The Hanged Man

CHAPTER TWELVE

“They don’t look like madmen,” observed Brook. “You don’t look like a madwoman. I’ve not gone mad quite yet, therefore we should not be doing this.”

“They were easily persuaded,” Alex conceded, “but it is expediency, not madness that brought them to their decision. They want information as quickly as possible. It would consume time to acquaint others for such an infiltration. I can think of none who could take our places. Perhaps Mrs. Woodwake, but she may not possess the necessary attire. Neither do I, but I know where to acquire it.”

At that prospect, Alex allowed herself to enjoy a short but satisfying moment of pure malice. Within the darkness of their coach, Mr. Brook was spared from seeing any negative change overtake her features. He’d had enough alarming shocks in the last few hours and should have a respite.

Their Service driver held his horses at a smart clip through the nearly deserted streets, taking the most direct route possible to Pendlebury House. Four riders accompanied them as front and rear guards. All were squad men, armed and armored.

Lord Richard was keen to discover who was responsible for what he called “this bloody mischief,” which explained his ready agreement to Alex’s plan to attend the Ætheric Society event taking place at 25 Grosvenor Square at half past eight.

His spies would not be unprepared; Brook was both her escort and protector. Like the riders, he was now armored, outfitted by a flying squad fellow of similar size. The metal plates were bulky, but his heavy cloak concealed all. He now possessed two loaded firearms, one in his coat pocket and another strapped to his chest. A cleverly designed harness and holster held that revolver under his left arm, its grip within easy reach.

A captured air gun would have been handy, but such a distinctive weapon would only alert the enemy to the presence of cuckoos in the nest. Alex had her Webley and hoped it would not be required. Lord Richard thought they would be safe enough. Past gatherings of Ætherics were reportedly boisterous, but not violent. Attendees of their most private of private parties were well dressed and rendered incognito by means of masks and veils. Alex inquired how he came by his information and was told that “Blackmail can be a force for good, when properly applied.”

She reasoned that he’d gotten a recounting from a luckless acquaintance.

The Grosvenor Square address was a puzzle, owned as it was by that fearfully respectable patron of the arts and bastion of the highest of high society, the Duchess of Denver, making it the most unlikely place to host an event of wild debauchery. Lord Richard informed them that the duchess and her household were wintering in the South of France, so she might have innocently leased the house to some member of the Ætherics, unaware of the possibility that unsavory proceedings might occur.

Or might she be in the Order of the Black Sun?

Disturbing thought.

Colonel Mourne’s succinct instructions were in line with Alex’s own plans: get inside, learn all that could be learned, and then get clear to report.

Eyes open, ears sharp, Inspector Lennon had told her. He’d likened her to being a tethered goat to lure out tigers for the Service. In this case, it was a Service tiger sending her forth. What would Lennon have to say about the colonel’s strange talent? Being a sane and sensible man, the inspector could be expected to head for the nearest public house and remain there until he forgot the whole matter.

Brook peered around the leather flap covering one of the windows. “We’re here.”

Their conveyance slowed and stopped, but the front riders continued past Pendlebury House, circling Wilton Crescent, looking for but finding no hidden threats. Alex was out, key in hand, with Brook at her heels. She didn’t breathe again until they were inside the dim entry.

The gas was low in the front parlor, but she corrected that and gave the bell rope a sharp pull. One of the maids appeared and, despite training, yielded to a bout of shock.

Alex distracted her by ordering tea. Mabrey the butler appeared, hiding his surprise rather better, and inquiring whether he might be of assistance.

“In due time,” she assured him. “Where are the family?”

They were away at various celebratory functions. Mabrey gave a recitation of where each might be found.

Excellent. Alex would not have to explain herself to any of them.

“This is Lieutenant Brook, who is assisting me on a Service investigation. As you see, he’s suffered a misfortune and is in need of attention. Do whatever’s possible to improve his appearance and send one of the senior maids up to my room. We’re in a great hurry, and I apologize for the imposition, but I assure you it is extremely important.”

Mabrey, having developed a high degree of imperturbability from dealing with the demanding Lady Honoria, gave a dignified nod as though he understood all. Alex told Brook to ask for anything and to please excuse her for no more than twenty minutes.

She trotted upstairs, stopping at her old room to divest herself of the cloak and the worse-for-the-wear blue dress. Not bothering with a dressing gown, she crossed to the necessary, scrubbed the blood of combat from her hands and face, and then quickly tripped down the hall to Andrina’s sanctum.

A candle served to light every gas sconce in the chamber. Little had changed since the day Alex sent her offensive and bossy cousin tumbling over the floor. Some surface trappings were different: favorite toys were gone, replaced by elaborately framed photographs of various royal personages, but the wardrobes remained. Four lined one wall and Alex invaded each.

Aunt Honoria’s personal maid, who had seen to things that morning, appeared with a tea tray and biscuits.

“Bless you,” said Alex. “Just on the writing table, if you please.”

“This is Lady Andrina’s room, Lady Alex,” she cautiously informed.

“I’m giving my cousin the chance to serve our queen in another fashion.” Fashion indeed! Andrina will burst a blood vessel and serves her right, comparing me to a parlor maid. “I need to borrow a frock. Something formal.”

“Those will be kept in her dressing room, Lady-”

“In there? Capital. And please, address me as ‘Miss Alex.’ It’s what I’m used to.”

“Yes, Miss Alex. But-”

Alex barged into the adjoining dressing room. It had once been a communal playroom for the house children, but Andrina had annexed it. Four more wardrobes, shelves for shoes, boots, and countless other items of adornment filled the place. Where to start? There was so much.

“Best dress?” she prompted.

“There are several, Miss Alex. What sort of occasion are you attending?”

“A dinner.” That would give her some flexibility. “Pearls, not diamonds. Modest neck. No train. Veiled hat.”

The maid went to the second wardrobe. “Any of these might serve.”

“Bring them out for a look.”

While the maid did that, Alex attacked the tea. She was dry as dust, and this time took milk to cool it quickly. Not as quenching as water, but it revived her.

An old treasure box on a writing table abruptly distracted her from the tea. Years ago she’d salvaged it from the attic. It had been hers when she lived here. As a secure place for trinkets it was a disappointment; the lock was broken.

How odd that Andrina had claimed it, considering her contempt for all things to do with Alex. Their shared full name was carved on the lid, the result of hours of work by Alex scratching away with a penknife on a rainy afternoon. The dull wood now shone from beeswax polish. She touched it, her guard down, and a maelstrom of emotions swarmed her. She jerked back, feeling ill.

“Something wrong, miss?”

Many things. She forced order upon the turmoil, pinning each emotion in place like an etymologist mounting and labeling a specimen. Here was fear, there was loneliness, this one was vast frustration, and that one … a terrible internal pain like a bleeding physical wound: longing.

The box had layers of it, thick as mud built up over the years.

Alex’s response was astonishment. She had no idea that Andrina kept all that in her heart. What an unhappy, empty woman; no wonder she obsessed over exterior show.

But this box also provided Andrina with a great and sly gloating pleasure. There was something unhealthy about it, repellent. What the devil was inside?

Internal armor back in place, Alex tried to raise the lid, but the broken lock had been repaired. Her picks or a hairpin would remedy that-

Don’t be ridiculous.

Andrina’s privacy was sufficiently violated with this raid on her clothes. Alex wished she’d not touched the box; she didn’t want to know such things about her cousin.

The diversion did raise a potential problem Alex had overlooked. “Is there a dress Andrina has not yet worn?”

The maid pointed out several. After cautious testing, Alex determined the garments were imprinted more strongly with the fading emotions of the dressmaker (a cheerful sort) rather than her cousin. “I’ll need a cloak, too. Something dark, just over waist length.”

“Velvet, wool, silk, fur, or satin?” After tonight, the maid would certainly be looking for a new post, minus a character reference, but if the prospect crossed her mind, she did not seem concerned. Her internal calm was admirable. Well, if she was dismissed, there was a place in the Service for her; Alex would see to it.

Alex both marveled over and disdained the fine dresses; they were as far above her once-pretty blue ensemble as it was above a horse blanket. The effort and expense to make the exterior of such an unpleasant person attractive offended her.

But picking out the best of the lot imparted another great, warm wash of malefic pleasure. Andrina would be so offended that her things had been gone through like rags at a charity jumble she might throw away the whole lot. Alex enjoyed the thought for a brief, sweet moment, then got down to business.

The best was too ostentatious and would draw notice. She picked the next one, which was elegant without too many fussy trims.

Alex was soon buttoned into the heavy silk gown, which was the finest thing she’d ever worn in her life. The color was a faded mauve with a soft sheen to it, the lines simple, the trims abundant but not overwhelming. However wanting Andrina was in personal charm, she possessed excellent judgment in attire.

“It’s as though it were made for you,” the maid remarked. “You’re just a bit taller than Lady Andrina, but it otherwise fits.”

“The waist is tight.” They’d had to take in her corseting to a painful degree. Alex hoped she’d not be required to do anything more strenuous than a walk.

“Gentlemen like a trim waist.”

Alex had yet to hear a man, gentleman or not, express any such opinion. It had always come from females. One day she’d have to inquire into the why of it, and she was positive that her sisters in the greater world had got it wrong.

In less than the promised twenty minutes, which was a wonder since proper dressing for a lady could take hours, Alex descended the stairs, making adjustments to the matching kid gloves that reached to her elbows. She’d gulped more tea for her thirst, had two digestive biscuits to steady her stomach, and was ready for anything.

Under Mabrey’s supervision, Uncle Leo’s valet had worked some strange magic with a clothing brush and sponge. An almost new man again, Mr. Brook waited at the landing, face washed and hair combed. She was abruptly reminded of coming downstairs in her own home so early that morning, for he wore the same expression, mouth agape, eyes goggling, and this time he failed to collect himself.

“You-” He cleared his throat. “You look most dashing, Miss Pendlebury, if you don’t mind my saying.”

Theirs must be a collegial association, but there was nothing wrong with a bit of harmless admiration for a successful disguise. “Thank you, Mr. Brook. Your appearance is much improved.”

“Wait a few days and I’ll have a glorious blue-and-yellow bloom around this eye.”

“It is rather swollen. Is your vision impaired?”

“Not a bit. Mr. Mabrey recommended the application of raw beefsteak, but I requested and got a mask instead. It will not be out of place at such a secretive gathering.”

“Mabrey must have hidden depths.”

“He liberated it from one of the footmen, a ginger Irishman. Why would a footman possess a mask?”

“I remember him. Rather fun, surprised he’s still here.”

“But a mask?”

“When the servants are off to one of their own fancy-dress balls he always goes as Dick Turpin. He claims it intrigues the young ladies. They don’t mind so much when he steals a kiss since it is in keeping with the impersonation.”

“Intelligent fellow.”

“Or importune, depending on the lady’s response to such a theft.”

“One should always be considerate of the lady’s feelings.”

The intonation of that statement was such as to alert Alex to the existence of another level of meaning to the conversation. She became aware of Brook’s amiable scrutiny and a hint of gentle hope in his eyes.

The hint vanished as he held the mask out. “May I impose on you for help tying it in place? The armor and small arms harness restrict movement.”

Her agility was likewise limited because of the tighter-than-usual corseting, but she managed. He sat on a hassock, and she completed the operation.

“Will it pass, Miss Pendlebury?” He stood and turned, cloak swinging.

She decided he looked quite dangerous and was glad he was with her and not against her. She had a stray thought about Dick Turpin stealing a kiss. The prospect was more pleasant in consideration than in execution, given her inconvenient talent. Such intimate contact never failed to reveal the man’s true feelings, and she’d ever found those to be a disappointment.

But might this one be different?

Heather Fagan had approved of him, and being a Reader as well, her opinion counted for much.

I’m taking too long to reply. He might get more ideas.

“It will do, Mr. Brook,” she said briskly. “Let us proceed.”

Mabrey materialized in the entry, his curiosity having overcome protocol. He let them out, not a footman, holding the door wide enough to obtain a look at the waiting coach. He might infer it to be Service, but would acquire no additional information. Lady Alex made a flying stop with a male companion, changed clothes, and departed without explanation.

Mr. Brook gallantly handed Alex into the coach; she required assistance with the full skirts. He took the opposite bench and tapped the roof with a walking stick he’d borrowed from a collection in the entry’s umbrella stand. They lurched off.

“I won’t be welcomed back after this,” she remarked. “My cousin Andrina is rather particular about her things and does not possess a forgiving nature.” Alex gestured at the gown.

“Remind her that her contribution is for queen and country.”

“If I’m allowed. The secrecy level of this is far above even my uncle’s post in the Home Office.”

During the ride they checked their weapons. Alex’s Webley was barely contained in a satin-lined reticule that came with the cloak. The outline of the gun was discernable if she held it wrong, and the weight of it, spare bullets, and her lock picks were obvious. She’d have to keep it at or below her waist.

Their forward escort dropped behind and, apparently alone, they proceeded along South Audley Street. Alex’s heart began to swiftly thump. If they kept going north she could be in her Baker Street home in a few minutes. With that monstrous creature dead, it must be safe enough to return. She abruptly wanted to be huddled in bed with a hot water bottle at her feet and a coal fire warming the air. Lord Richard and Colonel Mourne could infiltrate the Ætheric meeting instead. They wouldn’t think less of her-well, actually they would-if she chose not to go. She wasn’t a soldier who had to obey.

But I volunteered; it’s my idea.

And Brook would go in. She couldn’t allow him to do that without herself along to protect him. He was capable, but too green.

They took the longer way, going anticlockwise around Grosvenor Square. Brook had an eye to the window and reported they’d just passed a Black Maria. “There seem to be a large number of men in the park. They’re keeping behind the trees.”

Colonel Mourne’s flying squad … in case of trouble. That was reassuring. Unless-

“You’re sure they’re ours?”

“No hooded cloaks, but plenty of balaclavas and truncheons. It’s just as well it’s too cold for an evening stroll. The residents here would find it alarming.”

“Indeed, mustn’t have soldiers lurking in the shrubbery of the upper classes, however good the cause.”

“But a location such as this?”

“Those hooded thugs attacked the Service just steps from Downing Street and Scotland Yard. I doubt they would blench at holding battle in Buckingham Palace if it suited their purpose. We must be on our best guard. I just wish this was a less formal event. I could conceal several more firearms in my walking clothes.” At his look she added, “I don’t expect they’ll be called to use, I just prefer to be overwhelmingly prepared.”

The coach stopped before number 25 and the driver swung down to open the door. Brook emerged and handed her out. Two coaches ahead of them likewise disgorged well-dressed passengers. With much relief Alex noted the women wore veils or masks. At any normal evening gathering a lady was expected to show her face. She belatedly pulled her veil down, hampering her view with black netting.

The house had a redbrick front and was vast, seven floors at least, plus the cellars. Gaslight showed through four well-spaced windows on either side of the impressive entry, indicating two to three large rooms in the front. Their foray might take more than the hour Lord Richard had allowed.

No decorative stone head over the door-perhaps the absent Duchess of Denver was not a member of the Ætherics after all.

Alex and Brook merged with the crowd from the other coaches. A doorman large enough to be a prizefighter blocked the way, allowing guests to pass two at a time.

“What is the word?” he rumbled, his face as grim as an overdue bill. He’d demanded the same of those ahead of her, but she’d not heard their whispered replies.

She leaned forward and muttered, “Masters impart.”

He nodded once and let them pass.

No servants stood by to take their outer clothes; she and Brook followed the others.

The entry hall held to simple lines but was sumptuous in décor. The duchess had fourteen generations of English ancestry to define and refine her taste. Crystal chandeliers sparkled, the woodwork shone, the air was made light by the pleasant scent of hothouse roses-even Aunt Honoria would have approved.

The guests, however, were another matter. Alex instantly picked up on the atmosphere, which had the crackling heaviness that presages a lightning strike. They were looking forward to something, but there was a taint to it. She instantly thought of naughty children bent on mischief despite dire consequences should they be caught.

Being adults, they had no fear of a nanny spoiling the fun, though.

Just myself and Mr. Brook.

A music room seemed to be a gathering point. Chairs were set in close rows and someone in command of a podium lectured with much intensity about metaphysical matters. The audience appeared to be a motley of social stations. Psychical talent was no respecter of class and neither were those who preyed upon the curious. A shopgirl’s halfpenny donation was just as welcome as a guinea from a noble, not that any crass collection bowl was in sight.

No one in that room was masked. Alex and Brook withdrew to the main entry and were accosted by another large specimen who, from his battered ears, broken nose, and scarring around his eyes, practiced the pugilist’s art like his comrade at the door. He glared at them.

“That way,” he said, pointing at masked and veiled people milling toward the back of the house.

“This gathering began long before the stated time,” murmured Brook. “There’s more than a hundred people here with more coming in.”

“The Ætheric meeting is the cover for something deeper. Did you recognize anyone of import back there? Neither did I. All the interesting ones will be incognito.”

The crowd around them kept their voices low as they continued slowly along a hall. The cause for the congestion was a stoppage at a staircase, which was a narrow one intended for servants. In ones and twos, people descended.

Ears sharp, eyes open, Alex focused on as many as possible. While a mask obscured the face, there were other ways to identify people. Beards, baubles, modes of dress, carelessly displayed monograms, unconscious mannerisms … she fixed them in her memory and looked for the familiar. While it was unlikely she knew anyone, there was a chance of it. Someone had recognized her father and taken action. She’d destroyed the executioner; this foray might make it possible to remove whoever had given the order.

She held the reticule with her Webley a little closer.

Brook took the lead going down the stairs. Not gentlemanly, but the correct action for a protector. She had to mind her skirts, one-handed, making sure no one behind tread on them. Why couldn’t Andrina have gone in for trousers? All the Paris designers were making formal styles now. Many of the less avant-garde ladies of fashion were wearing them, even to the opera.

At the bottom landing she heard (and felt) the deep measured beating of a large drum. They were in a long hall with a tall ceiling, unusual for an area below street level. Through a door, and then down another set of stairs, the drumming sound resonated through her body, quickening her heart and step. The crowd responded to it, growing restive, eager to press forward. If she and Brook had to make a hasty exit, it would be impossible.

Lest they become separated, she seized his left arm. Her internal armor was solidly in place, so whatever feelings he had did not touch her, but she couldn’t help but pick up on the rising excitement that flowed around them.

The next landing opened to a large dim chamber, lighted by candles and lanterns. The great weight of the house above was supported by dozens of squat pillars, and low benches had been built or placed around each. Cushions provided protection from the wood and brick, but those occupying the seating seemed too busy to notice.

Poor Mr. Brook stopped in his tracks, mouth open with shock.

Couples, trios, foursomes, and more were engaged in the sort of activities better confined to the privacy of a bedroom-or a Roman bacchanal, as enough spirits and wine were being consumed for the latter.

The old Hellfire Club had returned with a whoop, whistle and hey, nonny-nonny to a fresh generation.

“It’s just an orgy,” she said, though she blushed at having to use such a word. She’d read a lot. She’d also seen one firsthand in India when she and a group of friends sneaked away to look in on the activities of a local temple they’d been forbidden to tour. The revelries in that temple were nothing to what was going on under the Denver roof, though in comparison, these crude proceedings, though energetic, lacked imagination and grace. “Let’s keep moving.”

He bent toward her ear. “I’m getting you out of here.”

“I’m perfectly fine. Ignore them and think of England.”

“Oh, God.”

A woman braced against a pillar with one man’s head and shoulders concealed under her skirts and another ardently kissing her throat echoed Brook’s words, but with more feeling. Alex tugged his arm, pulling him to one side.

She’d spied people leaving the main room via a door in a near corner. They appeared uninterested in the antics of others. No women were in the group, and their masks covered the whole of their faces. While they could be attending an exclusive party for men who preferred the company of other men, Alex thought otherwise. She perceived enough about their clothes to know they patronized the best tailors and shoemakers and employed the most careful of valets to keep things in order. Their carriage and swagger spoke of confidence married to an equal measure of contempt for lesser beings. She recognized the genus: men of power who were in power.

But more importantly, shuffling along with them were a dozen other men in distinctive hooded cloaks.

“After that lot,” she said in Brook’s ear.

No need to tell him twice. He was all for removing them from the fleshy inferno. The doorway took them to a brick-lined hall, its arched ceiling blackened by the soot of decades. Many openings led off from it, and drunken celebrants tottered from one to the other at random, hooting and singing.

Another rough-looking guardian blocked the way to a sizable candlelit room where the hooded men were gathering. Again, she used the password and they continued through, being almost the last ones in. The door closed and the booming of the drum diminished. With that row going on there would be no eavesdropping from outside.

They filed toward a long table with more than a dozen chairs, some of which were occupied. The men did not interact with one another, holding themselves still and alert like faceless judges. It gave Alex a chill akin to the grave. Any of them could have ordered her father’s death, perhaps all if they voted on it. With masks to hide human expression, there was no need to bother with human responsibility. One could make decisions for good or ill with the ease of a machine, free of conscience and morality.

She was the only woman present, and was noticed. A cloaked man wearing a half mask approached and addressed her, leaning close to her ear.

“My apologies, madam, but females are not permitted at this meeting. This way, if you would allow me.”

It was pointless to fall into a fit of blood-boiling resentment. The Equal Franchise Bill had given women the vote, not access to private clubs, of which this must be the most private in the whole of the empire. Disagreement would bring discovery, and besides, he had been polite. Brook took his cue from her and they left. The man escorted them back to the hall, gave a little bow, and departed.

“That had the look of a staff meeting,” said Brook. “While it might have been instructive, they’re almost always dreadfully boring.”

She nodded and moved forward past rooms hosting a variety of prurient activities, each louder than the last. Candles were only for the rooms, not the hall. She resisted the urge to brush her veil away to see better.

From the look of the bricks this subcellarage must have been dug out a century earlier. The planning and execution would be a prohibitively enormous expense, and how could it be kept a secret? But she recalled the fanaticism of the captured rider. If those in the Order of the Black Dawn had a tenth of that dedication a secret was safe enough, and if they pooled their money …

The drumming, somewhat mitigated by the wall between, bore into her head. Its insistent purpose was ancient: disrupt thought and awake the body, as effective at a sybaritic debauch as it was in war to work soldiers up for battle.

Clusters of amorous revelers slowed them, but no one stopped them from looking into the various rooms. Drink flowed freely, though in one strangely calm chamber Alex recognized the heaviness of opium and hemp.

Harried men slipped to and fro, carrying wine bottles in and bringing back the empty husks at an astonishing rate. This might be the largest den of iniquity since Caligula took power, but servants still had to run the place. Where did they find them and how were they kept quiet? Anyone desperate enough for this sort of work would be glad to sell his story to the first newspaper brave enough to print it.

But who would believe this?

“Over there,” said Brook. “Something isn’t right-”

The unholy entirety of place wasn’t right; what had caught his attention?

Damned veil. She lifted it, trusting that her identity was safe in the murk, and instantly fixed on a trio ahead of them. A man and his shorter, burly companion had a woman between them and the three staggered erratically forward. They were in evening clothes and masked, of course, but the woman appeared to be in a desperate state compared to the other females present. Her hair trailed raggedly down her back, and her head drooped as though overcome by drink. Her wrinkled and ripped dress was stained, its once lush trims torn.

“Miss Pendlebury, that poor lady … whatever brought her to this, she should not be subject to whatever those two have in mind.”

Alex had no doubt of what was in store. “We must be discreet. Use your stick to clout the man on the left, I’ll deal with the other.” She reversed her grip on the hidden Webley so she could deliver a sharp thump behind the ear of her target. Once he was down, she could disable him with knuckle strikes to his nerve points. With any luck others would assume he’d passed out.

She and Brook separated and rushed forward.

But before they could set to it, someone behind yelled a sharp warning. The men dropped their burden and turned as one, each with a pistol in hand. Alex stopped short and lashed an arm toward Brook. He froze, his cane halted in midswing.

The men likewise hesitated. Alex fought off a swoop of disgust as she recognized the one she’d been prepared to remove. That jaw, chin, his mouth …

“Dear God-James, how could you? And is that Dr. Hamish?”

“No names, please,” said James Fonteyn. He ceased pointing his gun at her and lifted his mask.

“What the devil are-”

“Lady Drina?” The man who’d warned them came close, holding a lantern high. His disguise didn’t cover the port wine mark on his ear. “You shouldn’t be here!” said Fingate. “This is no place for a lady.”

She was too angry for words, but intended to share a few regardless. An open door on the right … ugh, it would be the opium den. She grabbed the startled Fingate and dragged him in, trusting that Brook and the others would follow. They did so, bringing the woman as well. Dr. Hamish had swept her up and now eased her down again on the bare floor. Brook, to judge by his stance, was still ready to club someone and blocked the way out. Their intrusion drew no notice from the languid inhabitants of the room.

“James-” she began.

“I can explain-”

“There’s no explanation for such depravity!”

“Of course not, so give me the benefit of a doubt and consider that I’m not here for pleasure.”

“Then why?”

“Staging a rescue, my dear. That woman the doctor is so carefully attending was being held against her will and we’re trying to-”

Her mind abruptly leaped ahead without a logical progression of facts. “Rosalind Veltre,” she said to Brook.

James looked pained. “Please stop blurting names. These wretches won’t remember anything, but-”

“Bother that, no one can hear a word over that damned drumming.”

“Such language, but you’ve a point. I expect you’re on some mission for your employers, but I’m here out of the goodness of my generous heart. If we work together we might all get out alive.”

She looked at Fingate. “You went to James after escaping from the park?”

“You said I could trust him, and so it’s proved. I didn’t want to draw danger to you by going to Pendlebury House.”

Just as well. Teddy wouldn’t have known what to do with him. “You knew of the card hidden in Father’s cane?”

“It wasn’t my place to read it, but considering the circumstances I thought I should in the hope of helping. I was sure you’d find it on your own. I didn’t know what it meant, but Mr. Fonteyn and his friends sorted it out and that’s what brought us here.”

“By many twists and turns,” said James, “the Ætherics caught my attention last month. The Psychic Service wasn’t doing anything about them, and the lads and I decided to look into things on our own.”

“What happened last month?”

“One of our friends got involved. First séances, then metaphysical lectures, then suggestions that with modest donations he could be initiated into an inner circle where the real power lurked. They hinted that there was genuine magic to be learned if you got the right sort of instruction and had the inherent ability.”

“Magic? Charlatans and stage trickery, more like.”

“I know. So did he. The poor fellow went along with it for a lark but he must have been found out or learned things he shouldn’t. His landlady missed him for the rent and came asking after him. A week later his body turned up in the Thames washed clean of anything a Reader could find. It was ruled death by misadventure, but Hamish and I rejected that. We began making inquiries and it put the wind up us. Why do you think we were so well armed when those hooded churls invaded my home?”

She’d been so busy that she’d not questioned it. When a Reading might result in the discovery of a murderer, having a weapon ready to hand was only sensible.

“When Fingate turned up after that dunking in the Serpentine we-”

“You were following me? Is that how you came to be in the park?”

“Well, yes, sort of, just a bit. That inspector friend of yours took me aside and gave me a few opinions on what he thought of the Service and that he didn’t think they were doing all they could to look after you.”

“Lennon did that?”

“Bit of a rough fellow, but sharp instincts. He reasoned that if some band of madmen could do away with two peers in one night without batting an eye, then they’d do for you just as quick. We had volunteers keeping watch at a safe distance, at least until you disappeared into the Service building. Of course, when the shooting started they had to get clear, and I don’t blame ’em. While the lads were busy, Hamish and I got what story Fingate had to tell and we set about looking for Mrs. Veltre. Took us a while to find the woman’s flat, and then she wasn’t in. We learned a few things from street Arabs that led us to think she’d been kidnapped, so Hamish and I toddled over and infiltrated this party hoping to find clues. Had to bring Fingate along, he wasn’t keen to be on his own.”

“I’m not keen to be with company, either,” he put in, distress overcoming his usually diffident manner. “Not here.”

“I know, there will be billy-hell if we’re caught. Some guards back there noticed us and we had to defend ourselves.” He held up a white-gloved hand, which had blood on the knuckles. “Look what one fellow’s nose did! I just bought these, too. When those lads wake up they’ll be in a foul mood and tell all their friends.”

Alex had heard enough. “Then go. You have no idea the danger you’re in.”

“Actually, I do, but you can’t see my whey-faced cheeks in this light.”

“Stop joking and leave. When you get outside go left. There’s a Black Maria in the square. Go straight to it and tell them I sent you.”

“Delighted to do so, but we may not get past the other brutes they have on watch. We’re heeled, but I’d rather not shoot one.”

“Do whatever is needed. You were going to anyway, weren’t you?”

“Having permission takes all the fun out of it. You’re coming along, of course.”

“I’m not done here. Get her out. Quietly if you can, but out no matter what. What’s the matter with her, Doctor?”

“Not sure,” said Hamish. “Perhaps laudanum. There’s another prisoner but we couldn’t manage him and the lady both. Had to make a choice and she won.”

“Another one?”

“We couldn’t break the lock on his door, just peek through a grate. Nasty strange place they’ve put him, like something from an opera. He’s tied to a chair in a room full of-”

“Where?”

“Back that way. A pry bar or a fireplace poker might remove that lock. He’s wild, but looks weak as a kitten. Your man and Fingate should be able to handle him. Off his head with brain fever I shouldn’t wonder.”

“Who is he?”

“Don’t know. Said his name was Benedict and he demanded that we kill him.”