The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree: Stoker & Bash, #2

by Selina Kray

  Hiero let out a bitter laugh. “You’d be astonished at how much nothing a man can live on when needs must.”

  “Oh?” Kip spun Hiero around on his stool, sauntered over to the couch, and sat himself down, a look of mock intimacy distorting his features. “Do tell. Have you an anecdote from your past to share?” Hiero firmed his mouth, glowered. “No, certainly not. Must maintain that cunning air of mystery.”

  Seething inwardly, Hiero smirked. “Happy to share, if you’d care to tell me what’s preoccupied you these past weeks?” The alarm that flared in his green eyes confirmed Hiero’s suspicions. He found himself wishing Kip were a bit more skilled in the art of deception. “No? Then it’s as I thought.”

  “Hardly,” Kip stammered.

  “I very much doubt that. I tend to think of myself as an excellent judge of character, which is why I would have believed the reassurances you’ve failed to give as to the state of our arrangement. In fact, I’ve given you every chance to fabricate some reason why you’ve been so absent. But you cannot because you are you, the redoubtable DI Stoker. A man so honest he cannot lie to his lover, even when he must keep a secret from him at all costs. That he has taken a case in which said lover and sometimes partner cannot be involved.”

  Kip shook his head. “Hiero—”

  “Save your reasons.” Hiero raised a hand, half command, half benediction. “You cannot lie, and I don’t care to know the truth. Only this: are you breaking from the team, or do you wish to break from me?”

  Despite his bravado, Hiero couldn’t quite catch his breath as he awaited the response.

  “Never from you,” Kip insisted with a look so ardent and earnest Hiero almost shied away from it. “But it’s vital I finish this preoccupation of mine alone. It’s a delicate business.”

  Hiero shivered, suddenly too aware of the emptiness of the room. Of the one thing of priceless value left in it. Of how he would be rid of all of his mementos forever, if only he could keep the man sitting too far from him.

  “I suppose, if you must. But we’ll delay none of our adventures.”

  A soft exhale gave Hiero hope. “I couldn’t ask it of you.”

  “We managed perfectly well before you happened along.”

  Kip dared a smile. “As I recall.”

  “Now as to your earlier question...” Hiero stood, fetched Kip’s jacket from the floor, and held it open for him. “I’d prefer you in my bed.”

  A drop of water trickled down Calliope Pankhurst’s spine as she cocked her pistol and took aim—a distraction she could ill afford. She’d taken refuge in the tunnel beneath the house at 23 Berkeley Square in order to test the range of her new MAS French army revolver, whose double-action system allowed the shooter to unload all six cartridges without pulling back the hammer between each shot. The manufacturer claimed a maximum range of one thousand feet with diminished accuracy. She’d plotted out five hundred in the tunnel, which burrowed under three adjacent houses but took a sharp right turn to merge with the sewers under the square.

  A full-range test would have to wait on their next visit to Hiero’s hunting lodge. Not that her guardian had ever fired a pistol, let alone at an animal. A creature of the city, he floundered on their infrequent escapes to the country, as if suffocated by all that fresh air. Callie had spent several years of her late childhood at the lodge and missed it dearly. Especially given the space required to perform most of her experiments.

  She’d chosen the dank, smelly tunnel after nearly decapitating poor Aldridge, who’d reminded her of the dangers firearms presented to the household staff. A string of lanterns added a sulfuric note to the moist atmosphere, as well as increased the temperature by several thousand degrees. The air, so heavy it coated her tongue with a slimy film, required a barometric reading in order to properly measure the bullet’s velocity.

  Callie persevered. She ignored the trickle, not really wanting to know whether it was sweat or drool from the moldy ceiling, and fixed the target in her sights, a hay bale covered by a sheet with a life-sized feminine figure sewn on. She’d marked the head and the heart with red X’s. And if, in her mind’s eye, she imagined a certain over-jolly nursemaid in its place, where was the harm?

  One, two, three reports.

  One in the head, two in the chest.

  Callie squealed, did a little spin. Caught herself, then remembered she was alone. She kissed the butt of her revolver, a gift from Lady Odile de Volanges prior to her wedding voyage, before reloading. Callie scribbled down the test result and a note to send her another thank-you letter. She dug six bullets out of the hidden pocket in her bodice and filled the entire cartridge. Just as she considered whether to shoot them all into the same spot or try to land each at a different extremity, she felt it.

  The stillness behind her sang, a soundless vibration that tracked the source of the trickle up her spine, spiking her nerve endings. Her entire body magnetized toward this presence, a true north as distant as the pole. Closing her eyes, she calmed the quiver in her arm before she raised it, refocused her senses on the target and not the so very welcome intruder.

  Bang, bang, bang. On a whim, she’d shot blind. Even with wax plugs in her ears, Callie knew she’d shot true. One in the head and two in the heart.

  She holstered her weapon, corking her giddiness. Considered forcing him to show himself. It was the game they played, who could sneak up on the other. Who could read the air, hear with their skin, see behind. She always won because she would never not know him. Her circadian rhythms had attuned themselves to his from the second they met. She did not believe in the paranormal; their connection was the closest she’d come. How her blood quickened, her pulse skipped. She’d made herself into the only person from whom he could not hide.

  “Impressive,” Han complimented once she’d popped out the wax.

  “My skill, or the gun?”

  “Both.” Only then did he emerge beside her, contemplating the target like the latest Turner. “Save your canvases, if you don’t mind.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “An idea.”

  He rarely said more about his creations, even once complete. His theory of art, much like his theory of life, was that one could make of it what one would. On a case, he debated motive. Otherwise he embraced people’s complexities. It was one of the things she adored about him.

  “Have I been making a ruckus? Has Lord Darlinghouse complained again?”

  A subtle smirk. His lordship, the only neighbor with whom they shared a wall, was half-deaf but forever moaning about strange sounds that robbed him of sleep. To be fair, the members of their household got about a great many peculiar things, most of which would have Lord Darlinghouse reporting them to the local constabulary, so he likely couldn’t hear a thing.

  “The occasional rattle disturbs Minnie, but you know how she is about the Wedgewood.” Han’s smirk deepened, which Callie considered her second win of the day. “I’m afraid it’s Mrs. Pankhurst.”

  “Mother? Has she taken a turn?”

  “Nothing so serious. Yet.” For the first time since his entrance, he met her eyes. “She and Miss Kala are two hours late returning from their stroll.”

  Callie couldn’t help herself. She laughed.

  “Is that all?” She took a cautious step toward him, felt him tense. The dance that never stopped, around and around each other, never permitted so much as a touch. “One could be forgiven for thinking you simply longed for my company.”

  His censorious look annoyed her. “Regardless of what you think of Miss Kala, she never fails to be punctual.”

  “Please do continue to tell me what I think.” She crossed her arms over her chest, a reminder to exercise restraint.

  “You’ve made no secret of your disdain.”

  “I’ve never said a word against her.”

  “Aloud.”

  She cinched in her arms till she was practically cradling her shoulders. “Have you developed extra-sensory perceptions that allow you to kn
ow my mind? How extraordinary.”

  “Hardly. My technique is a simple one.”

  “Oh, there’s a technique to it? Do tell.”

  “I look at your face.”

  He did so then, in that way that told her she was not a fool to hope. Or as much of a fool as she sometimes felt.

  Callie sighed, a concession. “And I suppose you disapprove of my unspoken dislike?”

  “Not that it remains unspoken.” His brow stitched as he attempted to unravel the strands of the issue. “I ask only that you consider what kind of life Miss Kala led before joining us, and the change that’s come over Mrs. Pankhurst.”

  “I do.” Callie bowed her head, not that it did much to hide her scarlet cheeks. “I shall.”

  Han nodded. “Two hours.”

  “And Angus has not sent word in that time?”

  “He’s taken Jie and Ting on their Sunday outing.”

  “Of course. Hiero?”

  “Constructing a hermitage with his bed linens.”

  “Really?”

  His shrug spoke volumes.

  “How should we proceed? Retrace their normal route? Enlist a few lighter boys? Summon Mr. Stoker?” Her hunter’s instinct knew there were too many variables at play. “Wait them out?”

  A screech from above decided for them. Aldridge met them at the kitchen door, hurried them into the parlor. They found Miss Kala crouched beside a small table, struggling for breath. Her intricate hair bun lurched to one side. Perspiration-slick tendrils lacquered the frame of her face. Her skirts had drawn a path of mud from the side entrance. Her red coat flapped off of one arm, a flag of war.

  Callie’s mother was nowhere to be seen.

  “Get the girl some water,” Callie instructed, staying Han with a sharp look.

  “Oh, Miss Pankhurst!” Miss Kala bleated, then burst into sobs. Callie hoisted her onto the divan, then took the seat beside her. “What you must think of me...”

  “You must calm yourself.” Callie’s hands hovered over her, unsure of where, or whether she should, offer comfort to the woman who had no doubt lost her mother.

  “What Miss Pankhurst means is catch your breath,” Han translated in a tone Callie had never heard before. She straightened, hands clasped in her lap to keep them occupied. “Here’s the water.”

  Aldridge had had the good sense to bring a pitcher. Miss Kala drained two glasses, struggling to pour a third before she’d composed herself enough to speak.

  “They took her.”

  Bile rose to Callie’s throat. “‘Took her’?”

  By the looks on their faces, it had come out a roar. Miss Kala hugged a pillow to her chest; Han sprang to the edge of his seat. Callie opened her mouth to speak, but acid seared the root of her tongue.

  “You mean Mrs. Pankhurst has been taken against her will?” Han confirmed in that soft tone that made Callie want to stab her ears with a hairpin.

  “Against her will?” Miss Kala wiped her nose with her sleeve. “She don’t know what her will is. That’s why she needs... needs me.” She blubbered. “Please don’t put me out, Miss Pankhurst. This was my last chance...”

  Callie dug her nails into her palm to keep from strangling her where she sat. Her every breath further stoked the fire, so she kept silent. She watched Han offer Miss Kala his handkerchief, almost cracked a bone in her hand when their fingers brushed.

  “Aldridge,” Callie interrupted before she’d said a word. “Please rouse Mr. Bash and inform him of...” Realizing the absurdity of her instruction—Aldridge having had his tongue cut out decades ago—she ended on a croak. Nevertheless the butler slipped away.

  “Tell it from the start,” Han prompted Miss Kala, giving her his full attention.

  With an audible gulp, she took a final sip of water and set the glass aside.

  “We walked to the park, as we always do. North, by Grosvenor Square, to stay well away from the Serpentine. Mrs. Pankhurst don’t care for the swans. Speakers Corner was lively, so we stopped to listen. Lil—Mrs. Pankhurst likes that twaddle. Pretends, you know, she can follow. I don’t know what they’re on about half the time. Then we saw them. Or her, more like.”

  “Her?” Han encouraged. Callie read the suspicion in his eyes and forced herself to focus.

  “The strange one, from the embankment. With all the lovely veg. The sisters...?”

  “The Daughters of Eden,” Han confirmed, then gave a tight frown.

  Swallowing a yelp of panic, Callie asked, “You knew one of the speakers?”

  “She’d taken a liking to Mrs. Pankhurst that day we went to see the duke prince and his new wife. She and her sisters saw Mrs. Pankhurst in the crowd today and called her over. We got to chatting—there’s one girl who’s very nice—and helped them hand out their pamphlets. Mrs. Pankhurst was enjoying herself, so I didn’t see no harm in it. And...” She darted her red eyes from Callie to Han and back again, tears welling at the corner. “Sister Juliet—that’s the weird one—she was gonna speak again later, and they had a picnic basket with sandwiches and cordial to share. So we sat with them awhile, and I thought...”

  Callie felt as if the chair under her collapsed. “You left her.”

  “Only to fetch tea!” Fat rivulets cut drenched Miss Kala’s cheeks, poured off her chin. “The spring wind... We were shivering. The stall was across a busy street. Lil would never have made it. They were so kind, and she was so easy with them. Smiling, chatting. I only thought to pop over and back. I blinked and...” She buried her face in the pillow, heaving with sobs.

  Callie stood, escaped to the window. She felt as if a part of herself stayed on the divan, slumping into its velvety cushions. As if part of her were still underground, firing round after round into a pile of straw. Outside, in the square beyond, couples strolled, children frolicked despite the looming gray of an overcast day. If they saw the gaunt, ghostly woman in the window staring out at them, they paid her no mind.

  Someone had stolen her mother.

  If she were honest, there had been times, many times, in the throes of her madness, when Callie had wished her gone. When she’d been trapped in the filth of their apartment, too small to even reach the knob on the door, with no servants and no father and a howling banshee. Her Uncle Apollo had come for them.

  She would not fail her mother now. She fought to recall the events of her mother’s first encounter with the Daughters at the embankment. Even lacking the darker shades of Han’s description, Callie’s mind painted a detailed portrait of their intentions toward a woman of seeming wealth like her mother. How they could twist her devotion and her troubled mind into a donation or two, eventually persuading her to sign her fortune over to their cause.

  They would feel the burn of the dragon they’d unleashed when stealing Lillian Pankhurst away.

  She whirled around to find Han kneeling before Miss Kala, petting her on the shoulder. After whispering a string of curses so foul a seaman would blanch, she marched back to the divan and stood over them, lit with purpose.

  “Everything, again. From the beginning. Spare no detail.”

  Chapter 3

  Tim cursed his height—or rather his lack of it—as he rounded the corner to find yet another red stone wall obscuring the Daughters of Eden’s compound from view. Only the dainty white petticoat gables that lined the chimney-stacked roof of the main building peeked over. He’d walked the perimeter for three blocks but had yet to find a gate. Not an immediate cause for alarm, given he had not been invited to the Daughters’ Sunday service and directed himself based on an incomplete map.

  The city’s ravenous outward growth had not yet consumed the village of Shepherd’s Bush. Though some streets had been cobbled and a train station provided a vital link to the city center, farms still spotted the landscape, some with no neighbors to speak of. That made it all the more curious the Daughters had barricaded themselves behind such towering battlements. Tim would count them lucky to cause such outrage as to be attacked by pitchfork-wielding vill
agers.

  A turn around the final corner revealed a graveyard of black carriages parked around a cricket field, their drivers playing an impromptu match with a fencepost and a ball of twine. Tim crossed the road, hoisting himself halfway onto one of their abandoned seats to gain a better vantage. All the curtains were drawn in the main house’s windows. The building itself was pretty, if commonplace: red brick, three story, with a conservatory spanning its entire first floor on the eastern side. He could see little of the fabled gardens, only a small orchard of trees around the conservatory and a vague impression of green at the rear. A long one-story building with a clock tower stretched beyond the orchard, this enclosed by a tall iron fence. The chapel, no doubt, and Tim’s destination.

  Pretending to emerge from one of the carriages, he straightened his hat and his posture. Affecting a slight limp that forced him to lean on his walking stick, he slowed his pace to a leisurely stroll. The pins that fitted one of Hiero’s luxurious waistcoats to his more slender frame scratched with every step, but the discomfort kept Tim focused. He hadn’t needed to borrow the other emblems of wealth he wore: the jade cufflinks, the gold filigree pocket watch, the side-buttoned spats. All were “necessities,” in Hiero’s estimation, during their far too numerous visits to Monsieur Henri’s salon. Tim had to confess they had been useful on more than one occasion, such as his present mission.

  A pair of women in pristine white uniforms, their hair in labyrinthine plaits bound into a winglike formation, guarded the chapel gates. Falling in behind a trio of elegant patrons who looked to be a mother and two daughters, Tim attempted to blend into their party, only to be stopped by one of the angelic women carrying a genuine olive branch.

  “Who has come to heed the prophet’s call?”

  “Mr. Gregory Kipling.” Tim accepted the branch she gave him, wanting to pet its glossy leaves.

  “Welcome, pilgrim. Open your heart to Her wisdom and be a shepherd of Her good work.”