The Hanged Man (27 page)

“Get along, the both of you. In there.”

He gestured at the sinister shape of a Black Maria that blended with the night. You'd have to be on top of the thing to see it. The metal door was open, yawning like a mouth into hell.

“Shift yourselves before some lunatic shoots you. You know the situation we're in.”

Alex twitched her cloak aside to extend the air rifle to Mourne. “If you would, sir. I'll need both hands.”

“Cheeky baggage,” he muttered, accepting it, and there was a remote coloring in his tone indicating that he just might be amused. Briefly. Perhaps to the count of one.

She climbed in, feeling her way—it was pitch black—and tucked herself onto a narrow bench, sitting bolt upright. A drunken stink clung to the interior and she had no desire to accidentally touch any lingering emotions even with her gloves on. Her leaden walls were in place and a foot thick for this situation. She caught the hot metal smell of a dark lantern, which was an unfortunate reminder of Lord Richard's four-wheeler. This moving box, certainly commandeered from Scotland Yard, was better able to protect its occupants from bullets, though that was cold comfort. It was still a transport for prisoners.

Brook sat next to her, then Mourne climbed in and secured the door. He gave a last look through the grilled opening, slid the shutter in place, and knocked twice on the front wall. They lurched forward. The confined area soon filled with the heavy smell of the cigar, which was an improvement.

“May we have light?” asked Alex, her gaze drawn to the cigar's intermittent glow, which was useless for illumination.

“No.”

“You don't wish to examine the rifle?”

“Seen a dozen of 'em. When we counted bodies there was a weapon short and Woodwake knew you'd blagged it. There's only one expert in London on air guns you'd take it to, so I gathered some lads and set up a blind across from Danny's lair.”

“Why didn't you stop us from going in?”

“Because as long as you were there you might as well get information. His lordship's more likely to spill to a pretty young thing like you than to an old goat like me. You are expected to report, in full, starting with how the devil you ended up out front and under fire with Miss Sybil.”

Alex noted how he spoke the name, which indicated he had respect for the woman. Their interplay after the shooting … friends, certainly. Colonel Mourne was a harsh, forbidding sort and did not award his regard lightly.

“Is that her name or a designation?” she asked.

“What does it matter?”

“If a designation, then why not call her Cassandra?”

“Because no one believed
her
prophecies. We take everything Sybil says very seriously.”

“She's a true Seer, then.”

“And damn good at it, when she's not being blocked. Now get on with it.”

Alex gave a swift recounting, beginning with Sybil backing out of the building and ending with Lord Hollifield's remarks on the air gun.

“She wanted us to take it, sir,” Alex concluded. “I'm not excusing myself from disobeying orders, but after the attack it seemed expedient to keep moving. Lord Hollifield provided a name and address. If this Nabadenski designed these weapons, he might lead us to whoever is behind the attacks on the Service.”

“I expect he will, one way or another.” There was a sound of movement and Mourne rapped on the wall. Another sliding panel opened. He asked for and got the address from Alex and repeated it to the driver, adding, “Have a rider telegraph where we're going and that I want a flying squad to meet us there. Make sure himself gets the message.”

Their pace picked up, along with her heartbeat. She thought they'd be going back to the Service offices. What in the world was a “flying squad”?

Mourne returned to his place on the opposite bench. “Now for the rest.”

“Sir?”

“The two of you let yourselves into that flat on Hill Street and spent a fair time there. One of my lads spotted you straightaway.”

“But we—” began Brook, who apparently thought better of finishing and cut short.

“Didn't see anyone. I know. That's what you should expect from those
I've
trained. Unless you fools were after some private trysting with each other, this missy gave that place a Reading. Why were you there and what did you find? This time don't leave anything out.”

Alex felt a sick heat in her belly for having been caught. The prospect of dismissal had been easier to consider when on the move and doing things. A lie of omission was still a lie. The Service would not tolerate it. “Sir, I—”

“Your excuse is worth a tinker's damn to me. Report.”

Next to her in the absolute dark, Brook shifted just a little. Most unexpectedly, she felt his hand on her near shoulder. It rested there just for an instant, patted three times, then withdrew.

Good God
. She almost said it aloud and was surprised she didn't. Even with her barriers up, she got his message of reassurance. One part of her was annoyed at his presumption, another part liked it. She wasn't alone.

She cleared her throat and pressed ahead with a full report of all they'd found in Veltre's rooms.

“Ætherics,” the colonel muttered. “Bloody Ætherics and air guns.”

She'd expected interest about the return of the ghost and the woman's kidnapping, not this. “Sir, a deeper investigation of them might provide solid evidence connecting my father's murder to that of Lord Richard and the attack on the Service.”

“Evidence? We're past the point of needing that. If you'd come inside when you were told—never mind. Your running off to Danny may have saved an hour or so. Whether that's important or not remains to be discovered.”

“What do you mean? Know you other connections?”

“Stew a bit, missy, and see how it feels.”

“No, sir, I will not.”

If he replied to that, then it was not audible above the rumble of the wheels.

“I have a right to know,” she said, her voice far steadier than she felt. “As my father's daughter, I have a right to know.”

“If they are linked, what of it?” he asked.

“Then we use that to find out who in the Home Office had him investigating the Ætheric Society and why. The death of one peer of the realm might be kept a secret, but not two, particularly when the second man is Lord Richard Desmond.”

“Why should the first be kept a secret?”

“The nature of the Ætherics makes that a possibility. Mrs. Woodwake mentioned the prurient activities they indulge in at their private meetings. If my father discovered something embarrassing about someone in a position of power, then that person would want such discoveries buried. He or she could have arranged that ‘Dr. Kemp' be killed and hope it be taken for suicide. Kemp was important, but not on the same level as Lord Gerard Pendlebury. Someone knew his real name. The killer planned an attempt on me the same night. There's no reason why I should be included unless—”

Alex did not want to voice it, for then it might become real.

“Unless…?” Mourne prodded.

“Unless I also know the killer or the person behind him.”

“Indeed? Do you know such a person?”

The idea was monstrous, yet it had been nagging at her since leaving Woodwake's office. “I-I have a concern that my uncle Leo might be involved.”

“Do you?”

“A concern only. He works at the Home Office and so far as I know is wholly dedicated and loyal to the crown. But Mrs. Woodwake has been insistent that I should be at Pendlebury House. I can conjecture that she might be thinking along similar lines and wants me there to observe. The flaw in that is I would be in danger if … Oh, bother, that's entirely mad. Forgive me, Colonel. I'm short on sleep.”

“And on evidence, but your reasoning's sound. That was one idea put forth at the war council.”

“War council?”

“Which you missed. Make no mistake, there is a war on and you two survived the first skirmish. The attack on the Service was a major undertaking and we've no reason to think it's the last. That telegraph message you sent—Woodwake issued warnings to all Service offices. They're on the alert.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

“As for your uncle—fratricide's not unheard of, what with Cain and Abel inventing the miserable business. If Leo topped your pap, then he'd have to top you, since you might Read something from him at a family dinner.”

“That's not how Reading works.”

“You and I know it, but those outside the Service think your lot plucks thoughts from their heads. Think how things might have gone last night if you'd not been called to Harley Street. Someone would have identified Gerard, and sent word to you, being next of kin. Once you're over the first shock, you'd have gone straight to Leo's house to break the bad news and he might have let something slip. But this ghostlike fellow who did the murder was to keep that from happening by killing you. Leo's safe from discovery by his niece the Reader.”

Stated in such terms it truly was monstrous—and could not possibly be right. “I cannot believe that. Not Uncle Leo.”

“What about the rest of 'em?”

“Impossible. Teddy's a boring prig but just as dedicated, Andrina would never risk her place as a lady-in-waiting, and Aunt Honoria thinks anything to do with the psychical is an affront to God, if not proof of madness.”

“What about yourself?”

“What?”

“The possibility was raised.”

“I've been cleared by Mrs. Woodwake,” she said, her tone icy.

“Lucky for you, then.”

Alex made herself calm down. Mourne was testing her in his own way, though it was pointless to trouble himself when he couldn't see her reactions. Perhaps he was something of a Reader himself, though she'd heard nothing of it in her time there. Theirs was an exclusive club and members all knew one another.

“What else was discussed at this war council?” she asked.

“Damn little that was helpful. I left them to it and went after you.”

“What if,” put in Brook, “what if Lord Leo himself sent his brother to investigate the Ætherics? He might have gotten orders to look into the business, but may have been reluctant to trust anyone but his own brother.”

There followed a silence as Alex gave that unexpected idea consideration. She didn't like her relatives, and had let emotion influence her thoughts. How unprofessional of her.

“Then Uncle Leo would have known where Father was and how to contact him. Why would he not tell me?” she demanded.

“It's called compartmentalization,” said Mourne. “Is Leo one of those johnnies who doesn't talk about his work?”

“He was when I lived with them.”

“There it is. He'd not tell you about Gerard. Probably thought you were in contact already. He'd not raise the subject at a family dinner.”

“I don't
go
to family dinners,” she snarled. “Aunt and Uncle are tolerable, but not my cousins. As soon as I was able, I moved out.”

Mourne grunted. “Families. Best friends and worst enemies all at once. Can't fault you for wanting to avoid unpleasantness, but you might have learned something.”

“Perhaps, but that doesn't explain why my father made no effort to contact me in the last ten years. Yours is an interesting idea, Lieutenant Brook, but it does not cover the facts. My uncle has an important place in the Home Office, but it is not that important. Someone higher up had charge of this. I have to find out who—”

“Devil take it—what is that smell?” asked Mourne.

She couldn't begin to guess which out of the mélange within these close walls had caught his attention.

Brook spoke up. “Mince pies, sir. Would you like some?”

“I certainly would. Haven't had a minute to stoke the boiler.”

Lady Lindsey had been generous; there were plenty to go around. Alex managed another, though eating in the dark made it hard to keep track of crumbs and drips.

Mourne was pleased with the feast and made a low rumbling growl deep in his throat. It reminded her uncomfortably of a tiger, and not one held captive in a zoological garden. The last time she'd heard the sound had been on the back of an elephant making its way through tall grass. She and Father had been part of a hunt for a man-eater that had killed over a dozen hapless souls. She thought of the dozen and more men the colonel had taken down with his Winchester.

And the one he'd spared for questioning.

“What did you learn from the prisoner, sir?” She expected to be rebuffed, but he surprised her.

“They'd not got him talking properly when I left. Had to get a surgeon in to sew him up. Squealed like a spoiled toff until they put him out—which I was against. He'd have chattered quick enough if they'd given me a free hand. Woodwake's too bloody soft. He was our best hope. The other two are in bad shape, like to die. Good shooting on your part, given the circumstances.”

The reminder gave her an uneasy pang. She abruptly lost her appetite for more mince pie.

“Here, you're not going to go sick on us about that, are you?”

“No, sir.”
How can he see me in this murk?

“Some do after a battle and there's no shame in it.”

“Yes, sir.”
Change the subject
. “Was anything helpful found on … on the casualties?”

“No papers, a few bob in their pockets, nothing else, not even a tart's calling card.”

“Keys, watch fobs?”

“Some keys, of course, they have to live someplace. Don't know about fobs, could have used your eye there, girl. You see more than most.”

“No laundry marks? Shop labels?”

“New clothes, the lot of them, with no clue who made 'em. Someone prepared for the possibility of these chaps getting killed or captured. We'll find who they are eventually. Woodwake called in the Yard, wants their lot to look at faces, see if they recognize any of 'em. Seems to think they're from the criminal classes, but she's on the wrong game trail.”