The Hanged Man

by P. N. Elrod

  “And consulting Miss Sybil?”

  “There’s that. Keep her name to yourselves from now on. There’s a war on and the less said about our assets the better.”

  “The Black Dawn knows about her, since they appear to have a means of blocking her Sight,” said Richard.

  “Mirrors,” said Alex.

  “What about them?”

  “She spoke of them to me.”

  “When did you get in to see her?” he demanded.

  “Put your bull pup away, Dickie,” said Mourne. “Miss Sybil slipped her keepers. Woodwake found her in the dining hall frightening everyone out of their appetites. Sexton had the wit to write down everything she babbled, but I didn’t get a chance to read it. Tell his lordship the rest, missy, before he bursts a blood vessel.”

  Lord Richard snorted, but pulled himself back, looking a bit less terrifying.

  “She…” Alex cleared her throat; it had gone tight. “She mentioned red curtains, mirrors, a blackness behind them, and that I should break them and damn the bad luck.”

  “That’s all?”

  She nodded.

  “Well,” he said, after a long moment. “It would seem that you do have orders. Good of you to share them with us.”

  “There’s more, Dickie. These two have been…” Mourne then rapidly conveyed what he’d learned from Alex during the trip from Hollifield House.

  To her chagrin, a now stone-faced Lord Richard ordered—but so politely that it sounded like an invitation that might be declined—Alex and Brook out of earshot.

  “Whether one wears a uniform or not, a soldier’s lot is not a happy one,” said Brook.

  “That depends on the trust one has in one’s senior officers.”

  “Do you trust them?”

  “I am conflicted on that point, Mr. Brook.”

  Alex could not determine which man had the higher ranking in the chain of command. Probably Richard, but the colonel argued with him like an equal, and his lordship listened. They kept their voices down but it was a forceful and rapid exchange.

  While this went on, new people came in. A glance through the open door showed two coaches in the courtyard, each overflowing with Service members. Some were obviously there to augment the flying squad men, others she recognized as clerks and record keepers. Doubtless they would take the place apart down to the nails and sort through every scrap of paper looking for names. Alex opened the carpetbag and gave the senior clerk the now mince-smeared invoices collected from Veltre’s home, explaining their code. He nodded and swept away to the office, calling orders to his staff.

  “That was quick,” Brook murmured. “The rider who shot past us must have found another telegraph station. A direct line to Service headquarters in this part of town?”

  Just how many of those had Lord Richard set up? Alex recalled a story in The Times where a financier boasted of the extraordinary amount he’d spent on a single line running from his West End home to the Royal Exchange. He disliked venturing out in inclement weather and had paid dearly to avoid it. Richard’s expenditure must have been a hundred times that. The outlay indicated tremendous personal resources. An intense curiosity about the man belatedly seized her. Who—and what—the devil was he?

  As though sensing her regard, he looked her way just then and indicated that she and Brook should return.

  “If the Veltre baggage kept the accounts for the Black Dawn,” Mourne was saying, “no wonder they’ve been on the move. She’d know as much of their plans as any of ’em. If they thought she’d been spilling to Gerard—someone might have panicked, sent that beastie to deal with him. That doesn’t explain why it was after the missy here unless there’s another Pendlebury involved who didn’t want to be rumbled by a Reader.”

  “Absolutely not,” said Alex, before Lord Richard could reply. It was speaking out of turn, but she was already struggling to keep her annoyance in check. “We’ve been over this and I gave good reasons to exclude them. However, it has been years since I lived at Pendlebury House. Perhaps a belowstairs spy is within the household and feared discovery. Servants come and go. My aunt can be difficult. I should like a chance to Read any staff that—”

  “Now she wants to go home,” Richard put in.

  “That place is not my home, but I’ll do whatever is necessary to find who’s behind this.”

  “I expect you will do what you please—we’ve had ample demonstration of that—but will you follow orders?”

  She felt herself flushing red. They were never going to let her forget her lapse.

  Mourne snorted. “Oh, turn her loose, Dickie. She’ll do more damage.”

  “And possibly get damaged herself in the proceedings. If you hadn’t stopped them, these two would have walked right into this place or been shot dead at the gates by that monstrosity in the courtyard. I think it was sent to kill her and Brook and instead began eliminating witnesses to the goings-on.”

  “That puts Lord Danny in the thick of things, y’know.”

  “I am inclined to think he’s nothing more than a cat’s-paw. I’ll determine that later. For now, we must take action before the Order learns of this setback and either decamps or mounts a fresh attack.”

  “I’m all for it, what do you suggest?”

  His lordship favored Alex with a wintry smile. “Ask Miss Pendlebury.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  In Which Miss Pendlebury Acquires a Dashing Disguise

  “They don’t look like madmen,” observed Brook. “You don’t look like a madwoman. I’ve not gone mad quite yet, therefore we should not be doing this.”

  “They were easily persuaded,” Alex conceded, “but it is expediency, not madness that brought them to their decision. They want information as quickly as possible. It would consume time to acquaint others for such an infiltration. I can think of none who could take our places. Perhaps Mrs. Woodwake, but she may not possess the necessary attire. Neither do I, but I know where to acquire it.”

  At that prospect, Alex allowed herself to enjoy a short but satisfying moment of pure malice. Within the darkness of their coach, Mr. Brook was spared from seeing any negative change overtake her features. He’d had enough alarming shocks in the last few hours and should have a respite.

  Their Service driver held his horses at a smart clip through the nearly deserted streets, taking the most direct route possible to Pendlebury House. Four riders accompanied them as front and rear guards. All were squad men, armed and armored.

  Lord Richard was keen to discover who was responsible for what he called “this bloody mischief,” which explained his ready agreement to Alex’s plan to attend the Ætheric Society event taking place at 25 Grosvenor Square at half past eight.

  His spies would not be unprepared; Brook was both her escort and protector. Like the riders, he was now armored, outfitted by a flying squad fellow of similar size. The metal plates were bulky, but his heavy cloak concealed all. He now possessed two loaded firearms, one in his coat pocket and another strapped to his chest. A cleverly designed harness and holster held that revolver under his left arm, its grip within easy reach.

  A captured air gun would have been handy, but such a distinctive weapon would only alert the enemy to the presence of cuckoos in the nest. Alex had her Webley and hoped it would not be required. Lord Richard thought they would be safe enough. Past gatherings of Ætherics were reportedly boisterous, but not violent. Attendees of their most private of private parties were well dressed and rendered incognito by means of masks and veils. Alex inquired how he came by his information and was told that “Blackmail can be a force for good, when properly applied.”

  She reasoned that he’d gotten a recounting from a luckless acquaintance.

  The Grosvenor Square address was a puzzle, owned as it was by that fearfully respectable patron of the arts and bastion of the highest of high society, the Duchess of Denver, making it the most unlikely place to host an event of wild debauchery. Lord Richard informed them that the duchess and h
er household were wintering in the South of France, so she might have innocently leased the house to some member of the Ætherics, unaware of the possibility that unsavory proceedings might occur.

  Or might she be in the Order of the Black Sun?

  Disturbing thought.

  Colonel Mourne’s succinct instructions were in line with Alex’s own plans: get inside, learn all that could be learned, and then get clear to report.

  Eyes open, ears sharp, Inspector Lennon had told her. He’d likened her to being a tethered goat to lure out tigers for the Service. In this case, it was a Service tiger sending her forth. What would Lennon have to say about the colonel’s strange talent? Being a sane and sensible man, the inspector could be expected to head for the nearest public house and remain there until he forgot the whole matter.

  Brook peered around the leather flap covering one of the windows. “We’re here.”

  Their conveyance slowed and stopped, but the front riders continued past Pendlebury House, circling Wilton Crescent, looking for but finding no hidden threats. Alex was out, key in hand, with Brook at her heels. She didn’t breathe again until they were inside the dim entry.

  The gas was low in the front parlor, but she corrected that and gave the bell rope a sharp pull. One of the maids appeared and, despite training, yielded to a bout of shock.

  Alex distracted her by ordering tea. Mabrey the butler appeared, hiding his surprise rather better, and inquiring whether he might be of assistance.

  “In due time,” she assured him. “Where are the family?”

  They were away at various celebratory functions. Mabrey gave a recitation of where each might be found.

  Excellent. Alex would not have to explain herself to any of them.

  “This is Lieutenant Brook, who is assisting me on a Service investigation. As you see, he’s suffered a misfortune and is in need of attention. Do whatever’s possible to improve his appearance and send one of the senior maids up to my room. We’re in a great hurry, and I apologize for the imposition, but I assure you it is extremely important.”

  Mabrey, having developed a high degree of imperturbability from dealing with the demanding Lady Honoria, gave a dignified nod as though he understood all. Alex told Brook to ask for anything and to please excuse her for no more than twenty minutes.

  She trotted upstairs, stopping at her old room to divest herself of the cloak and the worse-for-the-wear blue dress. Not bothering with a dressing gown, she crossed to the necessary, scrubbed the blood of combat from her hands and face, and then quickly tripped down the hall to Andrina’s sanctum.

  A candle served to light every gas sconce in the chamber. Little had changed since the day Alex sent her offensive and bossy cousin tumbling over the floor. Some surface trappings were different: favorite toys were gone, replaced by elaborately framed photographs of various royal personages, but the wardrobes remained. Four lined one wall and Alex invaded each.

  Aunt Honoria’s personal maid, who had seen to things that morning, appeared with a tea tray and biscuits.

  “Bless you,” said Alex. “Just on the writing table, if you please.”

  “This is Lady Andrina’s room, Lady Alex,” she cautiously informed.

  “I’m giving my cousin the chance to serve our queen in another fashion.” Fashion indeed! Andrina will burst a blood vessel and serves her right, comparing me to a parlor maid. “I need to borrow a frock. Something formal.”

  “Those will be kept in her dressing room, Lady—”

  “In there? Capital. And please, address me as ‘Miss Alex.’ It’s what I’m used to.”

  “Yes, Miss Alex. But—”

  Alex barged into the adjoining dressing room. It had once been a communal playroom for the house children, but Andrina had annexed it. Four more wardrobes, shelves for shoes, boots, and countless other items of adornment filled the place. Where to start? There was so much.

  “Best dress?” she prompted.

  “There are several, Miss Alex. What sort of occasion are you attending?”

  “A dinner.” That would give her some flexibility. “Pearls, not diamonds. Modest neck. No train. Veiled hat.”

  The maid went to the second wardrobe. “Any of these might serve.”

  “Bring them out for a look.”

  While the maid did that, Alex attacked the tea. She was dry as dust, and this time took milk to cool it quickly. Not as quenching as water, but it revived her.

  An old treasure box on a writing table abruptly distracted her from the tea. Years ago she’d salvaged it from the attic. It had been hers when she lived here. As a secure place for trinkets it was a disappointment; the lock was broken.

  How odd that Andrina had claimed it, considering her contempt for all things to do with Alex. Their shared full name was carved on the lid, the result of hours of work by Alex scratching away with a penknife on a rainy afternoon. The dull wood now shone from beeswax polish. She touched it, her guard down, and a maelstrom of emotions swarmed her. She jerked back, feeling ill.

  “Something wrong, miss?”

  Many things. She forced order upon the turmoil, pinning each emotion in place like an etymologist mounting and labeling a specimen. Here was fear, there was loneliness, this one was vast frustration, and that one … a terrible internal pain like a bleeding physical wound: longing.

  The box had layers of it, thick as mud built up over the years.

  Alex’s response was astonishment. She had no idea that Andrina kept all that in her heart. What an unhappy, empty woman; no wonder she obsessed over exterior show.

  But this box also provided Andrina with a great and sly gloating pleasure. There was something unhealthy about it, repellent. What the devil was inside?

  Internal armor back in place, Alex tried to raise the lid, but the broken lock had been repaired. Her picks or a hairpin would remedy that—

  Don’t be ridiculous.

  Andrina’s privacy was sufficiently violated with this raid on her clothes. Alex wished she’d not touched the box; she didn’t want to know such things about her cousin.

  The diversion did raise a potential problem Alex had overlooked. “Is there a dress Andrina has not yet worn?”

  The maid pointed out several. After cautious testing, Alex determined the garments were imprinted more strongly with the fading emotions of the dressmaker (a cheerful sort) rather than her cousin. “I’ll need a cloak, too. Something dark, just over waist length.”

  “Velvet, wool, silk, fur, or satin?” After tonight, the maid would certainly be looking for a new post, minus a character reference, but if the prospect crossed her mind, she did not seem concerned. Her internal calm was admirable. Well, if she was dismissed, there was a place in the Service for her; Alex would see to it.

  Alex both marveled over and disdained the fine dresses; they were as far above her once-pretty blue ensemble as it was above a horse blanket. The effort and expense to make the exterior of such an unpleasant person attractive offended her.

  But picking out the best of the lot imparted another great, warm wash of malefic pleasure. Andrina would be so offended that her things had been gone through like rags at a charity jumble she might throw away the whole lot. Alex enjoyed the thought for a brief, sweet moment, then got down to business.

  The best was too ostentatious and would draw notice. She picked the next one, which was elegant without too many fussy trims.

  Alex was soon buttoned into the heavy silk gown, which was the finest thing she’d ever worn in her life. The color was a faded mauve with a soft sheen to it, the lines simple, the trims abundant but not overwhelming. However wanting Andrina was in personal charm, she possessed excellent judgment in attire.

  “It’s as though it were made for you,” the maid remarked. “You’re just a bit taller than Lady Andrina, but it otherwise fits.”

  “The waist is tight.” They’d had to take in her corseting to a painful degree. Alex hoped she’d not be required to do anything more strenuous than a walk.<
br />
  “Gentlemen like a trim waist.”

  Alex had yet to hear a man, gentleman or not, express any such opinion. It had always come from females. One day she’d have to inquire into the why of it, and she was positive that her sisters in the greater world had got it wrong.

  In less than the promised twenty minutes, which was a wonder since proper dressing for a lady could take hours, Alex descended the stairs, making adjustments to the matching kid gloves that reached to her elbows. She’d gulped more tea for her thirst, had two digestive biscuits to steady her stomach, and was ready for anything.

  Under Mabrey’s supervision, Uncle Leo’s valet had worked some strange magic with a clothing brush and sponge. An almost new man again, Mr. Brook waited at the landing, face washed and hair combed. She was abruptly reminded of coming downstairs in her own home so early that morning, for he wore the same expression, mouth agape, eyes goggling, and this time he failed to collect himself.

  “You—” He cleared his throat. “You look most dashing, Miss Pendlebury, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  Theirs must be a collegial association, but there was nothing wrong with a bit of harmless admiration for a successful disguise. “Thank you, Mr. Brook. Your appearance is much improved.”

  “Wait a few days and I’ll have a glorious blue-and-yellow bloom around this eye.”

  “It is rather swollen. Is your vision impaired?”

  “Not a bit. Mr. Mabrey recommended the application of raw beefsteak, but I requested and got a mask instead. It will not be out of place at such a secretive gathering.”

  “Mabrey must have hidden depths.”