Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

  “You are near mirrors of each other,” Hera finally said. “Both of lovely shape like none of the heavenly gods.” Her voice startled Isobel, a sultry baritone that contrasted with tumbling hair and full lips.

  “I’m afraid my Greek mythos is rusty.” It took Isobel a moment to place the source. “Apollo and Artemis, isn’t it? Twin brother and sister, born to Zeus?”

  Hera’s lips curved as she sank into a chair, then gestured Isobel to do the same. “The Theogony, an epic poem by Hesiod.”

  “I believe Hera was infuriated by the twins.”

  “With her husband. Though stories are conflicting. Hesiod places Zeus and Hera’s marriage after the twins’ birth. What do you think of the Greek epics?”

  Isobel swallowed down a well of impatience. She disliked games and idle chat. But then nothing about Hera struck her as idle or amusing. Dangerous, yes. Something about the woman raised her hackles.

  Perhaps the name she had chosen for herself? Hera. Queen of Gods, sister and wife to Zeus—after he tricked and raped her. Vengeful. Jealous. Goddess of Women. Only this Hera had the underpinnings of a male. Or was Isobel looking too closely at a name?

  Lotario often switched personas. She took his transformations as part of him. Whether male or female, Lotario was still her twin. It didn’t change the person within.

  Layers of masks, of identities, and a name that spoke of pain. Who really was this person Hera? That was the crux of her distrust. Isobel knew nothing about this figure, except that she had power over her twin. And Isobel didn’t know its source.

  “I think they were written by people with too much time on their hands, who wanted an excuse to have orgies. What do you want, Hera?”

  Hera smiled, but it wasn’t charming; it made Isobel itch for a knife. “Paris would never be so blunt.”

  “I’m not my twin.”

  “I see that. Near opposites, like a mirror’s reflection. Except, of course, your shared interest with investigation. I was surprised when he came to me with his business proposal.”

  Isobel stopped herself from grinding her teeth.

  “I can’t say I’m pleased with this little detective venture of his.”

  “You make it sound like he needs your permission to work at Ravenwood Agency.”

  “I think his talents are better suited elsewhere.”

  “And where is that?”

  “With me.”

  “I disagree.”

  “We both care for him, Miss Amsel. I can see that. We simply disagree on what’s best for him.”

  “Care isn’t the word I’d use. What do you want from me?”

  “I’d like you to drop your investigation into Dominic Noble’s death.”

  Isobel stifled her surprise. Had Lotario told Hera about the murder, too? No, he wouldn’t, would he? She didn’t know that answer, so she decided to play dumb.

  “There’s nothing much to it. Dominic died in his sleep.”

  “I can tell you value directness, Miss Amsel, so I’ll skip the wordplay. Dominic was murdered in the Nymphia. You were there, on the crime scene, and you consulted with the police.”

  “How do you know?”

  Hera gestured towards the door as if presenting the room on a platter. “There are worlds within worlds, and ours is a small, shadowed one.”

  More likely Hera had connections with someone in the police department—the same someone who took bribes to turn a blind eye to her brothel.

  “I was hired to find his murderer,” Isobel said. “Who better to investigate than someone who understands the delicacy of the situation?”

  “I don’t think you truly understand delicacy, Miss Amsel.”

  “Where my twin is concerned, I do.”

  “You nearly exposed Lucie during the August Duncan affair.”

  “My twin was abducted. And we took care of it.”

  “So you think,” Hera said. “Do you know the lengths I went through to keep that scandal from the public eye?”

  Isobel raised a brow. “Likely the same lengths you take to operate your brothel.”

  Hera gave a small smile. “You’ve been warned, Miss Amsel. Paris is special to me, but I have more than your twin to protect.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No. A warning. There are limits to my influence. I won’t always be able to protect him from your blundering.”

  Isobel bristled. “And what of Dominic Noble? Doesn’t his life demand justice?”

  “Justice is not blind. And where people like me are concerned, we are the fodder that burns.”

  “People like you aren’t fodder, Hera. You’re the ones with torches. Money is power, and you have a great deal of it.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Forbidden fruit doesn’t come cheap.”

  Hera rose to her feet like a queen over court. “I’ll ask you to leave now. It was… intriguing to finally meet you. I can only hope you’ll heed my advice.”

  “Or what?”

  “If your investigation shines a light on my world, you will discover why I call myself Hera. Tread softly, Miss Amsel.”

  27

  Time and Trinkets

  Late for the Magpie. To anyone else the cryptic message would have meant nothing at all, but it told Isobel several things: Riot was free, but had not gone home. He was being cautious. The word ‘late’ had to do with time. And magpies, though debatable, were attracted to shiny baubles. Time and trinkets. That pointed to a certain landlady named Mrs. Beeton, who ran the Sapphire House where Isobel kept rooms.

  A simple but effective cipher.

  Isobel wanted to rush straight to Sapphire House, but Riot’s caution gave her pause. So instead she transferred from cable car to cable car, until she was certain no one was following her. And as an added precaution she circled around to the back of the boardinghouse to climb a drainpipe.

  The window to her rooms was closed when she came balancing along a ledge. She tested it, found it unlocked, and pushed it up to slip through. A single gas lamp burned in the dim, casting its light on an array of trunks, clothing racks, and a bed that had been shoved into a corner.

  With its central location, Sapphire House made a convenient place to store disguises, so it was more storage room than living space right then.

  A shift of movement in a corner of the room caught her breath. The click of a revolver, and a quick holstering of the weapon. She turned to the shadowed corner, where a man rose from an armchair, a glint of silver around his eyes.

  Isobel was pulled toward the man—by that unseen, electrifying current that seemed to zip over her skin every time he entered a room.

  With a laugh of pure joy, she rushed into his arms. Riot buried his fingers in her hair and kissed her temple, his beard tickling her face. He took a deep breath, and she felt his sigh.

  Isobel pulled back to inspect her husband. He was worn around the edges, his eyes shadowed, but he was clean, smelling of sandalwood and myrrh, and fresh soap. She ran fingers through his trim beard. “And here I was worried about you.”

  “After four days in lockup, there is nothing so satisfying as a trip to the barber, a good meal, and a hot bath.”

  She glanced at the half-eaten sandwich on a plate near a bottle of whiskey. “I come second to a sandwich?”

  “Not the sandwich; maybe to the whiskey, though.”

  “That is excellent whiskey,” she said, running her hands up his bare forearms. His shirt was clean, collar open, and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He’d obviously found the trunk of clothes she kept for him, along with her medicinal beverages.

  “I also found your coin purse,” he said, seeming to read her thoughts. “I stole from it to pay for a barber and a meal.”

  Isobel clucked her tongue. “Rogue.”

  “At least I’m an honest one.”

  “And a charming one.”

  “So you claim.” Fingers brushed her neck, and her skin came alive. Pounding hearts, her own and his, a soft exh
ale, and she met his lips. The intensity shocked her. Both of them. A moment turned into two, and a caress turned into more.

  Sometime later, Riot jerked awake. He flung out his arm, fingers wrapping around a pistol grip, but he stopped himself from fully drawing. Instead, he listened as he searched the dark room.

  Nothing moved, except the shadows cast by a glowing hearth. His skin smelt of her. Their mingled sweat cool on his body. He relaxed at the sound of water splashing in the bathroom, and his head fell back onto a pillow.

  He was spent—drained of strength. Small wonder, he thought, considering Isobel’s passion. It was more akin to a wildfire. There was nothing halfway about the woman.

  After a time he sat up, found his spectacles nearby, and threaded them over his ears to look towards the window. Night had fallen. A thermos, a bowl of fruit, and a package wrapped in paper sat on top of a trunk. How long had he slept?

  Riot pulled on a pair of drawers, and padded over to the window. Standing to one side, he shifted the curtain open with two fingers to search the narrow lane below. Nothing moved.

  The bathroom door opened, and Isobel emerged from a cloud of steam. She was naked and glistening, and he stirred with desire. He clearly wasn’t as tired as he’d first thought.

  “I forgot my robe.” Isobel gave him a knowing smile as she reached for the garment, but only loosely tied it, leaving a tantalizing expanse of throat and shoulder exposed. “You seemed worn out, so I didn’t wake you.”

  “Sleep was scarce in jail. I’m getting too old for cell bunks.”

  “Is anyone ever young enough for a bunk?” she asked, pulling over a dressing stool to sit by their makeshift trunk table.

  “I don’t remember them being quite so hard.”

  “You were just missing our bed.”

  “You could tell?”

  “A little,” she said, as she nudged the paper package and thermos towards him. “I got you a proper meal. And tea. Though I’ll be having whiskey.”

  Riot unwrapped the paper to find a warm meat pie. His mouth started watering.

  “I also telephoned our daughters. No gunshots, stabbings, or explosions. I told them we’d be out for the night. I didn’t want them overreacting. They always think we’re in mortal danger…” Isobel trailed off at the look in his eyes.

  “Thank you, Bel.”

  The edge of her lip quirked. “I do occasionally perform some domestic duties.”

  He took a bite, considering. “I’m not sure barging into the Nymphia during a police raid would commonly count as a domestic duty.”

  “How did you—” She caught herself. “Ah, you spoke with Liam Taft, didn’t you?”

  “It was more of a casual interrogation.”

  Her eyes flashed like steel in the fire’s light. “Was he rough with you?”

  “O’Hare was certainly keen on a proper interrogation. But thanks to your quick thinking, reinforcements arrived. Doyle was a godsend.”

  Isobel studied his face. Although shadowed, his eyes were free of pain, and showed no signs of suffering a headache.

  He gave her a half smile. “You’re worrying, Bel.”

  “Not as much now. Was Taft in charge?”

  “I wouldn’t say he was in charge. The Pinkertons and police have a long history. He was there because an operative was gunned down. It’s standard proced—” Riot cut off when Isobel gave a shake of her head. “What is it?”

  “Monty wasn’t a Pinkerton.”

  Riot frowned. “But he said…” he trailed off in realization. Riot half wished Ravenwood were there to tell him what a fool he was. Monty had played him.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Isobel said. “You were half right.”

  “He was either a Pinkerton or he wasn’t.”

  Isobel poured herself a tumbler of whiskey. “Try again.”

  Riot chewed in thought, but was distracted by his meat pie. “Where did you get this?”

  “A lady around the corner sells them from her home.”

  He made an appreciative sound. “Monty didn’t correct me when I suggested he’d hired on with the Pinkertons,” Riot said. “He said he could move up there. So for whatever reason he wanted me to go on believing he was working as a Pinkerton.”

  “And everyone else,” Isobel said. “The patrolman who discovered his body found a Pinkerton badge in his locker at The Den. It was fake.”

  Riot swallowed that bit of information with his next bite. Isobel told him the rest—her chat with Sims, the discovery that Liam Taft and his partner hadn’t known Monty, and finally her swim in a cesspit.

  That last bit troubled him. One bullet. No other cartridges in the chamber. A discarded rifle of a popular make found across America for the past three decades. It also brought a new perspective to Liam Taft’s questions.

  “Taft must’ve thought Ravenwood Agency was involved in the deception.”

  “I think so,” Isobel said. “He’s still not sharing information. Though I plan to corner him again.”

  “Was Taft already investigating someone impersonating an agent?”

  “I’m not sure. But when I confronted him in his office, he wasn’t keen on anyone else overhearing our conversation.”

  Riot gave a half smile. “I wish I’d been there when you found the murder weapon. I wager Geary was grinding his teeth. Excellent work, Bel.”

  She lifted a shoulder—the exposed one. “It was obvious. But thank you. You know I wasn’t expecting Geary to release you until tomorrow. Did you see Mr. Fry’s exclusive?”

  “I did.”

  “What spooked you today?”

  He told her, then sat back with a sigh, the thermos warming his hands. “Maybe I’m just paranoid.”

  “You and me both. Everything about your release has me worried.”

  “I should’ve walked bold as brass down the street to draw out an ambush. Then we’d know for sure.”

  Isobel gave him a look. “No. You should not have.”

  “Well, I didn’t. But twenty years ago, I would have.”

  “Twenty years ago, you were single and sleeping in a cold bed.”

  Riot ran a hand through his hair, feeling the scar at his temple. “There are a surprising number of lonely widows and divorcées in the world, you know.”

  “And now you’re saddled with a divorcée.”

  “Saddled isn’t the word I’d use.”

  “What would you use?” she asked.

  “I think you have me saddled.”

  Isobel snorted. Then, with a cocked grin, she plucked up the whiskey bottle and an apple and went over to the fire. He set down his empty thermos to follow, and they settled themselves on the hearth rug, backs against a trunk, feet stretched towards the glowing coals.

  “So what was Liam Taft after when he interrogated you?” she asked.

  “He asked after my time with Pinkertons. Specifically why Ravenwood and I left.”

  “Which was?” she asked, pouring him a shot.

  “It isn't the mountain ahead that wears you out; it's the grain of sand in your shoe,” he said, then downed his whiskey in one gulp.

  She cocked her head, trying to place the quote.

  “An imaginative young fellow by the name of Robert Service I once met. They called him the Bard of the Yukon.”

  “That’s lovely, Riot, but it doesn’t answer my question.”

  “In this case, the grain of sand was a fellow detective by the name of Jim Hagen. I discovered he was extorting money and blackmailing folks. He was more criminal than some outlaws we were hunting. I didn’t have proof. Just a hunch. Word of mouth. Rumor. He was a hard one to pin down. I wrote a report without proper evidence, which didn’t go over well. So Ravenwood and I severed ties with the Pinkertons and went our own way.”

  She shifted at his side to look at him. “You mean Ravenwood feared you would take the law into your own hand and gun the man down.”

  “Did he write that in his journals?”

  “You
haven’t read all of them yet?”

  “The ones you gave me. It feels like I’m invading his privacy.”

  “You don’t like looking at yourself through his eyes.”

  “Would you enjoy looking at yourself through your mother’s?” he countered, despite his better sense.

  “I know precisely what my mother would say,” she said dryly.

  “I don’t have your mettle, Bel.”

  “But you’re good at changing the subject. Just like me.”

  Riot held out his glass, and she poured him another shot. “I did have a mind to shoot Jim. But I didn’t.”

  “Why would Taft suspect you of impersonating a Pinkerton, though? Aside from Monty working for you? You exposed a dirty operative.”

  “He also mentioned my record with the Pinkertons.”

  She waited for more, but nothing more came, so she arched a pointed brow. “Your record?”

  “I brought back more wanted men dead than alive.”

  “Hmm.”

  A coal shifted in the fire, stirring flame to life. Riot looked down at his whiskey and found another shot gone.

  “Why would Monty be posing as a fake agent?” she asked.

  “The same reasons men impersonate police officers,” Riot said. “Extortion. Blackmail. Power. Getting folks to open their doors. There’s also a number of jobs the Pinkertons won’t touch—least they’re not supposed to. If word got around that there was an agent willing to take on dirty work, I could see where that might be attractive to some.”

  “It’d be like a policeman willing to skirt the law.”

  “To get things done.”

  “Like you,” Isobel murmured.

  Riot didn’t deny it, but her words still stung. His mind turned to the past, which was always a dangerous thing. Could he have brought more wanted men in alive? The thought of some of those men—what they’d done—rapists, child murderers, butchers. Yes, it was true, he could have shot fewer men. But Riot doubted he could have lived with himself if the courts had let some of those men walk free.

  “Hopefully Taft will decide to trust us,” Isobel said.