A Study in Sable (11 page)

It was also beautiful, flying away toward the sea under full sail.

It would have to be a sailing boat; Water Elementals would never approach a boat with a great iron and brass engine in it. It was a lovely thing, the wood almost alive under Nan's hand, and when she looked up at the sails, she spotted sylphs playing among them. The captain was probably a Master, and likely Air; as such he'd always be able to guarantee a following wind. The crew were probably not Masters, but likely were a mix of Air and Water. They scrambled among the lines and canvas like a lot of monkeys, while the captain, after a few quiet words with John Watson, went to the wheel and stayed there, for all the world like a fancy engraving come to life.

Nan and Sarah, out of experience, had spotted a place on the deck where all the passengers could sit comfortably together, share out their hampers, and not be too much in the way of the crew. So
they had lugged everything there and set up, and the others (who fortunately
all
seemed to be devoid of seasickness) followed their leads.

So the trip out to sea was something of a celebratory party. Mary Watson did prove to be slightly imperfect however, because the hampers did not contain nearly enough cutlery and cups to serve everyone, so some of them were “forced” to eat with their fingers and drink out of bottles like a lot of Cockney holiday-makers. Nan and Sarah were two who made the choice to picnic like a couple little barbarians, going into fits of giggles every time Memsa'b looked at them and sighed.

The giggles, at least in Nan's case, were coming out of the release of terrible tension as well as out of amusement. Every time she glanced back at where the lead-covered strongbox waited in the bow, she was reminded about how badly it all
could
have gone. Her “memories,” if that was what the dreams had been, told her that two extremely powerful magicians had barely been able to contain this thing, or something like it. If the day had suddenly gone overcast, they could very well have found themselves with a fight on their hands.

She ate a buttered scone thoughtfully, listening to the others talking. She was pretty certain the far-too-light conversation going on was covering the fact that everyone else was thinking the same thing.
Then again . . . I think this might have been the very first time so many people of so many mystical persuasions
and
with knowledge of modern science worked together against one of these Shadow Beasts.

Still, she would be much happier once that box was gone.

The Hartons and the Watsons were nattering merrily away; they seemed to know a great many of the same people in the occult community—and in the rather larger community of people who were under the decidedly erroneous impression that they were the sole holders of Great Mystic Secrets. The conversation could very easily have been a sort of gossip-feast of laughing at the foibles of the latter folk. But in fact, it wasn't. As Nan listened, she quickly understood that the Hartons and the Watsons were exchanging
information about which of these people were harmless, which were exploitive, which could get themselves in trouble, and which would be all too willing to get
other
people in trouble.

For her part, Nan put her face into the wind and reveled in the rise and fall of the ship, the smooth, warm wood under her hand, and the breeze that was rapidly pulling her hair out of its pins. If the truth were to be told, she missed being out in a little sailing boat with the Selch lad she'd passed some time with more than she missed the lad himself. Not that he'd done badly for himself, for once Nan and Sarah had made all their reports to Lord Alderscroft, another Water Master in Cornwall had heard of the colony of Selch and come to meet with them and brought his pretty daughters and . . . well, one thing had led to another, which had led to a double wedding. And Nan had greatly enjoyed every bit of her time there, though she was
not
sorry to leave before winter came again. Winter could be brutal on the seashore, or near it.

Grey sat on Sarah's shoulder, and Neville sat on Nan's, although they were both strong enough flyers they could easily have kept up with the boat if they cared to—or even flown ahead of it. They were used to boats now, just as Nan and Sarah were. They didn't
like
boats nearly as much as Nan and Sarah did, but they didn't object to being on them either. Nan was glad for the padded shoulders she had put in all of her jackets; Neville's grip was rather powerful as he braced himself against the wind, his wings slightly spread and his eyes half-shut.

The faintly putrid green algae smell of the Thames abruptly gave way to the cleaner salt air of the sea as they sailed out of the estuary and into the open ocean. And now was the first time the captain spoke out loud, as he called out to John Watson. “So, Master Watson! How far do you wish us to sail?” Nan liked his voice. It had a brisk, no-nonsense, yet friendly tone to it. It sounded like the voice of a man who laughed a great deal.

“Far enough out that we're not easily watched, and make sure we're out of the shipping lanes, then put out the sea anchor if you please, Captain Landers,” Watson replied. “I've already sent out a messenger, and we should be met.”

“Aye, Master Watson, that's easily done.” He shouted out some directions, and his crew made some adjustments to ropes and sails as he moved the wheel slightly. By the sun, they had turned in a more northerly direction, more toward Belgium than France, which would certainly take them out of the shipping lanes between London or Dover and Calais. Watson looked satisfied, so Nan assumed this suited him.

When the two shores seemed equally distant to her and all the ships in sight were moving on a course that was at a right angle to their own, the Captain ordered the sails be furled and the sea anchor dropped. The sea anchor was nothing more than a stout rope with some boards and canvas at the end of it, but as soon as it had been dropped in the ocean and the rope went tight, Nan immediately understood what its purpose was. Not to keep them in one place, but to keep the bow of the ship heading into the waves.

“And now we wait,” said John Watson, who seemed in no hurry now that they were out here. Mary appeared to be perfectly content to lean back against her husband and turn her face up to the sun. Nan looked at the others, and Memsa'b shrugged and got a book out of her bag. Sahib read over her shoulder, and Karamjit, Agansing, and Selim took out their various edged weapons and began sharpening them.

Grey hopped down into Sarah's lap and demanded a scratch. Nan raised an eyebrow at Neville. “I don't suppose you want to be cuddled, do you?” she asked.

Neville made a noise that was a reasonable imitation of a human snort then flew up the mast to chase off some curious gulls who were gathering to see if the boat had any fish they could steal. Neville very much enjoyed bullying the bullies.

It was just about the same time that Neville had routed the last of the would-be fish thieves that one of the crew shouted, “Sail ho!” and pointed northward. That roused everyone; Neville came back down to Nan's shoulder, and Nan shaded her eyes and peered in the direction the sailor had indicated. All she could see at this distance was a dot, but the dot rapidly grew to a tiny triangle of sail, and then to a
triangle with a sliver of boat beneath it, and then to a recognizable shape. It was a small fishing ketch, one that could be handled by a single man, or a pair, exactly like the one that Rhodri had sailed back in Wales. . . .

Then Nan jumped right up and began waving her arms, and so did Sarah, because it
was
Rhodri, skillfully sailing his craft toward them. There was no mistaking him in the garb typical for a Welsh fisherman: waterproof boots, plain trousers, linen shirt, waistcoat, and jacket, but with the unusual touch of a sealskin cloak thrown over one shoulder. His curly black hair was a bit longer, but he was still clean-shaven, as Welsh fisherman tended to be until they were old and gray-haired. Neville gave a great quork and flew laps between their boat and the ketch until Rhodri had brought it up alongside theirs. Grey kept giving wild whistles as Neville flew. Rhodri tossed two ropes to the crew, who tied them up, bow to stern and stern to bow.

Then he stood in the stern, and gave them all a looking over until his eyes fell on John. “Water Master,” Rhodri said, with a little bow to John Watson. “The sea-lords say you have a thing you wished disposed of. When I heard you had our friends with you, I said I would cross to the Middle Earth to take your task.” Then he winked. “And hello, Nan Killian, it is fair to see you, and you, Sarah Lyon-White! Sally Anne sends her love.”

“John, this is Rhodri, of the Selch,” Nan said quickly. “Rhodri, this is John Watson. We met Rhodri and others of his clan when we were doing a bit of work for Lord Alderscroft in Wales.”

John didn't smile. “This is a dangerous thing we are asking you to handle, Rhodri of the Selkie. Dangerous to your kind as well as ours, perhaps even
more
dangerous to your kind.”

Rhodri merely nodded, intense, blue eyes unwontedly sober. “So the sea-lords say. I am but the courier. The sea-lords will have the disposing of it. Perhaps even Lyr himself. He is no friend to the sons of Adam, but no enemy either, and a thing that is dangerous to all is safe in his hands.”

“Come then, and let me explain,” said John; Rhodri leapt over to their deck, and the Watsons explained as briefly as they could what
they all
thought
was in the box, how it had acted, and how they had contained it. Rhodri listened closely with his black brows knitted with concentration.

“So, it must go somewhere it is not likely to be damaged, and somewhere no one is like to haul it up by accident.” The Selch nodded decisively as the wind ruffled his hair. “It's not for me to say, that will be up to the sea-lords, but I expect it will be taken to the deepest part of the ocean, where light never comes, and tucked deep inside some crevasse or sea cave. Then a watch will be put on it. Or, it may be we'll lay it in the path of lava from a sea volcano, for there are such things, and let the lava cover it up and encase it forever in stone, and a watch will be set on it. Either way, the wisest heads will see to it that it does no more harm.”

John heaved a sigh of relief, and his face relaxed into a smile. “Then that is exactly what I had hoped. Thank you,” he added, and gave a little bow of his own.

Rhodri and Watson got the heavy, lead-sheathed strongbox over to the bow of Rhodri's ketch—no need to worry about the safety of it, in a possibly magical ketch steered by a Selch!—and secured it there. Then Rhodri spent a little more time exchanging news with Nan and Sarah.

“Gethin is mellowing, now that my Sally Anne is expecting, and Idwal and Mari are as well,” Rhodri told them. “More Selch for our clan, of course, and with Water Magic blood in them as well, and once in a great while he admits that your mortal meddling was a good thing after all. He can't lift the banishment on Idwal and Mari until the full seven years is up, and he'll never admit to forgiving her, but I think he'll pretend to forget to renew it, and take care never to be about when they visit our clanhold.” His eyes sparkled with amusement at that, and Nan grinned. “I'll tell you more one day soon. For now, it's best I be off. The sooner yon package is in the hands of the sea-lords, the safer we'll all be.”

With that, he hopped back into his boat; at his signal, the crew from theirs cast off the ropes. A moment later, he was sailing past them, going south, heading across the channel and to the sea.

“And that is a good day's work, my friends,” John Watson said, into the silence Rhodri's leaving had cast on them. “Time for us to return, my good Captain Landers to be paid, and I think a celebration is in order.”

“I'll drink to that!” said Grey.

5

I
T
was long past teatime when Nan and Sarah returned home in a hansom cab. The Watsons' idea of a celebration had been to go to a pub, which was not a good place to get what Nan and Sarah considered to be a proper tea, so after a couple of sherries, they had left the Watsons, the Hartons, and the captain and crew of the
Lively Lady
all toasting one another, and headed home. The birds were just as happy to leave the pub; they didn't care at all for the tobacco smoke, and truth to tell, neither did Nan or Sarah.

They were a little surprised to see another cab standing in front of their landlady's door as theirs stopped to let them off. They were even more surprised, as they opened the door, to discover someone waiting on the little bench in the entry, a young boy dressed in the livery of the Langham Hotel, who jumped up at their arrival.

“Beg pardon, but would one of you ladies be Miss Sarah Lyon-White?” he asked, with a nervous glance at Neville and Grey and a dubious one at their bloomer dresses. Nan was amused; the sailors on the
Lively Lady
hadn't given their gowns a second look, nor had the denizens of the pub, but this lad looked scandalized.

Nan and Sarah exchanged a look, silently asking each other if
they should just send the boy away unsatisfied, or admit to their identity.
Well, what can it hurt to find out what he wants?
Nan nodded slightly.

“I would be Miss Lyon-White,” Sarah said, with all the imperiousness of someone born to a coronet—a tiny bit of a snub for the dubious look he'd given her gown. “Might I inquire as to your business with me?”

For answer, the boy flushed, sketched a bow, and handed over a folded, sealed note. “I'm to wait for an answer, miss,” he said, cowed by her manner—which he probably experienced on an hourly basis at the Langham.

Sarah broke the seal and unfolded the note, which was on the Langham's stationery. She and Nan put their heads together and read it.

To Miss Sarah Lyon-White: I have been given to understand by Mrs. Beatrice Leek and others that you are the most expert person in all of London in dealing with and banishing unwelcome spirits. I am being persecuted nightly by such spectral visitors. At first I could ignore it, but they strengthen with every passing day. This has become a torment I can no longer bear. I beg you to come and assist me. Whatever remuneration you require I will supply. Magdalena von Dietersdorf, Room 1004, Langham Hotel.

Nan kept herself from showing her shock with effort.
Magdalena von Dietersdorf? The sister of the missing girl Holmes wants to find? Is this some kind of trickery?

Sarah folded the note when they had both read it. “Tell the lady we will come speak to her on her matter in two hours,” Sarah said. “Neither of us are in any fit state to call.”

The boy looked as if he would have liked to protest but did not dare, not with both women
and
two formidable-looking birds staring down at him. “Very well, miss,” he said, touching his hat and making a reluctant exit. A moment later the cab clattered away, leaving them standing alone in the entry.

With unspoken consent, they ran up the stairs without discussing things until they were in the privacy of their rooms. For all that they
suspected
their landlady knew something of what they were engaged in, until she said something, neither of them cared to talk about it where she could listen.

Suki met them at the door, as she always did, and the birds flew to her outstretched hands. She looked as adorable as a little doll today, all in pink and white. “Boy come here, lookin' fer Miss Sarah,” Suki said, with a touch of self-importance. “I tol 'im 'e could just wait in the 'all.” There was nothing Suki enjoyed better than putting people who had once looked down their noses at her in their place. It didn't matter to her in the least whether the person she gave the set-down to was someone who had wronged her in the past. All that mattered was the chance to deliver a blow to their class.

“Absolutely correct, Suki, thank you. Did Mrs. Horace bring up tea?” asked Nan, as Sarah headed for her room to change.

“On'y just, since yew tol' 'er yew was like to be late. Yew an' Miss Sarah goin' out agin?” Suki asked, heading for the birds' perches next to the table, where their food awaited under covers to keep it warm.

“After tea.” Nan decided to wait until after she had eaten before changing. It would be easier to do Sarah's hair once she'd changed. Sarah came out in a remarkably short time wearing one of her more opulent Artistic Reform gowns, her hair combed out and not put up, but otherwise suitable for a visit to a noted operatic diva at the Langham Hotel. They both ate Mrs. Horace's very fine Irish stew quickly, then Nan put Sarah's hair up and changed herself into a similar gown, not omitting a touch of jewelry. While Nan was changing, Suki ran out on Sarah's request and secured a cab. By the time the sun was setting, they were on their way.

The Langham was one of London's Grand Hotels, and a popular destination for musical and literary notables, which meant it catered to a wealthy, but still slightly bohemian set. As such, the girls' gowns were not at all extraordinary; as they entered the lobby, there were several other women present wearing some form of Artistic Reform costume. It was not yet dinnertime, and most of those in the lobby itself were either meeting friends before going out to dinner, waiting
for dinner to be served in the hotel's famous restaurant, or coming in to meet someone, as Nan and Sarah were, or to go up to their own rooms. There were enough people crowding the opulent crystal and cream-marble lobby that two unescorted ladies did not cause any comment. In fact, they were completely unnoticed, and they sailed past the busy front desk as if they were on their way to their own rooms.

The hotel boasted elevators with a trimly uniformed attendant, who whisked them up to the tenth floor with no comment except to politely ask which floor they wanted. They knocked on the door of 1004 without having encountered any attention or interference whatsoever.

A dark-haired teenaged girl in a black and white maid's uniform and white lace cap opened it immediately. “Please inform Miss von Dietersdorf that Miss Lyon-White and Miss Killian are here at her request,” said Sarah, before she could open her mouth to say anything.

The maid dropped her eyes and sketched a curtsey. “Very well, Miss. Will you come in, Miss?” She opened the door for them, and they entered a lushly appointed sitting room, all in cream brocade and gold, with a plush Turkey carpet over polished wood floors. There was a magnificent sable cloak flung over the back of one of the chairs, although Nan would have thought it was too warm for furs. They both took a seat on a small cream-colored sofa, opposite to the matching chair they expected the diva would prefer to sit in, a fainting couch that might have been designed on purpose for dramatic poses.

It was several minutes before the lady herself entered. Her cream brocade gown was, if Nan was any judge, by Worth, and suggested that either Magdalena was being paid an extraordinary amount of money (possible) or that she had some extremely wealthy “admirers” (also possible). Or both! She was dressed for dinner, and arrayed in a gold and garnet necklace with matching earrings and hair ornaments. Her blond hair had been done up expertly in a pompadour style. Unlike her sister, she was not beautiful; her features were
too strong for beauty. But she was striking. The first impression that Nan got from her was
this is a woman who will stop at nothing to get what she wants.

Then again, that was
de rigeur
for anyone who wanted to rise in the world of opera or the theater. One certainly could not describe the Divine Sarah Bernhardt as a shrinking violet!

Sarah spoke first, as the lady hesitated for a moment, looking between them. “I am Sarah Lyon-White, come as you requested,” Sarah said. “This is my companion and coworker in the occult, Miss Nan Killian.”

“Oh! Thank God you have come!” the lady replied, casting herself down upon the fainting couch in a dramatic pose—precisely as Nan had thought she would. “The persecution is unending! I have changed rooms
twice,
and still the spirits follow me! And of course, no one sees or hears them but me! It is
unbearable
! I cannot sleep! I cannot rest!” Her hands fluttered, as if she could not find words to properly express herself. Her voice had very little trace of a German accent, but then she must, as an opera singer, have a good command of at least French, Italian, and English, in addition to her native tongue.

“Perhaps if you begin at the beginning?” Sarah prompted. “When did this persecution begin?”

“Some time after my sister Johanna ran away with that Canadian adventurer,” Magdalena replied, and pouted a little. “Johanna! What a scandal! Thank God it did not reflect on me! I told
Vater
he should wash his hands of her! He kept asking me why she would run off like that!
I
do not know why she would have done such a thing, except that she did not truly love poor Helmut, and he would not, in respect for her reputation, end the engagement himself, so perhaps this was her way of ending it herself.”

What an odd thing to say . . .
Nan decided at the moment it would be a very good idea to do a little thought reading. After all, this was one of the big questions, wasn't it? And if she had the answer to that one, she might be able to give Holmes the information that would put him on the right footing in
his
case. But surprisingly,
Magdalena's thoughts were so shielded that it would have taken a great deal of effort—and the risk that Magdalena would sense something—in order to read them. Nan curbed her impulses and went back to less occult means of observation.

She also reminded herself that, so far, Magdalena had only shown herself to be self-centered, which, given her profession, was rather to be expected. It wasn't
that
unusual for people to have natural shielding on their minds, after all, and having such did not imply anything sinister.

In fact, if Magdalena was, indeed, plagued by ghosts, her mind might naturally have sealed itself off in an effort to protect itself.

“But when, more precisely, did you first notice anything unusual?” Sarah asked.

“It was just after my parents and Helmut arrived to see if—” Magdalena paused. “Well, I think they did not believe that my outwardly gentle and compliant sister would do something so reckless, even if her engagement with Helmut was one that suited my father, rather than Johanna. They thought her to be meek and utterly obedient. They did not know her as I did.”

“Parents are often deceived,” Nan murmured.

Magdalena cast her a sudden, slightly suspicious, look, then returned her attention to Sarah. “My sister was . . . romantic,” she said, knitting her perfectly shaped brows together.

“And you are not?” Sarah said, blandly.

Magdalena laughed. Strangely, it was a sound with very little humor in it. “One does not rise in the theater without learning that
romance
is not unlike a stage backdrop. It might appear real and enticing, but when you draw near to it, you find there is nothing but painted canvas, air, and nothing of substance. But Johanna still believed in
maerchen.
Fairy tales, I think you call them.”

Oh yes. Fairy tales. Where eyes are scratched out by thorns, girls are poisoned by their stepmothers, or men are sent to cut out their hearts . . .

“And Johanna was able to keep her secrets close. Even I knew nothing about this man until the day the maid awoke me and gave me her farewell letter.” Magdalena shrugged. “But that has nothing
to do with why I wish your help, Fraulein Sarah. I am dying for lack of sleep. These haunting spirits will not allow me to rest! I no sooner close my eyes than I am awakened by them!”

“Ye-es . . .” Sarah said, slowly. “That was something I wanted to ask you about. You never are disturbed by them until
after
you have fallen asleep?”

“Exactly!” Magdalena was pleased. “That is precisely what happens!”

Sarah nodded gravely. “Then I must tell you, it may not be . . . spirits. It may only be a . . . sort of waking dream. Many people have these attacks, and mistake them for—”

“No!”
Magdalena sat straight up, and even stamped her foot on the floor. “I am telling you, this is
not
something I have dreamed! It is
real
! These are
spirits
!”

“Calm yourself,
fraulein
,” Sarah said hastily. “I know that these waking dreams can feel absolutely real, and unfortunately if
that
is what you are suffering from, I cannot help you, although a physician may advise you on sedatives that will allow you to sleep.” She made a point of looking around. “I neither see nor sense any spirits here now.”