Brass and Bone (4 page)

The carriage proceeded up a winding drive lined on either side with enormous oaks. They loomed so close, that again I felt a sense of being closed in and trapped. The sight of several gamekeepers with gigantic drooling hounds on thick leather leashes did not improve our surroundings.

Abigail, with her uncanny sense of my feelings, reached over and clasped my gloved hand in her own, her fingers entwined with mine.

“There, there, old thing. It won’t be bad, I promise. We’ll be out of the trees and at the house in a bit.”

“How much property does Sir Eli have here?” I asked to take my mind off my emotions.

“Oh, a couple of thousand acres at Claremont, and lord knows how much more. His company is growing at a vast rate, I understand, and he has far too much money to appreciate any of it. Still, he doesn’t remind one he’s rich, and that’s a plus in my book.” She released my hand, for at that moment we escaped from those crowding trees. The carriage stopped in the crushed stone drive before a massive house of four stories, with higher towers at either corner.

“The house is Elizabethan, I believe.” Abigail was gathering her things. “Though the Hopkins didn’t own it then—they’ve only been in residence for about a hundred years. Come along, Simon, don’t dawdle.”

I got out, nearly tripping on the last step but recovering my balance with my usual grace. I turned to take her hand but a footman was there before me, dressed in depressing grey livery with the inevitable black band around his sleeve.

“Lady Abigail, how good to see you!” called a cheerful voice from the open door.

A tall man stood just inside the open doorway. As we approached, Abigail on my arm, I could see from his attire he must be the butler, though he looked less like one than many I’d seen. From his stocky figure and bulging biceps, clearly visible beneath his jacket, not to mention his head shaved to the bone, he looked like nothing more than a pugilist disguised as a servant, and a deadly one at that.

I was wrong, I soon discovered; he was not disguised. He actually was the butler-
cum
-bodyguard. He’d been a bare-knuckle fighter in his time, so I was not entirely mistaken.

“Islington, my dear fellow! Good to see you. How are the pigeons?” Abigail dropped my arm and clasped the hand held out to her; her slender fingers disappeared as if a bear had grabbed them, and I waited to hear her yell in agony.

A broad grin split his face in two, and now I was closer I could see his nose had been broken more than once.

“Fancy you remembering my birds, m’lady!” He gave her hand a gingerly shake and then dropped it quickly before he broke anything. “They be right as rain, they do. Two blue ribbons in the last market fair, and I’m bringing in some new bloodlines.”

“New blood can make all the difference, in birds and in people as well,” Abigail said. She turned to me. “Islington, this is my dear friend and collaborator, Simon Thorne.”

Islington nodded politely but did not offer his hand, for which mercy I was grateful. “Sir Eli wants to see you straightaway, if you please, m’lady,” he said to Abigail. “I’ll have all your things put away, and yours too, Mr. Simon. Here, you, Sarah! To the library, if you please.”

A pretty maid with blue eyes and red cheeks stood right behind him and did not so much as wince when he shouted her name. She bobbed a curtsey and said, “This way, m’lady and sir.”

We wound our way through the manor, past closed and open doors, down hallways, through room after room and then, to my surprise, outside—where I saw the manor was built in a rectangle with a broad central courtyard entirely enclosed by the wings of the house. Down a gravel pathway we followed the maid through a door, another door, and then a third.

“I am impressed,” I murmured.

“You’re meant to be. It’s precisely what the Hopkins want,” Abigail said as quietly.

Finally the maid opened a door twice my own not-inconsiderable height and stood aside to let us in. I followed Abigail and barely moved in time before the maid closed the door behind me.

The room was massive; it must have taken up quite half of one of the short wings of the manor and was tall enough to have an upper gallery around three sides. Books and paintings lined all the walls, and the gallery above was nothing but books. A huge fireplace filled almost all of one wall, with a painting of a dyspeptic-looking gentleman in Puritan clothing above the mantle. Though the day was warm, a fire had been lit, and the room was filled with an odd sort of light, brilliant white and harsh on the eyes and completely silent, without the comforting hissing a gaslight makes.

“I see your Herr Tesla has succeeded in enlightening you, Eli,” Abigail said as she looked up at a sconce just inside the door. “Most impressive.”

Electricity. It will never catch on, I’m sure—it’s merely a fad. Gas light is so much more flattering.

“Abigail. Good of you to come so promptly,” said a quiet voice with a bit of a slur.

I looked around the room and, for a moment, wondered who had spoken. Then a noise came from above, and I raised my eyes to the gallery.

A tall thin man stood, blending into the shadows above the hooded electric lights. He had something in his hand I could not at first make out, not at least until he began his unsteady way down a set of iron spiral stairs. As he came into the halo of white light, I could see what he carried. A decanter, half full of a dark amber liquid.

At the bottom of the stairs he upturned the decanter and took a mouthful, swallowed and took another, then stumbled forward and collapsed into a leather armchair. Sir Eli, it appeared, had been celebrating our arrival before we, ah, arrived.

The electrical light showed me, in the harshest detail, a tall blond man so cadaverous and pale he could have been mistaken for a corpse.

Abigail gasped in horror and concern. “Eli, good lord, what has happened to you?” She hurried across the room and grabbed the decanter just as he was starting to drop it.

“Happened, my darling Abigail? Why, I’ve died, that’s all. When one has nothing left to live for, what else can one do?”

I had hated him before. Now I despised him and how he was making Abigail feel. Died, had he? Well, he could not be buried soon enough to suit me.

“I’m glad you’re here, Abigail,” Sir Eli said. “I’ve got a mission for you and you alone. No one else will do. It’s dangerous, it may well be deadly, and money is no object.”

Well, now. Finally the man was starting to be interesting.

“Tell me everything,” Abigail said, and Hopkins did.

I shall not burden you with his slurs and stumbling and backtracking and general unpleasantness. In a nutshell, it was this:

His wife, whom he had loved with a passion that rivaled—I am forced to admit, my own feelings for Abigail—had died. Her death must have driven him quite mad, for he believed the tragic event was directly related to some sort of cursed ancient volume, which he had still in his possession. He had made arrangements to place the book and, I suppose, its destructive power within some sort of containment device. But this device must be taken to a desolate and far-off place to be hidden away.

The man was without doubt around the bend; I had no doubt of it. But what disturbed me most was Abigail, my darling hardheaded Abigail, seemed to be taking him seriously, nodding and agreeing with everything he said. Had she gone mad too, mad with worry about this “old, dear friend”?

A door I had not even noticed, since it was covered in shelves just like the walls, opened beside the fireplace. A lean man with a wild shock of hair came out, bearing a brass and crystal box in his hands with as much care as if it contained the crown jewels. He set the box down on a low table and stood back, regarding it with a self-satisfied and complacent gaze.

Then he looked up and saw Abigail. “Ah, Lady Abigail Moran,” he said, beaming as he walked toward her, hand outstretched. “You have brought me something, I believe?”

“I have indeed, Herr Tesla,” Abigail said. “And if we do work for you in future, I’d appreciate a bit more explanation about what the things you create can do. My partner was nearly poisoned.”

Tesla ignored her. She held out a leather bag, and he seized it eagerly.

Sir Eli had not stopped his mad ramblings, even during this exchange, but now he did; he asked, “Tesla, never mind about those toys. The box—is it done? Finished at last? And will it do the job?”

Not even an introduction, mind you. Manners are all that separate us from the apes, as I believe Mr. Darwin may well have pointed out, or at least should have done.

“Indeed, Sir Eli,” said Tesla. “And it will secure the tome with more than the required protection.”

I studied the man as he carefully placed the bag Abigail had given him on the floor. I was about to question him about the spider thing myself, but another voice from the shadows stopped me. Clearly the people with whom Sir Eli surrounded himself had no idea of the importance of knocking or announcing themselves; rather, they preferred sliding out from the darkness the corners provided.

“Eli! I see your call for help was answered as promptly as you hoped. You must be the dear Lady Abigail of whom Sir Eli speaks so highly. Allow me to introduce myself: Henri d’Estes.” The man was tall, with dark hair and eyes, and was really quite stylish in his dress. I raised an eyebrow as he bowed and kissed Abigail’s hand. A bloody Frenchman now, in addition to Sir Eli. Yet another beggar to add to my ever-growing list of men to despise on Abigail’s account. “Tesla, old man. You’ve explained the box by now, no doubt?” Monsieur D’Estes yawned and, I could not help but notice, folded himself into the armchair closest to Abigail.

“I was beginning to, sir.” The lean European gentleman stepped forward and pressed a single button on the front of the brass box he had placed on the desk. “This containment device is most deadly if the wrong combination is used. But once secured, it will be unable to open as long as the formula for the key is never discovered.”

“Formula?” I found my voice at last. “For a key? How fascinating. Forgive me for asking, but how does it work?”

“Simple, my dear sir.” Tesla gestured for me to come forward and I did so; Abigail followed. “Within this compartment are two glass vials. One is for human blood. The second is for witch blood. When they are filled by fresh living blood, drawn from a body whose heart is beating, and the box closed and button pressed once more, the vials will shatter, and the two types of blood will mix. The only method which will allow a thief to break into this vessel will be to have the same combination of mixed blood available. An improbable combination, I think you must agree.”

“A witch?” I searched the man’s face, thinking him joking, but finding him to be quite serious. Then I glanced at Abigail. She was taking this all in a bit too easily for my taste. Given my day, they would have to forgive my response. “And I suppose you have one here, do you? With the broomstick and cauldron for the boiling of children at hand?”

Sir Eli roused from his chair, pressing yet another button on his desk before he barked out an order that was surprisingly clear, considering his condition: “Bring it in.”

I wondered at the “it”; for all I knew, the mad man was having a goat or some such brought in. I did not expect the lovely woman, her hands bound, golden hair damp, clothing wrinkled, but a look in her blue eyes that reminded me in some odd way of Abigail. A burly man stood behind her, and there was a leash, if you can believe me, an actual leather leash attached to a wide collar around her pale throat.

“Here, now,” I said, and if I sounded indignant, who could blame me? “I will not stay in a room where a lady is treated this way.”

“Then you may leave,” Sir Eli rapped out, his voice stronger than I had yet heard it. “Who is this man anyway?”

Ah, he had noticed me at last. I opened my mouth to reply when Abigail said, “This is Simon Thorne, my dearest friend and collaborator in all things. If you want me for this mysterious mission of yours, Eli, Simon is part of the deal. No questions about it. Are we clear?”

My heart swelled in pride, and I cast my most arrogant glance at the men in the room, beginning with Sir Eli. Then I walked to the newcomer, took her clammy hands briefly and began untying the rope. It was stubborn, so I took out my pocketknife and finished the job.

“That damnable collar comes off too,” I said.

“No!” shouted Sir Eli.

“You like to take risks, young man, I see. Be careful the bitch does not turn and bite you,” the Frenchie said.

Sir Eli shuddered, stepping back as if to farther distance himself from the girl. “You would do well to heed his words, young man, you would indeed. You do not know what they…it…is capable of doing.”

I ignored that.

“
Merci beaucoup
,” the girl whispered, giving me a small smile as I reached around to unlatch the clasp. When the horrid leather fell away, she glanced around the room with a look of disinterest masking fear. Though I was sure I noted recognition in her eyes when they passed over the Frenchman.

Sir Eli refused to acknowledge the girl—or what I’d done, for that matter. Instead he turned back to Abigail, who was giving me the most peculiar look. Her grey eyes snapped back toward Sir Eli as he spoke.

“You are to take this box to a secret place, Abigail. Take the witch with you, and draw from her the blood needed to be placed in this vial Tesla showed you. Any ordinary
human
,” he stressed the word, “blood can go in the other.” He took a rolled piece of paper and gave it to Abigail. “Here is information on how to find the hiding place. You are to spare no expense, my dearest. Anything you need will be provided, no questions asked. Only please, please, do not fail me on this.”

I was still standing beside the girl, ready to shield her from the vultures in the room, but then she spoke up. Her voice was clear and precise as she spoke one word in French: “
Non
.”

I dare say we all turned to her at that moment, so easily forgotten amidst the details of the mission. Indeed, Sir Eli whirled around, and despite his earlier fear stormed over to where we were standing.