Unnatural Issue (9 page)

F
OR once, the weather decided to cooperate with this journey. Peter had been keeping track, and it was a fact: Four times out of every five that he had to take a long trip by auto, it would bucket down rain. He never had dared to trust his luck in winter; he was afraid that if he did, he and Garrick would not be found until spring at the bottom of a melting snowdrift. In winter, he took the train, or he managed to keep far enough out of Alderscroft’s reach that he couldn’t be sent off on journeys like this one.

The drive was astonishingly pleasant; Garrick was something of a minor wizard at knowing just where to stop, and luncheon at a crossroads pub in the middle of nowhere turned out to be an absolute delight. Garrick was also very good at interpreting maddeningly indecipherable signs at crossroads; Peter suspected that this was some odd aspect of his minor Air talents, because he couldn’t imagine any other way that his valet could have gotten sense out of signs so faded scarcely a ghost of the lettering remained.

It was well after dark when they pulled into the drive of the pleasantly situated country house that Charles Kerridge and his family had lived in since the time of George the First. Charles’ family was by no means as exalted as Peter’s—Peter’s brother was, after all, the Duke of Westbury—but their country house, Branwell Hall, was one of the most impressive Tudor manors he had ever seen, and Peter knew of several palaces that were smaller. Add to that, Branwell Hall was surrounded by an estate of over two thousand acres . . . it wasn’t exactly a cozy little cottage.

The estate had passed into the hands of the Kerridges as a result of “an unfortunate gambling habit” combined with a complete lack of interest on the part of the previous owner in marrying and begetting an heir. A distant connection had made the transfer of ownership a bit more palatable to the locals, and after two hundred years, the Kerridges were now firmly ensconced in the squirearchy.

Of course, having Earth magic run in the family had certainly helped that along. Charles, like every Earth magician Peter knew, was a good and careful steward of his land, his tenants, and “his” village. That was abundantly clear in the vibrant health of everything that could be considered within his reach. Even though it was dark when they passed Branwell Village, Peter could
feel
the rightness of the place.

As Charles had promised, they were watched for. A light was burning at the gatehouse as they entered the open cast-iron gates, and he stopped the car as the gatehouse door opened, and a figure approached Garrick’s side of the car.

“Lord Peter?” inquired the surprisingly young man who peered inside, looking at Garrick.

“Indeed, but I am not Lord Peter,” Garrick said patiently. He was used to this. “Lord Peter prefers to handle this temperamental creature himself. I am Garrick.”

“Beggin’ yur pardon, m’lard,” the young man said, tipping an invisible hat to Peter and looking embarrassed. Peter suspected that he was more embarrassed
for
Peter, who was—horrors!—handling the wheel of the auto himself, than he was at his own mistake.

“I know, I am a disgrace, but she won’t
go
for Garrick, don’t you know,” he said apologetically. “We’re expected up at the house?”

“Aye, m’lard,” the young man said. “Yur t’ go straight oop.”

“Thank you kindly,” Peter replied. The young man touched the invisible hat again and backed away from the car. Garrick waited until they were out of earshot.

“I will be sure to let the staff know that you are the
younger
son, m’lord,” he said, with a hint of amusement.

“Ah, yes, of course, all manner of ramshackle behavior is to be expected from a
younger
son,” Peter replied, and chuckled. “Then, of course, when I start gadding about as an artist, I’ll stop shocking the poor folk, and they can commence to gossip about my eccentricity in comfort.”

“Quite so,” Garrick agreed.

It was a very
long
drive, but the Manor was visible for the entire distance. There were lights in most of the windows on this side—the soft glow, however, told Peter that this was probably candlelight as opposed to oil, gas, or even electricity. Not that he expected electricity. Unless there was a fast-flowing stream somewhere very nearby so that Charles could run a dynamo from that. He couldn’t imagine any Earth magician allowing a filthy generator running within his purview.

The lamps on either side of the great door were, however, electric. And waiting on the top of the steps was (probably to the horror of his staff) Charles, himself.

If Peter was—at least in looks—a stereotypical example of the “all nerves and nose” scion of British nobility, Charles was just as much an example of the best the squierarchy could produce. Where Peter was thin and moved with the nervous grace of an antelope and was the sort of fair-haired chap that looked faintly washed out, Charles was tall and brown and looked as if he ought to be leaping from crag to crag on a mountaintop somewhere. Under his voluminous driving duster, hat, and goggles, Peter’s suit nearly screamed “Savile Row.” Charles was all tweed and leather elbow patches, and he’d probably been walking the bounds with the gamekeeper. The only person on the face of it that Peter was less likely to have as a friend was a Cockney thief.

Which, of course, was another sort of odd duck he was friends with.

Peter was in no condition after so long a drive to leap from his auto, but he did manage a “dignified exit with haste.” “Charles!” he saluted his friend, as he mounted the stairs, hand outstretched. “Bless you for giving me houseroom! It has been
far
too long.”

“Oh, it was an effort, but we managed to find you a closet to stow your tackle in,” Charles replied with heavy irony, clapping him on the back. “And it
has
been far too long. Are you entirely fagged out?”

“Not a bit of it,” Peter replied cheerfully, as Garrick directed a small army of servants on the disposition of the various pieces of kit in the boot of the car and the back seat. “I’d be honored to meet your sire and dam.”

“Well, then, come along, because they are rather interested in meeting
you,”
Charles, and the way he emphasized that last word made Peter suddenly wary. What was Charles up to?

His friend led the way through a great entry hall that Good Queen Bess probably would have recognized, and from there, through a warren of passageways and rooms until they arrived at a very pleasant chamber at the rear of the house. It had been furnished very comfortably, with windows open to the night breeze, overlooking the garden. And that was when Peter finally got the joke—when Charles’ father and mother both had the same aura of Earth magic about them that Charles had.

And when the introductions were over, and they were all settled, Peter acknowledged that he’d been rather less clever than he’d thought he was.

“Well, I feel about as thick as two short planks,” he said, with a sigh. “Here I should have been talking to you about why I’ve been sent up here, and not just to Charles. I apologize most profoundly.”

Michael Kerridge, who looked like an older, slightly more dignified version of his son, waved the apology off. “Quite all right,” he said, looking at Peter over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles in a kindly fashion. “Charles told us about your mother and brother. Deuced thing, when you have to keep half your life a secret from half your family.”

Elizabeth Kerridge, as tweedy as her husband and son, and the slender sort Peter expected made a fine showing at hunt weekends, nodded. “I should also add that we have a most unlikely situation here. Virtually everyone on the staff is a minor magician of one sort or another. You needn’t worry about hiding your powers from any of them. So, perhaps you can make up for this faux pas by telling us why in heaven’s name Alderscroft thinks there’s a necromancer somewhere about.”

Peter blinked. “The entire staff?” he said incredulously, ignoring, for the moment, the question of the putative necromancer.

Charles nodded. “It’s been that way for donkey’s years,” he said proudly. “I can’t think of any other place that can say as much. Makes things deuced convenient, I can tell you that.”

“Charles, you have a positive genius for understatement,” Peter said fervently. “You just might find me here so often that you’ll regret making my acquaintance. By Jove, this is practically paradise!”

“Don’t be a silly ass, Lord Peter,” Elizabeth chided. “This place is a barn, and we rattle about in it. You’re welcome to take up a little corner of it as often as you like. Now tell us about this necromancer.” The last was clearly an order and Peter took it as such.

“That’s the problem, y’see,” he said apologetically. “The Old Lion hasn’t got any direct evidence. Only indirect. A few Elementals telling him ‘things aren’t right’ here. More nasty Elemental customers round about here than there should be. There’s been nothing overt, certainly no walking dead or bound spirits that we know of, only a sort of ‘Things are not right’ sense. Whoever this fellow is, he’s clever, and he knows how to cover his tracks and shield what he’s doing.”

“Assuming he exists at all,” Charles said, skeptically. “You seem to be describing what I can only call a hunch on the part of the Huntmaster. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say Alderscroft had some ulterior motive for sending you on what might be a wild goose chase.”

Peter pulled a face. “There is a great deal of nastiness brewing on the Continent. And he doesn’t want me there. I’m sure that plays a part in it. But I cannot imagine the Old Lion sending any Master out after something that doesn’t exist.”

“I can,” Elizabeth grumbled. Her husband chuckled.

“My dear,” he said fondly, “You do not merely hold grudges, you cherish them. Seriously, I agree with Lord Peter; I cannot imagine Alderscroft wasting the talents of any Master, given the current dark clouds on the horizon.” He turned to Peter. “I have had word passed up to me by some of the local hedge practitioners that at least one of the Great Powers has warned that this business overseas is going to be more than merely nasty. It’s possible Alderscroft wants to keep you here in case he needs you for some worse situation.” Michael shrugged. “In any event, we’ve not seen any sign of a necromancer, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one slinking about here. There is a great deal of Yorkshire, much of it sparsely populated. People and animals go missing all the time. The Elementals here are as shy as moor ponies. A clever necromancer would be very difficult to detect.” His brows furrowed. “The last time I heard of one . . . well, that was something old Whitestone dealt with. The vile creature had been very clever indeed, no one had any notion he existed until he was extremely powerful. Whitestone was one of the strongest Earth Masters I ever knew, and even he was caught off guard.”

“Yes, Whitestone.” Peter pinched the bridge of his nose a moment, then looked up as a bit of movement in the door caught his eye. “Ah, Garrick, please, join us.”

As Peter’s valet moved diffidently into the room, Peter grinned. “No standing on ceremony, Garrick, we’re all just magicians here. Garrick, this is my old chum Charles, and his mother and father. Michael, Charles, Elizabeth, this is my right-hand man, Garrick, without whom I would be utterly lost.”

“Sirs, milady,” Garrick said with a little bow.

“Elizabeth, Charles, and Michael,” Elizabeth insisted. “Garrick, our entire staff is talented or gifted in magic, though we have no Masters here. They all know about us, so you needn’t waste energy and effort trying to hide anything.”

Garrick looked visibly relieved. “That will simplify matters a great deal mila—Elizabeth,” he said. “I trust Lord Peter has given you the reason we have imposed ourselves on your hospitality?”

“So he has, and in full,” Michael told him. “Not that this helps us a great deal, since we have seen nothing.”

“To be honest, I’d have no idea where to look or what to look for,” Charles admitted.

“Is there any chance of winkling this Whitestone fellow out of his hole?” Peter asked hopefully. “He’d be deuced handy.”

“Even if we could . . .” Michael shook his head. “The likelihood of him doing anything to help once he learned Alderscroft sent you is roughly the same as the likelihood of the Kaiser inviting some of those Balkan anarchists to tea.”

Peter was startled. “Good heavens, I had no idea . . . Alderscroft said nothing about that.”

“Alderscroft probably isn’t aware,” Elizabeth said tartly. “Whitestone’s wife Rebecca was with child when Alderscroft dragged him off to London to help with a rogue Earth Master. Whitestone was on his way back when she miscarried and died of it; he arrived mere hours after she was dead. He blames himself for not being there, and he blames Alderscroft for taking him away. I think he would as soon see Alderscroft at the bottom of the Thames as help him with anything, no matter how dire it was.”

Michael nodded. “He hasn’t been seen outside his house since he buried her, and he has cut off all contact with every mage he ever knew. I think the only people who set eyes on him these days are his estate manager and his housekeeper. There will be no help coming from that quarter.”

“Alas,” Peter sighed. “Well, Alderscroft graced me with this thing, so like the patient donkey, I shall bear my burden. I’d very much appreciate it if I could impose a bit more on you. Could you, would you, nose about and ask about? See if anyone has gotten a hint of the more subtle forms of the black arts? I suspect that even with your backing, they’ll be more reticent with me than they are with you.”

Michael laughed. “You don’t know your Yorkshire lads and lasses very well. They’re more apt to tell you bluntly to your face ‘Eh, you-ur th’ worst young nowt as ever was! Now get thee gone an’ use you-ur eyen! ’ ”

Peter laughed. “Well, then, look at it this way. You’re the squire, and it’s your duty to tend to their troubles. If someone
has
gotten himself into dark magic, they are more likely to tell you, once they know you know about it, than they are a stranger. You’ll try to put it right. I’d just haul up the miscreant before the Law—in this case, the White Lodge.”