by Lynn Viehl
Big tears welled up in Deidre’s eyes, and she shrieked for her mother, who rushed over. “What’s the matter, darling?” As soon as the birthday gel told her, the mother turned to the old man. “Go on, then. Give her a rabbit.”
He straightened. “I’ve tried, madam, many times. It will not manifest.”
She propped her fists on her hips. “For the ten shillings I’m paying you, it had better manifest, and right this instant.”
“There must be rowan or witchbane planted nearby.” The old man glanced around at the neat flower beds. “I fear I am powerless here.”
“You dodgy charlatan. If I wanted to be gypped, I’d have hired a Rom.” She pointed to the gate. “Piss off.”
“But ye’ve not paid me—” The old man stopped and yelped as the birthday gel bit his hand. “Bloody little savage!”
He swung his stick at her head, but I grabbed it before he could hit her.
“You’re a bad man,” I said, and broke the stick in two. “Go away.”
His eyes showed whites all the way around as he pointed a trembling finger at me. “It’s her,” he croaked. “She’s done it, she has.”
“Kit?”
I looked up at Doyle’s concerned face and realized for the first time just how much I liked it. “Sorry.” The last thing I needed was to go sweet on a cop. “Before Deidre’s mum threw out the old tosser, he called me something. Something nasty. Do you remember what it was?”
“I must have missed that part of the tea.” He smiled a little. “Why do you care what a drunken old bully said?”
“Because someone called me the same thing today.”
The inspector wasn’t looking me in the eye anymore.
“ ‘Elshy,’ ” I said. “And I still don’t know what it means. Do you?”
He shook his head.
Like all cops, Tommy Doyle knew how to lie. Most defenders of the truth usually did. I decided not to press the issue—for now. “So why have you come to call on Disenchanted & Company, Inspector?”
“I’m assigned to the Hill,” he said. “We received a report of a disturbance at Walsh’s Folly yesterday.”
“How terrible.” I meant his assignment, not the disturbance.
“A young woman imposed herself on one of the wealthier families.” He leaned against my wall. “Apparently she claimed some sort of connection and had to be ordered off the premises.”
“What cheek.” The butler had reported me, I guessed. Nolan had no cause, and Diana wouldn’t risk it. “I do hope you find her.”
“The lass in question called herself Kittredge.” His mouth stretched and curled. “Do you have a sister I don’t know about?”
“As far as I know, I’m the only female Kittredge in the city.” I peered down at the random notes I had scrawled on my blotter. “How odd. I called on Lady Diana Walsh yesterday, at her invitation. I had tea with her and her delightful family before I departed, and that is all. Perhaps there’s been some terrible misunderstanding.”
“Lady Walsh will verify your visit?” After my nod he demanded, “Did you go there to extort money from the lady?”
“Not at all.” What had that creaky old winge reported, that I was a blackmailer? “I make my money honestly, Inspector. Ask anyone.” I thought of Gert. “Except old witches. They’re not too fond of me.”
“You called on a family of means with whom you have no connection. You are unmarried, and you went alone. You know how that looks.” His blue eyes searched my face. “Who hired you, and why?”
“I am not employed by the Walshes or anyone on the Hill,” I said truthfully. “As for the ton’s rules of behavior, they do not include women who work for their living.” Now it was my turn to attack. “I didn’t think the Yard gave credence to servants’ gossip. So how does it work, Inspector? Do you run about chasing down every tittle-tattle you hear, or only the really juicy ones?”
Two flags of color rosied the jut of his cheekbones, giving him an unexpectedly boyish look. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you called on the lady?”
“If you don’t believe what I’ve told you, ask her,” I suggested, feeling a little pang in my heart. He’d been a lovely boy, and he was a fetching man, but he was only a few steps above a beater. “I’m sure they’d pass her a note from you, as long as it’s got a Yard seal and has been sprayed for nits. Not like you’re a nobber, right?”
Doyle shook his head. “You shame your mother with that mouth, Kit.”
“And you’ve covered the Doyle name with glory?” I leaned forward. “What would my dear old uncle Arthur, rest his spirit, think of his grandson, Tommy the copper?”
I’d hope that would provoke him enough to send him on his way. Instead, he grinned. “Grandda would have loved seeing me earn my shield, you brat, and you know it.”
His grandfather had come from royal blood, the highest of high posh, the truest of the blue, but the old gent had been inordinately fond of Toriana’s vast working classes, especially those who protected the innocent.
“Aye . . . you’re right. He’d have been proud of you, Tommy.” So was I, and in that moment I wished we were two other people. As we were, we’d never have a chance.
He gave me a speculative look. “Why did you leave Middleway for Rumsen? You’ve no people here, Kit.”
“No one there, either.” I wasn’t going to tell him how horrible it had been, living in the house where my parents had died, sick with grief, unable to think. How the vultures had barely waited until Mum and Da were in the pyre before coming for me. “As you see, I’m doing all right.”
“Very well.” He retrieved his longcoat. “After your mother was sent from the queensland to Toriana, my grandfather made her his ward. She enjoyed his unwavering affection, his protection . . . and confided in him her most guarded secrets.”
Old Arthur must have let something slip; he would never have told anyone, not even his own blood. “You needn’t hint, Doyle. I know my mother was a nameless bastard.”
“Is that all you know?” Before I could reply, he said, “You’ve worked on the Hill in the past, so you know what you’re tempting. Walsh will do whatever he must to protect his wife’s reputation. But first, he’ll go excavating.”
I shrugged. “Let him.”
“Walsh belongs to the Tillers,” he continued, referring to the grandest of not-so-secret secret societies for men in Rumsen. “He won’t just dig, Kit. If he can’t find what he wants, he’ll plant it.” He took out a card, wrote something on the back, and handed it to me. “Directions to Mum and Da’s place. I know they’d love you to call.”
“How kind of you to say.” I took it, and after a small hesitation gave him one of my own. “Should you ever find yourself in need of my professional services, my rates are quite reasonable.”
“I think ten years policing have disenchanted me nicely.” But he pocketed the card. “You’ll stay off the Hill, then?”
“I have no plans to return,” I said honestly.
He touched his brim. “Then good day, Miss Kittredge.”
“Inspector.” I bobbed with the same courtesy.
CHAPTER SIX
The gurgling sound of my BrewsMaid roused me from the last minutes of my uncomfortable night sleeping on the office settee. I might have rolled over and tried for another restless hour or two, if not for the tasks that awaited me.
Tom Doyle could have done a lot more than simply ask questions on behalf of Nolan Walsh. Last night he could have hauled me in for questioning, or even tossed me in a cell to be held under suspicion. I appreciated his restraint; I also heeded his warning about Lady Diana’s husband.
Too many odd things had been happening too fast. I’d met the ghost of a grandfather I’d never known existed. Doyle had been sent to question me and then had hinted he knew more about my mother than I did. Even Dredmore had made a point to warn me off Walsh while nattering on about his dark and dire forces, whatever that meant.
I’d never investigated mysel
f or my family, but it seemed a prudent time to remedy that. I’d start by going down to the City Archives, where I could search the Hall of Records.
Before I left the office, I retreated into my private lavatory, where I kept several changes of clothes. In going into the realm of men I had two options: donning my gray switch, some face paint, and my blacks to project the appearance of a widow lady, which would be costly, or stripping myself down to the skin and donning my bucks. Since Walsh might be having me watched, and I never cared to hand out bribes unless they were absolutely necessary, I decided to go native.
Erasing every aspect of my gender didn’t take much time. I sprayed my face, arms, hands, ankles, and feet with bronzen, which darkened my tanned skin to a copper brown. Making my brow fringe stand on end and stay that way required the careful application of axle grease mixed with a bit of flour. I could do nothing about the color of my eyes, but enough native women had been captured and released along with their too-dark children during the settlement that tribal people with light eyes were not uncommon now.
Finally I stuffed my crotch with a stocking-covered sausage, a trick Rina had picked up from her clients and had passed along to me. “If you’re ever wondering if the bulge your beau sports is real,” she had advised, “introduce him to a hungry dog.”
My garments were fashioned out of scraped hides sewn together with leather lacings and decorated modestly with native beadwork. Out of respect for the real natives, I didn’t wear any feathers in my hair or on my person; those were reserved for braves who had bloodied themselves in war. They were also sported by the only natives I truly despised, the shamans, who claimed to have the sight.
Native magic was every bit as phony as the kind performed by Rumsen’s resident magefolk, but far more dangerous. The city practitioners faked their spells out of greed, in order to swindle their victims; the shamans used their false conjuring to control their entire tribe, to whom magic was like a religion.
The only drawback to going native was the lack of transport; I couldn’t take the trolley or hail a cab, and natives were not permitted to own carris or coaches. Instead I hired a pleasant mare from a public stable and rode on horseback to City Hall. There I had to ride past a native stablehand, but he must not have looked too closely at me, for he made only the terse, sidewise jerk of the head that served as a wordless greeting among the tribes.
Natives lived outside Rumsen on the lands permanently deeded to them by the Crown after the last treaty had been struck, and they did not permit their women to leave its boundaries. However, after failing to become the farmers the Crown had desired them to be, the tribesmen had gradually drifted back to Rumsen to seek work in the city. They were generally employed to look after horses or livestock, as they preferred animals to people, or worked in tanneries or potteries. I’d seen a few light-skinned braves serving as drivers and footmen to young bachelor masters, as they were ferocious fighters and made the best bodyguards. Given the distressing history between the races, few families trusted them around their females, and so natives were never brought on as household staff, even among the working class.
The one prime convenience the treaty had brought for the natives was equal rights as voting citizens. New Parliament had argued for years against it, but a change in attitude toward the preservation of indigenous peoples throughout the Empire had resulted in the males of the tribes being made full citizens. Posing as a native male I had the right to access any of the government’s archives whenever I pleased—something not even the wealthiest of white women could do without paying a prodigious number of bribes.
As it was a weekday, I expected the City Archives Building to be jammed—and it was. But most of the citizens came to purchase permits and licenses or pay their taxes, which created long lines outside Provincial Planning and H.M.’s Revenue & Customs. By comparison the small, cramped office of the Hall of Records was nearly empty, with only a sour-faced legal clerk and two vicars waiting in line. The collars ignored me, a poor heathen who in their view was already doomed to burn in hell everlasting. After one desultory glance I also ceased to exist for the legal clerk, who could not expect to solicit business from a citizen whose interests could only be represented in court by a tribal conciliator.
After fifteen minutes of standing and waiting—something a woman would never have been expected to do—I faced the records secretary. He was one of the thousand ubiquitous young clerks in the city, overly groomed and hopelessly attired, but he greeted me courteously enough and asked via universal hand gestures if I required an interpreter.
“I speak and read the English,” I said in my deepest guttural native accent.
“Thank the Son,” the secretary said baldly. “Takes forever to hand-speak things with you lot, especially with the documents. What do you want?”
“I seek record of grandfather, soldierman, work class,” I told him. “Father wish give name papers for young sister to husband’s tribe.”
Some of the natives believed having blood ties to important white families, particularly if they were friendly, elevated the status of a female and could result in her husband’s family offering a higher bride price. Since the government collected a hefty percentage of bride prices from the tribe, they encouraged the practice.
“Do you know how to operate the sorter, then?” When I nodded, the secretary gestured toward one of the empty booths to the left of the counter.
I placed a pound note through the window slot. “How long I can use?” Generally there was a limit of one hour, but the clerks tended to give natives more time for translation purposes.
“Unless we’ve a rush come in, you can use it as long as you like,” he said as he placed the note in his cash drawer. “If you need assistance, tap the bell.”
I entered the glass-sided booth, which smelled of dust, paper, and men’s sweat, and sat down on the hard-backed chair in front of the wide records sorter panel.
Three large levers were marked with the B, M, and D representing the three major record rondellas (Birth, Marriage, and Death). To the right of each were twenty-six smaller levers marked with every letter of the alphabet, along with two extra with I and D that sorted out incomplete or damaged records. Another row of seven levers further separated the records by province of origin, and at the bottom of the panel was a long row of even smaller annum levers with faded labels indicating years in five-decade increments.
I pulled the B lever and watched through the glass window of the booth as the sorter’s arm descended from the ceiling, then I flipped down the W, another for Tull province, and the annum lever for the fifty-year span before my mother’s birth date.
With its internal cogs adjusted by the levers, the arm stretched out, plucking the first sheaf of glassined documents from the archive shelves. It dropped them into a flat-sided chute, which carried them one by one to my window, where I used the stop knob to hold and glance at each one before allowing it to be whisked by the chute back to its shelf.
Surnames beginning with W in Tull province were common, so there were a great many records to skim through before I reached the Wh’s, and all the birth records of Tullan citizens of the time period named White. There were seventy-two, and not one of them named Harold, Harrison, or Harcourt.
Which was impossible, because my grandfather could not have immigrated to Toriana without registering some sort of document of origin.
I searched the records for the annum of my mother’s birth and found none registered for her, either. I then went to the annum of my own birth, which I had never seen, and found the record of my delivery at Middy Women’s Hospital, which noted my parents’ names. Mum had been listed not as White but as Doyle. Using the new surname, I found among the birth records a writ of adoption, which named Rachel White as a foundling taken in by the Doyle family at age sixteen.
Tommy’s grandfather must have gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to formally adopt my mother, but why? Had my grandfather been some sort of criminal, living under
ground or under a false identity?
I went back to the annum of my mother’s birth and this time pulled all the incomplete records. I found one single handwritten note filed by the midwife who had attended the birth of a female child, delivered to a Harry White, Esq., and wife. My grandmother was not named but was listed as having passed in childbirth. I found no corresponding death certificate for her.
The paper trail ended there. My grandfather had come into existence on the night of my mother’s birth, had evidently lived for sixteen years after without ever registering his identity, and had vanished after Arthur Doyle had adopted her.
I made note of the number stamped on the glassine seal before sending the last of the documents back to the archives, then stepped out of the booth. The other patrons had left, and I saw the secretary was finishing up his lunch at his desk. He came over to the window as soon as he saw me.
“Find what you needed?” he asked.
“No,” I admitted, only just remembering to alter my voice. “If man has no papers here, where else they could be?”
“All citizens of Toriana are required by law to register birth, marriage, and death certificates.” He sighed. “Unless the man was a criminal, or protected by the Crown. Then his papers would be held by the Ministry of Prisons for the length of his sentence, or kept under seal.”
I doubted even someone as high in society as Arthur Doyle could have adopted Rachel if her father had been a convict. “Where these seal papers?”
“All protected documents are kept in the secured archives belowground,” he told me. “But you can’t access them without a writ from the governor’s office, and they won’t issue those to a native. Sorry, old man.”
I knew what I needed then, so I gruffly thanked him and left.
One of the strangest jobs I’d ever undertaken had been for one of the city’s moles, who had contracted me by tube to investigate a sudden infestation of rats in a posh hotel, for which he was being blamed. He in turn claimed to me that the hotel had been placed under a dark enchantment by a rival establishment hoping to drive them out of business.
