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

by Selina Kray

  Meaning they wanted to verify his identity. Hiero almost laughed at the thought. He couldn’t believe she would dismiss them after their dramatic interruption, which would prompt chatter among their parishioners and must have left a question in the Daughters’ minds. But perhaps they had underestimated the amount of secrets the Daughters had to hide.

  A lifetime of experience in convincing people to go against their instincts allowed Hiero to read her like an open book: zealous but protective, eager to please, but only if you’d earned her trust, and terrified of exposing those close to her to ruin. He nudged Callie’s foot with his calf; her babbling intensified.

  “The dragon is near... He covets my child... I must flee to the wilderness... Where are my angels?” Callie bleated.

  “Hush, hush.” Hiero patted her hand. “I am here. If this is not the place we seek, we will look elsewhere.”

  “She is with child?” Sister Nora asked, looking more surprised than Hiero would have expected given how many hints they had dropped.

  Hiero nodded, casting a reverent gaze up at Callie. “She is the vessel.”

  Sister Nora glared at him, mouth open, her faith holding back her suspicions. A cacophony of curious chatter broke out in the chapel beyond, signaling the service’s end and their patrons’ interest in what became of “Mrs. Sandringham.”

  “Wait here a moment,” Sister Nora instructed before speeding out the door.

  And locking them in.

  Hiero held in his shudder through sheer force of will—he hated tight spaces—and moved to the small round window. He unfurled a scarlet-red handkerchief from an inner pocket of his robes, signaling Han.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Callie demanded as she stood, stretching her shoulders and neck. “We can’t give up now we’ve got their attention.”

  Hiero fluttered the handkerchief in her direction. “Caution, not surrender. Han may be able to scale that wall, but your mother will require our assistance.”

  Callie huffed. “Not to mention the fuss she’ll stir. She’s never taken to him.”

  “She’s not herself.”

  “She’s the only version of herself I’ve ever known.” Callie eased off her crown of stars. She dabbed a finger into a bloody spot at her temple, winced. “Blasted thing. Mad or sane, dear Mother never possessed the most sound judgment.”

  “She had the good sense to take refuge with Apollo when he offered.”

  “Desperation, like those ladies in there. The whole place reeks of it.” She scoffed. “If you look to the skies to solve your problems, don’t be surprised when someone pisses out a window.”

  Hiero wanted to laugh, but he knew it would only encourage her. So he laughed.

  “The game the Daughters are playing is as old as their good book. And their saintliness is their slyest maneuver. A lady might have a reputation for being silly or stupid or naive, but a devout woman working on the poor’s behalf is never questioned. Their ridiculous prophecies are for the widows and maiden aunts, but their virtuousness is how they evade scrutiny. And therefore...”

  “Where they are vulnerable.” Pensive, she massaged her scalp. “How should we proceed?”

  “We must prove ourselves even more devout.” He moved to the door, listened. “A lamb like Sister Nora will be easily swayed.”

  “But Sister Juliet is a wolf.”

  Hiero curled his fingers around the knob, counting back from twenty in his mind. He wanted out. Better, a glass of 1837 Château Haut-Brion Pessac-Léognan. Better, for his intrepid Kip to pound down the door, demanding an explanation for Hiero’s theatrics, thereby finding himself, quite inadvertently, embroiled in the very affair he swore against. Of course, his presence in the chapel indicated he was, in some unknown way, embroiled, though perhaps in a different affair. Either way, Hiero felt cheated.

  And still trapped in the oppressive prayer room. Hiero fought to steady his breaths, to convince himself of how much space, how much air, there was in the room.

  “She will not permit you to leave,” he argued, because why not? “She will separate us to see what you are made of.”

  “Iron and vinegar. Or so Han says.”

  Inhaling deeply, Hiero stepped back from the door. He turned, took her hands.

  “These are not the amateurs I anticipated. We know only what they have shown us, not what lurks within the main house. If our aim is to retrieve your mother...”

  “I’d do well not to require rescuing as well,” she grumbled. “Yes, very well. So we retreat?”

  “Not quite yet.”

  “Have a few more tricks up your sleeve?”

  “I’m a marvel of prestidigitation.”

  A click of the knob was all the warning they had to resume their positions. Hiero belayed Callie from putting on her crown, taking a seat beside her on the chest and using his handkerchief to clean her wounds.

  “Entranced or recovered?” she whispered as the lock clicked.

  “Recovered but weak.”

  Callie folded in on herself, a tipsy smile curving her lips. Hiero approved of the choice—’exhausted but spiritually fulfilled by communion with Eve’ struck exactly the right note. He folded his cloak to act as a pillow. By the time Sister Nora reentered, Hiero held the cup of water to Callie’s lips, begging her to take another sip.

  He didn’t miss the look of wonderment that lit Sister Nora’s features as she slipped back into the closet.

  “How is she?”

  Hiero sighed. “Her burden is also her bliss. Like the martyrs, she finds joy in her suffering.”

  “It is much the same for Sister Juliet.”

  “As are all touched by the Mother.”

  “All?”

  “Si. Your Mother Rebecca, her great torment at the end. A beautiful but imperfect vessel.” At her shocked expression, Hiero added, “I knew her of old.”

  “You knew...”

  “I fear it will be the same for Mrs. Sandringham. The Mother’s power is fierce, and the time must be right. That is why we seek others out. Perhaps together...” Hiero assayed the same world-weary look that won his Macbeth such accolades. “Your Sister Juliet. Will she see us?”

  Her lip quivered. A more obvious tell, Hiero couldn’t have imagined. A lamb indeed.

  “She’s taken to her bed. The service, you see... She gives everything.”

  Hiero nodded sympathetically, waiting for the reversal.

  “But if Mrs. Sandringham cares to stay, perhaps converse with her this evening, she is most welcome. Our nurse, Sister Zanna, can tend to her, and Sister Merry makes a much-fortifying broth. If you would care to return tomorrow, Father—”

  “A Samaritan kindness, and most appreciated. But I have consecrated our rooms at the Albion. Certain rituals must be observed... Well, you know better than I. What time tomorrow would be convenient for me to call on Sister Juliet?”

  Callie ground her heel into his foot. As well-versed in the language of torture as Hiero was, he couldn’t decipher her message.

  Flustered, Sister Nora stammered, “I’ll have to consult her diary...”

  “Very good. I will wait for your note.”

  He scooped Callie up to her feet so quickly she let out a loud yip. Startled, Sister Nora leapt up to bar their way, resulting in an awkward dance where neither party wanted to insult the other by admitting they were trying to escape or prevent them from leaving. Just as Sister Nora grabbed for Hiero’s fallen cloak as an excuse to get hold of Callie, a solid figure blocked the door.

  Han. Though relieved, a small part of Hiero had anticipated someone more Kip-like. Had the unexpected crossing of their paths not intrigued his stalwart detective even a teensy bit? Did his agnostic mind fail to see the hand of fate in such an odd coincidence?

  “Padre?” Han offered an arm to receive Callie, whom he tucked tight against him.

  Hiero issued strict instructions in Italian. Which Han did not speak, but neither, he wagered, did Sister Nora. Once Han and Callie were out
of sight, he performed an elaborate bow—perhaps too elaborate for this particular character, but he missed his audience—and thanked her for her help.

  “I’ll send word as soon as I know,” she confirmed, worrying her hands in the manner of the crueler half of Shakespeare’s king-slaying couple.

  Hiero, who did not believe in omens, but, like any actor, held his fair share of superstitions, shuddered through his escape.

  Chapter 4

  After well over an hour of waiting, the sleek black carriage rounded the far corner onto the street where Tim awaited them. Stuffing the pamphlet he’d been skimming into his inner jacket pocket, he jogged into its path, tipped his hat to Angus the driver, and vaulted onto the side step. Accustomed to this maneuver, Angus didn’t even bother to slow the horses. Latching one-handed onto the upper rail, Tim pried open the door and swung himself inside before any of the passengers could utter an oath.

  Which Miss Pankhurst did, belatedly, as Tim settled himself into the seat beside Han, who welcomed him with his customary nod. Miss Pankhurst frowned at Tim but appeared too exhausted to protest. Her theatrics had taken their toll on her skin by the livid scratch marks on her temples. Hiero, in his blanketlike cassock, dozed against the plush upholstered sideboard, cradling his favorite flask.

  Tim’s grand entrance had been intended to shock them. He’d meant to follow up with scathing disapproval of their dramatic baiting of the Daughters of Eden. But they looked so domestic, so cozy, so... defeated, he found he didn’t have the heart.

  “It appears our paths have converged, Mr. Stoker,” Miss Pankhurst observed, lifting her hand to hide a yawn. “Unexpected but intriguing.”

  “As was your performance.” Tim matched the strength of her gaze, drawing on all his interrogative prowess. Hers was one of the shrewdest minds he’d ever encountered; if she ever turned to crime, she’d be a fearsome nemesis. “To what end, I wonder?”

  “I should think our intentions obvious enough. Yours, however...”

  “I’m afraid this isn’t a case of quid pro quo.”

  “This isn’t your case at all, given that you’ve recused yourself.” The conversation had revived her sting, if not her energy. “Or have you finally screwed your courage to the sticking place and broke out on your own?”

  Tim met her annoyance with patience. Stare never wavering from her clenched face, his silence refused to justify his actions. She bristled but looked to Han.

  “Perhaps it is time Mr. Stoker be brought in,” he suggested.

  “We’ve only just begun,” Miss Pankhurst countered.

  “And you must bring your efforts to a swift end.” Tim canted his torso toward them, a direct appeal. “The Daughters are dangerous. They are more than mere charlatans. Lives are at stake.” A tense quiet overtook the carriage, punctuated only by Hiero’s soft snores. “You must stop at once.”

  “Whose lives?” Miss Pankhurst demanded. “The girls they take in? The Daughters themselves?”

  The urgency in her tone rattled Tim. “I cannot say more.”

  “Or you will not out of sheer obstinacy and a lack of honor!”

  “Calliope,” Han warned.

  “How many cases must we work together, DI Stoker, before you trust that we will keep your secrets? Before you’ve gathered enough evidence of our talent and our discretion? Before you stop begging for scraps from the Yard?”

  Tim sighed. “Miss Pankhurst, might I remind you that the terms of my involvement are dictated by my superintendent, and he has—”

  “Oh, stuff your terms.” A hint of a smile played on her lips when Tim recoiled. “Han saved you from being devoured by lions. Hiero pleaded your case to your superiors after you rejected and investigated him. These are the actions of men, Mr. Stoker, honorable men. If you would distance yourself from the likes of us, then it must be a clean break.”

  Tim shut his eyes, exhaled deeply. Her words had hit their mark. He couldn’t forget his dissatisfaction the past few months, the tedium of the cases and his annoyance with their methods. Sir Hugh dangled the key to his future success above him; Tim had only to take the leap and grasp it.

  And yet Miss Pankhurst and the team had managed to rattle the Daughters with an ease beyond Tim’s capabilities. To say nothing of the restrictions due to his gender. And they had both found their way to this case, a portent Tim couldn’t ignore. Still, there was no question of betraying Sir Hugh, even to his associates.

  “My word of honor as a detective prevents me from disclosing the details of my case. My client insisted upon this condition before explaining his predicament. This commitment is as vital to me as my allegiance to all of you. There is no knife to my throat. I keep his secrets as I keep yours, out of respect and gratitude for all you have done for me.”

  Miss Pankhurst blew out a forceful breath, deflated. Her beseeching eyes landed on Han, then on Tim, then flew out the window. She bit the corner of her lip, her jaw rigid and trembling all at once, fighting an expression Tim had never seen on her before: misery.

  “They have my mother,” she revealed, and Tim felt as if the ground had fallen out from under him.

  With a violent snort, Hiero roused. After a flurry of blinking, he peered, bleary eyed, at each one of them in turn. His gaze grew fond when it landed on Tim, and he welcomed him with a smile.

  “Ah! The prodigal... someone... returns.” He dismissed the error with a wave of his hand. “Never was much for religion.”

  “And yet you’ve taken a turn toward the pious.” Tim gestured toward his robes.

  “You approve?”

  “More than I care to.”

  That comment brought the twinkle back to his dark eyes. “Oh? Care to make a full confession?”

  Tim fought the blush Hiero’s leer prompted. He’d thought of little else in the few private moments allowed him since their last encounter. He appreciated how engrossing his case had become for that very reason, less so the fact their paths seemed intertwined to the point of being impossible to unravel.

  “Perhaps later.” Tim shifted his boot so it pressed into the curve of Hiero’s foot. The heated look Hiero shot back at him almost made Tim forget his name. He turned back to Miss Pankhurst, refocused. “For now you must tell me everything.”

  Han cut short her growl of protest. “I believe we’ve made our feelings clear on the matter of quid pro quo. What of your vow to your client?”

  Tim considered this, thinking out loud. “I will keep his name and the details of his predicament out of it. But there is some larger puzzle to map out here, some scheme that goes beyond a simple fraud, and we each have a piece. Whether this constitutes the whole remains to be seen. But what has been made plain to me is we must suss it out together if we are to have any hope of getting to the heart of what these Daughters are up to.”

  “Well reasoned,” Han agreed.

  “Huzzah!” Hiero bellowed, raising his flask.

  “Callie.” Tim hesitated over the name, the impropriety awkward on his tongue. But if they were to be allies—and if he were to make amends—they had to do so as equals and friends. “I leave the final word to you.”

  She frowned as she scrutinized him, perhaps unconvinced by his about-face. But then her relentlessness was one of the things he respected most about her.

  “Welcome back, Tim.”

  Callie escaped to her bedroom as soon as they arrived at 23 Berkeley Square, stopping only long enough to ask Aldridge to have tea sent up. Though her costume was light compared to her regular dresses and she was unburdened by her usual wig, as she climbed the back stairs, she carried the leaden weight of the knowledge that her mother remained trapped with the Daughters. After learning the details of Hiero’s first encounter with the Daughters and what they knew of her mother’s capture during the carriage ride home, she’d become all the more incensed that this was allowed to happen.

  The warning signs had been there for anyone to see. Indeed, if all the wealthy widows and maiden aunts among Sister Juliet’s w
orshippers today were any indication, elderly, lonely women of means were the wellspring from which the Daughters sourced their donations. Her mother’s near-infantile state of mind made her even more susceptible to their methods of persuasion. Han and Hiero recognized this and failed to take the proper precautions. To say nothing of that flibbertigibbet Miss Kala, whom Callie would use as further inspiration for her target practice.

  Eager to throw off every vestige of her performance—spiritual as well as sartorial—she almost missed the couple huddled in intimate conversation on the landing between the third and fourth floors. Or, rather, Han craned over the diminutive Miss Kala, a willow tree shading his favorite swan. Callie’s slow, quiet steps had masked her approach. She stood on the second floor landing, watching them through the gaps in the banister. The odd acoustics of the house muted their voices. Callie didn’t dare move higher lest she draw attention to herself.

  Miss Kala wept. She gripped Han’s arms, pleading. For her job, for his support, Callie couldn’t know. She resembled the heroine of a Gothic novel, with her wild sheathes of black hair and unkempt nightshirt. Her skin had lost all of its buttery sheen in the days since her charge’s kidnapping, gone waxy and gray. Her despair infuriated Callie. Who was this woman to mourn the very person her neglect had lost? What gall to push her grief on them without lifting a finger to right her wrong!

  Even though she wanted to spit in her face, Callie couldn’t tear herself away. Even when Miss Kala pressed her hands into Han’s chest and gazed up at him, beseeching. Even when Han folded her into his arms, rubbing her back. Even when the anger roiling in Callie’s gut caught flame, scorching up her throat until she felt she could breathe fire.

  She fled to her room, slamming every door in her wake. Wanting to topple the statues that lined the corridor. Wanting to pound her fists into the carpet until she exposed the wood. Until the whole house crumbled down around her.