A Charm of Magpies 03 Flight of Magpies (6 page)

He jumped as the third person in the room put a heavy hand commandingly on his shoulder.

“You’re not going to be sick, are you, Mr. Day?”

“I’m fine.” Stephen slithered away from Inspector Rickaby’s touch. “Unlike this chap. Why am I here?”

“What’s this look like to you?” Rickaby’s tone was thick with suppressed anger.

Stephen scowled at the spreadeagled figure on the counterpane. The dead man’s body and face were a mass of open wounds—long savage cuts, some laying the flesh open to the bone, an anatomist’s diagram. Stephen could see layers of dark red muscle and yellow fat, reminding him of an uncooked side of bacon. Between the open legs, the genitals had been almost completely severed. Blood soaked the bedclothes and pooled on the floor beneath.

“Butchery,” Stephen said. “Someone went mad with a knife. More than one person, perhaps. This must have taken hours. Did the neighbours not hear screaming? But,” he hurried to add as Rickaby opened his mouth, “what it
doesn’t
look like is my area of expertise. Why is this other than a straightforward killing?”

“The neighbours did hear screaming. Heard it, came up, kicked the door in, and saw… Want to guess?”

“No.”

“Nothing. Not another soul. Just him on the bed, screaming, and cuts opening up all over him. Like an invisible man was attacking him with an invisible knife, they said.”

Stephen repressed a groan. “And you think this report is accurate?”

“A constable saw it too. All the accounts tally. And, do you know who this gentleman is, Mr. Day?”

It sounded as though he was expected to, but the face was a mass of blood and muscle and white bone that Stephen had no great desire to examine. “I have no idea.”

“No idea? Don’t recognise him?”

As if the corpse’s own mother could. “No.”

“Funny, that. You knew him well enough once.”

Stephen looked at the body again, reluctantly. The hair was sparse, and faded ginger tufts were visible under the blood. The agonised eyes were of a peculiar pale blue, and as Stephen stared, his memory shifted the pieces into place.

“It’s not Fred Beamish, is it?” he said, barely able to believe his own words. “Oh God. It is, isn’t it?”

“Fred Beamish,” Rickaby repeated. “Inspector Beamish. The Council’s police liaison officer, as was, before you lot ruined him. And now here he is, murdered by magic.”

“Hell’s teeth.” Stephen pulled his gloves off, mind skittering as he attempted to understand the scope of this disaster. “But why would anyone hurt Beamish? He’d retired.”

“Resigned,” Rickaby corrected. “When he lost his nerve. When he saw one too many God-rotted filthy thing.”

Stephen remembered it all too well. Beamish had been a decent enough man, but like most of the men of the Metropolitan Police, he had not signed up for unnatural evils, and there had been a lot of those last year, when the warlock Thomas Underhill had abandoned all caution, drunk on power, and had operated in plain sight. Beamish had been one of the first on the spot when they had found a child, alive, its ribcage gaping and heart gone, wandering along the Embankment crying emptily for its mother. He had resigned from the police force the following day, and started drinking. Stephen had meant to go and visit him, to talk, or to see if he could draw some of the venom out of Beamish’s memories, but he had had to hunt down Underhill first, and nearly died in the process. Then there had been the long months of recovery, and then Crane had landed in his life like a falling star. He hadn’t found the time after that. In truth, he hadn’t thought about Beamish at all.

Rickaby was watching his face, obviously seeing the guilt there. “Yes, your lot broke Fred Beamish’s nerve. Broke his nerve, broke his mind, then you killed him.”

“Now wait,” Stephen said. “Underhill, the man who did those things last year, he’s dead. I killed him myself. His accomplices too.” At least, Sir Peter Bruton was dead. Lady Bruton, the third of the warlocks, had escaped, and Stephen’s efforts to have her tracked down had faltered, failed, and never restarted. The memory jolted him with a stab of shame. It was yet another important task that he’d delayed acting on, day by day, until it had somehow come to seem less important by virtue of having been undone for so long, and had been buried by a torrent of other tasks.

He really ought to do something about Lady Bruton. He had, after all, promised Crane he would.

He didn’t intend to share any of that with Rickaby. Stephen shoved the guilt back, speaking briskly. “There’s no reason to suppose there’s any link between that business and this.”

Rickaby nodded. “No, that’s true. Maybe it’s two lots of murdering practitioners, not one. Three, even, what with Superintendent Raphael lying dead by practice too. Just tell me, how many killers do you have in your ranks, Mr. Day? How many dead policemen do you think I’ll stand for?” He jabbed a finger at Stephen’s face as he spoke, leaning into him. Stephen set his jaw and stepped away, to the head of the bed, feeling the etheric currents wash around him. There was a lot of blood and pain.

“Five dead on Ratcliffe Highway, this summer!” Rickaby bellowed. His face was deep puce with anger. “Two in Limehouse, and one out Tower way and two more bodies in a cellar in Holborn—ten unlawful deaths, all down to your bloody rotten murdering lot, and did anyone stand trial?”

“The guilty men were dead,” Stephen pointed out, keeping his voice level. “You can’t put corpses on a stand.” There was nothing useful coming to his hands through the air. He was not looking forward to touching the body.

“So you say.” Rickaby’s voice dropped, so he sounded unconvincingly calm. “Strange, that. It always turns out that there’s a dead man to blame, or someone’s left the country. Or the matter isn’t to be pursued, and two weeks later I see the culprit walking the streets bold as brass. There’s never a conviction. There’s never a punishment.”

Stephen stopped bothering with the corpse. “Are you really suggesting you want to take things like this in front of a judge and jury? ‘An invisible man stabbed him, Your Honour’?”

“I want to know what’s going on,” Rickaby said. “I want punishments. Eight months I’ve been working with you people, and not a single case brought to trial. Well, I’m not having it. There’s two dead policemen now, murdered by practice, and I’ll damned well see someone swing for this, do you understand?”

“I do, actually. I understand, and I sympathise, and you have my word that I will—
we
will find the culprits here. I’m not going to promise you a public trial because, well, you know how it is. But I swear to you, whoever did this will pay for it.”

Rickaby shook his head. “I’ve been taking your say-so long enough. Taking your word, walking away, and watching more people die.”

Stephen breathed deeply, keeping his temper. Rickaby might want a shouting match, but giving him one would scarcely help, and God knew the man had a point. “I don’t set the rules. I just try to make sure justice is done, much like you.”

“One man’s judgement isn’t the same thing as justice. Justice happens within the law, and it’s seen to be done. That’s what I want for Fred Beamish and Superintendent Raphael. What you do, Mr. Day, that’s what I call revenge.”

“Nonsense,” Stephen said, startled. “I’m doing my duty here, Inspector, nothing else.”

“Maybe you are,” Rickaby said grimly. “But I don’t think much of your duty, or your justice, or your Council either. Fred Beamish was worth ten of any practitioner I’ve met. He deserves a devil of a lot more than to be brushed under the carpet while you keep your secrets.”

Stephen flushed at the accusation in his eyes. “Noted,” he said stiffly. “Why don’t I try to find out who did this to him, and then we can decide what to do about it?”

Two long, miserable, fruitless hours later, Stephen left the charnel room and Rickaby behind. He made sure he was several streets away before he propped himself against a wall and took some very deep breaths, willing the stench of blood and excrement out of his nose.

He hated this, hated it so much. It was his job and it had to be done, and of course whoever had turned Beamish into chopped liver needed to be dealt with, but dear God, if he never saw another revoltingly mutilated corpse, he would be a happy man.

His fingers felt contaminated from the touch of the body. He moved to rub them on his trousers, realised that he was wearing a decent suit of clothes, and had to dig inside a pocket for a handkerchief. He scrubbed it over his fingertips, one by one and then all together. There were no marks left on the white linen, but his fingers still felt stained by the dead man’s blood and pain.

Stephen leaned against the cold, damp brickwork, because while he stood here, he didn’t have to do anything, and he couldn’t bear any of what he had to do. Rickaby was furious, and accusatory, and right, curse him. Two policemen, decent men, were dead, crying out for justice that Stephen would not give them. Saint was a thief. Crane was trammelled, frustrated, visibly losing patience. And worried too, Stephen was sure, though he never showed it.

Stephen didn’t want to go back to the flat.

It seemed ludicrous to feel so reluctant. He loved Crane’s home, with its comforts, its warmth, Merrick’s effortless competence and bone-dry sarcasm, and Crane’s presence, so powerful that he could feel the man’s imprint in the ether whether he was there or not. Most of the happiest moments of his life had taken place there, in the last few months. Every time he caught himself thinking of the flat as home, Lucien’s bed as the place he belonged, he felt dizzied by his own privilege. Arrogant, beautiful, domineering Lord Crane, with the caring that made Stephen’s heart break, and the vicious streak that made his knees bend, had chosen him among all the men’s men of London, and treated him with a loyalty, generosity and almost painful honesty that made Stephen’s heart hurt. And his reward was a few doled-out crumbs of Stephen’s time in a country he hated.

Time Stephen was wasting now. He forced himself upright and made himself walk, jamming his hands in his pockets against the chilly bite of the winter wind, and wondered how long they could keep this up.

Four months ago, in the unhappy knowledge that he had fallen helplessly and irrevocably in love with a man who wanted to be on the other side of the globe, he would have given anything for Crane to have ties to England. Then Crane had told him that
he
was the tie, that he wouldn’t leave England without Stephen by his side, and Stephen had fully understood why one should be careful what one wished for.

His life had worked before Crane, more or less. He’d had friendships, his time had been more than filled with the demands of the job, he’d managed the occasional backstreet encounter, even. It hadn’t been the life of his dreams, but then, Stephen had never really had dreams, and if he had, he would certainly not have presumed to dream of someone like Crane. All he had wanted to do was survive, manage, to keep on top of his life and work without anything going terribly wrong, and he had done that in a quite satisfactory manner.

Now he had a lover and a life that still seemed the stuff of fantasy, and it was driving him to distraction. Every minute he spent with Lucien was stolen from his duty, every minute on the job was a theft from his lover, everything he did left something more important undone.

I wish I had time for him
, Stephen thought miserably.
I wish…
He couldn’t wish to leave the job. Not knowing all there was to do, all the people who needed him, his duty.
But I wish to God I could.

Stephen turned a corner into the icy wind, huddling into his heavy topcoat. He was trying to think of ways to make more hours in each day as he stepped onto the Strand, and saw Crane in smiling, flirtatious conversation with an attractive young man.

Chapter Five

Crane had had a thoroughly unrewarding day. The messages he’d sent for Stephen had gone unanswered, as usual, and since he had no desire to be within fifty miles of Esther Gold when she learned that his manservant had deflowered her charge, he had not felt able to take Saint’s alibi elsewhere. Not that he was much looking forward to putting the matter to Stephen.

He had visited Leonora, gone to the gymnasium, and done several hours’ desultory work in the office to kill the time before he might expect Stephen to return, and he was striding along the Strand towards home, considering precisely how he would word his explanation, when he heard the call.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Crane stopped under a gas lamp and turned as a young man hurried up with something white in his hand. “I think you dropped your handkerchief.”

Crane glanced at the little square of linen. It was definitely one of the vast stocks of handkerchiefs they’d brought from Piper, with a small magpie embroidered in the corner. He couldn’t imagine how he’d dropped the thing. “Yes, that’s mine. Thank you.” He took it, except that the other man didn’t release his grip, and Crane looked at the fellow’s face in surprise.

He was worth looking at. Midtwenties, perhaps, with slightly shaggy, windswept black hair, shot through with a streak of early grey on one side. It was a lopsided but rather attractive feature. Not tall, but substantially larger than Stephen—who wasn’t?—with an athletic build. And he had a face made for misbehaviour, with deep blue laughing eyes, and a wide mouth curving into an irrepressible grin.

Good God
, Crane thought appreciatively.
This country’s breeding them better these days.

He tugged again at the handkerchief. The other man pulled back, a look of mischief sparkling under dark lashes, and then released it.

“Thank you.” Crane pocketed the handkerchief with a smile.

“Oh, it was no trouble.” The young lovely returned the smile, along with a lingering glance. “In return, could I beg you for a match?”

“None on me, I’m afraid. I don’t smoke.”

“Oh, but you should. It’s the only way to protect the lungs against this cursed fog. And it’s a pleasant vice.” His grin widened. “Perhaps not the
most
pleasant.”

“Indeed not,” Crane batted back. “Not while there’s drink.”

A wicked smile glinted in the gaslight. “Of course. And would you care to come and take a glass with me, sir? Perhaps at my lodgings?”

“Ah…no,” Crane said, with a little regret. “I think not.”

“Really?” The lovely’s deep blue eyes met Crane’s in a darting look before his long lashes swept down again. “I’m very entertaining company.”

“I’m sure you are. I’ve other commitments.”

“None you can’t break, I dare say, sir.” The young man put a light hand on his forearm. “Perhaps you could spare five minutes to discuss the matter, somewhere close by?” His gaze flicked over to one of the many little alleys that ran off the Strand. Indiscreet, undoubtedly, but it was dark, and probably safe enough for a quick suck…

In another life. Crane shrugged the hand off, feeling a pulse of annoyance at the blatant approach that he doubtless wouldn’t have experienced if he’d been able to take advantage of it. As it was, there seemed to be far too many people on the Strand to play silly buggers. Policemen, flower sellers, even the street artist who seemed to be constantly around these days, sketching under the gas lamp’s circle of light not six feet from him.

“No, but good hunting.” Crane gave the young man a smile and a nod of farewell, and walked off without waiting for a response, stuffing the handkerchief into the pocket.

Fidelity had never been part of his life before. Not that he’d rejected it as an idea; it simply hadn’t come up. Very few of his previous lovers would have batted an eye at his taking up the young man’s offer, nor would Crane have expected any of them to refrain. He wouldn’t, truly, have cared.

Stephen would care. Stephen would care so much it hurt. Crane hadn’t ever discussed the matter with him, because—he realised with incredulity—this was the first time it had crossed his mind in eight months that he might bed anyone else, but he knew, without question, the flinching pain he would inflict if Stephen saw him with some bit of stuff.

Good God, does he expect me never to fuck anyone else for the rest of my life?
Crane thought, and then,
No. Of course he expects me to fuck other people. He’ll be waiting for me to do exactly that
.
Waiting and dreading.

One more obligation that came with Stephen, Crane thought as he entered his building and headed up the four flights of stairs. One more restriction, along with the secrecy and the life in England, and the demands of the bloody justiciary. Another set of chains.

Admittedly, Crane had had all the lovers a reasonable man could ask for, and he was old enough to appreciate a pretty mouth without feeling compelled to put his cock in it. There was nothing the blue-eyed smiler could give him that Stephen could not, except, probably, the clap. Most of all, he could not imagine taking pleasure in an act that would cause Stephen pain. Nothing was worth that. But the realisation took him one more step away from China and home; bound him one notch tighter to England and duty and all the things that tied Stephen down, and Crane with him.

If I’d wanted a life trammelled by obligation, I could have stayed in this bloody country in the first place.

Then again, if I wanted a life without Stephen I’d be back in Shanghai already.

Crane reached his front door and heard rapid footsteps behind him, hurrying up the stairs. He turned and saw Stephen sprinting up to catch him, face set.

“Who the devil was that?” Stephen demanded.

“Good evening to you too. I’ve no idea. He was returning my handkerchief.”

“Really. Was that all?”

Crane arched a brow at the expression on Stephen’s face. “As you saw.”

“He didn’t look like he was returning a handkerchief.”

Crane opened the front door, waved Stephen in, and shut it safely behind them. “Well, he also wanted to suck me off, but I just accepted the handkerchief. Are you jealous?”

Stephen went scarlet. “No.”

“You are.” Crane grinned at him, waiting for him to see the absurdity, for the familiar light of amusement in his eyes and the irresistible snag-toothed smile.

It didn’t come. Instead, Stephen threw his coat onto a hook. “It’s scarcely jealousy if I expect you to be a little more courteous than to be fondling other men right in front of me.”

“Oh, come. I did nothing of the kind. What’s wrong?”

“What’s
wrong
?” Stephen repeated angrily, and then flopped back against the wall. “Oh God, Lucien, what isn’t?”

“Here.” Crane pulled him through to the sitting room, shoved him onto the sofa and poured them both a generous whisky. “Talk to me.”

Stephen gulped half the drink in a single swallow, put the glass down and slumped forward, face in his hands. “Saint’s stolen my ring. A practitioner has murdered two retired police officers. We ought to have everyone on this, because the police will be angry beyond belief, but do you know how many people are working on it? Me. I’m the only justiciar dealing with this case, because there should be at least eight justiciars in London and there are currently five without Esther or Saint, and they won’t pay for any replacements or take on anyone new, so there is no way I will be able to go to Paris or anywhere else with you, and I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to go find that chap with the handkerchief, he’d be more use to you than I am.” He took a gasping breath after that rush of speech, and went on, more quietly but no less desperately, “If I stopped sleeping altogether, I still wouldn’t have enough time in the day. I don’t know what to do any more.”

Of course he had lied about Paris. Crane wasn’t precisely surprised, but the realisation was still a scrape against his self-esteem. “I see. Things must be bad if you’re voluntarily telling me the truth.”

“Don’t. Please. And don’t tell me I have to work less, either. We’ve been on a shoestring for eighteen months. Seven justiciars weren’t enough. What it’ll be like with five—”

“I can tell you that, actually,” Crane said. “It’ll be like a slow attrition as you all work harder and harder on less and less until one by one you give up, walk away, break, or in your case, get yourself killed. Then your superiors will close down the justiciary altogether, and the survivors will realise that was what they had planned to do all along and everything you did was just pissing in a hole.”

Stephen was looking up, eyes wide, angry and appalled. “Rubbish. Utter rubbish. They
need
the justiciary.”

“Christ, you’re naive. If they needed you, or wanted you, they’d pay for you. Conversely, as they’re
not
paying, how important do you really think you are?”

“It’s not like that.” Stephen looked sick. “The Council is short of funds—there’s internal disagreement—”

“A hundred to a quid says you’re being shut down. If you walk away now, it will at least be over faster.”

“Ah.” Stephen’s face was tight. “I see. Tell me, was all that simply wishful thinking, or is this a new line of persuasion to make me leave?”

Crane bit off an angry response. “Believe it or don’t. One of us can say
I told you so
in a year’s time when we’ll see if you still have a job, or your skin. Meanwhile, if you could stop picking fights with me for just a moment, there’s something you need to know.”

“What is it?”

This was, Crane knew, not going to go well. He had hoped to have this conversation with Stephen sated and pliant in his bed, not prickling with this raw, angry mood. But there was no way he could dodge it.

“I was wrong about Saint. It wasn’t her, last night.”

“
What
?”

Crane put both hands up as the astonished fury dawned on Stephen’s face. “Listen. I saw exactly what I told you, except that I didn’t actually see it. I was fluenced.” He rapidly explained, but Stephen was shaking his head, finally interrupting.

“No. Stop. I found her last night—this morning, rather. She came in about four o’clock looking guilty as sin. If she’d had an alibi she’d have told me so, for heaven’s sake. There’s nothing to suggest you were wrong, except that you’re not sure of your memory now—”

“And the fact that I saw moonlight on a moonless night.”

Stephen paused, frowning. “Yes, except you didn’t say anything about moonlight at the time. Memories change. Look, be reasonable. The idea that someone fluenced you to incriminate her and steal my ring from your flat—you’re suggesting some kind of plot against me, or us, don’t you see that? Do you really think that’s more likely than that you were right the first time?”

“Yes, I do. She has an alibi, Stephen. She was with someone.”

“At two in the morning? Who?” Stephen demanded, and then, “Just a moment, how the devil do you know where she was?” and then, with explosive fury, “
Mr. Merrick
?”

“Don’t overreact,” Crane said, without much hope.

“Don’t overreact? He’s three times her age!”

“Two and a half.”

“This isn’t funny!” Stephen shouted. He was scarlet with anger in a way that Crane had never seen and didn’t like, his eyes snapping. “I told you about this—you
assured
me—”

“I had no idea till this morning. Stephen, listen—”

“No, I will not!” Stephen jumped to his feet. “For God’s sake, she’s alone in the world, she’s so blasted
young
. This is exploitation.”

“The hell it is. He’s offered her marriage.”

“Marriage? And has she accepted?”

Damn the man. “Well, not yet—”

“In other words, she doesn’t want to marry him, but the offer makes it all right, does it? Oh, I beg your pardon, I forgot. Everything Mr. Merrick does is all right in your eyes.”

“Yes. It is.” Crane was standing now too, matching Stephen glare for glare. “The only reason Miss Saint will have been in his bed is that she wanted to be there. She’s of age, he is neither fool nor rogue, and mostly, Stephen, as with so very many things, you are taking responsibility for something that is not up to you. It’s none of your business who she chooses to fuck.”

Stephen spluttered. “What if she finds herself in a—a difficult situation?”

“If he knocks her up? Then she’ll be well advised to take up his offer.”

“And suppose she doesn’t want to be tied for life, at the age of eighteen, to a killer?”

Crane set his jaw. “That is not—”

“Accurate? Really? How much blood does Mr. Merrick have on his hands, precisely? How many men has he killed?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Crane said. “Do you think it’s more or fewer than you?”

Stephen gasped, as if punched. “That’s my job!”

“And his. Merrick works for me, Stephen. His acts are mine. If he’s not good enough for Miss Saint, I struggle to see how I’m good enough for you.”

“Don’t you dare threaten me.” Stephen’s breath came fast. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m not,” Crane said. “Or perhaps I am. I don’t know. I know this: he’s never given a damn for a woman since his wife died, and that was more than a decade ago. I know he wouldn’t have touched Miss Saint with a ten-foot pole if it wasn’t serious, for him at least. And I know that he’s not the first man to put his heart in a damn fool, ill-judged, unfortunate, bloody awkward place.” He forced a crooked grin, praying Stephen would listen. “I did. So did you.”

Stephen shut his eyes, breathing deeply. At last, more levelly, he said, “I am angry about this.”

“I know.”

“I can’t see it’s right. He’s so much older—”

“She’s a shaman. She can
fly
.”

“Windwalk, and I can assure you that being a practitioner is absolutely no help in organising one’s personal life.”

“Leonora Hart isn’t even a practitioner and she managed,” Crane pointed out. “Tom was forty-two when he married her, she was eighteen—”

“And we spent several days in summer mopping up the trail of blood they left.”