by Anne Renwick
Who was her uncle to judge another when he’d spent the past few years stealing her hard-earned money, poaching upon her property, sacrificing the hapless cat sìth who roamed free in her woods all to fund Dr. Farquhar’s research so that he might… what?
She glanced again at the note.
A cure? Her mind struggled with the concept. A cure implied there was a way to return Anna’s heart to full working order. No device could accomplish that. Which meant that whatever was in that rosewood box was not an electrical pacing device. But what could restore a damaged heart’s ability to beat? What exactly had she transported beneath her bustle?
Her mind recalled the broken, smoke-stained shards of glass that had littered the floor of the charred basement laboratory, the pools of liquid, the threadlike material that floated, curling and twisting within the liquid, and she shuddered. They’d missed a key clue, but she couldn’t begin to fathom what it was.
Sorcha leapt onto the table and sniffed the distasteful package. She pulled back her lips and gave it a baleful stare.
“Agreed,” Colleen said. “Tonight, we put an end to my uncle’s crimes. And then there are others who must pay.” The memory of scorched skulls lining the charred shelves of Dr. Farquhar’s laboratory could never be erased. “We must also locate the mad scientist and drag forth answers.” Perhaps some good might be yet salvaged on Anna’s behalf. “After which we take back my lands and your forest. I’ll not allow another cat sìth to be harmed to serve my uncle’s selfishness and arrogance.”
The Queen’s agents might expect Nick to play the long game, to infiltrate this shadow committee and trace its many tentacles, but his sister was running out of time. Faster to break into her uncle’s safe, retrieve any relevant papers that lay within—suspicious property deeds, accountings of funds paid to mysterious men, documents relevant to her inheritance—and drag them into the light of day before he had the chance to destroy any evidence linking him to illegal activities.
Tossing the letter into the small fire burning upon the grate, she scribbled a quick note to Mr. Jackson letting him know the particulars of their situation. Thinking of what Nick might face alone made her stomach churn, no matter how many times reason reminded her that he was a trained Queen’s agent. She too would face risks creeping into her uncle’s study. What if someone was stationed inside, waiting? But if he could trust her to handle herself alone, she could return the favor.
Wrapped in bloodstained paper and cardboard, the cold, still heart weighed heavily in her hands as she began to climb the stairs toward the aviary. She had to try. Tonight might be the only night such an opportunity presented itself. A man who would order the murder of another man’s wife might easily turn upon his own, particularly now that her uncle had guessed—or at least suspected—his own wife’s collusion. Isabella was no longer safe. There’d be no leaving London before this serpent had been slain. Time to breach her uncle’s study and discover exactly what he was about before he slithered home.
Tucking away her tinted spectacles, she cracked open the hatch and climbed into the aviary, happy to have Sorcha shadowing her once more. She plucked a skeet pigeon from its roost and inserted the message into an ankle canister. Snap, the punch card with Mr. Jackson’s address clicked into place. She wound the bird’s mechanism and tossed it through the window, watching as it took to the night air.
She set aside the dressing gown and checked her tool belt one last time. Lock picks, Rapunzel rope, pouches of various other items, and her precious Keller stethoscope—audiologically enhanced at great personal expense—all securely hooked. She’d yet to lay fingers upon her uncle’s personal safe, but she’d seen the strongbox delivered and knew precisely where it lay.
There was no more avoiding the horrid package. Sliding it into a cloth sack, she tied it about her hips. She might have burned the letter, but she had other plans for Mrs. Farquhar’s heart. Over her shoulder, she slung a map case, one she’d found in Nick’s study that would allow her to carry away any important or incriminating documents. With her dirk in her boot and her hooded cape about her shoulders, it was time to take to the rooftops.
Overhead, a dark shadow passed—a hungry pteryform soaring toward the Thames, ready to fish out a kraken or two for breakfast, their preference for the cephalopods the only reason the city council did not launch an armed force to terminate their presence in the city. Stars struggled to shine through the haze that filled the nighttime London sky, and the running lights of several Sparrow-class personal dirigibles fared little better. Those who could afford them—like her uncle—risked their own safety to discreetly travel to evening activities.
Colleen stepped from the aviary onto the roof and slid her hands into a powder-filled pouch. She dusted her hands and lifted her face to the cool night air, sensing the direction of the gentle breeze that blew through London. Taking a deep breath, she stretched, reveling in the anticipation of freedom that always accompanied a long, complex rooftop run.
“Riggit?” she asked Sorcha. Ready?
The cat sìth crouched, braced to spring forward.
Colleen took off at a running start along the ridges of the roofs, leaping onto, over and around row after row of chimney pots that delineated one terraced home from the next. Tail held high, Sorcha shadowed her every move. A controlled slide down the sharp slope of a slate-tiled roof… a fast run along the edge… a dash past a heated rooftop greenhouse. Over and again until she reached a corner tower. Crouching, she gripped the eaves of the roof to drop onto a narrow balcony.
A deep breath. An assessment. Then she continued. Corbel to cornice to lintel, she dropped toward the street, jumping off the rounded finial of an iron fence onto the pavement. The cat sìth followed. Lifting her hood and dodging lamplight, Colleen darted through traffic with Sorcha at her heels. A few quick steps and she was down a narrow passageway—one with a drainpipe. She paused, letting Sorcha leap onto her shoulder before she began to climb. In seconds, both of them were safe upon the rooftops, once again leaping across slate tiles and clay chimney pots.
And finally arrived at her uncle’s rooftop where the dirigible stood upon the landing pad. Wary, she crept closer and peered inside. A hasty attempt to wipe blood from the jump seat had been made, but there was no mistaking the rusty-brown stain that clung to the upholstery’s stitching. Though she could prove nothing, there was no doubt in her mind that this very dirigible had been used to drop Mrs. Farquhar’s body onto the Stafford’s doorstep. Mr. Vanderburn might have piloted, but who had assisted? And did they now patrol the interior of her uncle’s home?
Her stomach gave a slight twist. Never before had she taken a job where she might encounter deadly force. But, she reminded herself, Mr. Vanderburn—and his assistant—were employees of her uncle’s. They wouldn’t kill her simply for being caught in his home, would they? Still, she would take extra care.
There could be no creeping through its halls; she’d have to make a direct entry. Thankful her uncle’s study faced the back of the house, she pulled on her leather gloves, then looped the Rapunzel rope about a chimney and secured its other end to her belt. Lowering herself onto her stomach, she slid—feet first—down the pitch of the roof, dangling from the eaves and waiting until Sorcha climbed onto her shoulders. Slowly, she dropped them both down the rope until they hung outside the window of her uncle’s study. Smart, to have installed a lock, but it was no match for her picks, not even while she was hanging like a spider from a thread and working the lock one-handed. She pried open the window, glanced inside to be certain no one was about, then nodded to the cat sìth. Sorcha leapt into a room lit only by the fading glow of a single Lucifer lamp. Colleen swung in behind her, dropping noiselessly into a crouch upon the floor, listening.
The room was empty but for a mechanical brush—now with an overlarge feline riding upon it—that whirred its way back and forth across the room, grooming the carpet.
Reassured by Sorcha’s nonchalance, she took a step forward, but the
small hairs on the back of her neck lifted.
The house was eerily quiet.
Suspiciously quiet.
There ought to be a low-level hum of human activity, but all she heard was the thrum and chuff of the steam servants.
She sniffed the air and caught the faint scent of warm sugar and dried currants—spotted dick and custard—along with the fragrance of bergamot-laced tea, a favorite. Had the servants gathered in the kitchen for a late tea of their own volition? Or had they been confined there?
Likely the later, increasing the odds that Mr. Vanderburn walked a patrol by one hundred percent. Were this any other mission, she would have turned back, but she refused to leave. Not until she’d plundered her uncle’s safe and dragged the proof of his misdeeds into the moonlight.
Not once had she entered this inner sanctum without a summons; she’d had no wish to tip her hand inside her own home. But all too often she’d been called to stand before his desk to be berated for her behavior or, of late, for her refusal to consider a particular suitor. Over the years, she’d taken note of wear patterns, observed which ornaments shifted upon her uncle’s shelves. And which did not.
Though a relic of times long past, not once had the medieval helmet of a distant ancestor acquired the tiniest speck of dust. She flipped up the visor and rolled her eyes at the predictable lever concealed within. Grasping it, she pulled… and the bookshelf swung open—silent upon well-oiled hinges—to reveal the Crypt Safe. A smile turned up the corners of her mouth. Advertised as unbreakable, not one had been breached. Or so they claimed. Colleen had cracked two.
Time to scour the depths of her uncle’s safe.
She pressed the thin membrane stretched across the Keller stethoscope’s bell to the cold, steel door and focused on the faint sounds of the lock wheels as they each clicked into place. Even with her many talents, catching and identifying all ten numbers in order was a challenge. But in the end, the safe gave up its secrets.
The heavy door swung open and there, in pride of place upon the top shelf, sat the rosewood box. Her jaw dropped. How was it possible? Had he tracked down the buyer himself to snatch back that which had been stolen from him?
Though her fingers itched to peer inside, piles of documents awaited. She forced herself to rifle through them, looking for cold, hard evidence of his wrongdoings. And she found it. A stack of papers signed by none other than Cornelius Pierpont agreeing to the sale of a cure for “sluggish hearts” to a number of prominent gentlemen.
But why would such documents be in her uncle’s possession?
She squinted at the scrawled signature—and gasped. It was her uncle’s handwriting.
If Lord Maynard and Cornelius Pierpont were one and the same, that meant he’d stolen from the very shadow committee he chaired, deliberately plotting to profit from the death and suffering of others. He’d bought the “cure” from the scientist’s wife, framed her to take the blame, then conveniently murdered her to send a “message”. All the while the “cure” sat securely within his own safe.
The betrayal struck her hard in the chest, making her heartbeat stumble and her lungs struggle for breath.
Over and over men had demonstrated there were profits to be made selling snake oil and sham cures to desperate individuals. But the value of a working cure selectively distributed only to those with deep pockets? Priceless. And therefore irresistible.
Her uncle was a despicable man.
She’d carried that rosewood box through a step on the obfuscation chain, all on his behalf. The thought that she’d aided her uncle burned with the heat of a thousand suns. How could Mr. Witherspoon have agreed to such a task? Had he not known? Did that excuse him from complicity? She’d consider the moral implications later for, as fast as righteous anger had flared, it quickly cooled, turning to terror. If her uncle was so quick to order murder, what might become of her, were she caught rifling through his safe?
She picked up her pace, locating the property deed to Craigieburn and the documents naming her uncle as guardian and trustee. Quickly, she rolled them together with the most damning of contracts signed in Pierpont’s name and stuffed them into the map tube.
Then, unhooking the burlap sack from her belt, she swapped the blood-stained cardboard box for the one of carved rosewood. Like Pandora’s box, it was impossible not to look inside. She lifted the lid. Upon a padded velvet cushion rested a glass vial filled with a clear fluid and a tangle of white threads.
No. Not threads. Threads didn’t move.
She dropped the vial with a sharp yelp, then clamped her hand over her mouth as the last meal she’d eaten curdled in her stomach.
Worms. Her uncle was peddling worms?
How was this a cure for anything? She’d heard of tapeworm eggs swallowed by women unhappy with their girth, but never of the radical step producing positive results. If anything, reports were negative, when women found their bodily organs riddled with cysts.
Remembering the worms from the fire, she shuddered.
Somewhere in the bowels of the Lister Institute a parasitologist must exist, hunched over a microscope, studying distasteful organisms of all kinds. He—or she—would wish to study this.
Colleen took a deep breath. Swallowed. Then retrieved the vial, skin crawling, and dropped it into the burlap sack before tying it to her belt. She gave a shudder, thinking of the distasteful items she carried about this evening. Shoving the wriggling creatures from her mind, she reached for a velvet pouch that sat deep within the safe.
Sorcha hissed a warning and leapt from the carpet sweeper. Colleen was out of time. Slamming the safe closed, she spun the dial and yanked on the lever. As she turned to follow Sorcha to the window, the bookcase closed behind her.
The door banged open. “Stop right there, Colleen.”
The cat sìth—fur standing on end—let out a yowl that scraped every nerve ending raw, then leapt to freedom.
Mr. Glover? Mr. Glover was her uncle’s minion? Regrets and recriminations could wait until later. She didn’t turn her head to look, but reached for the window frame, seconds from freedom, when—
Bang!
Sharp daggers of glass rained down upon her, and her hand slipped as a strange numbness washed over her right arm. She leapt onto the sill, pulling with her other arm, about to jump blindly, when a rough hand grabbed her hair and dragged her back into the study.
With a twist and a shove, he tossed her to the ground. There was a faint click. “Don’t move.” A revolver appeared before her face and, behind it, Mr. Glover’s enraged face.
She clutched at her limp arm as a tight pressure built. She’d been shot by an ex-lover? Aether. She wouldn’t have thought he had the nerve. But her burning arm, the hot and wet sleeve beneath her palm, informed her otherwise. She was bleeding. Bleeding badly.
“You wouldn’t,” she challenged, rolling onto her side and curling her knees to her chest. No need to feign the agony she felt. She slid the palm of her good arm over her trousers, wiping the blood free before reaching for the dirk concealed in her boot. Shaking fingers found its hilt and clutched at its leather-wrapped handle. Years had passed since her father trained her in its use, and she’d never before needed the blade. Excellent reflexes, keen senses and speed had kept her from any direct confrontations on the job. But she always wore the blade, because she’d be damned if men like Mr. Glover would ever win.
“Why not? It isn’t as if I’d marry you now that you’ve welcomed another man into your bed.”
“Fool.” She slid the blade free and slashed his ankle. “Did you think you were the first?”
Mr. Glover screamed—anger or agony, she couldn’t tell—as she scrambled onto her feet, but Colleen hadn’t taken more than one step when he launched himself at her, bodily slamming her to the ground, knocking the air from her lungs and sending her dirk skittering across the floor.
She rolled, clawing at his eyes.
He caught her wrists and pinned them to the ground, holding her down
with the weight of his body. “I should have been the last,” he growled. “You were promised to me. All I had to do was—”
Another man, gasping, ran into the room. In his hand was a long, metal rod. It hummed. Ominously. “Enough!” he yelled, his eyes wild. A shock of white hair rose from his head. “We need her. Stick with the plan.”
“You!” It was Dr. Farquhar, the man who’d tried to rip Sorcha’s carrier from her hands. Her last lover might be a possessive, jealous man sewn together by a thin thread of incipient madness, but Dr. Farquhar had long ago fallen down the rabbit hole of insanity.
Grudgingly, Mr. Glover stood, yanking Colleen onto her feet. Blood dripped from her fingertips. So much blood. But she would fight to the end. And the stupid man had no idea how close they were to the shelves. Ignoring the pain, she reached behind her. A book met her hand. She smashed it into Mr. Glover’s face, and his hand flew open, releasing her.
“Witch!” he yelled, lunging.
But she slipped away and lifted the tome over her head, struggling against the numbness. Blood ran down her wounded arm and dripped onto the rug as her heart pounded. Escape was impossible. Still, she had to try. Whatever the two of them had planned for her couldn’t be pleasant. “Out of my way! Both of you!”
But the scientist only stared back at her, his head tipped. A demented light glittered in his eyes, and a shadow of a smile touched his lips. “Such spectacular eyes. All this time, he kept you from me. All of them did. Only when they witness it for themselves will they believe.”
“Quit your rambling, old man!” Mr. Glover limped across the room and ripped the humming rod from the scientist’s hands. “If you had married me, Colleen, I would have protected you from this.”
“From what, exactly?” she spat. Her arm began to shake with the effort of holding the book aloft. She stood no chance against an electrified weapon.
