“He hasn’t been in yet today,” a man called from his desk.
Wycliff huffed. Nash must have put in an appearance to hand in the story about the burned body at the theatre. But what if he had written it in advance? If someone at Unwin and Alder had told him which funerals to stalk, perhaps another informant could have told him who would be consumed next by mage fire. Each day the number of people involved grew, which had to work in his favour. As the old adage said, the only way three people could keep a secret was if two of them were dead. Someone would talk. All he had to do was pull the right loose thread for it all to unravel.
The first one he would pull was the short length of thread in his pocket. In all regards, it looked ordinary, some eight inches long and dark red. How, he wondered, would it lead him to the reporter? Wycliff did as instructed and tied the cotton to something Nash had touched—the handle of the teacup. His hand slid back into his pocket to retrieve the paper with the odd inscription on it, and he whispered the words in the unknown tongue.
As he uttered the last word, the teacup rattled. The thread wriggled and jiggled to the point he worried it might untie itself. Then a spectral red light flared up and pooled by the ceiling like smoke unable to escape. Lady Miles had said only he would be able to see the tracking thread. The mist shimmered and congealed, then it broke into a tangled line like a ball of unwound wool. One end picked itself loose and drew circles in the air, rather like a bloodhound that went around and around until it settled on the scent. Then a red arrow shot across the room and out the door.
Wycliff took off after the phantom arrow and its tail. Down the stairs it flew and out into the street. Pedestrians walked through the line and it dissolved, turning into a red mist, but enough of it remained intact to show him the way. Across the street he trotted, along lanes, then zigzagging back to the other side of the road. He followed the trail of a crimson will-o’-the-wisp. Just as he wondered how far away it would lead him, it bounced up a set of stairs, snaked around an open doorway and into a lodging house.
Inside, Wycliff paused while his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. From somewhere above came the scream of a fractious baby, and a woman yelled at a man. Furniture crashed, a door slammed, and a heavy tread raced along the hall. The tracking thread headed up the narrow stairs, weaving its way through the railings to avoid a man hurrying down.
Wycliff stepped to one side to let the fleeing figure pass. On the second floor, the thread dropped to the ground and turned into a caterpillar. It inched its way along the hall to the door at the end and slipped underneath.
“Got you,” Wycliff murmured, then he rapped on the door.
A scrape came from within, then the door cracked open an inch and a bleary eye regarded him. Before his quarry could slam the door, Wycliff put his shoulder to it and forced it open.
“I’ve been waiting to talk to you, Nash. You’re a hard man to pin down.” Wycliff closed the door and leaned against it.
Nash was short and wiry, and reminded him of a hungry rodent that would put up quite the fight despite its small size. The man stalked across the room to put distance between them, and he spread his hands as though about to take flight.
“Lord Wycliff. I heard you’d been asking for me, but I’m a busy man. I was on my way out, so we’ll have to postpone our little chat.” Nash picked up a battered leather satchel from the table and then gestured to the door and Wycliff, as though expecting him to move out of the way.
Which he didn’t.
Wycliff drew in a slow breath through his nose and took in the messy surroundings. The room was on the large size for such lodgings, with an unmade double bed in one corner. Two armchairs sat before a cold fireplace. A square table had four chairs around it and books and papers piled to one side. The single window looked over the street and the drift of noise floated up. It was obvious a bachelor lived in the room. Clothes were strewn about, two drawers pulled open, and plates with the remains of congealed dinners were stacked in the middle of the table.
He’d start with an easy question. “What happened to Peters?”
“Who?” Nash held his gaze and didn’t blink.
“The man who works for Unwin and Alder. Who slipped you the names of whose funerals to attend.” While Wycliff didn’t know for sure if Peters had met Nash the day he disappeared, it was a safe bet the two men had been in cahoots at some point.
The reporter’s lips narrowed to a thin line, and he shrugged. “Don’t know him.”
“Shall we try another name? Like whoever is paying you to spread your salacious stories?” It was a long shot, but one never knew which question might elicit a response.
The reporter’s hands twitched and tightened on the satchel, and he broke eye contact. “You married Lady Miles’ daughter and reside under the same roof with the mage. What’s it like sharing a house with one of those dead things? Do you wear an iron hat to bed, to make sure your brain stays in your cranium?”
Wycliff’s lip pulled up in a snarl and he could feel the hound creeping over his skin, waiting for him to let it off the leash.
“I bet you know all about what they eat to sustain them. You’re an investigator for the Ministry of Unnaturals—you should be hunting them to keep the rest of us safe.” Nash grew bolder with the success of his attack. “But then, you lot all stick together. All those noble women dining on the brains of the common folk. It shouldn’t be allowed. We should follow the French example—rise up and overthrow the toffs. Then all those dead women will be where they belong—six feet under. Or their ashes scattered on the wind at a crossroads.”
Wycliff closed his eyes and allowed the hellhound the control of his features. He opened his eyes and the room around him shimmered with a grey mist, punctuated by a bright red shaft of sunlight from the window. “The Afflicted harm no one. Unlike your rabble rousing. I assure you, Nash, you don’t want to get on my bad side.”
The newspaper man sucked in a breath and took a step back. Then he stared at Wycliff with renewed interest. “What are you? You’re not dead like them. Wolf? You growl like one, and I know a few of your sort were made during the war.”
“I will be your worst nightmare if you don’t become much more cooperative about who is feeding you information.” He let the heat drip over him and fangs extended in his jaw.
Nash swallowed and clutched the satchel to his chest. He trod backward until he bumped into the table. “You’ll get nothing from me. Turn into a wolf if you want, but there are those I fear more than you. You can either join us or them, on a bonfire. We’ll have a wicker man no one will ever forget.”
Wycliff ignored the comment about making a wicker man of the Afflicted and stalked toward Nash, who compressed his spine and shrank before him. “You fear someone more than I?”
Part of him was insulted that the reporter didn’t immediately divulge who had given him fodder for his stories. What could invoke more fear in the man than a hellhound about to snuffle out his soul from his physical form?
The answer flowed into his mind and swirled with the lava in his veins. “He’s a mage.”
Nash’s eyes widened, then he ran. Wycliff had moved away from the door and given the man an opening. He sprinted for the doorway, flung it open, and scrabbled across the landing to make his exit.
Wycliff considered pursuing the man. He could catch him on the stairs. But what would it achieve? Let him run like a startled rabbit. Since he now stood alone in the room, he would use the opportunity. Pulling out a chair, Wycliff seated himself at the table and began reading the scribbled notes and balled-up pieces of paper. Due to Nash’s messy habits, it didn’t take long to find the screwed-up missives. One note had the name of Mrs Kelly and the details of the funeral. Another piece of paper, in a different hand, mentioned Fiddler’s Theatre.
Folding up the notes, Wycliff placed them in his pocket. At least two more people were involved. Three, if a mage had not written either note. He suspected the one about Mrs Kelly would prove to be in Pete
rs’ hand.
He descended the stairs at a slow pace, gathering his thoughts and his temper. Nash had fled, but where could he go? Wycliff now knew where he lived and worked. If he didn’t turn in his stories, he wouldn’t earn his pay, nor would he advance his master’s plot against the Afflicted.
A mage. Someone within the mage council sought to erase the unfortunate women and men. He would need to tell Lady Miles. Could this be why the council refused to allow her to address them?
He wandered back through the busy roads, when a tall figure reached out a hand and tapped his shoulder, pulling him out of the dense mist of possibilities in his mind.
“Lord Wycliff? I was on my way to find you.” Taylor danced back a step to let a mother dragging two children go past.
“Taylor. You have news?” Wycliff would add to the man’s tasks. He needed someone to keep an eye on Nash and tell him who the man associated with over the course of his day.
“Yes. We found Peters.” The Bow Street Runner fell into step beside Wycliff.
There was one piece of good news for the day. “Excellent. I need to confirm a few things with him.”
“There’s a problem with that.” The Runner’s face performed a contortion. “We pulled him out of the Thames this morning.”
“Damn it.” This investigation was nothing but false leads and dead ends. “Do you know the cause of death? Did he have anything on him?”
“I had his body taken to a doctor not far away.” Taylor waved down the road and the two men began walking in that direction. “There’s nothing obvious as to why Peters died, or not that we saw from handling him.”
“Do you know Nash, the reporter?” Wycliff asked.
“I know him. Seen him about a bit. He’s the one penning those stories about the…Afflicted.” Taylor bent his head closer to whisper the last word.
Wycliff hoped the Runner wasn’t succumbing to the creeping fear that pervaded the streets. “That’s the one. Can you have someone watch him? I want to know if he is talking to anyone unusual.”
“Unusual? You mean like an Unnatural?” Taylor rubbed his mitten-clad hands together. Today he wore dark grey ones that matched his long coat.
“I’m not sure who I mean. Watch for anyone out of the ordinary for a reporter to be sidling up next to. I believe someone else is behind the articles and I want to find out who. He was rather uncooperative when I spoke to him, and there was a glint of fear in his eyes when I asked who controlled him.” It still astonished him that the man had expressed a greater fear of that unknown hand than of a hellhound.
Taylor snorted. “Not sure I want to meet the creature that can put fear into that one. Given what he does to get his stories, I didn’t think he could feel anything.”
They turned into a narrow lane, and then Taylor stopped at a gate in the stone wall and cracked it open. They entered the rear yard of a tall house, the ground before them bare, compacted earth. Washing was strung on a line that spanned the narrow space. Hunkered into the ground and huddled with its back to the stone wall sat a squat building like a root cellar or cool store. Taylor rapped on the door, and in a moment an older man pulled it open.
Wispy white hair was plastered to his skull and small gold spectacles perched on the very end of his nose. He peered over the rims to look first at Taylor and then Wycliff, before he stepped back to admit them. “I’m nearly done, Taylor. He can be collected by his family today.”
“This is Doctor Thurlow, milord. He attends people hereabouts and agreed to take a look at your man for us,” Taylor said by way of introduction.
The cellar had been converted to a small autopsy or treatment room. The wall of shelves that should have held preserves contained bottles and vials such as an apothecary would stock. A single slab of stone sat in the middle of the room. Lanterns hung from the low ceiling to illuminate the deceased, and Wycliff had to duck to avoid hitting them as he neared.
A foul odour similar to that of rotting fish wafted off the man and assaulted Wycliff’s nostrils.
“He’s not fresh, so let’s not linger too long over him, gentlemen,” Doctor Thurlow said.
“Do you know how long he’s been dead?” Wycliff wished they could have done the examination in the cleaner and brighter rooms of Sir Hugh, but appreciated that Taylor had acted quickly. Without evidence of Peters being an Unnatural or dying at the hands of one, Wycliff couldn’t pull the death under the Ministry’s jurisdiction and involve his father-in-law.
“Given the state of him, he’s been in the water for a week,” the doctor replied.
“Cause of death?” Wycliff asked as the doctor folded down the sheet.
A dark red scar spread across Peters’ chest and then down his sternum to his navel, the two sides held together by regular stitches of black thread.
“Drowned. I found water in his lungs.” The doctor stared at the man’s form.
So he had been alive when he went in, then. “No other marks or injuries?” Wycliff scanned the body, but the autopsy scar seemed the only major affront to him. A few bruises and scrapes could easily be explained by the action of the tide banging the body against obstacles under the surface of the murky Thames.
“Most of the scrapes are post mortem and happened after he hit the water. There is a slight bump on his head, but I can’t tell when it occurred.” The doctor pulled back a lock of hair to show it. “It’s not a large wound and wouldn’t have killed him.”
“But could it have rendered him unconscious?” The ability to swim wouldn’t have saved Peters if he had been knocked out before he was tossed into the Thames.
“Possible. Unfortunately, it’s not uncommon for the Runners to haul a body from the Thames. Most people can’t swim, and a few too many drinks and a tumble can prove fatal.” The doctor picked up the corpse’s hands and placed them over his chest. Then he shook out the sheet and spread it back over the man.
A flash of blue caught Wycliff’s eye. “Wait.” He put his hand on the sheet and leaned closer. “Here. What is this?”
On the back of the man’s left hand was a blue squiggle.
The doctor lifted the arm and turned the man’s hand toward the light. “Paint? He might have rubbed against a boat hull.”
“It doesn’t look like paint to me, and a week in the Thames would have washed it away.” Wycliff stared at the mark. “It’s a tattoo.” An odd thing to permanently inscribe into one’s skin. It seemed like the scribble of an artist testing his brush. It might be important, or it could be nothing. Wycliff pulled out his notebook and copied the curls and twists of the symbol.
“He might have belonged to a gang as a lad. Some of them ink themselves as a way of recognising each other,” Taylor said.
“Perhaps. But I’m not discounting any clue.” Wycliff tucked the notebook away. “Thank you, Doctor Thurlow.”
He left the close atmosphere of the stone-walled room and stepped back into the light and comparatively fresh air of London.
Taylor pulled the door to the cellar shut behind him. “I’ll go tell Mrs Peters and arrange for the body to be delivered to her. Then I’ll set some of the lads to watching that reporter for you.”
Wycliff nodded his thanks. The Runner proved his worth as an assistant daily. Now if only he could pull all the loose threads together and discover who sought to remove the Afflicted from London.
16
Hannah stared at the missive in her hand. Lord Tomlin, the mage grandfather of gentle Timmy, had poured onto the page that he wished the Afflicted burned from the earth. Had he created mage fire to achieve his goal?
“Dreadful thing to say to a woman who only wanted her life back. I can understand why such a rude response provoked my cousin’s temper.” Mrs Hamilton picked up a biscuit and bit into it.
Hannah tapped the letter against her palm. “Lord Tomlin is not sympathetic to the plight of the Afflicted. Might I hold on to this?”
“Of course, if you think it would be of any assistance.” The older woman passe
d the plate of biscuits to Hannah.
Hannah stayed a little longer and promised to attend the service to inter with her baby son all that remained of the former Lady Albright. The letter from Mage Tomlin lay heavy in her reticule. She needed to speak to her mother. Who better to provide mage fire to their unknown attacker than the man who believed the Afflicted were a plague upon London?
But first, there was another task on her short list—to determine whether Mr Oliver Berridge was taking his tea in his home, or sitting in a box in her father’s laboratory.
At their next destination, Frank climbed down from his perch and helped her from the carriage. Barnes clung to the seat in a lookout position. The spell binding the two remained in place, as the disembodied hand seemed to enjoy his outings to London. Or perhaps Frank preferred not to leave his rival alone in the house with Mary. Although Hannah suspected Barnes had become rather enamoured of Mrs Rossett during their time at Mireworth.
“Keep. Watch,” Frank intoned in his slow drawl.
“Thank you, Frank. I suspect I shall not be too long.” Hannah glanced up at the town house in the quiet street. Constructed around a square, all the homes looked over the central green space where children played, while a nanny sat on a bench under a tree. The street had a peaceful air as the last days of summer unfolded.
Hannah rapped on the polished black door and composed herself.
A footman opened the door, and the ghost of a smile flicked over his lips. “May I help you, ma’am?”
“Is Mr Oliver Berridge at home?” She hoped the answer was yes, but the turmoil in her stomach predicted the response would be no.
The footman’s hand tightened on the door. “No. I am sorry, ma’am, but he is not home at present.”
At that moment, a man wearing a trailing robe in bright blue with gold embroidery appeared in the foyer. His eyes widened on seeing her. “Lady Wycliff!” he exclaimed. “Do come in.”
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