by P. N. Elrod
“All the time. It keeps me safe. Hardly ever have guests. I’m supposed to be in bed, but I like you. Had to say hallo. Do you like my sitting room?”
“It’s lovely.”
“But so quiet. One day after another with the big clock up the road striking away the hours. Dickie promised to find a better place for me, but there won’t be time, things are going to get dreadfully busy for him.”
“In what way?”
“He’ll find out. I think he’ll find out. I don’t know. I might never know. Or I’ll know too much and it gets stopped up trying to get out. I’ve just the one head and a thousand thoughts a minute, all of them right and all of them wrong and somebody always wants me to pick just one. But I leave that to others.”
“Quite right,” Alex said supportively, buttoning the blouse. The blue and brown stripes should not have cooperated, yet did. “This is delightful.”
Another pleased giggle. “I like getting things right. Makes up for the other times.” She ran water in the washing basin and soaked a fresh towel in it. “For the handsome one’s eyes.”
“Lieutenant Brook?”
“I don’t know. There’s a handsome man with bruises and he’s keen on you. Be keen right back.” She thrust the towel into Alex’s hands.
“That’s not something I’m able to—”
“Piffle. Be keen.” She made shooing gestures, and there was no answer but to leave.
In Alex’s absence the fire had been built up with more coal, making the room pleasantly warm for all its size. James, stretched on a long couch, snored gently. Brook began to rise. She waved him down.
“Put your head back,” she said.
He obeyed, watching from his blooming bruises. He did have such nice eyes. She eased the cold towel on, and he gave a small sigh. As she started to turn, his hand somehow caught hers. Neither so gently that she could pull away nor so firmly that it would hurt, he held fast. He was insistent about it.
The emotions from that contact …
Her instinctive reaction was always to slam her internal armor in place.
This time, she did not.
What flooded in was … nice.
His feelings were like chords of music. Sweet. Warm. Boundless. Waves of it, lifting, lilting, strong.
She knew she was the source of its creation in him.
Which was a little frightening.
He released her hand. She expected him to move the towel so he could gauge her reaction, but he left it in place. He’d wanted only for her to know. What she would do with the knowledge was her choice.
She gulped, seized by a hectic urge to run, which was foiled by a calm curiosity to stay and see what might happen.
“Lady Drina?”
Fingate. Dear, wonderful Fingate saved her from making a decision. She gave her full attention to him as she might grant to a life preserver flung her way on a stormy sea.
“I must speak with you,” he said. “A private matter. Family.”
Something to do with her father. “The hall, then.”
He followed her out and they settled on two chairs beneath a lighted gas sconce.
“I’ve a small favor to ask, Mr. Fingate. I prefer to be called Alex, or if you must, Miss Alex or Miss Pendlebury. I’m used to it, now. After tonight the less connection I have with that side of the family the better. I’ve no use for titles in the Service.”
His expression was unusually distressed. “Very well. Something … I don’t know how to say it. This beyond unspeakable if it’s true. I hope to God it is not, that I just made a mistake.”
“About what?”
“You said earlier today that you live on Baker Street?”
“What of it?”
“And Dr. Fonteyn told me that you’ve been with the Psychic Service for several years.”
“Yes.…”
“If that’s true, then why is it that—”
* * *
Alex found the carte blanche letter almost murderously helpful at clearing obstacles. It enabled her to walk unchallenged out of Service headquarters, to commandeer a coach, and to get through the Horse Guards. She had an errand that would not wait, even if she was dismissed in disgrace as a result.
She stormed up to the door of Pendlebury House and, having lost her key, rang the bell until someone let her in. It might have been Mabrey, she was in no state to notice.
She pushed past, fetched what she wanted, and departed without a word. If her aunt and uncle were back from whatever social demand had taken them away, she didn’t know or care. In her present mood she’d have set fire to the whole damnable place and felt only satisfaction.
Fingate had told her much, and Alex worked out the rest.
The coach was barely stopped before the Service building when she burst forth and charged into the front reception area. Mrs. George was not on duty, but the older man at the desk readily provided the number of the room she wanted.
Below street level were the most secure and quiet rooms, used for Readings. Now it was as noisy as an East End public house on New Year’s Eve.
Certain select occupants from the Grosvenor Square raid were confined in the small locked rooms here. She recognized a number of grim-faced men in disheveled evening dress being escorted to and fro. Some were silent with shock, others fought and bellowed commands, which were ignored. They’d be questioned by Readers, each in turn, the interviews taken down in shorthand. Of course, they could choose not to speak. That was their right, but there was likely to be other evidence to bring against them. They were in for it.
Alex made her way through the turmoil, her armor firmly in place. She conjured a pleasant fancy about her godmother reviving the custom of putting the heads of traitors on pikes for the amusement and instruction of the populace.
No guard was on the door she sought. A bolt was enough to keep the occupant locked in. Alex peered through the sliding peephole, threw the bolt, and went in, leaving the door open behind her.
Cousin Andrina, still in disheveled male attire, rose from the wooden bench on the far wall. She saw what Alex carried. Instead of showing shame, her chin went up in defiance.
Alex raised high the treasure box bearing their shared name.
Her cousin blanched and cowered back with a scream, hands up to ward off the coming blow.
But Alex smashed the box as hard as she could against the stone floor. The corners burst. It seemed to explode apart. The contents, packet after packet of envelopes tied up in cords, bounded from their captivity and scattered.
There were ten packets in all, one for each year since Father had waved to her from a dock in Hong Kong. Ten years of letters for A.V. Pendlebury, residing at 16 Wilton Crescent, London.
It would never have occurred to Father that Andrina, also christened with the queen’s name, might receive Alex’s mail instead.
Perhaps the first delivery had been a mistake on the part of a servant. Perhaps Andrina saw her name on an envelope in a stack on the hall table and opened it.
How she must have laughed all those months as Alex waited in vain for word to come from her father. What an excellent joke on the hated interloper.
Alex found the oldest and thinnest packet and slipped off the ribbon. The first letter was dated on the day of her departure from Hong Kong. Her father sent warm and loving greetings along with the bad news that he would be out of touch for a number of months. Duty compelled him to travel through difficult and dangerous country and he trusted that she would understand he could not discuss details. Foremost in his heart was her safety and well-being. He knew she would be strong and apply herself to become a part of his brother’s family until such time as they could meet again.
The next letter was dated months later from Siam. Again, warm and loving greetings and he begged her to write to him care of the embassy there.
That must have been when Andrina replied, perhaps a short note imitating Alex’s hand, just to see if she could get away with it.
Four month
s later Gerard was in Melbourne, assuring her any letters to Siam would be forwarded. He was pleased that her studies in Latin and German were progressing since she’d not been as interested in them before as she was in French and Cantonese.…
The whole of the vicious deception was clear and brutally cruel. Andrina imposed her accomplishments onto Alex’s life, getting two things she craved like drink: revenge and paternal love.
Leo’s regard for his daughter was distant and cool, bestowed out of duty, not affection.
Gerard was the better father. Even secondhand and based on a lie, Andrina fed on his approval, hoarding the letters more carefully than any miser his gold.
It was brilliant, and at the same time irrationally stupid. The whole sham could have been revealed at any time. A letter from Gerard to Leo, a note to mutual friends, even a missive to the queen proudly mentioning his daughter the lady-in-waiting, and it would have ended.
Yet Andrina kept it going. Long after Alex came of age and moved to Baker Street, Andrina continued the ruse.
But when Gerard at last returned to England, her decade-long trick would be exposed.
“You saw Father at one of the Black Dawn meetings,” said Alex. “You recognized him, but he did not know you. The last time he’d seen you, you were a child in ruffled dresses and white stockings, your face sticky from stolen candy.”
Andrina had her back to a wall, with as much distance between herself and Alex as could be managed in the small room. Her gaze flicked to the open door and the activity there. The people without were busy with their own concerns. A Reader interviewing someone was not worth notice.
“Never mind that a lady-in-waiting to Princess Charlotte was involved with anything as wretched as a pack of traitors, you were in a panic that he would turn up at Wilton Crescent looking for me. It would all come out then. You couldn’t tell Teddy, that would give him something to hold over you. This had to be dealt with quietly and alone. The Black Dawn had the means to remove inconvenient people, particularly spies.”
“That would have taken too long.” Andrina’s voice was thick. “It takes more than one member to issue a death order. They hold a trial first. A quorum of five goes over the evidence. It always ends the same, but they’re so proud of having things right and proper. That takes days. I had hours.”
Alex picked up the packets of letters and put them in order on the bench. She untied the cording on some and threaded the lengths through her fingers. Silk. Silk was very strong.
“How did you speed things?”
“I signed Teddy’s name to an order with the date of the last quorum. We had ‘Dr. Kemp’s’ address. He was a spy; they would have removed him anyway. I’d have been forgiven for taking action. Teddy would have protected me. He needs—needed—me to help with his courtship of Charlotte.”
“And then you had Father murdered. Brutally, coldly, without remorse. Only relief.” Alex played with the cording and stared and stared at her. It was a standard ploy for Readers. Wait long enough and some subjects spoke of their own accord.
“I’m not without heart,” said Andrina. “I directed that Uncle Gerard be rendered insensible and then hanged. It was peaceful and painless. He didn’t feel anything. The beast’s handler assured me it was well able to carry out complex tasks.”
“Was my name on the same death order?”
“It had to be. You’d have found out everything. But that fool of a keeper heard the row going on at the other end of Baker Street, saw that our men were routed, and lost his nerve. He left. It was my bad luck that Teddy set his hounds loose to go after Desmond on the same night.”
“What a nasty surprise to have me appear on the doorstep in need of a safe place to stay.” Alex would ask Mrs. Woodwake if she’d had any inkling of what a bad idea that had been.
“But I covered it. You’re not clever. A few insults and you can’t wait to leave any room I’m in.”
“Well played. What about the next attempt with the beast? I didn’t see you at Hollifield House.”
“I wasn’t there. When the message came to have you kidnapped, the beast’s keeper took it as an opportunity to complete his orders to kill you. They’re all frightfully dedicated to the cause, and no one with secrets ever wants a Reader around.
“My death wouldn’t matter. You’d have still been discovered.”
“Not at all. I’d have burned the letters.”
“It was inevitable. You overlooked Fingate. Father always let him know what you wrote.”
“Who’d believe a servant over me?”
Alex shook her head. “What a self-centered witling you are. What a supreme dunce.”
“He has no standing. No one would belie—”
“I say again: you are a dunce. A bookless donkey.”
“Name-calling? If you’re reduced to that then you’ve lost the argument.”
“It never once occurred to you that Father would have kept all of ‘my’ letters as safely as you kept his?”
Andrina’s mouth snapped shut. The Medusan glare returned.
“They’re in a strongbox at his bankers’ with other important papers. Fingate told me about them. Had you killed me, the game would have still been over. That box would have gone to his brother, who would have found those letters. Unlike you, Uncle Leo is no fool. He’d have worked it out with or without Fingate dropping a word in his ear. He’d have kept it in the family, of course, but he would have known. There’d be no disowning of you—can’t have that sort of scandal—but Leo would have seen to your removal from the palace. Mustn’t have murderers and liars hanging about the royal heirs.
“Your father may be cold, but he’s a man of honor. He would have resigned and removed everyone from London. He’ll still resign. The family won’t survive what you and Teddy have done to it.
“I should be pleased to let Teddy know all that you’ve achieved. If you’d not acted, his plan for the Black Dawn to press forward might have worked. But whatever the outcome, you’d have lost.”
“You won’t get those years back,” said Andrina. “All those years your father praised me, not you. Those are mine. He was proud of me, not you. I’ve won.”
“Convince yourself of that in the times to come when you sit alone in a cell not nearly as pleasant as this.”
“There’s no proof connecting me to Gerard’s death. It’s all on Teddy. No one can prove I forged his name, and I will deny everything. I will put on a most convincing show. Not even a Reader will get past it. You and your ilk may detect lies, but you can’t force people to speak. You’ll get no admissions from me.”
The memory of Lord Richard questioning the captured Black Dawn fanatic was fresh and sharp. Alex had no doubt that whatever talent had been in play then would be used on Andrina later. Alex smiled. “Then you’ve a terrible surprise ahead. I won’t spoil it for you.”
“Are you finished? I’m tired. I want tea and food and a proper room. Send someone to bring me a change of clothes. I’ll make a list for my maid.”
“Witling,” Alex repeated. “That life is ended. This is your life now—while it lasts. I’ll have to look up what’s done to traitors these days. I don’t know if they’re hanged or beheaded. If the latter, then we might have to send for one of those French machines.”
Andrina laughed once and sat on the bench. “That won’t happen. They won’t execute a woman, and they certainly won’t execute a goddaughter of the queen. She’ll never allow it.”
“She may have no choice. She’s sworn to support the laws of the realm. But I like our godmother. There are ways of sparing her from such a decision—”
Andrina’s shriek for help was cut short when Alex whipped the silk cordings around her throat, pulling them tight like a thuggee sacrificing to Kali. Andrina clawed and beat at her.
Alex let her armor down and felt the rage, the fear, the panic, and then the stubborn disbelief. Andrina knew she wouldn’t die, not really. Her struggles faltered.
But that wasn’t the p
oint.
Alex whispered in her ear. “This is what happened to Father. This is how it feels. This is what you brought upon him. You are going to die, Cousin. Your tongue bulging and black, your eyes bloodshot, your face purple. What an ugly corpse you’ll make.”
Andrina suddenly found fresh strength to fight, trying to pull the strangling silk away.
Alex pulled it a fraction tighter and waited until the certainty of survival faded. She felt the raw instant when her cousin realized it was over. The horrified panic returned and it was devastating. Alex slammed her defenses between them to avoid that wailing despair, counted to ten, then let go.
Her cousin fell and lay like a dead thing. After a moment, Andrina twitched, then began wheezing. First short, ineffective gasps, then coughing, then whoops as she struggled to fill her lungs. Alex was reminded of her own near-drowning.
“Was it peaceful for you? Was it painless?” she asked.
Andrina seemed not to hear.
Alex gathered the letters and kicked the debris of the box outside the door. She went back and knelt close to Andrina, looking into her eyes, into her bloodshot and terrified eyes.
“You’re going to remember this. When the light fades each night you will always feel that tightness about your throat. You will dream about it and wake from nightmares about dying. You will remember what you did to deserve it. This will haunt you forever; each time you take a breath in the dark, you will remember this. You won’t be able to help yourself.”
Alex rose and walked out, bolting the door.
She made it halfway down the corridor before her knees gave way. The blackness struck her like a club.
Strangely, the floor was a soft and yielding thing. It held her close, rocking and protecting her.
It felt like music.
* * *
The peaty taste of whiskey pulled her back. She cleared her throat and shot fully awake.
To her chagrin, Mr. Brook was on the floor, holding her cradled in his arms. She started to rise, but after the first feeble effort decided it might be better to rest for a moment.
It was quite ridiculous. Wholly unprofessional.
