Hannah knew the gentleman—Brandon Trayling, Mr Berridge’s live-in companion. He clutched a handkerchief between his hands and his silver hair was dishevelled, as though he had pulled at it all night. Somewhere in his late fifties, he maintained a trim figure and possessed a face with excellent bone structure and few wrinkles. Hannah imagined that many a woman of a similar age would be jealous of how the dandy kept signs of ageing at bay. Not to mention his outstanding fashion sense that made the couple a much-loved addition to any evening.
“Good day, Mr Trayling. I am most concerned about Mr Berridge—”
Mr Trayling burst into tears, his shoulders heaved, and he sobbed into the handkerchief. The footman shut the door and took off down the hall, leaving Hannah to deal with the distraught man.
“It’s him, isn’t it?” Mr Trayling whispered.
“Let us go into the parlour to discuss the matter.” Hannah took his arm and steered him into a tastefully decorated parlour. White walls were highlighted with deep navy and gold trim that perfectly complemented his robe. She guided him to a chaise upholstered in blue velvet and then sat beside him.
“Now, the footman said Mr Berridge is not in. When did you last see him?” Hannah had thought Mrs Hamilton would be the most distraught person she would see today. She hadn’t imagined the depth of Mr Trayling’s reaction, and she hadn’t even told him about the contents of the box yet.
The horrendous noise increased in pitch. The man barely stuttered a few syllables before collapsing against the side of the chaise. Hannah wondered how to elicit the information she required from him. Then her attention alighted on a crystal decanter on a sideboard. She crossed to it and pulled the stopper free. A brief sniff made her eyes water and confirmed the contents would prove useful.
She poured a good dollop into a tumbler and took it to Mr Trayling. “This will help with the shock. I need you to tell me what happened before we can determine whether or not Mr Berridge has been the victim of foul play.”
The older man’s hand shook as he took the glass. He wrapped his other hand around it, stared at the amber contents for a moment, and between sobs, downed the lot in one gulp.
“Ollie left last night. To meet a patron. About a new play.” He spoke in short bursts, between hiccups.
“Do you know whom he met with?” Hannah took the empty glass and placed it on a side table.
“He received a note and left straight after.” Mr Trayling pulled his spine erect and heaved a great sigh that ended in a hiccup.
“He was summoned to the theatre?” Hannah asked. Lady Albright had gone to visit Bunhill Fields after a disagreement with her cousin. No one could have known of her intention until she walked out the front door. Either a servant had told someone, or another watched the house waiting for a chance to catch her alone. If Mr Berridge had been summoned to his doom, then their attacker had progressed to selecting his victims in advance.
“Yes.” A long pause followed as Mr Trayling blew his nose not once, but twice. “There was no show last night, and the theatre was empty.”
Which confirmed the man had been at the Fiddler’s Theatre at the time of the fire. “Do you have this note?”
“Ollie took it with him, tucked into a pocket.” Then grief overwhelmed the man, and he threw himself back on the chaise, sobbing into his hands.
“I am sorry to have to ask, Mr Trayling, but could you tell me if at some time Mr Berridge had ever broken a leg? And what shoes did he wear last night?”
The last bit of her question broke through the man’s grief. “Shoes?” He sat up and rubbed at his eyes. “He wore those horribly old-fashioned things with the heel and a big sparkly buckle. As much as I love him, he does still think he’s a courtier from last century.”
Hannah smiled at the mental image his words conjured. “I don’t think any man should apologise for being well dressed. But did he ever break his leg? I seem to recall some tale about it.”
Mr Trayling snorted—part laugh, part sob. “Yes. Some five years ago. The old fool fell from the stage and broke his left leg. Actors always tell each other to break a leg for good luck, but he took it literally.”
Oh, dear. All the evidence pointed to Mr Berridge being the newest houseguest at Westbourne Green. Hannah clasped the other man’s hand. “I am so sorry, Mr Trayling, but I believe Mr Berridge was the victim of last night’s fire. We found an old-fashioned court shoe with a large buckle, and the person had a broken left tibia.”
Hannah braced herself for a scream of anguish, but only silence greeted her words. Mr Trayling’s eyes rolled up into his head and he swooned in a dead faint. Fortunately, he fell back on the rolled arm of the chaise. She pulled the bell by the door and waited until the footman reappeared.
“Milady?” The man glanced to his unconscious employer and not a flicker passed across his face, as though swooning were a common occurrence in the household.
“Mr Trayling is overcome at hearing some rather upsetting news. Do you have any smelling salts?” she asked.
“Of course, milady.” The footman walked to a cabinet against the wall, opened a drawer, and retrieved a small green bottle. He uncorked the top and passed it to Hannah.
Hannah held the bottle under Mr Trayling’s nose. It took only a few seconds for the noxious odour to do its job. He spluttered and sat up. His chest heaved with the deep and silent sobs of grief.
“A pot of tea, please,” she said to the footman and then dismissed him. She couldn’t leave Mr Trayling alone in such a state. “Is there anyone I can send for, to sit with you?”
He nodded and his fingers worked at the handkerchief as tears rolled down his face. When the footman returned, Hannah issued instructions for someone to fetch a dear friend of the couple who lived across the square.
Afterward, she dashed off a note for Wycliff at the Ministry and then sat alone with her thoughts as Frank took her home. She only hoped her husband’s search had proved successful. They now knew the identity of their second victim and that a note had invited him to his end. They couldn’t call it a murder, for he was already dead. That didn’t sit right with Hannah. Mr Berridge had conducted himself in an honest fashion, much like the former Lady Albright. What was murder if not the extinguishing of a life, regardless of the state of a person’s heart? But apparently that raised all sorts of legal ramifications about not being able to charge someone for murder, when another had already murdered that same person. Would it matter, then, if one person murdered the same victim twice?
As she stepped down from the carriage in the stableyard at Westbourne Green, she remembered her earlier call and the note Lord Tomlin had sent to the former Lady Albright. There was a man she could focus her anger upon. Pulling the slip of paper from her reticule, she charged through the house to the library. Hannah waved the note at her mother as she burst through the door.
“Did you know that the former Lady Albright wrote to Lord Tomlin to seek his help? Look at the horrid reply he sent her!” She stopped before the desk and held out the letter.
Her mother waved it away. “I don’t need to read it, dear child, to imagine. Let me use my psychic powers.” She placed one hand to her temple and bowed her head. “Tomlin makes a disparaging comment about the Afflicted in general, and me in particular.”
Some of the hot air escaped from Hannah’s lungs. Her mother didn’t possess psychic ability—that was one of the few limits Nature placed upon mages. They could not peer into the minds of ordinary folk. What her mother possessed was a long history with the ill-tempered mage in question. “Yes, well, he said something along those lines.”
Hannah dropped the letter to the desk and walked to the window seat. She curled up in a sunbeam and watched a sparrow sitting on a branch of a nearby tree. “What if he is behind this?”
The bathchair squeaked as her mother turned it to face the window. “We must tread carefully if we seek to accuse a mage of wrongdoing. Especially when Parliament cannot agree whether a crime has been committed at al
l. Sadly, he is not the only mage who takes a dim view of the Afflicted. Two others on the council openly supported Tomlin when he suggested a permanent solution to our curse.”
Hannah sucked in a breath. “Why did you not tell me this before?”
“Because the knowledge serves little purpose. We are well acquainted with Tomlin’s character and I suspect the others side with him out of fear—either of us or of him.” Seraphina tapped one gloved finger on the arm of her chair.
“But someone uses mage fire to immolate the Afflicted. What if the attacker has not purchased it from an apothecary, but is being provided with the potion he needs?” She curled her hands around the edge of the cushion. The library door cracked open and Sheba rushed in and jumped to the window seat beside Hannah. Holding the spaniel helped to disperse some of the hopelessness that crept over her.
Seraphina wheeled herself closer. “We need proof, Hannah. Do you know the last time a mage was convicted of a crime?”
“No,” she sighed. She didn’t even know if such a thing were possible.
“Exactly. Kings and those in power will excuse any number of infractions to keep mages on their side. Besides, it would take mages to capture another and bind his magic to make him safe enough to be incarcerated in the Repository.” Images formed and disappeared as Seraphina spoke. Mages encircled another, magic crackling between them. Then the one in the centre burst free and as he ran away, he turned to smoke.
Hannah slumped back against the window. “Mr Berridge is our latest victim. Mr Trayling said he received a letter last night summoning him to the theatre to discuss a new play. He wore the shoes we retrieved.”
Seraphina bowed her head, and mournful music filled the library. “He will be much missed. Mr Trayling must be devastated.”
Sheba rested across her lap as Hannah stroked the dog’s fur. “Someone is targeting the Afflicted, and not only physically, with the destruction of their bodies. Someone seeks to alert all of England to what is used to sustain them, and the reports in the scandal sheets spread fear among the population. If popular opinion demands action, Parliament will have to act even if it means the end of their wives, daughters, and sisters who have borne this curse.”
Wycliff and her father would attend the sitting of Parliament that afternoon, where the crimes and the articles would be hotly debated.
“I fear you are correct, Hannah. My knots of silence have been attacked and frayed. Worse even than that, the falsehoods are fertilised and sprout in every nook and cranny like weeds.” Seraphina waved her hands and tiny soft yellow moths appeared, each a spell to seek out and silence a rumour about the Afflicted. Even as Hannah watched, the light of the moths winked out and they fell to the ground.
“Which confirms it is another mage. No one else would be strong enough.” Hannah still cast Lord Tomlin in that role, even though her mother had attracted many enemies during her life and more after her death.
Seraphina snorted. “I agree that Tomlin is the most vocal of our detractors. But we have so many enemies, how do you pluck out only one name to accuse? What I have seen could be achieved by potions or spells acquired from any mage, and I fear there is more than one hand behind this.”
“We need to stop them before more Afflicted lose what little they have left. If London is turned against us, there will be mass pyres until none of the Afflicted remain.” Or would they all be consigned to the Chelsea Crematorium, used to dispose of bodies from the hospitals? No, Tomlin and his ilk would demand a public spectacle, like the Smithfield fires of Tudor times.
“Do you still wish to remove the spell, my dear? To do so would make you a target alongside me.” Her mother lifted her veil, something she did only for their most serious conversations.
Hannah never saw the discolouration caused by rot that could not be stopped. To her, Seraphina remained as she once was, with blue eyes as sharp as ever and undiminished by death. “How simple the solution would be if we could ask Lady Albright and Mr Borridge who attacked them. Or, we could stop someone else from being harmed by wresting the cure from its creator. My concern is that the longer we delay, the further this conspiracy will spread and the more people will be…extinguished.”
Seraphina blew out a sigh and her lips pulled in a tight line. “I dislike what you are suggesting, but with each day I believe more that you are right and we must journey to the underworld. Besides, I have found little in the trunk of books about shadow mages. I think that I need to ask the source directly.”
Hannah tried to smile, but events weighed too heavily on her heart. “We will go together.”
“Except for your father, who cannot join us.” Seraphina turned her face away from Hannah and pulled the veil back over her features.
The lump of fear inside Hannah grew a little denser. Her father would remain alone beside their still bodies. He had lost his wife once. How terrible for him to lose Seraphina again, along with his daughter, in the same day. “We will return, for Papa’s sake.”
Seraphina nodded. “Your father was telling me of a new bill being proposed in Parliament that will concern the Afflicted. Some agitators want us confined to a secure location for our own safety.”
“Secure location? Do they intend to round us all up and inter us at the Repository?” Hannah slid off the window seat and Sheba jumped to the ground beside her.
“No. Hugh says the rumour is that they want us all confined to the Isle of Dogs. Those afraid of us seem to think we cannot cross water. They obviously forget their old wives’ tales. Witches float like ducks.” Seraphina wheeled herself back to the desk and the open scroll that depicted the weighing of a heart.
Hannah paced as she tried to determine what to do next. They had too many threads to chase. Someone worked to expose Unwin and Alder, another stalked the Afflicted to destroy their physical forms, and there were agitators in power. “There will be no Afflicted to quarantine if the unknown arsonist is left at large,” Hannah murmured.
“Yes. First, we must find the hand holding high that torch and save our fellow Afflicted. Then we can smooth over the troubled waters at Unwin and Alder. When that settles, Parliament’s concerns can be addressed.”
There was one more thing Hannah would add to her mother’s course of action. “You must confront the mage council and determine whether Lord Tomlin is behind this.”
“Yes, and I am rather looking forward to it.” Seraphina held out her hand and a pure white flame burst into life, dancing an inch above her glove. “The first shadow mage in England for over six hundred years is going to demand a few answers.”
17
Wycliff returned to the Ministry of Unnaturals and dropped his coat and top hat in his office. Then he trod the stairs up to Sir Manly’s office with a weary step. A sense of foreboding shadowed his investigation as he worried about who sought to remove the Afflicted from London. He had no doubt that Lady Miles would ably protect herself and her daughter should any Londoners arrive on their doorstep carrying pitchforks and torches, but what of others?
He barely waited for his rap on the door to be acknowledged before pushing into the calm office.
Sir Manly glanced at him and gestured to the sofa and chairs set before the fire. “Sit down, man, you look done in.”
Wycliff dropped into a brown leather armchair and rubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t like where this investigation is going, nor the unrest in the streets these reports are fuelling.”
Sir Manly joined him, the former general quiet as he settled into the chair opposite and stroked a curled end of his moustache as though checking it hadn’t moved during the brief journey across the office. “We are being pressured from above to put an end to these pyres and the rumours about the Afflicted. Apparently it will sully the reputation of certain ladies if it is known what they dine upon and their social invitations might diminish.”
Wycliff leaned back in the chair. “We should be grateful that some months ago Lady Miles worked her magic to keep the more gruesome det
ails of the murders committed by the Afflicted from the press.” The work of Unwin and Alder sparked enough alarm, even though they obtained the consent of relatives and only took donations from the deceased. The city would have a panic-fuelled mob if Nash ever seized on the murders committed by Lady Gabriella Ridlington and her lover, and wrote about how innocents had been killed and their skulls cracked open.
“Have you found out yet who is behind this?” Sir Manly rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and tented his fingers.
The only thing Wycliff knew for sure was that Nash hadn’t ambushed and overpowered the two Afflicted. The man resembled a weasel, with little muscle to him. Gut instinct whispered the man wrote his articles, but didn’t dirty his hands with anything except ink. “I have a suspicion. The reporter turned in his article about the latest immolation before the fire had even died down. One could almost conclude he had it written in advance. When I cornered him about who had fed him the information, he said there was someone he feared more than a hellhound.”
Sir Manly let out an audible sigh. “You let him see the hellhound and he still wouldn’t talk?”
“I let it simmer to the surface, thinking a creature from the underworld who could consign his soul to eternal suffering might loosen his tongue. I am somewhat insulted there is a more fearsome entity on the streets than I.” He tried to inject a little humour, although there was scant to laugh about in the case.
“It has to be a mage,” Sir Manly huffed out the words and then stared at the ceiling. “No mage has ever been accused of a crime, let alone stood trial for one. Tread softly, Wycliff.”
“I have no intention of setting the mage council against me. But the truth must be brought to light.” He would find those responsible for extinguishing the two Afflicted first, then let someone else worry about the charges.
“That is probably exactly what this reporter claims. We both know the information about Unnaturals that is withheld from general circulation.” Sir Manly waved a finger in the air as he spoke.
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