The Perfect Poison (8 page)

“We have to get out of here,” Caleb said, trying to reach some remnant of sanity in the man’s disordered brain.

“It is Charun.” The leader struggled to his knees, suddenly fascinated by the flames. “He is here.” In the flaring light there was awe and euphoric wonder on his face. “He has come to deliver me from you. Now you will pay with your soul for daring to assault one who serves the demon.”

The flames had reached a cloth-draped table. The black fabric quickly caught fire. Heavy smoke roiled through the room. The leader appeared utterly transfixed by the growing inferno.

Caleb picked up his gun and brought the butt of the weapon down quite forcefully against the back of the other man’s skull.

The leader slumped forward.

Caleb dropped the gun into his pocket. Staying low in an effort to avoid the worst of the smoky atmosphere, he pulled out a large handkerchief and clapped it across his nose and mouth. A quick glance around told him that they were the only two people left in the chamber.

Once again he seized the cowl of the Servant’s robe and used it to drag the unconscious man across the stone floor.

He hauled his burden past the black velvet curtain. The air on the other side of the doorway was much sweeter but the passageway was unlit. Darkness loomed.

He dropped the handkerchief and flattened one hand on the wall of the stone tunnel. Behind him there was another violent whoosh as the velvet curtain fell to the flames. He did not look back. Using the old stones and the scent of fresh air as a guide, he made his way toward the far end of the tunnel, dragging the leader behind him.

Lantern light splashed ahead, pushing aside the darkness. A moment later a figure loomed. The glary yellow light illuminated a familiar face.

“Imagine meeting you here, cousin,” Caleb said.

“What the devil kept you?” Gabriel Jones reached down to assist with the unconscious leader. “The plan was for you to come out with Fletcher and the boy.”

“Didn’t want to risk losing this bastard.” Caleb sucked in the clean air. “Then there was a small problem with a fire.”

“Yes, I can see that. Who is he?”

“Don’t know his name yet. Calls himself the Servant of Charun. Whoever he is, he’s mad as a hatter. Fletcher and the boy are safe?”

“Yes. They’re waiting for us outside. So are Spellar and some constables. They’ve rounded up several of the cult members.”

“No point arresting them. They were all young, gullible street boys. I’m quite sure that whatever belief they had in the powers of their demon lord just got extinguished.”

They emerged from the tunnel to find several frightened acolytes and a considerable number of constables milling around the yard of the old, abandoned inn that had served as the cult’s temple. Lanterns lit the chaotic scene.

Edmund Fletcher hurried toward him. The boy he had rescued was at his heels.

“Are you all right, sir?” Edmund asked.

He radiated an exultant excitement. Caleb recognized the aftereffects that often accompany a close brush with danger combined with the powerful thrill that comes from pushing one’s talent to the maximum degree. He was starting to feel a similar rush of sensation, himself.

It was not the first time he had experienced this sort of edgy intoxication. What he did not comprehend was why he was suddenly thinking of Lucinda Bromley.

“I’m all right,” Caleb said. He started to cough but he managed to clap Edmund’s shoulder. “You did excellent work back there. You got us inside without drawing any attention, through all those locked doors, and you got the boy out safely. A fine performance.”

Edmund grinned. “Will you have other assignments for me, do you think?”

“Don’t worry. I’m certain that the Jones agency will have occasional use for a man of your talents.”

The boy looked up at him. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but Mr. Fletcher and I have been talking about your detective agency. It sounds like very interesting work. Would you have any need for an agent with my skills?”

Caleb looked down at him. “What is your name?”

“Kit, sir. Kit Hubbard.”

“What sort of skills do you possess, Kit Hubbard?”

“Well, I can’t make items disappear like Mr. Fletcher here does,” Kit said seriously, “but I’m very good at finding things.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a skill that just sort of came to me in the past year or so. I never used to be able to do it, not the way I do now.”

Strong psychical talents usually appeared at puberty.

Caleb exchanged a look with Gabe. Until recently, membership in the Arcane Society had been largely limited to those who had been born into it or who had married into it. Secrecy had been critical to the survival of the organization for centuries. In previous eras those who claimed to possess psychical powers had been accused of witchcraft. That dangerous history had kept the group from actively recruiting outsiders with talent, regardless of their social class.

But the world was changing. This was the modern age, and the new Master of the Society was a very modern-thinking man.

Gabe studied the boy. “That sounds like a very interesting talent, Kit.”

Kit gestured at the jeweled dagger Edmund Fletcher still held. “I’m the one who found that blade for Mr. Hatcher, there.”

They all looked at the cowled leader, who was just beginning to stir.

“That’s his name?” Caleb asked. “Hatcher?”

“That’s what Arnie called him,” Kit said. “Arnie works for him, you see. He told me that if I brought that dagger to Mr. Hatcher, I’d get more money than I’d ever seen in my life. Well, I found it for him, all right. It was in an old house on Skidmore Street. The owner died a long time ago and no one ever cleaned out the basement. The next thing I knew, I woke up on that slab of rock with Arnie holding the damn blade over my head.”

“I’d like to hear more about your talent, Kit,” Caleb said. “I’m almost certain my agency could use a young man of your abilities.”

Kit grinned. “Do you pay well, sir?”

“Very well. Just ask Mr. Fletcher, here.”

Edmund laughed and ruffled Kit’s hair. “One job for the Jones agency will take care of the rent for a few months and leave some money left over to buy your mother a pretty new bonnet.”

“Ma will like that,” Kit declared, gleeful.

“More likely she’ll think you’ve taken up a life of crime,” Caleb said. “Which might not be all that far from the truth.”

Spellar loomed out of the shadows. He nodded toward Gabe.

“Thought I’d better warn you that the rumors are already on the streets, sir,” he said. “The gentlemen of the press will be arriving at any moment. This tale is going to be a sensation in the papers in a day or so. I know you don’t want the Society or the Jones name involved if it can be avoided.”

This was the modern age, Caleb thought, but there were still sound reasons for cautious dealings with the press.

“Thank you, Inspector,” Gabe said. “It is obviously past time for the agents of the Jones agency to take their leave.” He looked at Kit and Edmund. “You two will come with us. We’ll convey you to your lodgings. I expect Kit’s mother is more than a little concerned about him.”

Kit looked at Hatcher. “What will happen to him? Will he go to prison?”

Hatcher chose that moment to start babbling to Spellar.

“Charun came to save me,” he said. “He produced a great storm of fire. But a ghost from the Other Side dared to stop him.” He stared at Caleb, eyes wide and feverishly bright with rage. “Tremble in terror, phantom. You will soon feel the wrath of the Demon.”

Spellar looked at Kit. “I think it’s far more likely that this gentleman will soon find himself in an asylum.”

Some of the heady energy that had been resonating through Caleb faded. An icy chill took its place.

“A fate worse than death,” he said quietly.

Caleb let himself into the front hall of the darkened house and went upstairs. When he reached the landing he walked down the hall and unlocked the door to his library-laboratory. Inside, he turned up the gas lamps and surveyed the vast room that was either his refuge or his private hell, depending on circumstances and his mood. Lately the resemblance to the netherworld had been growing stronger.

The majority of the Society’s collection of paranormal relics and artifacts were kept in Arcane House, a remote mansion in the country. But many of the ancient records of the organization, some dating back to the late 1600s when the Society was founded, were housed here. His branch of the family had been responsible for them for generations.

The most valuable items in his collection, including several of the private journals of Sylvester Jones, were secured in the large vault built into the stone wall of the old house.

The laboratory that adjoined the library featured the very latest apparatus. He was not a psychically gifted scientist; his true talents lay in another direction, but he was fully capable of carrying out a large number of experiments. He knew his way around the various instruments and devices arrayed on the workbench.

He had always been drawn to the mysteries of the paranormal. Lately, however, what had once been a keen intellectual interest had become what he knew his closest relatives and friends considered an unhealthy obsession.

They whispered that it was in the blood; that in this generation of Joneses, he was the true heir to the brilliant but darkly eccentric Sylvester. They worried that the founder’s lust for forbidden knowledge had passed down through Caleb’s branch of the family tree, a dark seed waiting to take root in fertile ground.

The dangerous plant did not flower in every generation, they said. According to family legend, it had appeared only once after Sylvester, in Caleb’s great-grandfather Erasmus Jones. Erasmus had been born with a talent like the one Caleb possessed. Less than two years after marrying and fathering a son, however, he suddenly started to exhibit increasingly odd eccentricities. He sank swiftly into madness and finally took his own life.

Caleb knew that everyone in the Jones clan believed that the changes they were witnessing in him had begun with the discovery of Sylvester’s tomb and the journals of alchemical secrets it had contained. Only he and his father knew the truth, however. Even within the extensive and psychically powerful Jones family, it was still possible to keep a secret if one grasped it tightly enough.

He walked through the maze of shelving that held the old leather-bound volumes and came to a halt in front of the cold fireplace. There was a cot and two chairs near the hearth. He usually slept here and took his meals here. This was where he received the occasional visitor. He rarely used the other rooms. Most of the furniture in the household was shrouded in dust covers.

A small table held a decanter and two glasses. He poured himself a measure of brandy and went to stand at the window, looking out at the darkest hour of the night.

His thoughts took him back to another very dark night and what everyone had believed was his father’s deathbed. Fergus Jones had dismissed those keeping the vigil around him—the nurse, an assortment of relatives, the servants—all except Caleb.

“Come closer, son,” Fergus said, his voice weak and hoarse.

Caleb moved from the foot of the bed to stand at his father’s side. He was still stunned by the suddenness of the crisis. Until three days ago his father had been a fit and healthy man of sixty-six years, showing no signs of anything more debilitating than some mild discomfort in his joints, which he treated with salicin. A hunter, like so many males in the Jones line, he had always enjoyed a hearty constitution and seemed destined to live to a ripe old age as had his father before him.

Caleb had been assisting Gabe in an inquiry into the theft of the founder’s formula when he received the urgent summons informing him that his parent had succumbed to a sudden infection of the lungs. He left his cousin to pursue the investigation on his own and hurried to the family estate.

Although he had been anxious, in truth he had expected that his father would recover. It was not until he walked into the solemn, heavily draped household and listened to the doctor’s grim prognosis that he understood just how dire the situation had become.

His relationship with his father had always been close; even more so following the untimely death of his mother, Alice, who had died in a horseback riding accident when he was twenty-one. Fergus had never remarried. Caleb was the sole offspring of the union.

A fire blazed on the hearth, heating the sickroom to an uncomfortable temperature because, although his entire body was hot to the touch, Fergus had complained of the chill. The unnatural sensation of cold, the nurse had explained with an air of morbid satisfaction, was one of the sure indications of the approach of death.

Fergus looked up at him from the stack of pillows. Although he had been sliding in and out of a delirium for most of the day, his eyes now held a feverish clarity. He grasped Caleb’s hand.

“There is something I must tell you,” he whispered.

“What is it?” Caleb said. He tightened his grip on his father’s hot hand.

“I am dying, Caleb.”

“No.”

“I confess that I had planned to leave this world a coward. I did not think that I could bring myself to tell you the truth. But I find that I cannot, after all, leave you in ignorance, especially when there may be some small chance—”

He broke off on a racking cough. When the fit was over he lay quietly, gasping for air.

“Please, sir, do not exert yourself,” Caleb pleaded. “You must conserve your strength.”

“Damn it to hell. This is my deathbed and I will spend what energy I have left as I wish.”

Caleb smiled slightly in spite of his devastated spirits. It was oddly reassuring to hear the familiar, gruff determination in his father’s voice. The men and women of the Jones family were all fighters.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

Fergus narrowed his eyes. “You and Alice were the two great blessings bestowed on me over the course of my life. I want you to know that I have always been grateful that the good Lord saw fit to let me have time with both of you.”