Lord John and the Hand of Devils (29 page)

Oddly enough, his hands did not shake. Still, he clasped them carefully round his teacup and raised it cautiously to his lips. As he did so, he noticed a letter on the tray, sealed with a blob of crimson wax, in which the initials
SC
were incised. Simon Coles.

He sat up, narrowly avoiding spilling the tea, and fumbled open the missive, which proved to contain a brief note from the lawyer and a sheet of paper containing several drawings, with penciled descriptions written tidily beneath. Descriptions of the bits of jewelry that Anne Thackeray had taken with her when she eloped with Philip Lister.

“Tom,” Grey croaked.

“Yes, me lord?”

“Go tell the stable lad to ready the horses, then pack. We’ll leave in an hour.”

Both Tom’s eyebrows lifted, but he bowed.

“Very good, me lord.”

H
e had hoped to escape from Blackthorn Hall unnoticed, and was in the act of depositing a gracious note of thanks—pleading urgent business as excuse for his abrupt removal—on Edgar’s desk, when a voice spoke suddenly behind him.

“John!”

He whirled, guilt stamped upon his features, to find Maude in the doorway, a garden trug over one arm, filled with what looked like onions but were probably daffodil bulbs or something agricultural of the sort.

“Oh. Maude. How pleased I am to see you. I thought I should have to take my leave without expressing my thanks for your kindness. How fortunate—”

“You’re leaving us, John? So soon?”

She was a tall woman, and handsome, her dark good looks a proper match for Edgar’s. Maude’s eyes, however, were not those of a poetess. Something more in the nature of a gorgon’s, he had always felt; riveting the attention of her auditors, even though all instinct bade them flee.

“I…yes. Yes. I received a letter—” He had Coles’s note with him, and flourished it as evidence. “I must—”

“Oh, from Mr. Coles, of course. The butler told me he had brought you a note, when he brought me mine.”

She was looking at him with a most unaccustomed fondness, which gave him a small chill up the back. This increased when she moved suddenly toward him, setting aside her trug, and cupped a hand behind his head, looking searchingly into his eyes. Her breath was warm on his cheek, smelling of fried egg.

“Are you sure you are quite well enough to travel, my dear?”

“Ahh…yes,” he said. “Quite. Quite sure.” God in heaven, did she mean to kiss him?

Thank God, she did not. After examining his face feature by feature, she released him.

“You should have told us, you know,” she said reproachfully.

He managed a vaguely interrogative noise in answer to this, and she nodded toward the desk. Where, he now saw, the newspaper cutting referring to him as the Hero of Crefeld was displayed in all its glory, along with a note in Simon Coles’s handwriting.

“Oh,” he said. “Ah. That. It really—”

“We had not the slightest idea,” she said, looking at him with what in a lesser woman would have passed for doe-eyed respect. “You are so modest, John! To think of all you have suffered—it shows so clearly upon your haggard countenance—and to say not a word, even to your family!”

It was a cold day and the library fire had not been lit, but he was beginning to feel very warm. He coughed.

“There is, of course, a certain degree of exaggeration—”

“Nonsense, nonsense. But of course, your natural nobility of character causes you to shun public acclaim, I understand entirely.”

“I knew you would,” Grey said, giving up. They beamed at each other for a few seconds; then he coughed again and made purposefully to pass her.

“John.”

He halted, obedient, and she took him by the arm. She was slightly taller than he was, which he found disquieting, as though she might drag him off to her lair at any moment.

“You will be careful, John?” She was looking at him with such earnest concern that he felt touched, in spite of everything.

“Yes, dear sister,” he said, and patted her hand gently. “I will.”

Her hand relaxed, and he was able to detach himself without violence. In the moment’s delay afforded by the action, though, a belated thought had occurred to him.

“Maude—a question?”

“To be sure, John. What is it?” She paused in the act of picking up her trug, expectant.

“Do you know, perhaps, what would lead Douglas Fanshawe to describe a politician named Mortimer Oswald as a snake?”

She drew herself up, suffering a slight reversion to her former attitude toward him.

“Really, John. Can you possibly be in ignorance of Oswald’s despicable behavior during the election last year?”

“I…er…believe I may have been abroad,” he said politely, with a nod at the cutting on the desk. Her face changed at once, expressing remorse.

“Oh, of course! I am so sorry, John. Naturally you would have been preoccupied. Well, then; it is only that Mr. Oswald simply
slithered
round the district, spreading loathsome insinuations and ill-natured gossip about Edgar—nay, absolute
lies,
though he took great care never to be caught out about them, the beast!”

“Er…what sort of insinuations? Other than being loathsome, I mean.”

“Hints meant to suggest that there was something…
corrupt
”—her lips writhed delicately away from the word—“in the means by which Edgar and his partners gained their contracts with the government. Which of course there was not!”

“Of course not,” Grey said, but she was in full spate, eyes flashing magnificently in indignation.

“As though Oswald’s own hands were clean, in that regard! Everyone knows that the man simply
battens
upon bribery! He is a perfect viper of depravity!”

“Indeed.” Grey was undergoing a swift process of enlightenment, realizing belatedly that Oswald had clearly been Edgar’s opponent in the recent election. Which explained very neatly the insinuations of sabotage directed at the DeVane consortium. A better way of removing any future political threat could scarcely be imagined.

Oswald’s cleverness in the matter had been in leading Marchmont and Twelvetrees to make the accusations, virtuously avoiding any appearance of involvement himself. Yes, “snake” seemed reasonably accurate as a description.

“Who bribes him?” he asked.

There, though, Maude was at a loss, able only to repeat that everyone knew—but not precisely
what
everyone knew. Meaning that if Oswald did take bribes, he was reasonably circumspect about it. A word with Harry Quarry might shed a bit more light on the matter, though.

Invigorated by this thought, and the more eager to return to London, he smiled warmly upon Maude.

“Thank you, Maude, my dear,” he said. “You are a blessing and a boon.” Standing a-tiptoe, he kissed her startled cheek, then strode with great determination for the stables.

Part III

The Hero’s Return

W
ould you say that I appear haggard, Tom?” he inquired. There was a looking glass upon his dresser, but he found himself reluctant to employ it.

“Yes, me lord.”

“Oh. Well, Colonel Quarry won’t mind, I suppose. You know what to do?”

“Yes, me lord.” Tom Byrd hesitated, looking at him narrowly. “You’re sure as you’ll be all right alone, me lord?”

“Certainly,” he said, with what heartiness he could muster. He waved a hand in dismissal. “I’ll be fine.”

Byrd eyed him in patent disbelief.

“I’ll summon you a coach, me lord,” he said.

He resisted the suggestion for form’s sake, in order not to alarm Tom, but once safely inside the coach, he sank gratefully into the dusty squabs, closing his eyes, and concentrated on breathing for the journey to the Beefsteak.

How many pawnshops might there be in Southwark? he wondered, as the coach rattled through the streets. Tom had made several careful copies of the list of Anne Thackeray’s jewelry; he and his brothers would see whether any of the bits and bobs had been pawned.

He had a most uneasy feeling about Anne Thackeray, but hoped for her sister’s sake that some trace of her could be found. He had gone himself to her last known address directly upon his return to London, but the landlady, a hard-faced bitch of a woman, had known nothing—or at least, nothing she would tell, even for a price.

He felt mildly feverish; after he’d seen Harry, perhaps he’d take a room at the Beefsteak for the night and go to bed. But he wanted to tell Quarry what he’d learned in Sussex, and set him on the trail of Mortimer Oswald. Granted, Maude DeVane was not an unbiased witness on the subject of the MP, but the way she had said,
Everyone knows,
so positive…If Oswald did take bribes, it was more than possible that Harry could find out. Harry’s own half brother was Sir Richard Joffrey, an influential and canny politician who had survived a good many shifts in government over the course of the last fifteen years. No one did that without knowing where a few bodies were buried.

He paid the coach and turned to find the doorman holding open the Beefsteak’s door, bowing with unusual respect.

“My lord!” the man said fervently.

“Are you quite all right, Mr. Dobbs?” he asked.

“Never better, sir,” the man assured him, bowing him inside. “Colonel Quarry’s a-waiting on you in the library, my lord.”

His sense of unease grew as he passed through the hall. Mr. Bodley, the steward, stopped dead upon seeing him, eyes round, then vanished hurriedly into the dining room, presumably to fetch his tray.

He paused warily at the door to the library, but all seemed reassuringly as usual. Quarry’s broad back was visible, bent over a table by the window. As Grey drew near, he saw that the table was covered with newspapers, one of which Harry Quarry was perusing, a look of absorption upon his face. At Grey’s step, he looked up, his craggy face breaking into an ears-wide grin.

“Ho!” he said in greeting. “It’s the man himself! A bumper of your best brandy, Mr. Bodley, if you please, for the Hero of Crefeld!”

“Oh,
shit
!” said Grey.

I
n the end, he did spend the night at the Beefsteak, having been—despite his repeated protests, which went completely ignored by everyone—obliged to join in so many extravagant toasts in his honor that merely walking became problematic, let alone finding his way back to his quarters in the barracks.

An attempt at escape in the morning was frustrated by the baying hounds of Fleet Street, several of whom had got wind of his presence at the club and hovered outside, kept at bay by the indomitable Mr. Dobbs, who had survived being tomahawked by red Indians in America and thus was not intimidated by mere scribblers.

One of the most intransigent balladeers took up a station under the windows of the library and bellowed out a never-ending performance of a dramatic—and execrably rhymed—lay entitled “The Death of Tom Pilchard,” to the general disedification of Mr. Wilbraham and the other inhabitants of the Hermit’s Corner, all of whom glared at Grey, holding
him
responsible for the disturbance.

He escaped at last under cover of darkness, disguised in Mr. Dobbs’s shabby greatcoat and laced hat, and made his way on foot through the streets, arriving hungry and exhausted—though finally sober—to find Tom Byrd and his elder brother Jack awaiting him impatiently at the barracks.

“I found it at a place called Markham’s,” Jack told him, displaying his find. “Pawned a month ago, by a lady. Young, the pawnbroker said, and summat of a pop-eyed look about her, though he didn’t remember nothing else.”

“It’s hers, isn’t it, me lord?” Tom chipped in anxiously.

Grey picked up the trinket—a cheap silver locket, inscribed with the letter “A.” He compared it for form’s sake to the sheet Barbara had given him, but there could be little doubt.

“Excellent!” he said. “You asked, of course, whether she had left an address.”

Jack nodded.

“No joy there, my lord. The only thing…” He glanced at his younger brother, who was, after all, Grey’s valet, and thus had rights.

“The feller didn’t want to sell it to us, me lord. He said he’d had other things from this lady, and there was a gent what would come by, asking particular for her things, and pay a very pretty price for ’em.”

“Aye, sir,” Jack said, nodding agreement. “I thought it wasn’t but a ruse to get more, and wouldn’t have paid, but Tom said as how we must. I hope that was all right?”

“Yes, of course.” Grey waved that aside. “The man—did the pawnbroker remember him?”

“Oh, yes, me lord,” Tom said. His hair was nearly standing on end with excitement at what he had to impart. “He remembered
him
well enough. Said it was a man what always wore a mask—a black silk mask.”

Grey felt a surge of excitement equal to the Byrds’.

“Christ!” he said. “Fanshawe!”

Tom nodded.

“I thought it must be, me lord. Is he looking for Miss Thackeray, too, d’ye suppose?”

“I can’t think what else he might intend—though surely he is not pursuing her with any great determination, if he has not yet discovered her lodgings.”

“Perhaps he has,” Jack Byrd suggested, “but he’s not got up his nerve to see her, what with the face an’ all—Tom told me what happened to him.” Jack shuddered reflexively at the thought.

Grey glanced at the window, black night showing through the half-drawn curtains.

“Well, we can do little about it tonight. I will write a note, though—if you will take it in the morning, Jack?”

“What, to Sussex?” Jack looked slightly nonplussed. “Well, of course, my lord, if you like, but—”

“No, I think we needn’t go that far,” Grey assured him. “Plainly, Captain Fanshawe visits London regularly. He is a member at White’s; leave the note there, to be delivered upon his arrival.”

The two Byrds bowed, for an instant looking absurdly alike, though they did not really resemble each other closely.

“Very good, me lord,” Tom said. “Will you have a bit of supper, then?”

Grey nodded and sat down to compose his note. He had just trimmed his quill when he became aware that neither Byrd had departed; both were standing on the opposite side of the room, viewing him with approval.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing, me lord,” Tom said, smiling beneficently. “I was just telling Jack, you aren’t looking quite so hag-rid as you was.”

“You mean haggard?”

“That, neither.”

G
rey had finally fallen into an uneasy sleep, in which he hurried endlessly through stubbled fields with crows cawing overhead, sure that he must reach a distant red-brick building in order to prevent some unspeakable disaster, but never drawing closer.

One crow dived low, shrieking, and he ducked, covering his head, then sat up abruptly, realizing that the crow had said, “Wake up, me lord.”

“What?” he said blankly. He could not focus eyes or mind, but the terrible sense of urgency from his dream had not left him. “Who…what?”

“There’s a soldier come, me lord. I’d not have waked you, but he says it’s a man’s life.”

His eyes finally consenting to operate, he saw Tom Byrd, round face worried but alight with interest, shaking out his banyan before a hastily poked-up fire.

“Yes. Of course. He…did he…” He groped simultaneously for words and bedclothes. “Name?”

“Yes, me lord. Captain Jones, he says.”

Scrambling out of bed, Grey thrust his arms into the sleeves of his banyan, but did not wait for Tom to find his slippers, padding quick and barefoot through the cold to the darkened sitting room.

Jones was stirring up the fire, a black and burly demon whose silhouette was limned by sparks. He turned at Grey’s entrance, dropping the poker with a crash upon the hearth.

“Where is he?” He reached as though to seize Grey’s arm, but Grey stepped aside.

“Where is who?”

“Herbert Gormley, of course! What have you done with him?”

“Gormless?” Grey was so startled that the name popped out of him. “What’s happened to him?”

Jones’s clenched-fist expression, just visible by the glow of the fire, relaxed a trifle at that.

“Gormless? You call him that, too, do you?”

“Not to his face, certainly. Thank you, Tom.” Byrd, hurrying in, had placed his slippers on the floor, eyeing Jones with marked wariness.

“What has happened?” Grey repeated, thrusting his cold feet into the slippers and noting absently that they were warm; Tom had taken time to hold them over the bedroom fire.

“He’s disappeared, Major—and so has Tom Pilchard. And I want to know what you have to do with the matter.”

He stared at Jones, unable for a moment to take this in. Still half in the grip of nightmare, his brain produced a vision of Herbert Gormley absconding by night, the remains of a massive cannon tucked tidily under one arm. He shook his head to clear it of this nonsense, and gestured Jones to the sofa.

“Sit. I assure you, sir, I have nothing ‘to do’ with the matter—but I certainly wish to know who does. Tell me what you know.”

Jones’s face worked briefly—Grey had the notion that he was grinding his teeth—but he nodded shortly and sat down, though he remained poised upon the edge of the sofa, hands on his knees, ready to leap up at a moment’s notice.

“He’s gone—Herbert. When I found the cannon gone, I went to find him, ask what—but he was nowhere to be found. I’ve been searching for him since the day before yesterday. Do you know where he is?”

Tom had been building up the fire; the flame was high enough now to show Jones’s heavy face, hollowed by worry and pouched with fatigue.

“No. You know where he lives?” Grey sat down himself, and scrubbed a hand over his face in an effort to rouse himself completely.

Jones nodded, massive fists clenching and unclenching unconsciously upon his thighs.

“He’s not been home in two days. The last anyone saw of him was Wednesday evening, when he left the laboratory. You’re quite sure he’s not been here?” Dark eyes flicked suspiciously at Grey.