in front of us. We’ve been lucky. Miss Sybil foiled one attack and Miss Pendlebury saved us here thanks to a well-placed shot, but be certain the enemy will regroup once they know they’ve failed.” He jerked his head toward the courtyard. “What do you make of that thing, missy?”

  “It looks ape-ish,” she began, then considered that Mourne would be after a useful summation, not a statement of the obvious. “But its actions indicate that it must have possessed human intelligence. It murdered my father, invading his home and attempting to make murder look like suicide. It invaded my home, perhaps to serve me the same way, but for some reason abandoned that task. I believe it abducted Mrs. Veltre and God knows whether she’s alive or not. After Mr. Brook and I left Lord Hollifield it turned up on a roof here, ably handling an air gun. Mr. Brook does not like the suggestion of a connection between this business and his lordship, but I cannot ignore that he sent us to this address. However, the creature shot prisoners along with your men. Considering its apparent intelligence, I would suggest its goal was to prevent them from being questioned, rather than an inability to tell one side from another.”

  “Your two cousins were at Hollifield House,” said Brook. “One or the other could have asked about our destination. His lordship would have seen no harm in informing either of them.”

  “I’ll allow that James or Teddy could be involved, however unlikely that might be. But is it not more logical to consider that Lord Hollifield might be a member of the Ætheric Society?”

  “The Ætherics?”

  “Many members are of the upper classes. Whether they’re there to hear lectures on metaphysical and theosophical topics or to enjoy a more prurient entertainment—”

  “But he’s your friend, Miss Pendlebury, and … and the queen’s relation by marriage.”

  “All the more reason to keep his membership a secret and to silence a spy in their midst. That could explain my father’s removal. Mrs. Veltre had some association with him, so she also had to be removed.”

  “Peace, missy,” said the colonel. “You’re making guesses. It’ll be easy enough to determine if Lord Danny’s mixed up in this.”

  “How?”

  “We ask him. Our Dickie boy will do the honors. He has a way of getting the truth from people whether they like it or not. Try not to look too appalled, Lieutenant. Lord Richard may get his general orders from the Lord Consort, but he’s bound by oath and honor to serve the queen. If her brother-in-law is up to no good it has to be sussed out for the safety of the realm. Wouldn’t be the first time that royal relatives made a mess of things. Whatever you do, don’t mention the Wars of the Roses—oh, there you are. About time. You look how I feel. Sit.”

  Lord Richard, accurately described by the colonel, found a bench and surrendered to its limited comfort. He was paler than before and pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was … not pleasant,” he said.

  “The lad has a stubborn eye.”

  “I’ve had better cooperation from dead mules.”

  “Was he drunk?”

  “Not on spirits. He’s a fanatic. It’s typical for religion and politics and a few other vices. Their extreme views are without reason, like a fever sickness. Took an effort to get past that.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “Nothing good. He’s heart and soul with the England for the English mob, but confirmed that there’s a group behind them directing business.”

  “The Ætherics?” asked Alex.

  “They’re also just a curtain covering deeper and darker things, a tool and a source of funding from fools who should know better.” Richard turned his tired gaze on Mourne. “It’s as you thought: the Orde
r of the Black Dawn.”

  The colonel’s chronic scowl deepened. “I wish I’d been in error.”

  The name was not familiar to Alex, but something about it instantly nagged her.

  Brook shifted and muttered, “Those pamphlets we found.”

  “Ah,” she said, catching the meaning.

  “What do you know of the Black Dawn?” Mourne demanded sharply.

  Brook continued, “Mrs. Veltre had Ætheric Society literature with the motif of a black sun on it. They’re connected, are they not?”

  He made a noise of disgust. “There’s brass for you. Hiding in plain sight.”

  “What is this order, sir?”

  “The nobs directing things, so far as can be told. The Black Dawn’s worse than the Ætherics or the E. for E. louts playing at politics. Some hint of ’em started up about the same time young Drina took the throne. There were those who didn’t want her marrying any German prince, must have been a dozen plots afoot to assassinate any man with royal blood daring to cross the Channel. Busy times. But she showed them all. Can’t get more English than the Godalming tribe.”

  “The next time they surfaced,” said Lord Richard, “was during the furor prior to the passage of the Equal Franchise Bill. Some thought it bad enough the queen wanted to give a vote to every man in her realm, propertied or not, but she insisted women have a vote as well. Predictions of chaos, revolution, God punishing us all for disrupting the natural order of things—it was a mad time. The Service had a different Seer then, a bit more focused, and he kept having a vision of a black dawn. Took us a while to sort out the meaning.”

  “Did some good,” said Mourne. “Because of that we were able to foil another gunpowder plot.”

  “Another one?” said Alex.

  “Along with assassination attempts on the queen and any number of politicians supporting the bill. The vote went through fair and square as it should and passed by a cat’s whisker. Let’s hope you appreciate the effort that went into it, missy.”

  “Indeed I do,” she said, “but what is the Black Dawn?”

  “From the little we know they’re a pack of johnnies who don’t want change of any kind. It can be bad for business unless it’s a change that suits them. If you’re a fella who makes his pile selling guns, then a war every few years is just the thing to keep you in country estates. But the queen’s a great one for using diplomacy over force to defend her interests in the wide world. There’s some as think women having the vote has to do with that. Pure nonsense. Females are just as bloodthirsty as men, given the right circumstances. The obvious answer is that our queen’s brilliant at picking ambassadors.”