The Clockwork Wolf (6 page)

He faced me. “Why didn't you report the bomb?”

“I intended to, tomorrow.” I gazed up at him. “I didn't know any of this building evacuation business had happened, Tommy. I've been out working since this morning; I've only just got back.”

“Are you telling me the truth?” When I nodded, he retrieved my cloak and handed it to me. “Come on.”

I hesitated. “Am I under arrest?”

“No,” he said. “You're going to show me this rat bomb.”

•   •   •

Two beaters stood outside the entry to my office building, and both came to attention as Doyle and I approached. I also saw someone standing at the corner; a short figure in a funny-looking blue cape.

“Any activity?” Doyle asked.

“We've had a few of the tenants come by to ask what's to be done,” one of the cops replied. “Not a happy lot, any of them.”

“You don't want to go in there, sir,” the other beater said quickly as Doyle climbed the steps. “I tried to nick in round the back to use the facilities, but the air's so putrid I lost me dinner.” He grimaced at me. “Begging your pardon, miss.”

“No worries, mate.” I wrinkled my nose back at him. “Sorry about your stomach.” When I glanced at the corner again the oddly-caped man was gone.

“Stand back.” Doyle took out a blade and used it to cut through the sealing tape stretched across the doors. As he opened them I covered my mouth and nose with a kerchief, but the stench I expected never came.

Doyle breathed in several times before rubbing the back of his neck. “You're sure no one's slipped inside?” he asked his men.

“Landlord locked it up tight, sir, and gave us the keys,” the first beater said.

To me Doyle said, “Do you or any of the tenants have keys?”

“Only to our own offices,” I told him. “The landlord sends his man to open and close the building each day.”

He took the beater's lantern. “Let's have a look in the basement, then.”

I led the inspector downstairs to the Dungeon, which like the rest of the building held no trace of the noxious smell. I walked over to the workbench where Docket and I had examined the rat, but except for a few tools it stood empty.

“Docket was working on the animech here.” I turned round to examine the floor, and pointed to a bare spot. “That's where I left the bucket.” Like the rat and the stink it also had vanished. “This burglar would make an excellent janitor.”

“I saw the spill here.” Doyle knelt down, moving some of Docket's things aside to run his hand over the boards. “Bone dry.” He glanced up at me. “There's not even a stain on the wood.”

I crouched down and put my hand next to his. As soon as I touched the wood a dark stain spread out from my fingers.

Doyle hissed something vile and snatched my hand back. “Magic.”

“Won't hurt me, Tommy.” Curious marks scratched into the boards also appeared, but they were unlike any wards I'd ever encountered. “It must be some kind of concealment spell.” I tried to take my hand from his but he held on. “You know I'm immune to magic.”

“And how should I know that?” he demanded.

He couldn't, thanks to my time traveling. The cost of what I'd done to save Rumsen from invasion and bring Dredmore back from death was well and truly grating on my nerves now. “Uncle Arthur told you that my mother was a spell breaker, a gift I inherited from her.”

“You're lying to me again.” A muscle twitched under his right eye. “You never sound more truthful than when you are.”

“How do I sound when I tell the truth? Like a liar?” I stood up and touched the workbench, but the rat didn't materialize. “So they mopped up and took the mech. Why go to all this trouble?”

“Removing the evidence of their crime.” Doyle stood and scanned the workshop. “What I'd like to know is, why bother to erase the stench?”

“To prevent you from arresting me, or me from finding them,” I said without thinking. “Or my would-be assassin truly is a janitor and quite devoted to his calling to clean.”

He cupped my elbow and guided me toward the stairs. “Not an occupation I'd imagine an assassin like Lord Lucien Dredmore pursuing.”

“That was beautifully done, Tommy,” I said with very real admiration. “Should I stutter my astonishment first, then give you all the details about his completely innocent visit to my office this morning?”

“He's a deathmage, Kit,” he reminded me, seemingly unaware that he'd used my given name. “He wasn't even born innocent.”

That didn't seem fair to me. “Dredmore can't be blamed for the unfortunate circumstances of his birth, any more than you can scrub Uncle Arthur's blood out of your veins. Does anyone at the Yard know you're the grandson of a duke?”

“Grandda relinquished all claim to the title before he left the Motherland.” His upper lip curled. “As for the
lads, they know me to be what I am, the son of a farmer and their chief.”

I liked that he wasn't a snob, although he would have done much better for himself by using his family's connections. If he hadn't become a cop, he might have been the perfect man for me. Not that I wanted a husband; they always expected wives to clean and cook and carry children. On the list of things I disliked immensely, those three ranked in the top ten.

Back outside the building Doyle informed his beaters that the premises were safe to reoccupy, and to notify the landlord of the same. He then drove me to the goldstone, and even walked me to the door.

“Thank you for the ride, Chief Inspector.” I felt too tired to work up a properly cheeky grin. “I promise to report any suspicious parcels delivered to my office in the future. After I immerse them in my tea, of course. I don't think it matters what color it is.”

He didn't laugh. “I'm assigning a beater to stand watch at your office.”

I suppressed a groan. “For how long?”

“As long as I bloody wish.” He saw my face and sighed. “Look, Kit, when I was assigned here my parents came along. The bought a farm just outside the city. I know Ma would love to have you there for a long visit. Let me arrange it.” When I didn't reply he put a hand on my shoulder. “This sort doesn't like to fail, Kit. They will be coming for you again.”

“Then I had better find out who they are before they do,” I said lightly. “Good night, Chief Inspector.”

I took a carri-cab to the Hill the next morning and gave the driver a good tip along with instructions to return for me at noon.

“You sure you want to stay here so long, miss?” he asked, casting a wary eye at the windows of Bestly House, all of which had been draped from the inside with dark blue mourning blinds. “They've not even put out the doves yet.”

“Noon, if you please,” I said firmly, hefting my case before I took the walk round the house to the servants' door.

It took several minutes before my knock was answered by a very young maid with disheveled hair and a soot-dusted apron. She looked me up and down. “The house ain't receiving, miss. Master's died. Don't you see the windows?”

From her appearance and tone she was probably the scullery gel, which meant the butler had already abandoned his post. “I'm Miss Kittredge, and your mistress is expecting me. Let me in, and go and tell her I'm here.”

Doubt screwed up her face. “Not supposed to go upstairs. 'Sides, I've got to see to the cooking.”

“Come on.” I pushed past her and led her through the storeroom and into the kitchens. Unwashed crockery, leftover food, and other rubbish covered nearly every flat surface. On the stove something was busily burning. “Cook leave with the butler, then?”

“Aye, slipped out last night after her ladyship told us about the master becoming a beast before he died.” The gel fiddled with the sides of her apron. “All the maids are gone, too. Still got a footman, but I think he's only here 'cause he's due wages.”

Scandal turned servants into rats; they never stayed to sink with the ship. I went over and removed a smoking pan of charred sausages from the stove. “What's your name, gel?”

“Annie.” She flapped her hands about trying to dispel the smoke. “Annie Hartley.”

I put the lid back on the open burner. “Why didn't you go with the others, Annie?”

“Ain't been in service but two months. Got no references but what her ladyship might give me, but I didn't want to ask. Seemed a bit mean-hearted.” She coughed into her sleeve and then gestured at the mess. “ 'Sides, someone's got to look after herself, right?”

“Very commendable of you,” I said. “I'll go upstairs and wake her ladyship. You put on the kettle, see what's in the cold pantry for tea, and set it up in whatever she uses as her morning room. And for God's sake, don't cook.”

On my way to wake Lady Bestly I noticed other glaring signs of the staff's negligence: vases of dead flowers, blackened lamp glasses, and doors standing ajar or open. None of the family portraits in the halls had been veiled yet, and as I passed the butler's room I spotted unopened post and several packages sitting in several heaps on his writing table. I found her ladyship's bedchamber by following the trail of footprints left on the unswept rugs.

The neglect of the house should have made me feel
a bit smug; servants sneaking out in the middle of the night was only the opening ceremony of the ordeal yet to come. Lady Bestly had always been popular among the ton, for whom there could never be enough rules or kowtowing; to protect their own reputations they'd see to it that her fall from grace was immediate and ugly.

In a week or less Lady Bestly would occupy hell on earth, or as close to it as her friends and neighbors could make it.

I rapped on the door. “Milady, it's Kittredge.” After hearing a muffled “Enter,” I walked in.

Some sort of fruity cologne saturated the air but failed to disguise the sour scent of puke. A full blue-and-red-striped mourning gown stood at the foot of an unmade bed; something trapped inside it writhed before sighing.

“It seems my maid has chosen to pursue another position,” the gown said, “and I have never dressed myself. Would you be so kind, Kittredge, as to provide some assistance?”

I set down my case and went to her, straightening the wadded bodice and sleeves. “Annie Hartley, your scullery gel, was playing at cook when I arrived. You might have her bathe and bring her upstairs before she sets fire to the place.” I glanced at the necessary pot sitting beside the bed and the dark, damp spots on the rug where she'd missed it. “Are you unwell, milady?”

The face that popped through the high collar of the bodice looked pale and tired under the thick paint and powder. “I am grieving, Kittredge. It does not put roses in one's cheeks. I can manage the sleeves, thank you.” She presented her back to me so I could button, and
I frowned at a large bruise covering her shoulder. “So Cook has vacated her post? And without notice, like the others. How do they expect to find suitable employment without a reference, I wonder.”

“They'll use whatever you accepted when you hired them.” I started at the top button and worked my way down. “Everyone will know they were working for you, but once word gets out they'll all pretend it never happened.”

“I should have suspected as much when Jarvis left last week.” She tugged at the scarlet lace of her cuffs. “Thirty-two years of service to my husband, and not so much as a farewell to me. Perhaps he'll have second thoughts.”

I could have lied to her, but it was time the woman faced facts. “None of them will be back, milady. To return to this house after the story about Lord Bestly is printed would be the same as publicly condoning what your husband did. They'd load bricks in their pockets and jump into the bay first.”

Her shoulders slumped a little. “I cannot acquire any new servants until after the end of my first mourning. Even then, no one will wish to serve a maniac's widow.”

“Lord Dredmore might arrange something, or there are the day-service agencies in town. Their hires aren't as respectable as live-ins, but they'll look after you.” As was the custom I left one button unfastened and surveyed the length of her untidy night braid. If she'd never gotten dressed by herself she'd probably never touched a brush, either. “Come and sit by the vanity, and I'll do your hair.”

She faced me. “You, attend to my person? I think not.”

“I can fetch Annie to do it, if you'd rather,” I offered. “Or the footman waiting on his wage packet.”

“There's no one else?” When I shook my head she closed her eyes and swayed a little. “I cannot bear this. It is intolerable. It is
indecent
.”

“Don't dwell on it, milady. You'll only be sick again.” I took her by the arm and led her over to the vanity, where I eased her into the chair. “I can manage something simple,” I said as I untied the end of her braid. “I won't pin it too tight; that will only make the throbbing worse.”

She watched me in the mirror. “How did you know I have a headache?”

“I always do after I, ah, have bouts of indigestion.” I picked up a brush and began working on the ends. “We do have to talk about your husband, and how he was before he died. All right?” When she nodded, I asked, “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary with him before the incident?”

She sat back and closed her eyes. “If you mean did he behave differently toward me, no. He spent much of the day in his study, of course, but we always shared luncheon and dinner together. Our conversations were normal. He did not mistreat me or the servants.”

She was presenting a rather rosy image of her husband, but few wished to speak ill of the dead, who often became such angels in memory. I ran the brush through the white curtain of her hair before I reached for the pin minder. “Where was he spending his nights? At the club, or with a friend?”