Lord John and the Hand of Devils (34 page)

He was aware—as most of the merrymakers were not—of the mollies among the crowd. Some dressed as women, others in their own male garb surmounted by outlandish masks, finding each other by glance and grimace, by whatever alchemy of flesh enabled body to seek body, freed by disguise of their usual constraints.

More than one gay blade glanced at him, and now and then one jostled him in passing, a hand brushing his arm, his back, lingering an instant on his hip, the touch a question. He smiled now and then, but walked on.

Feeling hungry, he turned in to a supper table, bought a box, and found a place on the nearby lawn to eat. As he finished a breast of roast fowl and tossed the bones under a bush, a man sat down beside him. Sat much closer than was usual.

He glanced warily at the man, but did not know him, and deliberately looked away, giving no hint of invitation.

“Lord John,” said the man, in a pleasant voice.

It gave him a shock, and he choked, a bit of chicken caught in his throat.

“Do I know you, sir?” he said, politely, when he had finished coughing.

“Oh, no,” said the gentleman—for he was a gentleman, by his voice. “Nor will you, I’m afraid. My loss, I am sure. I come merely as a messenger.” He smiled, a pleasant smile beneath the mask of a great horned owl.

“Indeed.” Grey wiped greasy fingers on his handkerchief. “On whose behalf are you come, then?”

“Oh, on behalf of England. I beg you will forgive the melodrama of that statement,” he said, deprecating. “It is true, though.”

“Is that so?” The man wore no weapon—these were firmly discouraged in Vauxhall, but the odd knife was common, now and then a pistol.

“Yes. And the message, Lord John, is that you will abandon any efforts to expose Mortimer Oswald.”

“Will I?” he said, maintaining a tone of skepticism, though his stomach had clenched hard with the words. “Are you from the navy, then?”

“No, nor from the army, either,” said the man, imperturbable. “I am employed by the Ministry of War, if that information is of use to you. I doubt it will be.”

Grey doubted it, too—but he didn’t doubt the man’s assertion. He felt a low, burning anger growing, but this was tinged with a certain sense of fatality. Somehow, he was not truly surprised.

“So you mean Oswald to escape payment for his crimes?” he asked. “His actions have meant the death of several men, the maiming of several more, and the endangerment—the ongoing endangerment, I might add—of hundreds. This means nothing to the government?”

The man turned to face him straight-on, the painted eyes of his owl mask huge and fierce, obliterating the puny humanity of the man’s own orbs.

“It will not serve the interests of the country for Oswald to be openly accused—let alone convicted—of corruption. Do you not realize the effect? Such accusations, such a trial, would cause widespread public anger and alarm, discrediting both the army and the navy, endangering relationships with our German allies, giving heart to our enemies…No, my lord. You will not pursue Oswald.”

“And if I do?”

“That would be most unwise,” the man said softly. His own eyes were closed; Grey could see the pale lids through the holes of his mask. Suddenly he opened them; they were dark in the flickering light; Grey could not tell the color.

“We will see that Mr. Oswald does no further harm, I assure you.”

“And it would suit the War Office’s purposes so much better to have a member of Parliament who can be quietly blackmailed to vote as you like, rather than one being hanged in effigy and hounded in the broadsheets?” He had a grip on his anger now, and his voice was steady.

The owl inclined his head gravely, without speaking, and the man gathered his feet under him, preparing to rise. Grey stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“Do you know, I think I am not very wise?” he said conversationally.

The man became very still.

“Indeed?” he said, still polite, but noticeably less friendly.

“If I were to speak openly of what I know—to a journalist, perhaps? I have proof, you know, and witnesses; not enough for a trial by jury, perhaps, but more than adequate for a trial in the press. A Question in the House of Lords?”

“Your career means nothing to you?” A note of threat had entered the owl’s voice.

“No,” Grey said, and took a deep breath, ignoring the harsh stab of pain in his chest. “My honor means something, though.”

The man’s mouth drew in at the corners, lips pressed tight. It was a good mouth, Grey thought; full-lipped, but not crude. Would he know the man by his mouth alone, if he saw it again? He waited while the man thought, feeling oddly calm. He’d meant what he said, and had no regrets, whatever might come of it now. He thought they would not try to kill him; that would accomplish nothing. Ruin him, perhaps. He didn’t care.

At last the owl allowed his mouth to relax, and turned his head away.

“Oswald will resign quietly, for reasons of ill health. Your brother will be appointed to replace him for the remainder of his term. Will that satisfy you?”

Grey wondered for an instant whether Edgar might do the country more harm than Oswald. But England had survived stupidity in government for centuries; there were worse things. And if the War Office thought Grey as corrupt as themselves, what did that matter?

“Done,” he said, raising his voice a little, to be heard over the sound of violins from a strolling band of gypsies.

The owl rose silently and vanished into the throng. Grey didn’t try to see where he went. All he would have to do was to remove the mask and tuck it under his arm to become invisible.

“Who was that?” said a voice near his ear.

He turned with no sense of surprise—it was that sort of night, where the unreality of the surroundings lent all experience a dreamlike air—to find Neil the Cunt seated beside him on the frosty grass, blue eyes glowing through the feathered mask of a fighting cock.

“Bugger off, Mr. Stapleton,” he said mildly.

“Oh, now, Mary, let us not bicker.” Stapleton leaned back on the heels of his hands, legs flung oh-so-casually apart, the better to display his very considerable assets.

“You can tell me,” he coaxed. “He didn’t look as though he wished you well, you know. It might be useful to you to have a friend with your best interests at heart to watch your back.”

“I daresay it would,” Grey said dryly. “That would not, however, be Hubert Bowles. Or you. Were you following me, or the gentleman who has just left us?”

“If I’d been following him, I’d know who he was, wouldn’t I?”

“Quite possibly you
do
know, Mr. Stapleton, and only wish to know whether I do.”

Stapleton made a sound, almost a laugh, and edged closer, so that his leg touched Grey’s. Not for the first time, Grey was startled at the heat of Stapleton’s body; even through the layers of cloth between them, he glowed with a warmth that made the red and yellow feathers of his mask seem about to burst into flames.

“Charming ensemble,” Neil drawled, eyes burning through his mask with a boldness far past flirtation. “You have always such exquisite
taste
in your dress.” He reached out to finger the lawn ruffle of Grey’s shirt, long fingers sliding slowly—very slowly—down the length of it, slipping between the buttons, his warm touch just perceptible on the bare, cool skin of Grey’s breast.

Grey’s heart gave a sudden bump, pain stabbed him, and he stiffened. He felt as though his chest were transfixed by an iron rod, holding him immobile. Tried to breathe, but was stopped by the pain. Christ, was he going to die in public, in a pleasure garden, in the company of a sodomite spy dressed like a rooster? He could only hope that Tom was nearby, and would remove his body before anybody noticed.

“What’s that?” Stapleton sounded startled, drawing back his fingers as though burned.

Grey was afraid to move, but managed to bend his neck enough to look down. A spot of blood the size of a sixpence bloomed on his shirt.

He had to breathe; he would suffocate. He drew a breath and winced at the resultant sensation—but didn’t die immediately. His hands and feet felt cold.

“Leave me,” he gasped. “I’m unwell.”

Stapleton’s eyes darted to and fro, doubtful. His mouth compressed in the shadow of the rooster’s open beak, but after a long moment’s hesitation, he rose abruptly and disappeared.

Grey essayed another breath, and found that his heart continued to beat, though each thump sent a jarring pain through his breast. He gritted his teeth and reached gingerly inside his shirt.

A tiny nub of metal, like the end of a needle, protruded half an inch from the skin of his chest. Breathing as shallowly as he dared, he pinched it tight between finger and thumb, and pulled.

Pulled harder, air hissing between his teeth, and it came, in a sudden, easing glide.

“Jesus,” he whispered, and took a long, deep, unhindered breath. “Thank you.” His chest burned a little where it had come out, but his heart beat without pain. He sat for some time, fist folded about the metal splinter, his other hand pressing the fabric of his shirt against the tiny wound to stanch the bleeding.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, simply feeling happy. Revelers went by in groups, in couples, here and there a solitary man on the prowl. Some of them glanced at him, but he gave no sign of acknowledgment or welcome, and they passed on.

Then another solitary man came round the corner of the path, his shadow cast before him. Very tall, crowned with a mitre. Grey looked up.

Not a bishop. A grenadier in a high peaked cap, with his bomb sack slung over one shoulder, the brass tube at his belt glowing, eerie with the light of a burning slow match. At least it wasn’t another frigging bird, Grey thought, but a feeling of cold moved down his spine.

The grenadier was moving slowly, plainly looking for someone; his head turned from side to side, his features completely hidden by a full-length black-silk mask.

“Captain Fanshawe.” Grey spoke quietly, but the blank face turned at once in his direction. The grenadier looked over his shoulder, but the path was vacant for the moment. He settled his sack more firmly on his shoulder and came toward Grey, who rose to meet him.

“I had your note.” The voice was the same, colorless, precise.

“And you came. I thank you, sir.” Grey pushed the splinter into his pocket, his heart beating fast and freely now. “You will tell me, then?” He must; he would not have come, only to refuse. “Where is Anne Thackeray?”

The grenadier unslung his sack, lowered it to the ground, and leaned back against a tree, arms folded.

“Do you come here often, Major?” he asked. “I do.”

“No, not often.” Grey looked round and saw a low brick wall, the river’s darkened gleam beyond it. He sat down, prepared to listen.

“But you knew I would find the surroundings…comfortable. That was thoughtful of you, Major.”

Grey made no answer, but inclined his head.

The grenadier sighed deeply, and let his hands fall to his sides.

“She is dead,” he said quietly.

Grey had thought this likely, but felt still a pang of startled grief at the death of hope, thinking of Barbara Thackeray and Simon Coles.

“How?” he asked, just as quietly. “In childbirth?”

“No.” The man laughed, a harsh, unsettling sound. “Last week.”

“How?”

“By my hand—or as near as makes no never-mind, as the country people say.”

“Indeed.” He let the silence grow around them. Music still played, but the nearest orchestra was at a distance.

Fanshawe stood abruptly upright.

“Bloody hell,” he said, and for the first time, his voice was alive, full of anger and self-contempt. “What am I playing at? If I’ve come to tell you, I shall tell you. No reason why not, now.”

He turned his blank, black face on Grey, who saw that there was a single eyehole pierced in it, but the eye within so dark that the effect was like talking to a wall.

“I meant to kill Philip Lister,” Fanshawe said. “You’ve guessed that, I suppose.”

Grey made a small motion of the head—though in fact he had not.

“The powder?” he said, one small further puzzle piece falling into place. “You made the unstable bomb cartridges. How did you mean to use them—and how in hell did they get to the battlefields?”

Fanshawe made a small snorting sound.

“Accident. Two of them, in fact. I meant to ask Philip to come with me, to have a look at something in the mill. It would have been a simple thing, to leave him to wait by one of the sheds, go inside and set a match, then leave and go away quietly, wait for the bang. That would have been simple. But, no, I had to be clever about it.”

Marcus Fanshawe was an expert, raised in the shadow of a gunpowder mill, fearless in the making and handling of the dangerous energy.

“What is it the Good Book says—
The guilty flee when no man pursueth?
I thought that if he died that way, people would wonder, ask questions. Anne”—there was a bitter pain in his voice at the name—“she might suspect.”

And so he had begun the manufacture of high-grade powder, even finer than that required for rifle cartridges. An experimental batch; everyone knew about it, knew the potential risks of dealing with it. If
that
powder were to suddenly explode, no one would be surprised.

“I thought, you see, I knew what I was doing. I’d handled black powder since I was a lad; knew it all. And, in fact, I did. We’d made the powder, corned it with great care, got a number of the special cartridges made up, the rest mostly kegged. Not the slightest difficulty. And then a workman dropped a scraper.”

Not a wooden scraper, which would have done no harm; one of the heavy stone scrapers, whose weight was needed for the fine grinding. It should have made no difference; the granite used was inert. But some small inclusion in the stone was flint; it struck an iron fitment of a horse’s harness, and made a spark.

“There was that one deadly instant when I saw it, saw the air filled with powder dust, and knew we were all dead,” Fanshawe said. “And then the shed went up.”

“I see,” Grey said, dry-mouthed. He worked his tongue and swallowed. “And the second accident?”