A Study in Sable (5 page)

“It's very likely that being drunk opened them up to that thing, whatever it is,” Sarah replied thoughtfully. “And if the house is as ruinous as you say, that's all the more reason to put the damned thing to rest. Anyone could break in. Children, even. It could even have claimed vagrants we know nothing about.”

Mary sighed, with distinct overtones of relief. “I was hoping you would say that. Well, what do we do?”

“We need a battle plan,” Nan said firmly, as Grey nodded and Neville
quorked
his agreement. “This is no ordinary haunt. Memsa'b was certain it was something that had been bound there. So the first thing we do—”

“Is our research,” put in John Watson, putting down his pipe unlit and looking more than ready for the task.

“Preeeee-cisely,” said Grey.

2

T
HIS
was the first time that Nan and Sarah had been inside the Exeter Club. Mind, not even the patronage of Lord Alderscroft was going to get them into the sacred precincts of the “public” rooms, but he did arrange to smuggle the girls and Mary Watson up to the Hunting Lodge's archive room on the top floor via the servants' stairs. It was not the first time Nan and Sarah had made use of such a thing, and Nan was certain it would not be the last. Unlike the lushly carpeted, wide stairs used by the (exclusively male) members of the club, the servants' stairs were narrow, just painted wood without any carpet, and the treads themselves were narrow, poorly lit, and drafty. Had any of the three women been wearing fashionable gowns, they'd likely have trodden on each other's hems and probably killed each other in the subsequent tumble down the stairs. Fortunately Mary Watson was as fond of Ladies' Rational Dress as Nan and Sarah were, so they all climbed to the archives without mishap. John Watson, bless him, declined Lord Alderscroft's invitation to ascend via the “proper” stairs and came with them. Nan was glad he had, since if any of them
did
take a tumble, he was probably ready to catch them.

So, here they were, in a miniature library the size of the Watsons'
sitting room, meticulously catalogued and cross-referenced, a compendium of everything about Elemental Magic that eight generations of Elemental Masters in London had managed to compile. It was a beautiful room, as suited the Hunting Lodge of London; the bookcases probably dated to the founding of the Club and were substantial Georgian items, no-nonsense, sturdy articles the color of dark honey. They were not glass fronted; having glass doors would have prevented them from being set as closely together as they were.

“There's more books on Elemental Magic than we have here, of course,” Lord Alderscroft said, as they wedged their way among the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves holding untold treasures. “There are all manner of handwritten books, passed down through the gifted families all over this country. And every time we can get someone to part with one long enough to make a copy, we do. But I would reckon there's ten times the number of books on magic and chronicles of Elemental Masters that we've no notion of out there than there is in here. And that's a conservative estimate.” He led them to one particular set of shelves. “Fortunately, what we want and need is all right here.” He indicated a line of books. “The Chronicles of the Hunting Lodge of the Exeter Club going back to its founding, before there even was an Exeter Club. I would suggest starting no later than 1650. Berkeley House was built in 1698, as I recall. There may have been strange activity at the site of that house before it was built.”

“That sounds like a very sound plan,” John agreed. “Thank you, Lord Alderscroft.” They gathered up the books and took them to a table matching the bookcases at the front of the room, where they spread out their treasures. There was very good gas lighting here, which was just as well, since there was only one window.
The more room for books, I suppose,
Nan thought.

His Lordship merely smiled as they took their seats at the table. “You need not thank me. This is precisely why I brought you all together, although I must confess I am just as pleased you did not bring the birds.”

“They are not to be trusted if they become bored while we read through dry tomes,” Sarah confessed with some chagrin, selecting a
book from the pile. “Unfortunately they have a great deal in common with precocious children. We left them with some puzzles containing their favorite treats, which can neither be hammered open nor pried open. They were greatly enjoying themselves when we left, and when they tire of that, Suki will bring them their tea and they'll nap.”

“Ah, Suki! She'll keep them out of mischief.” Lord Alderscroft chuckled. He had met Suki, an orphan with similar telepathic abilities to Nan's that the girls had found working as a kind of slave for a fraud of a fortune-teller. Suki had been so grateful to be rescued that there was nothing she would not have done for Nan and Sarah, and as another street brat, she had no compunction about wading into any potential threat, fists and feet flailing. She was fearless with the birds as well, and they were fond of her, so she had joined them in their flat as a sort of apprentice. She found going to school a great deal more onerous than serving as their maid, an affinity which occasionally exasperated Nan.

The flat they all lived in was paid for by Lord Alderscroft, who kept the girls on a sort of retainer to perform investigations for him. He had found it extremely useful to have them at hand when he needed someone whose talents were psychical rather than magical. Or someone who was female, and likely to be more overlooked than a male.
They
were grateful for useful employment. As they had both decided, the conventional life of a governess, a shopgirl, a teacher or a nurse was not something either of them was suited for.

“I will confess I feared for my books around those inquisitive beaks,” he replied. “I will leave you to your researches, and I wish you great good luck in them.”

“His books are the last thing he needed to be concerned about,” Nan chuckled when he had left. “The birds know better now than to harm anything made of paper. It would be his
secrets
he needs to think about. Whenever they find that there is a hiding place for something, they are unrelenting about getting into it and discovering what is hidden there.”

John Watson laughed. “I can think of one instance where they would have saved Holmes a great deal of effort.”

With that, they all settled down to perusing the books. Many were handwritten, although there were some that had been printed. Nothing untoward was reported in the area where the Berkeley Square house now stood before the house was built, nor for many decades thereafter. Then Sarah, who was reading a volume that started about 1800, looked up with an expression of triumph on her face. “I think I may have it,” she said. “The gentleman who owned the house when this book was written is said here to have had an interest in Roman antiquities of the English occupation. Around 1805 he went on several trips to excavate some himself. And in December of 1805, I find a mention of an
uncanny occurrence.
I think we may have pinpointed our culprit.”

Nan's brows furrowed. “He certainly could have brought back something he shouldn't have,” she admitted, “But wouldn't the artifact be long gone by now?”

“The size and danger of a haunting is in no way related to the size of the thing the haunting is tied to,” Sarah replied with authority. “It
is,
however, related to the amount of power invested in the object.”

“A ceremonial amulet, for instance?” Mary Watson exclaimed. “Something small and easily mislaid, perhaps even fallen in a crack between floorboards?”

“I would suspect you of having Nan's power of mind reading, you are following my thought so closely,” Sarah replied. “An amulet, a piece of jewelry, or even a coin; all these are possible. If the object in question turned out not even to be Roman, but from some other culture, the gentleman in question wouldn't even miss it if it got misplaced.”

Sarah and Nan exchanged a look. “If that is the case,” Nan said, taking up the thread, “It's likely something inimical to the Celts. It was in trying to protect Sarah from it that I first manifested my persona of a Celtic warrior-woman.”

John Watson drummed his fingers on the table. “Found in or near a Roman excavation but not necessarily Roman . . . inimical to the Celts, or at least something your—former incarnation?—would perceive immediately as an enemy . . . I think we need an expert on mythology. Or history. Or both, preferably.”

Mary waved her hand at all the books. “We might be able to start here, in any event, now that we have a better idea of what we are looking for. After that, we might try the Reading Room of the British Museum.”

But several hours later, they were about to admit defeat. There
was
an extensive collection of books about the Roman occupiers and the tribes of the time and their respective mythos. But there were so
many
possibilities that they had to give up. It was too hard to narrow the field.

“Well, now what?” Nan asked the Watsons.

Mary shook her head. But John Watson looked as if he'd had an idea. “I believe we ought to ask someone Lord Alderscroft doesn't precisely approve of.” He laughed a little. “Neither does Holmes, for that matter.”

“Who would that be?” asked Mary, just as curious as the girls were.

“Beatrice Leek. She and her family have been in the . . . less conventional occult circles for quite some time.”

Mary began to laugh. So did Nan and Sarah. “‘Less conventional'? Half of them are deluded, a quarter of them are outright mad, and the remainder I'm not quite sure of,” said Nan, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Still, if you think there's a sane one, by all means. That's a good idea.”

“Excellent.” Watson pulled out his pocket watch. “As it happens, I know exactly where she will be at this hour.” He rose. “Care for tea, ladies?”

“Perishing,” said Mary. “Let's get out of this stuffy room and into the air. What there is of it. It
is
London, after all.”

• • •

This was not a tearoom that Nan had ever been to before, nor likely would ever have found. It was in Chelsea, a district where she and Sarah almost never went, despite the fact that they had adopted the dress of the female artists who lived there. In fact, if it hadn't been
for the sign on the door that
said
it was a tearoom, she likely would not have taken it for one, because most tearooms catered to ladies and only the occasional gentleman, and this place was crowded with both sexes. And in this tearoom, the Ladies' Rational Dress she, Sarah, and Mary Watson were wearing was absolutely unremarkable. In fact, the gowns worn here actually included bloomer suits, as well as Artistic Reform gowns, gypsy-like ensembles layered with fringed shawls and masses of bead necklaces, and even an Indian sari or two. Some of the men were almost as colorful, in paint-stained smocks, velvet coats in jewel tones, or scarlet cloaks.

There was hardly any wall showing. It was all paintings, and it was impossible for Nan to tell if any of them were any good, because having every square inch of wall populated by paintings just made everything confused, at least for her. She couldn't concentrate on any one of them, feeling overwhelmed by the visual cacophony.

As John led them past crowded tables and people sitting or occasionally standing and chatting at the tops of their lungs, Nan noticed that the tea services themselves were as . . . eclectic . . . as the customers. That was putting it kindly. To put it unkindly, it looked as if the owner of the shop had gone to every jumble sale in London and bought up every odd teapot, teacup, napkin, and tablecloth he or she could find.

At the back of the shop, there was a table set a little apart from the rest—or as much as a table could be, given the crowded conditions. There was a middle-aged woman there, holding court, it seemed, among a small group of incredibly serious-faced and fantastically garbed people. But when she spotted John coming toward her through the shop, she made shooing motions at them.

“Off you go, my chickens,” she said genially, although their faces betrayed their disappointment at being sent away. “John and I have something serious to talk about.” She looked from one to another of them with bright, sharp eyes. “Well, sit, sit. You never come to me, John Watson, unless you've questions to ask.”

All of them took the motley assortment of vacated chairs. It appeared the jumble sale habit of the teashop owner extended to the
furnishings. Nan took the opportunity to examine this person that John had brought them to see. She didn't look particularly prepossessing; late middle-age, plump, with a good-natured, round face, black hair put up in an untidy chignon under a black hat a-dance with jet ornaments. Her gown was black as well, an odd sort of outfit that seemed to be designed as an Artistic Reform tea gown, but instead of being made in fabrics of jewel tones with heavy embroidery, it was in black satin and velvet with jet bead embroidery.

“Number 10, Berkeley Square,” Watson said without any preamble.