The Hanged Man

CHAPTER THREE

Alex felt a wave of rage that was not her own and another of fear not her own, the first from Richard, the latter from Woodwake, before closing herself off from the onslaught.

More things pelted the coach, tearing through the leather hood. She was certain they were bullets, but could not hear gunfire. The curtain and hoods were holed, the supporting hoopsticks splintered, but nothing penetrated below the sides. From the sound those were made of metal, not wood.

She smelled blood and realized Lord Richard had been hit. She tried to shift, but he snarled at her to keep down.

“I have my revolver, sir,” she said, her voice strained, given the fact she could hardly breathe. “In my coat pocket…”

“Good for you; stay where you are. The driver is armed.”

So it proved when the bark of a firearm put a stop to the hammering. The coach rocked as the man apparently quit his position on the bench.

His pistol barked twice more and men shouted.

The conveyance lurched forward. Once in motion it kept going, picking up speed, the horses’ strength overcoming the brake. She heard more shots as they rocked away unchecked. Alex had a horrible feeling-this time, entirely her own-that matters were about to get worse. She pushed and squirmed, Richard ordering her to keep still, Woodwake getting in the way. Whatever was being used in the attack was directed at one side only, so she’d be safe enough. She hoped.

Alex wriggled her torso clear, kicking his lordship in the process, to judge by his curse, and pushed the door open. The sidewalk was on the move, or so it seemed from her vantage on the floor. The alarmed horses were trotting away from the uproar. Alex undid the buttons on her ulster and struggled to shed it.

“Get down!” Richard ordered and caught her by the back of her collar-the coat’s collar, which was a bit of luck. He pulled, she pulled, and she was suddenly free. Her revolver was still in the pocket, but she had no time for shooting. She turned to face the interior and backed out the door, holding tight to the leather roof as they swayed along. The hoopsticks supporting it on this side were still intact and held her weight for an instant as she swung her right leg up. Her foot landed on a horizontal spot, then skidded awkwardly into the skeleton boot under the driver’s bench. It gave her leverage. She boosted over and made a successful grab at the seat irons, then pulled herself onto the bench to pick up the reins.

Her instinct was to stop, but a bullet-or whatever it was-whipped by her ear like an angry bee. Men were giving chase or attempting to; the sleety glaze on the paving made it hazardous for attackers and defenders alike.

She released the brake, gave the reins a smart snap, and yelled at the horses. The animals plunged ahead. She sent up an incoherent prayer that neither of them broke a leg.

The slippery road was clear of traffic at this hour on Christmas morning. She risked a glance back, but darkness, their movement, and distance kept her from seeing anything. Best to assume the worst. Lord Richard shouted, but she ignored him and kept going. They passed Devonshire Street and were approaching Weymouth before she looked back again. No one seemed to be immediately behind.

Fortunately the horses were inclined to respond when she pulled on the reins, and slowed to the point where she could make a turn without tipping the landau. She went right, then right again, doubling north on Marylebone High Street. His lordship was cursing loudly enough that she could make out words even over the rumbling wheels and the ring of horseshoes. She urged the horses left onto Paddington with the idea of getting to Baker Street and a doctor. Harley Street was chock-a-block with physicians, but too warm a climate for the moment.

Warm? She was freezing up here. The sleet stung her face, clung to her lashes, and the cold wind hurt her teeth because she was grinning. Nothing to do with mirth, though her short huffing breaths might be mistaken for laughter rather than a reaction to nearly getting killed. She could still hear the heavy tearing sound of that missile passing her by a quarter inch. What could do that? A bullet crossbow? No, not enough velocity for the distance, but close. Ah, of course, it would have to be-

“Pendlebury, stop this damned thing at once!” Lord Richard’s anger intruded on her deductions. She grimaced.

“Almost there, sir,” she shouted back.

“Where?” he roared.

Paddington intersected with Baker Street. She eased the horses into the turning. They trotted smartly, heads tossing and bits jingling, apparently ready for another mad dash. She brought them to a stop, set the brake, and clambered down. Lord Richard was already out of the coach, glaring at her. Mrs. Woodwake crept out more slowly, looking rumpled and somewhat wild-eyed. More alarmingly, her clothing was bloodstained.

“What happened?” she asked, righting her hat. “Bullets and no gunfire?”

“Air guns,” Alex and Richard said at the same time, then looked at each other, startled.

“How do you know about those?” he demanded.

“A member of my shooting club collects them.” She pushed past Woodwake to get her coat-the sleeves were inside out-and the bull’s-eye lantern, which had fallen off the seat. It was one of the “safe” models, and had hardly leaked any fuel. She sought and found lucifers in her coat pocket and lighted the thing, aiming the beam at Lord Richard. He had a thin streak of blood on one temple, but his left side was soaked.

Woodwake gasped and went to him. “Sir, back in the coach. At once. We must find a doctor.”

“I’m all right.” But his face was white and sheened with sweat.

Alex had seen that kind of shock when she’d crossed Mexico. Their party had been attacked by bandits, and a man hadn’t noticed he’d been shot. He’d bled to death in the saddle denying to the last that there was anything amiss. She checked the house numbers, ran to the one she wanted, and yanked the bell chain until an annoyed-looking young man opened the door.

“You better be dying,” he said, bloodshot eyes unfocused. His hair stuck out in a variety of directions, and he wore evening clothes that had seen better times. “Oh, Cousin Alex. To what do I owe the honor?”

“Wake up, James, I’ve brought you a shooting.”

“Thoughtful of you. Half a minute-I recall you don’t like me.”

“I don’t, but you are convenient. Now help us.”

Showing no consternation or much speed, he quit the doorway to light the gas, calling to someone within to shift himself. “This is your lucky night. I’ve a houseful staying over. You might like one of them.”

Woodwake struggled to prop up Lord Richard but he wasn’t cooperating. “Get back in the coach and have the madwoman drive us back,” he insisted. He held his left arm clamped tight to his side. Alex took his elbow.

“This way, Lord Richard, we’re nearly there.”

“We are not.” But his legs gave out partway up the steps, and she and Woodwake were obliged to take his weight to keep him from cracking his skull.

“What is this place?” asked Woodwake. “Where are we?”

“Baker Street. Mr. Fonteyn is my cousin. He’s an eye surgeon … and a bit eccentric.” That was putting it charitably. “He lets rooms to medical students, so there’s bound to be someone here who can help.” If they’re sober enough.

James wakened sufficiently to lend a hand. He took Alex’s place and dragged Richard into a parlor. “Where shall we put him?” he asked. “He’s too long for the settee, and anyway, it’s occupied.”

Another young man in evening dress sprawled asleep on that object of furniture. He didn’t stir despite the commotion.

“The floor, James,” Alex said. “For God’s sake, take this seriously.”

They eased the patient down. James swatted at his clothes. “Damn, I’ve blood all over my suit. Haven’t finished paying for it, either. Just what sort of parties are you attending these days, little cousin?”

“I’ll explain later.” Alex ripped her gloves off, knelt, and began unbuttoning Richard’s clothes. Her hands shook. There was so damned much blood. “Blanket? Clean water? Bandages?”

“Try the kitchen, I think the water’s still working. Don’t know about the rest, that’s the housekeeper’s domain, and she went home ages ago.”

“Mrs. Woodwake? The kitchen’s toward the back. Open cupboards, Mr. Fonteyn won’t mind.”

“I might,” he said. “Depends on the cupboard.”

Woodwake nearly bumped into another young man as he came in.

“Your pardon, miss,” he said politely, getting out of her way. He was also in evening clothes that looked slept in or-knowing James’s habits and those of his friends-passed out in. “Fonteyn, some of us are trying to slee-” He gaped at the tableau of a half-conscious man bleeding on the parlor floor. “Good God, what the devil is this?”

“All yours,” said James magnanimously. “Freshly delivered by my cousin Alex. That’s Alex tearing away his clothes, by the way. Who’d have thought it? Well, don’t stand there, get your kit and see if you can save him.”

“What about you?” Alex snapped.

“I’m almost blind drunk and wholly useless. Hamish, however, is in somewhat better condition and just back from Nemley, where he learned how to be a first-rate army doctor. I’m sure they covered taking out bullets. Is that not so, old chap? Here, now, where’s he gotten to?”

Hamish had vanished, but quickly returned with his bag and knelt opposite Alex. “I’ve never done a fresh bullet wound before. They only let us practice on pig carcasses.”

“Well, if you lose this patient you can’t have him for dinner.” James slouched toward a liquor cabinet that was in disarray and a selected a bottle. “Garde à l’eau,” he sang out by way of warning, then drizzled gin liberally on the now exposed wound.

Alex squawked in irritation as she was splashed, Hamish crowed approval, and Lord Richard roared and bucked. Hamish was a big sturdy fellow, built for rugby, but had trouble holding him down.

“Keep still, sir, you’ll make it worse,” he informed his patient.

Richard’s reply was unfit for polite company. He tried to pull his clothes back on. Alex forgot herself and the dire situation for a moment, staring in shock at the exotic pattern of blue tattoos covering the pale flesh of his torso. They coiled up from his lower regions, flowing over belly, chest, arms, and shoulders and apparently down his back. She’d never seen the like. Hamish was busy, but behind her James made a low whistle of surprise.

“Well, well,” he said. “I never thought I’d ever s-”

Woodwake returned, bedding in one hand and a pitcher of water in another. “Bandages?” she asked James.

“No, thank you. Never bother with the things.”

She shot him a look that he was long used to collecting.

“I know,” said James with satisfaction. “I’m a great fool. Not a mere fool, but a great one.” He pulled out a penknife and offered it. “Here, cut that sheet up, I’m tired of it anyway.”

Using the knife, Woodwake efficiently sliced and tore the fabric into long strips, giving Alex the impression that she’d have preferred it was James. Alex lighted the room’s one lamp, holding it close so Dr. Hamish could work. She smelled liquor on his breath, but he seemed up to the task. At least his hands were steady. Hers weren’t. She fought to keep the light still.

He bathed the wound clean and probed with his fingers to locate the bullet. Richard grunted his discomfort the whole time, but managed not to yell.

“You’re lucky, my man,” Hamish pronounced. “It went under the skin, but above the ribs and out again. Nasty furrowing, be quite a scar if it doesn’t go septic.”

Woodwake left again, returning with a washbasin and soap, setting both on the floor next to Hamish, who thanked her. Alex moved out of the way so Woodwake could sponge the wound clean.

“Are you two nurses?” Hamish asked, wiping his bloody hands on a piece of sheet. “I must say, you’re cool-headed. No fainting.”

James gave a short laugh. “My sweet cousin there has dealt with more corpses than you’ve ever seen, and no, she isn’t a mortician.”

Hamish shot her a look and brought out a needle and silk thread from his bag. “Just a few stitches, sir. I’ll be quick as I can.”

“You’re finished,” Lord Richard announced decisively. His blue eyes regained their icy focus for a moment. “Apply pressure until the bleeding stops.”

“That won’t do, sir. Now lie still. I can give you some laudanum or-”

“Mrs. Woodwake, discourage this fellow from proceeding.”

Alex did not expect Woodwake to stand and draw a gun from her coat pocket, but that’s what happened. She had a revolver and a determined expression.

“Good God,” said Hamish. “No fainting and quite mad. I like your relatives, James.”

“Just one of them is a relation. I’ve no idea who the other two are. Alex does consort with some shady customers.”

Alex was horrified. “Lord Richard, stop this! We’re trying to help you!”

James snorted. “There’s gratitude for you. Madam, I’ll ask you to put away your pistol. I don’t want holes in Hamish. He is my guest, after all. Hamish, put away your darning needle. You’re outclassed for this bout.”

Young Dr. Hamish was reluctant to give up, and addressed Richard in a reasonable tone. “Sir, a wounded man is like a child. You may not like the nasty medicine, but it is for your own good.”

“Taught you that at Nemley?” Richard asked.

“Actually, my mother’s responsible-”

Alex put her hand on Hamish’s shoulder. “Doctor, if the patient is so reluctant then let him have his way. If he should pass out, you may reassess the situation.”

“You put forth a charming argument. Very well.”

Woodwake, at a nod from Richard, shoved her revolver into her coat pocket. Alex began breathing again.

Dr. Hamish checked Lord Richard’s wound. “Not wise, sir. Not wise. You’re still bleeding too much.” He gathered sheeting strips and made a pad, pressing it to the damage. “You should have something for the pain.”

Richard closed his eyes. “I’ve work to do. Miss Pendlebury, are the horses and coach in a condition to return us to our starting point?”

“Sir, you are in no condition to-”

“Yes or no?”

She couldn’t believe his folly, but answered in the affirmative. “It is bound to be too dangerous, sir.”

“I expect those who fired on us are gone by now, and my place is there sorting out the mess. We may require medical help if others were shot. Dr. Hamish, are you sober enough to come along?”

Hamish’s face went red.

“Yes or no?”

“Who the devil are you, sir, to ask such things?”

James chuckled. “Hamish keeps a bull pup and bad manners brings it out. You’re both well matched. Alex didn’t introduce us, but I like you two. Refreshingly direct. Mrs. Woodwake? I’m James Fonteyn, how do you do? Welcome to my home, at least until I’m thrown out of it. When the landlord sees the parlor floor he’ll bounce me quick enough. Alex, you’ll have to do the honors for the big fellow.”

Alex felt her face going as red as Hamish’s. Coming here no longer seemed such a good idea. Even the more stable Fonteyns-and James was in that number-were subject to raving lunacy when the mood was on them. She resorted to chill formality for her employer’s sake, well aware that it would only amuse her cousin. “Lord Richard Desmond, may I present my cousin on my mother’s side, James Fonteyn, and his friend, Dr. Hamish.”

“How do, your lordship?” James was unfazed, but then he never opened a newspaper unless it was a sporting journal.

Hamish’s eyes went wide. He clearly recognized the name. “You’re that Lord Richard? I do beg your pardon, sir.”

“Oh, Hamish, don’t be a bore. He’s just a peer. Haven’t you heard they’re going out of fashion? But this fellow seems to be going out, period. Best see to him.”

True. Lord Richard’s already stark white face turned gray as blood continued to flow onto the floor. Hamish cursed, a trace of fear in his voice, and boosted the man over, pulling away the rest of his clothing. There was another bullet hole in the lower left part of his back.

James fell quiet, staring down, his expression now grim. Hamish probed the wound, got the bullet out, and stitched the damage with admirable speed.

Alex, intentionally distracting herself, noticed the blue tattoos covered Lord Richard’s back as well, or as much of them as she could see under the gore. They tricked the eye, seeming to writhe under the skin as though barely trapped in place by its fragile barrier. There was something repulsive yet fascinating about them.

The lamplight dimmed, then Alex snapped alert, gasping in pain. James had her by the arm, pinching hard. “Not the time for fainting, my girl. That’s past.” He took the lamp from her, and one-handed lifted her up and dropped her into a chair.

She tried to move, but there was no strength in her legs.

He put the gin bottle in her hands. “Find something to do with that,” he said, and turned to hold the lamp over the grim tableau. Lord Richard made some murmured objection; Woodwake told him to be still. Her voice was thin and strained.

Alex hated gin. She disliked the taste and effect of all spirits, but given the circumstances, a sip wouldn’t hurt. It was disgusting, but the heat slithering down her throat braced her up. God, how she wanted fresh cold air. The room reeked of blood. It couldn’t be helped now, so she blocked things out, raising that leaden armor again in her mind’s eye. Her concentration was imperfect, but sufficient to carry her a few moments so she could rally.

Hamish and Woodwake tore another sheet up to fashion a bandage.

“He’s staying here, not traveling to a hospital,” he said. “Fonteyn, send one of those fellows upstairs to bring down a bed. I won’t risk jostling him-” He froze in place, his mouth open in shock as he stared past Alex.

Four extraordinary apparitions stood in the entry.

By their general size and form they were men wearing identical black hooded cloaks and masks that covered all but their eyes; each held an exotic-looking firearm.

Air guns?

These were a type that she’d never before seen, heavy enough to require both hands. The stocks were bulky and wide, the barrels thinner than normal.

The men were lined up, facing her and the others in eerie silence.

They look like a firing squad, she thought, then understood with a sickening swoop of pure horror that that was, indeed, their purpose.

As one, they aimed their strange rifles at Lord Richard.

Anticipating the shots by a split second, Alex threw the bottle of gin at the closest. It struck his head with force. At the same time, her cousin James flung his lamp at another. Glass shattered, oil splashed, and by a miracle the flame went out.

In the sudden dimness she heard two soft chuffs, but further sounds were blotted out by the sharp barks of Mrs. Woodwake’s revolver. Its muzzle flashes marked her shift sideways as she dodged the rifle fire that followed.

Only the damned things didn’t really fire. They gave a kind of cough and spat bullets at a rate far quicker than anything else short of a Gatling gun. The slugs striking the walls and shattering the front windows made all the noise.

Alex dropped and rolled, hitched against the settee, encountering the man who had been asleep on it. He was awake now and apparently throwing things at the invaders, too. There wasn’t much to hand; the last was a vase, to judge by the crash. He grabbed something else. It required a heaving effort followed by another, much bigger crash and a cry of pain. That must have been a table.

A bullet sheered over her head. She went flat and tried to get under the settee, but it wasn’t high enough off the floor.

Where the devil had she left her coat and her own revolver?

Woodwake shot again, and Lord Richard bellowed something that sounded vaguely French. He was, impossibly, on his feet, grappling with two of the shooters. Even more impossibly, he won the contest, flinging the men to one side and seizing another two.

There were more than four invaders now. Alex couldn’t be sure of their numbers-the only light was from the open entry-but hooded men crowded into the confined space as though rushing to board a train. They got in the way of one another; it might have been comical but for their air guns. Two began shooting randomly, others shouted, overcome by excitement. The mounting chaos was interrupted by a fearsome blast from the upper part of the stairs.

One hooded man screamed and fell away, and his fellows caught him and withdrew toward the door.

While they had the advantage of numbers and superior weapons, the roar of a shotgun fired in a confined space had a deleterious effect on their collective courage.

A second blast inspired a full rout.

Woodwake fired again, clipping a man, but he was yet able to run. Another kept his head and shot toward the upper landing, then into the parlor to cover the retreat. At his orders, the remaining men grabbed the fallen and their air guns and withdrew. Whoever was on the stairs either reloaded or had another shotgun ready; he sent two more blasts after them.

A short man in rumpled evening clothes clattered downstairs. He had a shotgun broken open, reloading on the run. He snapped it to and rushed out the door, but made no shot. He returned a moment later.

“Scattered like rats before a terrier,” he reported. “They’ve no belly for a bit of rock salt, ha! I say, Fonteyn, who were they?”

“Damned if I know, they’re-oh. Oh, God.” James had found and lit a candle.

The room was wrecked, bullet holes everywhere, along with broken glass and furniture. A slick of oil from the shattered lamp mingled with Lord Richard’s blood. He lay where he’d fallen in the melee, gasping for breath, more blood frothing at his lips. He’d been shot repeatedly; several more wounds marred his torso.

Woodwake and Hamish went to him, calling for light.

Other guests in the house cautiously came downstairs. The short man with the shotgun gave quiet instructions, wresting order and action from their bewilderment. Some were dispatched on errands within the house, others were sent outside to keep watch in case the attackers returned.

Another lamp was found. Lord Richard’s breathing went from quick and labored to a slow, shallow sighing, then silence.

James pulled Woodwake away and took her place next to Hamish. They employed techniques used for reviving drowning victims, forcing air into the man’s lungs and listening for a response from his heart.

For naught. Richard’s flesh remained inert. He looked smaller lying there so still.

Mrs. Woodwake seemed in shock. She clutched the fullness of her skirts, as though to raise them for running, but there was no place to go.

Alex’s composure, held together by necessity, began to crack. Her sight blurred, and she swiped at the tears spilling down her cheeks.

Eyes shut to stem the flow, she slowly drew a long breath, ignoring the taint of blood and gunpowder in the air. She held for the count of five and slowly released, letting the turmoil of her emotions go out with the exhalation.

Master Shan could never have anticipated her applying his training under these conditions.

Or perhaps he had. She imagined his serene eyes, a hint of a smile always in them and amid the fine lines of his face. What would he do?

Another deep breath and exhale.

He’d tell her to step up and bowl her best. Unlike many of his countrymen, he had a keen interest in cricket.

Eyes open, Alex went to work. Centered and in control, she moved toward the entry, her internal senses open for clues about the armed men. Emotions washed over her: fear, excitement, and a bright exultation from the act of killing. She pulled back from it as though recoiling from contagion. The feeling was so strong that it threatened to overtake her. She was well schooled to avoid that trap. Apprentice Readers often had a hard time, especially when it involved pleasant emotions. Such mad joy could be perilously addictive.

Then the calmer and stronger impression of Lord Richard’s feelings swept through her: fear, not for himself but for others. It had raised him to his feet to defend them. He’d not allow it … righteous anger, contempt for faceless cowards, sudden bursts of surprise as they shot him and finally a weakening as his body slipped past the point of return. She pulled back to avoid experiencing his death, but the last trace from his psychic spoor was, oddly, annoyance and exasperation. He knew he was dying and instead of a final prayer to his Maker he-

“Alex, wake out of it.”

James was before her, concern on his face. She slammed her lead barrier between them before his emotions could intrude. That was enough Reading for one night.

“You’re not all right, so I shan’t inquire if you are,” he said. “You will sit a moment. You will sit now.”

His hand on her arm, not pinching this time, he guided her to the settee. She noticed its back was full of holes, as were the walls.

“We’re lucky no one else was killed by those bas-bounders. Terrible shots.”

“They were aiming high on purpose,” she said. “Lord Richard was their target, not the rest of us.”

James gave no reply, but glanced at the room as though to confirm her assessment.

Mrs. Woodwake, moving like a sleepwalker, drew the remnant of a sheet over Lord Richard’s body. Dr. Hamish was still on the floor, and he looked ill. James went to what was left of his liquor stores and found an unbroken bottle and a glass. He poured and pressed the contents of the glass upon Woodwake and gave the bottle to the doctor.

“Get up, John. Drink to a fallen warrior, not a dead patient.”

Hamish gave a great weary sigh and stood and drank, then handed the bottle back. “We need to find a policeman.”

That snapped Woodwake out of her daze. “Absolutely not. This is a matter for the Psychic Service, not Scotland Yard.”

“Bit late for that, ma’am,” said James, nodding behind her. Flanked by Lieutenant Brook and two wide-eyed constables, Inspector Lennon stood in the entry taking in the scene of battle with a great scowl.

* * *

Mrs. Woodwake had a barrage of instructions for him once she got his attention, and Lennon had an objection to all of them, apparently. His low rumblings were reminiscent of a lion with a bellyache. He never actually roared, but made his opinions clear.

The guests in the house were asked to stay on the stairs for the time being, until they could be interviewed. They retired, grumbling and full of questions. Dr. Hamish sat with them. He wore a black look and perhaps needed the company of friends.

Alex kept to herself on the settee, thinking it best to stay out of the way until called for; James joined her, taking a swig from the bottle.

“What the devil is going on?” he asked quietly. He looked to be a dangerous creature with his bloodshot eyes, hair a wild mess, and blood halfway up his arms and streaking his face, but his manner was composed. Events had boiled the fool out of him. “Who were those men?”

“I don’t know,” Alex whispered. “I was called to a case over on Harley Street … and … and things went wrong. Lord Richard arrived…” She faltered over her story. It was no proper report made to a senior in her department, but a rushed and disjointed muddle of random words, conjuring images she wanted to forget. Beneath it all, she knew she’d have to tell the whole thing later again and again and that there would be no ease in her spirit from it, no catharsis of release. This would be with her forever.

“What happened?”

“Father.” She felt herself choking. “My-my father’s dead, James.”

“Gerard? When did he get back from-dead? Good lord … was that the case?”

She nodded. “I didn’t know. Not until after. I didn’t know. Murdered … and I didn’t know it was him.”

“Oh, my poor little Alex.”

She used to resent him calling her that, but not now. He put an arm around her. He’d never done that before, not even when they were children. But she couldn’t relax against him, couldn’t allow herself to break down and howl her grief-she had none. She was numb inside. That wasn’t right. She should feel something. That was her trade, feelings. Emotions of death and life and truth and lies-but belonging to others, not her.

“What’s to be done?”

She shook her head. “The Service will deal with it. Why didn’t he write to say he was home?” Why didn’t he write at all?

“Are they connected?”

“What?”

“Your father’s death and this attack. Are they connected?”

“I don’t know.”

“One did follow hard upon the other.”

Indeed they had. She slipped free of his arm and went to Mrs. Woodwake, breaking in on what looked to be an increasingly tense exchange between herself and Lennon.

“Ma’am, I need to know-”

“Know what, girl?”

Alex repeated her cousin’s question.

Woodwake glared at her, mouth tight, eyes hard. “I cannot answer.”

“You must have some insight, ma’am.”

“If I do, then this isn’t the time or place to impart it to you or anyone else.”

“But-”

“The matter is closed. Protocol was violated at Harley Street, accidentally, but there’s to be no repetition. Miss Pendlebury, you are excluded from both investigations except as a witness.”

“I can’t be excluded!”

Woodwake rounded on her like Medusa, and with the same effect: everyone froze in place. When she spoke, her voice was low yet penetrating in the hush. “You will follow orders. I am aware of the unique circumstances of tonight’s events and how difficult this is for you, but rules are in place for a reason. You cannot be involved.” Her face softened. “Reverse things: If it had been my father, what would you be telling me this moment?”

There could be no argument for that. “May I know how things progress?”

“So long as it does not compromise the inquiry-inquiries.”

Alex hated it, certain that she would be told nothing.

“I require your attention, please.” Woodwake raised her voice, directing it at the others present. When they were looking at her, she delivered the startling order that Lord Richard’s demise, indeed, all that had happened tonight, was not to be discussed with anyone.

“I rely on your discretion and loyalty to the crown,” she said. “Until further notice this whole incident is a state secret. Anyone speaking of it will be prosecuted for treason.”

This resulted in a near-collective gasp from those present.

Only James did not appear awed. He stood, still holding the bottle. “What did you say, madam?”

She repeated the order.

“That’s mad,” he drawled. “How the devil do you expect this lot to not talk? Everyone talks. First thing tomorrow someone will share a hint with his barber or her dressmaker, another will wink at an old school chum at his club or get to yarning over the port and in an hour it’ll be in every paper in the land. You cannot possibly hope to keep this secret.”

“I fully expect it to remain so, sir,” she snapped. “Or will you accuse any here of being disloyal to queen and country?”

“Not disloyal, merely careless. Come now, you lot. Which of you has never dropped a word when you shouldn’t? The more important the word, the more dire the promise, the faster it fell, am I right? You can’t get more important than Lord Richard. Unless it’s the Lord Consort Arthur, God forbid. This thing’s a proper blister, masked hooligans tearing through London and murdering men.… One word in the wrong ear and it’s all up.”

Mrs. Woodwake’s glare had no effect on James, but the whole house seemed to hold its breath. “For the sake of Her Majesty’s feelings, we must keep this quiet. I will not have the queen reading of the death of a dear friend and faithful servant in the paper. How do you think she would feel? How would your own mothers feel?”

The small crowd stirred, and frowns of anger for James subsided into a sheepish awkwardness.

“To a man, we’ll swear on the Bible that this goes no further,” said Hamish. “Is that right, lads? For the queen’s sake?”

They responded, as loyal subjects must, with growls of affirmation and stubborn faces. “We know our duty,” confirmed one, the others agreeing.

“I’m proved wrong,” said James. “If you lot can keep such a secret, then the Empire is secure. Count me in as well. Swear on a Bible or this bottle of excellent whiskey, whichever you hold more sacred.”

Woodwake and Brook looked appalled at the blasphemy, but Lennon was amused. Alex was too tired to show her disgust. James was incapable of being serious for longer than a minute, even with the shrouded body of a murdered man at his feet.

“I’ll swear on both, if you don’t mind, sir,” said Lennon, stepping forward. He accepted the bottle and drank to the pact.

Alex spoke to Mrs. Woodwake, keeping it between them. “What about my family? My uncle needs to know his brother is dead.”

The woman shook her head. “No. Not yet.”

“He has a right to know, ma’am.”

“He will be informed, but not yet. It’s impossible. Until we know what your father was doing posing as Dr. Kemp, until we know how or if his death was connected to the attacks on Lord Richard, you are not to speak of this to your uncle or any member of the Pendlebury family. The nature of a state secret is that it overshadows personal considerations. I realize this places a heavy burden on you, but you must find the strength to bear it.”

How?

“You’re all in, girl. I’m sending you home.”

“It’s just up the street at the end. I’ll walk. I need the air.”

“Not alone and not there. You’re to pick up what things you’ll need for the next few days and stay with your uncle’s family for the time being.”

Alex was initially too stunned to speak. “I–I can’t. Your pardon, ma’am, I simply cannot go there.”

“They’re your family, of course you’ll go.”

“You don’t understand … my dealings with them are not-congenial.”

“A state of affairs you share with many others in the Service, including myself. Our gifts are often misunderstood by those closest to us.”

“That’s not it-”

“Are they a danger to you? Have they ever done you physical harm?”

“What? No, but-”

“Then you’re to stay with them.”

“I’ll put up in a hotel or the Service dormitory with the apprentices. Either will be fine.”

Woodwake leaned close. “Miss Pendlebury, put your feelings aside and consider that if someone murdered your father then that same person might have similar designs on your uncle or the rest of the family, including yourself. I want you there to keep an eye on them. There is safety in numbers. You should not be alone and vulnerable in a hotel, and you cannot look after your family hiding among the apprentices.”

Alex went red. “Hiding? Madam, you’ve no-”

“I’ve every right,” she said. “You’re the only one in the whole damned Service who can get under the Pendlebury roof without raising questions. You’re keen to be on the investigation; this is as much of it as can be allowed. I’ll arrange to have armed people on watch in case there’s another attempt like this. Now for God’s sake, do as you’re ordered and see to your duty.”

Woodwake’s startling language and the force behind her words seemed to steal the strength from her. She swayed; Alex steadied her without thinking and felt a rush of feelings strike like the lash of a whip. The woman was on the edge of screaming from the turmoil within. Panic, guilt, terror, rage … held in check by sheer will, and there were cracks in that brittle barrier. Her greatest fear was that she would lose her tenuous control, break down, and fail to uphold her facade-and Alex was not helping.

She backed off, ending the contact. “Of course, ma’am. Whatever is required.”

Woodwake shut her eyes a moment, composing herself. When she looked at Alex again they were softer and infinitely tired. “Go. However horrid, go be with your family. Whether you like them or not, you need them. I’ll send for you tomorrow to give a report at the head office. Have a detailed account ready to hand in. Keep your wits about you and your eyes open. I don’t want another body in the morgue.”

Lennon put himself forward. “You hens done clucking? Right then, Mrs. Psychic Service, you were telling me my job on what to do with that toff doctor.”

“Yes, Inspector. That case is now fully under Service jurisdiction. We will see to it and to this one here and you’ll speak to no one about them.”

“That serves me fine. The wife has a fine goose for our supper and I’ll be pleased to enjoy it and forget this botheration. I won’t grass on you. There’s not a jack at the Yard who’d believe it, anyway. I’m off, then.”

“Not yet,” she said. “I would be most obliged if you would escort Miss Pendlebury to her home. Mr. Brook, is your hansom outside? You’ll take them, then return here.”

Lennon had no objection to having a Service driver instead of a constable at his beck, even for a short time. He crowded into the cab next to Alex, and Brook took them up the street to her house.

It looked exactly the same as when she’d left, and that felt odd. The atmosphere of serenity within was untouched by the hideous chaos she’d been through.

It’s the same, but I’m different. The changes aren’t apparent yet, but they will overtake me.

She decided to not think about them. Later would do. It would have to do.

Not knowing how long she’d be, she told the men to come inside to wait. The wind and sleet had died, but the damp cold was the kind that sank into the bones and stayed. She unlocked the door but Brook went in first, pushing past her. He had a pistol in one hand.

Alex almost spoke to tell him not to worry, but changed her mind as she remembered Woodwake’s last order.

Lennon noticed. “There’s a wise little tweak,” he said. “Let the big strong soldier do his job. He’ll feel useful.”

“Clear, miss,” said Brook, some minutes later. “Leastwise this floor. I should like a look upstairs if you don’t mind.”

She did not and stood with Lennon in the entry. When Brook returned with a negative report she went up to her room. It was as she’d left it, the bed unmade, nightclothes tossed on the pillow, the sweet scent of rosewater lingering in the still air. She wanted to burrow under the familiar comfort of her own soft sheets and thick blankets and shut herself away from this awful night.

She should have been allowed to stay in the sanctuary she’d so carefully built here. She should have been able to convince Woodwake to set Brook or some other man to keep an eye on her. Forsaking this peace for the stifling atmosphere of Pendlebury House was wrong.

She’d be sent for tomorrow, though. Perhaps she could make other arrangements by then.

Alex abruptly remembered Fingate and his cryptic message.

She gave a groan.

Bloody hell.

It wouldn’t count for anything that she’d been about to tell Lord Richard of her nine o’clock meeting in Hyde Park. Or that she’d forgotten it until now, when it was too late to mention to Woodwake.

I’ll just have to meet him and get him to come along to the Service head office.

And hope that would be sufficient to keep her out of trouble. God knows, being attacked by masked lunatics was a damned good excuse, but Woodwake might not see it that way.

Alex removed her clothes. By the time Mrs. Harris got back on Boxing Day the bloodstains would be set.

“It’s too absurd,” she muttered, realizing she never wanted to touch those things ever again. She bundled them up and shoved them into the inadequate wastepaper basket by the small writing desk.

She spent some while in the washroom at the end of the hall, scrubbing blood from her hands and trying hard not to think of lines from Macbeth.

I should be weeping.

She was alone, she could allow herself to break down and grieve for her father. The distress of the last hours were enough to lay anyone flat for weeks. She’d learned that emotional injuries were every bit as damaging as physical wounds and needed longer to heal. Some never healed at all, the poor souls bearing them for life, bleeding out day after day.

I don’t want to be one of them.

She’d have to release it.

But feelings were not like water from a tap to be turned to flow and turned to stop. Perhaps actors could do that, and certainly self-serving criminals she’d met in the course of her trade were adept at conjuring grief in an attempt to deceive Readers or gain sympathy.

Alex could not call or force such expression. Her training at the Service and her lessons from Master Shan had taught her control and defense, lest the emotions of others take her over. It was of no help in dealing with her own. She’d shut down. At some point the barriers might lift. Or not.

“Just have to wait and see,” she said to her reflection in the washstand mirror. What a sad face it was that looked back, almost a stranger’s face, and she could hardly bear looking into her own eyes.

* * *

Changed into a practical calf-length woolen walking dress, with a carpetbag packed with necessities for the next few days, Alex descended the stairs, her steps tired and heavy. Brook met her halfway up to take the bag, and she gratefully let him.

Lennon had helped himself to the port she kept in the dining room cabinet, but she didn’t mind. He was a guest, why shouldn’t he? He finished off his glass, left it on the entry table, and jerked his head toward the back of the house.

“Something to show you,” he rumbled, taking up a lighted candle.

She followed him to the kitchen. He pointed at the mudroom door, which opened to the mews behind the row of houses.

“You keep that locked?” he asked.

“It was when I left tonight.”

“Check it. Both sides.”

He held the candle as she inspected the lock. The flame blew out shortly after she opened the door, but lasted long enough for her to spot new scratches in the brass. She felt a tightness in her chest and pulled away.

Lennon struck a lucifer and relit the candle. “Floor.”

Smears of mud, hardly noticeable unless you looked closely. Mrs. Harris would never have left without a last swipe of the mop. She took pride in having a pristine, mouse-free kitchen.

“You’ve had a visitor,” said Lennon. “Brook and I went through the place again, cellar to attic. Near as we can tell, some cautious chap hid in the cupboard under the first-floor stairs. There’s a bucket been overturned he could have sat on-”

Alex shot from the kitchen and up the stairs to see for herself. Her sanctuary violated-she wouldn’t have it, by God.

The cupboard was general storage for that floor, where Mrs. Harris kept cleaning supplies and their attendant tools. Alex couldn’t recall the last time she’d bothered to look inside. It was just steps from her bedroom.

When she’d centered herself, she lifted the latch and opened the narrow door, braced for anything.

Almost anything.

She was unprepared for … nothing.

Physical objects were tidily in place, except for the tin bucket resting overturned in the middle of the floor. She eased in and widened her internal senses bit by bit, seeking some trace of the person who had been there.

A closed space, someone sitting, waiting for who knows how long, there should be a remnant of emotion. Patience, impatience, excitement, boredom.

Nothing. It was an absence, a void.

“What’d the spooks tell you?” asked Lennon. He’d come up more slowly and, as before, held quiet until she was done.

“It’s like what I didn’t find at Harley Street. That same emptiness.”

“Maybe he is a ghost.”

“I don’t speak to ghosts, Inspector,” she said wearily.

“The other kind. There’s human ghosts walking this world right enough. You see ’em but you don’t. Beggars, street Arabs, moppets selling ribbons and violets, those poor devils with carts who shovel the road waste. They’re there, solid as you or me, and no one notices them.”

“But they all have emotions. Nothing is here. Nothing. Even animals leave emotions I can track.”

“Do you now? Never knew that. Well, then, whoever was here is a cold ’un to the bone or one of those clockwork dummies from the seaside, put in a copper and he tells your fortune.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Those things are in cabinets and have to be wound up.”

“I saw one with legs once. He could stand, take off his hat and bow, move his head, give yes or no answers.…”

“But no walking around. No such thing could scramble over roofs and down ropes or pick locks-or need to rest on overturned buckets.”

“So what we have here is a human ghost. There’s some cold customers out there, little tweak. You’ve not been at it long enough to meet any and if you’re lucky you never will. Maybe this one is colder than the worst of them.… He’s done for your pap and it looks like he’s after you. Service hokery-pokery’s useless here. Eyes open and ears sharp, same as the rest of us.”

Had there been no attack on Lord Richard, Alex would have completed her report and been released to come home … to …

The tight feeling in her chest increased until she forced it away. Panic wouldn’t help. Mrs. Woodwake had been right; Alex could not be alone. Given a choice between the Pendleburys and a traceless killer-

“Time to leave, Inspector.”

“Thought you’d never say.”