A Study in Darkness (40 page)

“For blackmail?” Anything with a whiff of magic was forbidden. Even owning the dolls would be enough to land them in prison.

“Was there another option?”

She didn’t answer that, but stared off into the distance, as if seeing something long ago. That irritated Tobias no end. “Mother, whatever happened, we need to settle it.”

She rounded on him. “You have no idea what you’re saying!”

“Then tell me.”

“Imogen is having nightmares again.”

Tobias sensed his sister tense at the words. He couldn’t blame her, after he’d ridiculed her the last time she’d brought it up. She wasn’t one to enjoy the drama of the sickbed, and that’s what the nightmares meant to her.

They always came before a relapse of her illness. Evelina had been the one who had nursed her when the two of them were at school. Tobias didn’t have a clue how to deal with it.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but I don’t see what it has to do with the automatons.”

“They’re in it,” Imogen said softly.

“Say that again?”

“Sometimes the automatons are in the nightmares. I think because Father made them to keep Anna and I happy when we were sick. They danced and brought food and made the beds, because everyone was afraid of contagion. And then when I got a little better and Anna didn’t, they went with her to the tower.”

The east tower in the castle they’d grown up in. Their father had been the Austrian ambassador, the castle a black-stoned edifice that looked over an alpine cliff. If one had vertigo, it was a bad place to live. “I can see having nightmares about the tower.”

“It’s more than that. It’s … them.” Imogen looked down, curling into a ball. “I’ve started to dream of other things, too, like I told you, Tobias.” She cast a look at him, clearly hoping he said nothing about the fact that now she was dreaming about murder.

Guilt flooded him. He knew his sister had been having a rough time of things—her suitors going at each other with pistols, being separated from her best friend, and watching his carriage wreck of a marriage. She wasn’t strong, and he was doing nothing to help her. Still, that wasn’t why he was here.

He turned to his mother. “What happened with the automatons? Every thread of misfortune in this family leads back to that moment.”

“That is none of your business, young man.” It was both the answer he expected, and not.

“Tobias,” Imogen protested softly, but he ignored her.

“Why not?” he demanded.

“My first care is for my children.”

She’d taken that line with him before, and it had stopped him in his tracks. He wasn’t about to let that happen this time. “I know. I know it wholeheartedly, and I honor you for it. But saying that doesn’t answer a damned thing.”

It didn’t answer why, over the years, her personality was fading from view, the distinctness of her being seeming to blur until he wasn’t sure where his mother began and ended. Was she part of their father, or a separate person? Was she part of the house perhaps? Or the ocean of social activity that seemed to swirl and eddy in and out of the drawing room, leaving a silt of calling cards and invitations? Where Adele Roth actually occurred was a mystery.

But now her look was steel. “Your father would be furious if he knew you were speaking to me like this.”

“He’s always furious.”

Until the time he’d tried to kill himself, and Tobias had smashed him in the jaw for that. It was hard to respect a man who gave up and left his family adrift. And for a few minutes, Tobias had felt like a man, drunk on his own self-righteous superiority. Not that it lasted.

“Your father is furious for a reason.”

“Why?”

Lady Bancroft reached for her book, and for a moment Tobias thought he was going to be read to—some homily on filial obedience or the virtue of discretion. But instead she pulled out a piece of paper and flung it at him.

Reflexively, Tobias caught it. It was thick, soft stationery. Someone’s personal monogrammed stock. He exchanged a glance with Imogen, but she gave a slight shake of the head. She had no idea what the paper was about, either.

He unfolded it, turned it right side up, and read the date. The letter had been sent that morning.

Symeon Magnus
. The handwriting was all too familiar, bringing on a primal, gagging revulsion. His mind was sucked back to the workshop where he and his friends had cooked up their lunatic inventions. Where Magnus had come with his offers and his projects. He remembered digging in the trunk where the doctor had stored his damned doll, Serafina, and finding the crazed diary of the man who had built her. The dead man had been convinced she’d been sucking out his life. At the time, Tobias had been so drunk it had seemed real.

Tobias shuddered, nearly dropping the letter. He’d mercifully forgotten all that. So many horrible things had happened right after. But Magnus was real, and he was writing to his father.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded, handing the paper to Imogen.

“It came by courier this morning. I took it from your father’s study.” She gave him a look that defied him to say a thing. His mother had never been the kind to even set foot inside her husband’s private rooms, but apparently that had changed. “I recognized the monogram on the envelope. I thought it was a mistake. Magnus was dead. But I was wrong. Everyone was—and your tirade announcing his resurrection is hardly news.”

“He’s talking about the automatons,” Tobias said, ignoring her barb. “I’m sure of it. He’s still using them as a weapon. Why?”

His mother looked like she was about to cry. “I don’t know. I could never get him to tell me. It broke our marriage in two!”

Tobias felt her words like a blow to the chest. For the first time in his life, as a husband, he had an inkling of what that meant.
There were no more children after that time. I was sent away. Was everything more fractured than I even guessed? What the bloody hell happened?

Imogen looked up from the paper. “What is Dr. Magnus asking Father to do?”

“Whatever it is,” said Lady Bancroft, gripping Tobias’s arm so hard he flinched, “don’t let him do it.”

NICK CLOSED HIS EYES, FEELING THE SUN ON HIS FACE. AUTUMN
was creeping nearer, but days like this made it easy to forget. The Posy Street market was a perfect place to spend such a stolen scrap of summer—all one needed was a few shillings and a pretty girl, and it would be perfect. But that just reminded him of Evelina, and his mood soured.

“Are you coming or what?” Striker asked.

Reluctantly, Nick trudged after Striker. The Schoolmaster had called a tribunal of some kind, and asked Nick and Striker to attend. Nick didn’t know what the matter was about and didn’t much care, but it couldn’t be good. He’d rather be at the fair—with or without a girl.

There was a round tent in the corner of the marketplace, striped with black and white like something belonging to a circus. That thought made Nick smile as he ducked through the flap, but his amusement was short-lived.

The inside of the tent was dim and stuffy, the heat of the day magnified by the trapped air. There were half a dozen men already there, including Black George. It was so unusual to see the barkeep outside the Saracen’s Head that Nick almost didn’t recognize him. Next to Black George stood the Schoolmaster, who nodded, and then a jeweler of their acquaintance, and finally two men Nick didn’t know.

“Captain Niccolo,” the older one said, and then his features clicked into place.

“Captain Hughes!” Nick exclaimed. Then he looked at Hughes’s companion and recognized the young officer with the sword. Both were wearing the garb of common laborers, the wind-roughened features of the airmen suiting the disguise.

“And my son,” the captain said. “Lieutenant Arnold Hughes of the Merchant Brotherhood of the Air.”

“I wondered what happened to the
Leaping Hind
,” Nick said. “I’m very glad to see you alive.”

“The ship was damaged in the landing,” Hughes said with an unfriendly look. “No thanks to you.”

Nick shrugged. “Count yourself lucky that I let you down in one piece.”

“But we’re all on the same side,” the Schoolmaster put in hurriedly. “At least on this one matter.”

“Oh?” Nick was ready to get down to business. The heat in the tent was stifling, and sweat trickled down his ribs.

The Schoolmaster gave his easy grin. “Some acquaintances of mine live near where the ship came down, and went out to help. When they heard the tale Captain Hughes spun about a pirate and aether guns and cannons on wheels, they thought of me.”

That said more about the Schoolmaster than Nick wanted to know. “Of course they did.”

“And I of you, Captain Niccolo, for you are part of this drama, and should hear the end of it. You should have a vote on the fate of the players.”

“The
Hind
?” Nick asked in surprise.

“No, the
Hind
is in safekeeping for repair, the captain’s crew is healing, and he has volunteered his assistance to our cause. They have a happy ending.”

“Begging your pardon,” said Striker, “but doesn’t that seem a bit convenient? Captain Hughes was flying under the Blue King’s colors when we last saw him.”

Hughes bristled. “I saw what you saw in that work yard. A steam baron might hire me to fly to Bavaria and back again, and as a transport ship, I’ll take his coin. But I don’t
hold with building an army inside the Empire. Not when everything says it’s simply to go up against another baron or, worse yet, against the common people loyal to their queen.”

“Is there proof of how the weapons are to be used?” Nick asked.

“Him,” said Hughes, nodding to a figure bound and slumped in a chair. Then he grabbed the man by the collar and dragged him to his feet. It was Bingham, gagged, and with his wrists bound before him.

“We’ve heard what he had to say,” the Schoolmaster said neutrally. “We caught Mr. Bingham trying to slip back into the Saracen’s Head. He was looking for the device you found there, Mr. Striker—the device that no doubt gave away our rendezvous at the tannery and the location of the
Red Jack
that night. Apparently Mr. Bingham is a compatriot of Elias Jones, and we’re here to decide his fate. Actually, the real question is whether we have any further use for him.”

From the looks of him, Bingham hadn’t been a willing talker, but Nick felt no pity. “He tried to kill Striker in a bar fight. Why?”

Striker stiffened at the mention of it, his eyes going ugly.

In turn, the Schoolmaster’s pleasant face grew serious. “You saw the Blue King’s devices. Bingham ran home in the confusion after the
Hind
foundered, but his next set of orders were to march right back and do away with everyone on that flight to keep word of the wheel guns from spreading.”

That was as much as Nick suspected.

“Of course,” the Schoolmaster added, “everyone in my network now knows the guns exist, thanks to Captain Hughes.”

He caught Nick’s eye, clearly wondering why he hadn’t come forward with the information. The truth was, Nick was still playing his cards close to his chest. He was a pirate, not a political man, and he rather liked it that way.

“I have a question,” said Striker, breaking the tension. “When I opened up the listening device, it didn’t work like
any I’d seen before. It doesn’t write sounds down, like a wax cylinder device. It’s all electric pulses, like a telegraph code. Damned clever, because someone gets that information the moment it’s overheard by the device. The old way someone has to pick it up before they learn what’s on it.”

“The question?” the Schoolmaster asked, obviously fascinated by the news.

“Who made it?”

This had a galvanizing effect on Bingham. He tore himself out of Hughes’s grip and lurched forward, diving for the entrance to the tent. Nick was closest, so he moved to intercept. The man was heavier, and he was desperate, smashing into Nick with a grunt. Nick felt his feet leave the ground and his hat fly off, but he dragged Bingham with him, using momentum to topple the running man. From there, it was no contest. The prisoner’s hands were bound, and Nick rolled him facedown. Then he put a knee between Bingham’s shoulders, applying just enough pressure to pin him without cutting off his air. Nick drew his knife and sliced the knot of the man’s gag. Bingham stunk with the heat and lack of soap and water.

“You heard the question,” Nick said in a hard voice. “Who made the device?”

The man spit out the cloth, but said nothing. Nick tickled the skin below his ear with the knife point. Bingham flinched.

“Speak up,” Nick said, the words almost singsong.

The man cursed. Striker hovered at Nick’s side, the others still in their places but watching intently. Tears of fright leaked from Bingham’s tightly squeezed eyelids.