The Hanged Man

CHAPTER FOUR

Under Lennon’s approving eye, Alex slipped a box of cartridges for her revolver into her ulster pocket and shifted the weapon to the reticule she now carried. She locked the front door, cognizant that it was not likely to keep out a determined threat.

She’d written a note for Mrs. Harris, extracting a solemn promise from Lennon that he would deliver it personally. Under no circumstances should Harris or any of the household return home until Alex came to fetch them. They could leave messages at her office. She slipped in a few crowns for their expenses.

Brook checked the street, announced that it looked to be clear, and hurried them into the hansom. He hoisted up to his perch and snapped the reins, taking them north, then doubling back and doubling again.

“Don’t look as we’re being followed,” said Lennon. “Suits me; I’ve had all the excitement I can stand.”

Alex, jammed against him in the small space, felt his body relax.

“You look all in, too.” He produced a pocket flask and offered it.

“Inspector, I’ve had more drink tonight than in the last year.”

“Best make up for lost time, then. Or are you one of those finger-wagging pledge-poppets?”

She accepted the flask and took a mouthful of something foul that made her gasp, but the heat was welcome. “Not at all. It interferes with my abilities.”

“Sounds a good thing, to hear others talk of ’em. Every spook chaser I ever met wanted to be rid of their abilities.”

“I wouldn’t be me without them.”

“Sure you would, but havin’ a different job or married off to some bloke bereft of all sense.”

She glanced at him. Yes, there was a glint of humor in his eyes. “It interferes with my defenses,” she added. Should she have mentioned that? Must have been the drink.

“So it should, leading to many a ruinous downfall or blissful engagement. That’s how I caught my missus. I got her so jolly she was signing the registry book before she knew what happened.”

Alex could not imagine what Mrs. Lennon might be like. Was she formidable and strapping as her husband or a meekish sylph who somehow found his unpolished manner appealing? How could that be?

Or was it because he was uncomplicated?

His selves, inside and outside, were identical. He didn’t hide his feelings. While others concealed their inner self for the sake of social interaction, he didn’t give a bloody damn what people thought of him. Alex hadn’t appreciated his kind of honesty before.

She found it comforting, enough so that she unexpectedly dozed off against him, unaware of it until the hansom lurched. She snapped awake, hand on her pistol.

“At your ease, soldier,” said Lennon. “Your man’s making way for the fire brigade.”

Brook pulled to the side of the road, slowing, but not stopping as a much faster fire wagon shot past, bell ringing, the big horses struggling on the ice-glazed street.

“Not the first or last call for them on a Christmas. That’ll be another pack of bloody Germans setting fire to things. I ask you, what’s the sense of bringing a tree into a house, sticking candles on every branch and lighting ’em? That’s just begging for disaster. If they don’t like a simple Christmas dinner the way we do it, they should bloody well leave.”

“You want England for the English, then?” she asked. The E. for E. radicals were mentioned often in the papers, even The Times.

“There’s something to that lot. With any luck they can send the riffraff back where they come from.”

“Our ancestors were foreigners. William the Conqueror came from Normandy.”

“Be sure once he set his foot down he didn’t allow anyone else in. You know how close we came to having a German on the throne?”

Should she inform him that the queen was her godmother? Best not to; it would be boastful and pretentious, qualities she did not admire. Alex had heard the stories that German had been Queen Victoria’s first spoken language, and in her youth she’d been introduced to more than one prince from that land. However, she’d chosen an Englishman for her husband, though he’d not been royalty unless one traced his ancestry back a few centuries. The young queen wanting to marry a lord had been quite a political crisis at the time, but she’d changed the law of the realm so love won out over custom. The match had worked splendidly. The royal couple were still pleased with each other, had produced four healthy, intelligent children, and the eldest daughter had provided heirs; the crown of England was secure for another generation.

Brook turned their hansom east to avoid the brigade, then south. Church bells tolled the half hour, making it five thirty by her reckoning, which Lennon confirmed with a look at his pocket watch.

“What a night,” he said. “Be glad when it’s over.”

The statement could be taken as a declaration for himself or as advice to her.

They passed St. Paul’s Knightsbridge. Her heart quickened with dread.

Just yards to go … a last turn and they were before 16 Wilton Crescent, the first of a curving line of fearfully respectable white facades, each nearly identical to its neighbor: same doors, same transom grilles, sturdy iron fences lining the walks along the lower ground-floor entries.

Lennon gave it a lengthy stare. “You come by your toff ways straight, then, don’t you?”

“I’d rather go to a workhouse.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Before she could get out he put a hand on her wrist. “Listen up, little tweak, there’s more afoot than they’re sayin’.”

“The Service?”

“Don’t pull a face, you ought to be feeling it, if that’s your trade. Me, I can smell it. There’s politicking going on. Always a rotten stink.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“Bet your life on it, missy. Your life. Instead of taking you into the fold where you’re surrounded by other spook hunters and big lads like Brook, they’ve cut you loose where you can be got at.”

“Mrs. Woodwake would never do that. Besides, men will be posted to watch this house.”

“Not nearly enough if those chappies what done for Lord Dickie come around, never mind that murdering ghost and his bottle of ether. Makes me think of those stories about hunters in India tethering a goat to tempt in a tiger. Maybe they get the tiger, but he gets the goat first.”

Having been on a tiger hunt, Alex had seen that for herself. “You think the two cases are connected.”

“I couldn’t say. Maybe those hooded blokes were following young Dickie all along and took their opening. But the ghost that broke into Harley Street also tried for you. Why do you think that is? Who would want to hang angel wings on both you and your pap?”

She shook her head.

“You come up anything on it, see me first. Don’t trust for a moment that your precious Service won’t toss you to the tigers if it suits ’em.”

He believed what he was saying, but the Service? It was scrupulously honest, if necessarily secretive. Lord Richard was-had been-above reproach and insisted all those under him be likewise honest and honorable. They never employed frauds, the testing system was too rigorous. She’d vetted people herself, and would face a Reader tomorrow. That would clear things, perhaps allow her to keep a close watch on the progression of both cases.

Lennon continued, “They do some good, I’ll grant that, and you’re one of the good ones, but beware of rot under the shiny paint. For all their power, they got a bloody nose tonight. Instead of raising the alarm to hunt down a pack of hooded killers, that woman does the direct opposite. If someone had done for the head of Scotland Yard every copper in London would be turned out. There’d be no stoppin’ us till we had the shooters in darbies or dead. Woodwake’s running scared about something and it’s got to be bigger than her chief getting served up to hell tonight. I tried to get her to drop a clue, but she wasn’t having any. Her wanting that kept a state secret? Barmy.”

“She gave good reason for it.”

“Bah. I know her type. Thinks too much, just like you. Only your thinking has you meeting yourself coming around corners. She’s got a wider view and keeps it to herself. There’s a use for that sort, but they’re dangerous.”

He let go her wrist and got out with her. From his perch on the hansom where he could see trouble coming, Brook covered them as they went up to the door. Alex tried her old key and it worked. She thought she would never have need to use it and wasn’t sure why she’d kept it on the ring after all this time. A sense of antic humor, perhaps, allowing her the freedom to present her relatives with a disagreeable surprise should she ever drop in for a visit. She had often thought of coming by, but had never acted on it.

The disagreeable surprise was all on her tonight, but she’d be safe here. Knightsbridge was a well-kept, quiet place, plenty of police about. Pendlebury House teemed with people: relations and who knows how many servants to see to their upkeep.

Lennon put her carpetbag inside the door. “Remember my words, tweak. You keep that pie hole of yours shut, your ears open, and your head down. Now go get some sleep. And … and I’m sorry about your pap.” This last was muttered quickly and then he stumped off.

Well. What a startling man.

She locked the door and went into the ground-floor drawing room to look out the front windows. Lennon piled into the hansom and they clattered away east along the curve of the crescent. Despite the gaslights, the cold darkness swiftly stole them from sight.

Tethered goat. More like thrown to the wolves.

Her family wasn’t that bad, not really. They had sheltered, clothed, and fed her. The adults had been … polite. She was fond of Uncle Leo. He wasn’t at all like his brother in temperament, cold and aloof rather than smiling and affectionate, but there were enough physical similarities to remind her of Gerard, and that had been comforting. He had no time to spare for her or any of his family, but when she first arrived he’d not minded her sitting in his study so long as she was quiet.

When bad weather kept her indoors, she’d take a volume from Leo’s collection of books and read for hours by the window, emerging only for meals.

His children were barred from the room, making it an even more attractive refuge. Andrina’s reading tastes were for lighter material and her brother Teddy proved too active to be trusted. He was always getting into things he shouldn’t, such as his father’s Napoleon brandy-wasted as a casual libation for a thirteen-year-old.

Aunt Honoria was far too respectable and commanding to be likeable, but initially saw to it her children behaved civilly toward Alex. They were angels in her presence, which amounted to a few minutes a day. She was fearfully busy with social obligations and granting her time to charitable events. At those, she limited herself to a smile and voicing a sincere “Well done” to the workers who had actual contact with the beneficiaries of those many charities. She didn’t like looking at the poor, who were, after all, such an ill-favored, cheerless lot.

But she respected the rules of society and, as she’d done every year since Alex moved out and (horrors) gone into trade, Honoria sent an embossed invitation to Christmas dinner to her niece. Each year, Alex sent her regrets, claiming that her duties prevented it. Sometimes that was even true.

I can bear them for a few hours. She’d hide out in Leo’s study; they’d not think twice about it once the grudging greetings were past.

Alex hoped to avoid Andrina. With any good luck her insufferable cousin would be off playing lady-in-waiting to Princess Charlotte. What the royal family saw in Andrina was a mystery, but she could be pleasant and clever when she chose. Showing one face and hiding the other worked on the rest of the world, but never on Alex, another thing besides the perfume switch that Andrina could not forgive.

After lighting the gas, Alex rang the bell, confident that servants would be astir. Honoria ran a tight ship. If staff couldn’t be bothered to be awake and working by five in the morning, they were welcome to find a position elsewhere. Many did.

Sure enough, one of the maids arrived, carrying a tray. She nearly dropped it when she saw Alex.

“Begging pardon, I thought you were her ladyship.”

“New here, are you? It’s all right, I’m her ladyship’s niece, Alex Pendlebury.”

The girl nodded, so she must have heard the name mentioned, and glanced at the tray.

“Better take that back. When Aunt Honoria rings again you don’t want to be late with her morning tea.”

“Yes, ma-your ladyship. Shall I announce you?”

Oh, dear, the girl was too new to know the protocols. “Leave that to Mabrey. He’s still here? Ask if he might spare me a few minutes.”

Off the girl went. Alex took the respite to remove her gloves and hat and undo the buttons of her ulster, but not shed it. The drawing room fire was laid but not lighted, and the room chilly.

Instead of Mabrey the butler, Andrina swept in. She was already corseted for the day and in a sumptuous dressing gown, with layers of silk and ribbons and pleats in the French style. Her hair hadn’t been seen to yet, and a long dark braid hung down her left shoulder. She was an uncommonly beautiful girl and knew it.

She stopped and glared, her lips going thin with distaste. “What are you doing here? And at such an hour?” she demanded. No greeting, despite the fact they’d not seen each other in several years. She got straight to the point with people she didn’t like.

I should have gone to a hotel.

Alex was prepared, inspired by Lennon’s opinion of German Christmas customs. “There was a fire in the building next to my house. It was too smoky to stay.”

“There are hotels,” she pointed out.

If not for her “gift,” and the intervention of a loving father, Alex might have turned out just like Andrina. Or not. There was no denying they often thought along similar lines. She smiled. “And miss Christmas dinner with my family? Aunt Honoria has ever welcomed me to the table.”

“Yes, she has a wonderful goodness of heart for poor relations.”

“Is that the best you can do?”

“Have I misapprehended something? You work, therefore you must not have an income.”

“It’s a match to yours, Andrina, and you know it. I work because I like to do so.”

“How could you possibly like mucking about with dead people?”

“They’re better company than some I can name. Now before we draw blood I suggest you hear me out. It will be to your advantage.”

Andrina sniffed, but chose to listen.

“I’ll be pleased to not disrupt Aunt Honoria’s seating arrangements at table today. If someone brings a tray to Uncle’s study you won’t even know I’m here.”

Honoria, splendid in an obviously new morning dress, came in. “Why, Alex, what are you doing here? And at such an hour?”

“Her house burned down, Mother.”

Lady Pendlebury gasped in horror.

“It did not!”

“That’s what you said.”

And just like that, they were back to being snarling schoolgirls again, engaged in yet another round of explosive tit for tat. Alex raised her hands and voice. “Enough!”

Andrina, standing behind her mother, beamed with delight. In the past, whoever shouted first lost the battle, collecting a reprimand from Honoria for not behaving as a lady should.

What a fool, Alex thought, deciding the judgment applied equally to Andrina for setting the trap and to herself for walking into it. “Aunt Honoria, my cousin’s grasp of the facts is imperfect. The house next to mine had a fire. There’s smoke all through my home, so while it airs I’d hoped to find a safe harbor here.”

“Not burned down? You’re sure? Well, of course you may stay as long as you like, child. It’s been ages. We must catch up, but this is such a busy day. Have Mabrey sort things for you. You’re a bit early for breakfast, but we’ll sit down together and have a nice chat. Church is at nine sharp; we’ll expect you to come with the family.”

Mentioning her meeting with Fingate at the same hour would not be the done thing. Alex would come up with some excuse. “Thank you so much. I’m sorry to intrude like this.” Very sorry.

“Nonsense, what are families for if not to give refuge when one is in need? Mabrey, excellent timing. Lady Alex requires a room for a few days. Have someone prepare her old one, please, and add another place for breakfast.”

Mabrey, the butler, hadn’t changed much, possibly because Aunt Honoria had ordered it. He nodded a silent greeting at Alex. She smiled and returned the courtesy. Her old room? While not the comforting refuge of Uncle’s study, at least she’d not have to share with her cousin.

When she’d first arrived they’d put the girls together, thinking they’d become friends. The instant they were alone for the first time, Andrina made it clear she was in charge and Alex was always to be subordinate. In two trips around the globe, Alex had never encountered such bald-faced discourtesy before and laughed, thinking it was some sort of poor joke.

Andrina responded with name-calling and throwing a shoe to assert her authority. It hit Alex lightly in the chest. She stared, realizing that this was a variant of the sort of challenge that duelists engaged in; Alex was pleased to provide satisfaction.

The next few moments were a bit of a blur, but she emerged the unquestioned victor of the skirmish.

Master Shan’s instruction included physical as well as mental training. Andrina had expected girlish tears, slaps, and hair pulling, not being flipped head over heels, slammed flat to the floor, her limbs temporarily paralyzed by knuckle strikes to key nerve points. Her bloodcurdling screams brought most of the household into the room. Once order was restored, it was Mabrey who quietly suggested to her ladyship that a separation of the combatants might be the best for all.

After that humiliation, Andrina confined herself to subtle verbal blows when her mother was out of earshot, as well as keeping her distance: even now she withdrew as Alex followed Mabrey from the parlor. He dispatched a footman to bring the bag and a tweeny to lay a fire.

No impression of Alex’s tenure remained, but upon moving out she’d taken everything that was hers. It was a stranger’s room now, and she was comfortable with that. Certainly she was a stranger to her hosts. They didn’t know her, couldn’t possibly understand her. She was comfortable with that, as well. The more they knew, the more it could be turned into a weapon. Lennon’s instincts were right, even if he was not conversant with how things worked under this lofty house’s roof; keeping one’s pie hole shut was ever a wise idea.

The tweeny scuttled out and Honoria’s personal maid, who looked to be a sensible sort, unpacked the bag. Alex explained that she was too exhausted to take breakfast with the family, but absolutely had to be wakened at quarter past eight to go to church with them. The woman nodded. Would some tea be required then?

Alex had to admit that she missed having an army of servants to see to mundane needs. Her own household was small because she couldn’t abide the conflicting emotions generated by a large staff.

The woman left, and Alex applied a buttonhook toward undoing her cycling boots. She’d been tempted to have the maid do it, but that meant physical contact and she was tired of keeping her barriers up.

Boots off, thank God. Her liberated feet seemed to breathe and expand. Next, her outer clothes, skirt, jacket, and blouse on a chair, then the corset cover, then the corset, which was painfully constricting by now. She’d experimented with several styles, needing something she could easily don without help. Her corset maker introduced her to a design that laced in the front, yet presented a smooth silhouette by means of a clever facing. Alex loosened it and climbed into the bed. The sheets were cold, but she hardly noticed through her flannel chemise.

She expected, considering the terror and strain of the last few hours, to be wakeful. Sleep rarely came easily. She often coaxed it with warm milk and dull books, and when those failed, put herself into a meditative trance in the hope of dropping off.

So it proved again. However tired she was, her mind refused to blow out the candle. Questions for Fingate, speculations about the morrow, mental images of her poor father’s dangling feet, the death room, Lord Richard’s blood on everyone, masked killers and their near-silent guns, her own home invaded-and mingled throughout were the emotions, hers and those imposed on her. Even a person without her Reading talent would be overwhelmed.

Shan tried to persuade her to adapt the traditional cross-legged sitting posture for meditation, but she got better results lying flat. Alex pulled the covers to her chin and went through the steps she’d used for years to still her racing mind. While bred and born to the idea that nothing could replace a good night’s rest, when that eluded her, then a few hours of meditation would suffice.

She had no sense of time passing; it seemed but an instant later that Honoria’s maid was shaking her awake.

Definitely a quarter past eight, the nearby church bell-she’d not missed its loud proximity-tolled.

Alex’s head was clear. Her body was stiff and ached from not enough physical rest, but stretching helped.

A tray with tea, toast, jam, and a boiled egg was on a table by the window. She gulped a cup of the blessed brew between bites while washing up and getting her clothing sorted.

Her abused feet wouldn’t go back into the boots again, but she’d wisely packed some plimsoles. Though wrong for church, a long black skirt would hide them. It was not precisely right for church, but more acceptable than the walking skirt. In the more informal congregations women could be found wearing female trousers, but not in the Anglican fastness of St. Paul’s Knightsbridge and never on Christmas.

At twenty-five of the clock she was presentable and hurried downstairs.

The Pendleburys were gathered in the drawing room and upon seeing them in their unrestrained finery, Alex faltered, for the first time feeling like a poor relation. Damn Andrina, anyway, for putting forth the idea. Alex had a generous income, but was in the habit of dressing like any young working woman of the middle classes.

“Really, Alex, you look like a parlor maid,” said Andrina, who resembled one of the princesses she waited on: watered silk, buttons, ruffles, and other embellishments in a shade of pale rose that suited her complexion, a matching hat, shoulders swathed in fur. She was a vision.

Honoria was just as well turned out, as was Uncle Leo, who stood by the door in an astrakhan coat. He’d have a new suit under it. His wife would have insisted.

“At least put on a decent hat,” Andrina continued. “Mother, have you something she could borrow?”

“Please, girls, no rows today,” Honoria said, reaching for the bell pull. “I’ll have Clara bring down that one I wore to the-”

“Aunt Honoria, I have a hat; please don’t trouble yourself. It’s not important.”

“It is, my dear. You’re a Pendlebury. One must keep up appearances.”

“We’ll be late,” said Leo. “Hello, Alex. Remember me?”

His voice was so much like her father’s she got a knot in her throat. Dear God, dear God, she would have to tell him about Gerard.

It can’t be now.

“Yes, Uncle. It’s so good to see you.” For him, she was able to go over and kiss his cheek in greeting. He grunted and told her she looked fine, ending further discussion about her appearance. “Where’s Teddy? We must leave now.”

“Outside waiting for us,” said his wife. “I wish you would tell him to stop smoking in the street. He’ll be mistaken for a common loafer.”

“I doubt that. Come along, no more time, come along.” A footman held the door and the family filed out into a freezing gray, overcast day. Alex was last, not wanting Andrina behind her making faces.

Cousin Teddy, also in astrakhan, shoes polished, top hat at a jaunty angle, finished his cigarette and flung it away, drawing matriarchal criticism.

He shot a grin at Honoria. “One of the servants will get it. Cousin Alex! It’s been too long. Finally weary of fortune-telling?” He took her hand and she made herself accept the touch. Her lead armor was firmly in place and having gloves on helped. Two years her junior, he’d been a ruthless snot of a boy when she’d arrived. Though more friendly than Andrina, he was also more open to doing mischief if he knew he could get away with it. He was clever enough to not take sides between Andrina and Alex, keeping his own pranks clear of the house.

Teddy had grown into a handsome man, though this morning his eyes were as bloodshot as Alex’s. He’d been out on his usual Christmas Eve carouse, and probably had not slept. She smelled spirits on his cigarette-tainted breath. He’d have made a fine crony for her Fonteyn cousins. Teddy contrived to take Alex’s arm as they strolled to church. She was unused to lengthy contact and on guard for a reprise of some childhood trick, but a small trickle of Teddy’s cheerful mood filtered through. She would not allow more, else lose her focus for the problem at hand: how to get away to meet Fingate.

“I heard you were burned out of house and home; bad luck, that,” said Teddy. “Oh, don’t fuss, I know dear sister overdramatized things. Mother set me straight. Bad luck for your neighbors, what? Are they Germans?”

“I don’t know.”

“Wouldn’t be surprised. I was out with Etchells Braddock and his crowd last night; must have seen the fire brigades a dozen times if we saw them once. You’d think Germans would be more careful with candles and trees, considering they have the ancestral practice of putting them together. Oh, I must sound a right nob, you do know what I’m talking about?”

“Yes.” There was no danger that Teddy would ever overestimate her intelligence.

“Well, I hope you’ll stop a few days with us. What have you been doing with yourself?”

“Teaching.”

“What, in a little schoolroom with girls, ribbons in the hair and giggling?”

“Young men and women, mostly. The Service has coeducational arrangements for some courses.”

“There’s luck for the lads, getting a chance to show off.”

She fought the urge to disabuse him of whatever nonsense he’d imagined. Alex taught a number of subjects not found in public school. Few could pass the rigorous qualifications the Service demanded-you had psychical talent or you did not-putting females and males together was a necessity. Sometimes there were no more than four to a class. She was to be teaching tomorrow, helping a new crop hone their ability to discern truth from fact (the two often differed), but that might be changed in the light of Lord Richard’s murder. By then the queen would have been informed and then the rest of the Service. How that would influence the daily run of things, she could not guess.

And Father’s death. What about it?

Alex resolved, after her interview with Fingate, to not wait to be sent for and go straight over. She’d persuade him to come, too, or demand a damned good reason why not.

“Still at the Home Office with Uncle?” she asked Teddy, shifting the subject.

“Following in his footsteps, as expected. I can’t talk about much of it, one half is too secret, the other half too dull.” Teddy smiled at her.

She attempted to mirror him, but his statement had the quality of being a frequently repeated witticism, and she didn’t find it witty.

“Just teaching at the Psychic Service?” he asked. “I thought you did more than that, laying murderers by the heels and such.”

“We help Scotland Yard with inquiries.”

“Call yourselves Readers or some such? How does that work?”

“It’s not something easily explained. I’m awfully tired, Teddy. Was up half the night because of the fire business.”

“And yet you’re coming to church with us? You should have slept in.”

“It’s easier to agree with Aunt Honoria than disagree.”

“Isn’t that a great truth of the world? I tell Father we’ve the wrong people at the Home Office. If he wants to get anything done, send his men home and let their wives take over.”

“Women work there now.”

“A few. There’s plenty of the old club men who worry that their lady comrades can’t keep a secret, so you won’t find a lady running anything that matters. The bearded dodgers don’t want to chat politics with females, would rather kiss ’em, y’see.”

“How shortsighted of them.”

“The way the world works, my girl.”

“Then change and improve it.”

“Oh, things are fine as they are. You’ll see that, in time.”

Alex reflected that Teddy had grown from ruthless snot to predictable prig. Measured against her cousin James, the latter was preferable company. He was annoying, but never patronized her.

“You’d do well in the Foreign Office, y’know,” he observed. “They could give you plenty of work translating documents. Father might know a few chappies who could offer you a place. It would be a jolly sight better than chasing fortune-tellers.”

She’d rather do that than be buried alive in a damp basement slogging through tedious papers.

They reached the arched gate to the church. The street was crammed with carriages and there was a great crowd on the sidewalk.

“I see a friend I need to have a word with,” she said, detaching from Teddy’s grasp. “She may invite me to sit with her for the service, so please apologize to Aunt Honoria for me, I really must have a word.”

Alex did not wait for a reply, but slipped off, went around two carriages, and dove into the many churchgoers, threading against their flow along Wilton Place. Her short stature was in her favor amid the stately march of the beautifully garbed pious. Top hats on the men and elaborate chapeaus on the ladies helped; she passed virtually unnoticed beneath their cover.

The crowd thinned; she was on Knightsbridge Street with the Arthur Gate ahead and no other Pendleburys in sight.

The gate was open and less spiritually minded sporting types passed through it, across Rotten Row and into the park. She blended better with this crowd, but they were raucous, having started their Yuletide celebrations early or continuing what they’d begun the night before.

When no less than three men in as many minutes grinned and approached her with a greeting of ’Ello, girly, you be wantin’ some candy? she realized she should have borrowed Aunt Honoria’s hat after all. There were women in the park, but some of the solitary ones in plain clothing were apparently tarts.

Alex pulled the veil of her hat down, lifted her chin high, and fell in close behind a group of ladies taking the air, in quest of safety in numbers.

There was a risk that Fingate wouldn’t see her, but the man was observant and smart. He’d be looking at every short woman in the park.

She cast about, checking anyone with the least similarity to his form and height. She couldn’t count on spotting the port wine birthmark on his ear-he’d have something covering it-so she looked at men wearing mufflers, low hats, and even uncommonly long hair, on the chance he’d wear a wig as a disguise.

At least fifty men within view were similarly attired.

Cold duck, his note said, but is this what it meant? She worried that she might have gotten the clue wrong.

Chill drizzle clung heavily to the net of her veil. A light wind pressed the damp folds of silk against her face. She followed the women down to the bank of the Serpentine. At this point the lake was as wide across as the Chelsea Reach of the Thames. The water was a vile gray, its surface seeming to shiver in the wind. Ducks were about, along with a number of the park’s mute swans, most ashore on the opposite bank, looking droopy and miserable.

People splashed about in the water, hooting and huffing as though it were high summer. Most ran in for a quick bath and rushed right back out again, dripping and shivering. Alex preferred a washbasin of hot water-who would not? — but was acquainted with the advantages of a bracing cold morning tub. It did wonders for appetite and energy, and gave a rosy glow to one’s complexion, tightening the skin. She could not, under any circumstance, imagine herself to ever be mad enough to strip to a bathing costume and leap into December-cold water, but that’s exactly what so many were doing.

A man wearing a several life-saving medals from the Royal Humane Society seemed to be directing things for the race to come. Hurrying about, he pointed to where two flags should be left in the water by some obliging boatmen. A hundred yards along, toward the Serpentine Bridge, was a long diving board extending out just above the water like a boat dock. Half a dozen men were lined up on it, wrapped in blankets; likewise three woman stood with them, all waiting for the race to start.

Alex hadn’t known that women were allowed to participate, but when the Serpentine Swimming Club opened the race to nonmembers then it was no surprise that females had applied. That explained the size of the crowd and why groups of women were about: not merely to take the air, but to cheer their more adventurous sisters to victory.

The director called to straggling bathers to come to shore. Men and a few women waded clear, quickly dried and wrapped up.

Mad. Quite, quite mad, the lot of them.

Alex withdrew from the immediate edge, thinking to head for the bridge. The higher vantage would improve her view, and it was a logical meeting point. Fingate might be there already.

“I say, Alex, hold up!”

Bloody hell. Teddy. Why isn’t he in church? She couldn’t pretend she’d not heard and waited for him.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I needed to walk and to think.”

“So you weren’t really meeting a friend?”

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t bear to be in that press in the church. You know I don’t like great numbers of people.”

“Yet here you are.”

“It’s different out of doors. Please, Teddy, I need to be alone now. Go back.”

“I wouldn’t think of it. You’re much too pretty to be wandering alone with all these rough fellows about. I’ll be your escort and so quiet you won’t know I’m here.” He started to take her arm. This time she evaded his grasp.

“No.”

“There now, Mother wouldn’t want us quarreling,” he said with a good-natured smile. She’d seen it before and it usually meant a trick.

She backed away a step. “I don’t give a bloody damn.”

“What?” He was genuinely shocked.

“I need to be alone.”

“You don’t want that, you just think you do.”

She pushed the damp veil clear of her face so he could see her eyes and thus have no doubt of her intent. “No one in Pendlebury House ever listened to me when I lived there, but by God one of you is going to listen to me now. Teddy, go back to church and let me have an hour’s peace. I don’t need your protection or company or anything else.”

“Fine words from you on a Christmas. Always one for playing the queen, thinking yourself so much better than us with all your running around the world. Well, you’re not having your way. I’m sticking with you through thick or thin. It’s for your own good, you silly nit. There’s a man following you.”

“What?”

“When you flew away at the church gate this rum-looking savage took off as well. Made me think of a hawk after a mouse. I didn’t like his look so I followed him. Lost him, but I found you, and you’re not shifting me, so there.”

“What did he look like?”

“As I said, rough sort, unshaved; who doesn’t shave on Christmas morning?”

“His height, his form, what was he wearing? Give me details!”

“I don’t have any, it happened too quickly. He was there and gone, but I might spot him again if we walk around. Why is a man like that following you?”

It was past nine. Fingate could be anywhere and if she turned up with company he might not meet her. He wouldn’t know that Teddy was family.

But who’s this man? Fingate in disguise?

Perhaps. He might think she still lived with the Pendleburys and anticipated that she would enter the park by means of the Arthur Gate. Aside from her not being able to stand them-which he wouldn’t know about-there was no reason why she shouldn’t continue to live with family long after she reached her majority. Many young women did, even when they had independent means.

The alternative was the ghost. He must know she was a Pendlebury and had been watching for her to emerge from the house. Lennon was right about his tethered goat analogy. That frightened her as few things could. When it came down to it, she was desperately vulnerable. So was Teddy. His only experience with physical conflict was on the playing fields of his school. He was no rugby forward, so that left cricket or fencing or-

Stop panicking and think.

“Have you a weapon?” she asked.

Teddy stared. “Why on earth should I want a weapon?”

“In case Hottentots attack, of course. Never mind, keep that walking stick of yours handy.”

She opened her reticule, closed her gloved hand over the grip of her revolver, and felt better for it.

He saw and was appalled. “What are you doing with that? We’re in London, for God’s sake.”

“Which is no safer than any other part of the world that has people in it.”

“And I thought Andrina was one for dramatics. Put that away. You’re making me nervous.”

“Forget it and look around. Do you see the man?”

He gave the immediate area a hasty glance. “Can’t say as I do. Let’s go back to the house. A nice cup of tea and a slosh of brandy will set us both up and-”

“The devil take it, little Alex, what are you doing here?”

Though they’d been moving steadily toward the Serpentine Bridge and were on the watch, James Fonteyn appeared out of God knows where, falling into step with them. Alex nearly jumped out of her skin and had to abort a movement to bring her hidden revolver to bear.

“Go away,” she snarled.

“Can’t do that, as I went to a good deal of effort to get here. Actually walked. Walked every step from my digs to this if you can believe it. That’s far too much exercise to be healthy.” James did indeed look worse for wear, his eyes blurry and his nose red, but he was in his best coat and hat, and swaggered with a silver-trimmed walking stick. He was also shaved and couldn’t be the man Teddy had seen.

She stopped to face James. “I can’t talk to you, I have to meet someone and I must be alone to meet him.”

“Oh, ho!”

“Don’t be vulgar.”

“Never, just curious, and you’re not alone, you’ve company off your port bow, and he’s in want of an introduction before he bursts.”

That described Teddy with embarrassing accuracy. He eyed the intruder on their duet with the entrenched politeness of his class, which was clearly at odds with a need to identify the new fellow and thus present the appropriate social face.

Alex gave up and conducted the necessities that would allow two young gentlemen of the upper castes to exchange cordial greetings. She felt ridiculous, and this put her too much in mind of the last time she’d done it. She kept glancing around, dreading the sight of hooded men with air guns, yet hoping to spot Fingate. He’d not come within yards of her if she was lumbered with escorts. But if she shed her cousins, then she might be vulnerable to the ghost.

“James, why are you here?” she asked.

“Come to see the swimming race. One of my chums from the Elysian Club is in it. Thought I’d put a shilling on his nose just for a bit of fun. Happened to see you and thought I’d give greeting.” He addressed Teddy. “It’s a disgrace, Alex and I live on opposite ends of the same street and hardly ever see each other.”

Teddy agreed it was disgraceful. “She should have asked you to put her up after the fire and saved a trip across town to Pendlebury House.”

“Fire? What fire?”

“Her neighbors had a fire and she couldn’t stay for the smoke. She’s with the family at Pendlebury House until it clears.”

James shook his head. “I never saw a fire, but then I was celebrating rather a lot last night. Could have been a war on and I’d have missed it. Alex, why didn’t you come tell me?”

She’d been holding her breath, expecting her lie to be discovered, but James had saved things. “I did, but everyone was too drunk for sense.”

James found that amusing. “Too true. Cousin Alex is being kind. My humble abode is crammed to the rafters with medical students and they’re all chaps and rather a boisterous lot. Wouldn’t be appropriate having a female under my roof even if she is my cousin. And the noise! I’m used to it, but Alex likes her quiet.”

“Strange how we’ve never met,” said Teddy.

“Is it not? Different circles, I expect, but there should be some overlap of acquaintances, always is in this town. See here, Alex is our overlap.”

Teddy liked that. “We’re practically related, then. You should come to my club for dinner. Let me invite you now, here’s my card.…”

James provided one of his own in turn, and Alex wondered if something wholly regrettable would result from this new mix of Pendleburys and Fonteyns. It would be her bad luck indeed if they became best friends; they’d start comparing notes and swapping childhood stories about her.

The three of them made it to the Serpentine Bridge, which proved a perilous place to walk. The sleet from last night had frozen on the cold stones. Ashes and straw had been thrown down to aid the footing, but the only effective cure was sunshine. None today in that thick, dreary sky-it was the same dull gray as the water.

They found a place by the rail and looked down the twisting length of the water. People who had gathered on both banks to watch the race began dispersing.

“Drat, I missed placing a wager,” said James. “That’s what I get for putting family above sport.”

The contest over, the participants were emerging and wrapping up against the wind. Three were awarded medals from the swimming club.

“First place to a female, by God! Wish I’d seen that mermaid splashing about. There’s something to toast at your ladies club, Alex … Alex?”

She’d put her back to the view, separating herself from them to look at people on the bridge. She leaned close, whispering, “Keep Teddy here. It’s important.”

Fingate-she was sure of it, having spotted a man in a long coat behind a group of onlookers. He was the right height. She moved toward him, tugging off one glove.

He caught sight of her and pulled his muffler down, revealing his face. She felt a wash of relief, her own, though his was plain to see. He clutched a walking stick and used it to aid his footing as he navigated from one patch of straw to another.

“Bless you, bless you for coming,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

The years fled and she was fifteen again and a bit in awe of Fingate, who seemed to know how to do everything. Traveling the most dangerous parts of the world or running an errand in the heart of London were all one to him, to be met with the same amiable face and outlook.

But a decade of life reasserted itself as she drew close. Alex saw the influence of time and hard living on him, along with a profound sadness in his eyes. His master and longtime friend was dead, and Fingate had obviously wept his grief while she had not.

“I am so sorry,” he repeated, his voice unsteady.

She held his hand in both of hers, a gesture of friendship and trust she did not lightly undertake, given the risk of consequences to her emotions. “I know. It’s all right. We must talk. They’re after you for Father’s murder.”

“Murder. Yes. I knew he couldn’t have-it’s too awful.”

“You must come with me to the Psychic Service and tell them everything you know. They’ve taken over the case from Scotland Yard. A Reader will hear you out.”

“Impossible. I’d have gone there myself, but-no, I can’t.”

“Why?”

“There’s no knowing who to trust. Your father was inquiring into something delicate for the Home Office.”

“What would that be? Did Uncle Leo know?”

“There’s no proof for it, but orders came from high up. His lordship did not say how high. It was a close secret, because of worry about spies within the office itself.”

Ridiculous, but she had to hear more. “We’re in the open here. Let’s find a quiet place away from the cold. Tell me everything and we’ll-”

“Please, miss, you have to arrange a meeting with Lord Richard Desmond. Your father said he was the one man in England besides the Lord Consort who could be trusted. I know it’s mad, but perhaps your uncle Leopold can clear a path. What’s wrong?”

“Father knew Lord Richard?”

“They corresponded.”

That explained how Richard knew so much about her and her history. But why was it possible for Father to write to an acquaintance and not to her? “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a state secret. Oh, bother that. Lord Richard was killed the same night.”

Fingate’s shock was genuine. She felt it through her contact with him, along with the rush of fear that followed. “How?”

“A group of masked men came to Harley Street and ambushed Lord Richard in his coach, wounding him with some type of air gun. I got him away, but they followed us and finished him off.”

“Lord Richard was there?”

“As part of the investigation.”

“Dear God.”

Alex’s mind spun rapidly with Fingate’s information. A connection between her father and … so Lord Richard had not come because of her inadvertent violation in regulations. It simply wasn’t important enough. But the death, the murder, of a friend, would bring him thundering in like a Zeus on a rampage. He’d already known the true identity of Dr. Kemp, so he must have known something about that investigation.

Who else at the Service knew?

“Have you had any encounter with or news of such men?” she asked.

Again, shock. “Oh, Miss, you don’t think I brought them?”

“That’s exactly what will be thought unless you come in and tell everything to a Reader. They’ll know you’re telling the truth and can move this forward.”

“You’re Reading me? Right now?” He didn’t pull away, though.

“It’s my duty.”

He nodded, understanding. “Fair enough. It’s best you don’t have doubts.”

“Very well. Now tell me: Who killed Father? Have you any idea? Why was he posing as Dr. Kemp?”

He shook his head at each question. “What he was working on required that he not be himself. You’d not have known him on the street-”

“Why didn’t he tell me he was home?” There, finally out, and in a louder voice than she’d intended.

“He wanted to, but it was impossible. You know how it was with him, duty over aught else.”

“Even me.”

“And fair broke his heart, too, but as soon as he got in and got the names he was going to take a sabbatical, perhaps even retire.”

Never to happen. “Got in where? What names?”

“Dangerous people, miss. He kept no papers on them, it was all in his head. You’ll have heard of the Ætheric Society?”

“That’s ridiculous. It can’t be.”

“There must be something to it, why else was he killed?”

“You tell me!” People looked at her. She felt her face go red. “I’m sorry, but I must know what’s going on. You must come in. I’ll make sure only people I know hear what you have to say. If not to the Service, then to Scotland Yard. The inspector who ran things last night can be trusted. His name is Lennon.”

“No one can be trusted. His lordship must have found out something and they done for him.”

“The Ætheric Society?” It was too absurd.

“They’re more dangerous than anyone suspects. That’s all he shared with me, and it must be true. He went to one of their meetings earlier that night, I don’t know where, but he said he’d made progress and would be returning again soon. There was a woman helping him, but he didn’t write anything down or repeat names. You know how he is … was.… Oh, God, this is so wrong. How could it have happened? The house was locked, I swear it was locked!”

She tried her best calming tone, hoping it would work. “Fingate, if we are to catch who did it, then come with me.”

He was visibly torn between fear and loyalty. Having spent most of his life under the protection of another, content to follow orders, he was adrift and foundering on his own.

“If you don’t, then what are we to do?” Alex felt his emotions engulfing her. His indecision flooded her, made her feel ill. She had to fight the urge to bolt. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

“I know how to do that for myself, it’s you I’m worried for; if the wrong people know you talked to me, they’ll come for you.” But he was teetering, just a little more weight in the right direction-

“Assume they do and have done so, Fingate. It’s too late for warnings. We’ll find a closed coach, make sure we’re not followed, and I will get us to a safe place.”

“Where people can’t walk through walls?”

“What? You think that’s how they got to Father?”

“We’ve seen stranger things in our travels, miss.”

“This is London. People don’t walk through walls, not even Ætherics.” But that did describe the “ghost.” He was solid enough, but to a Reader, he might well be incorporeal.

Fingate twitched, looking past her. “Those men, who are they?”

James and Teddy remained where she’d left them, though Teddy seemed ready to cross the distance. He looked eaten to the bone with curiosity, but James had somehow kept him in place.

“Cousins, one from each side of the family. The one on the left is James Fonteyn. He’s annoying, but you can trust him. He lives at the other end of Baker Street from me at number-”

“You’re on Baker Street?”

“Yes-and Father could have walked over any time he wanted. Did he not even look me up?”

Fingate was both shocked and ashamed, his emotions jumping to her like static electricity.

“Oh, never mind, we’ll speak of it later. The other man is Teddy Pendlebury, Uncle Leo’s son. I wouldn’t bother with him, he’s hidebound and unhelpful. Never learned how to listen.”

Fingate wasn’t listening, either. His nervous attention shifted; looking back the way he’d come, he gave a start. “Bloody hell, they’re here. Stay with your cousins. I’ll lead them away. It’s me they want. I’ll get word to you when I’m clear.”

She glanced around him. Lieutenant Brook strode purposefully from the east side of the bridge. He fit Teddy’s description of a “rum-looking savage” to perfection. He’d improved his disguise as a cabman. A shabby coat, beaten billycock hat, and chin blurred by emerging whiskers made for quite a transformation, too great of one to judge by Fingate’s reaction.

“No, he’s here to help.” She held on to Fingate’s hand, but he shook free.

“This was your father’s, take it.” He shoved the walking stick at her and darted away, slipping and stumbling.

Teddy and James ceased watching from afar and hurried forward. Teddy moved to intercept Fingate, and managed to lay hands on him. But Fingate executed a swift block and shift. Teddy gave a surprised whoop as he was deftly flipped forward in a full spin and landed flat on his back, to the startlement of passersby.

Alex had not been Master Shan’s only pupil.

James shouted something and went to aid the fallen, but was more hindrance than help; Fingate did not look back and kept running. He made it off the bridge, cutting right to the path that led toward the Italian Gardens. There, even in winter, he could find cover in the dense growth of trees and bushes.

Brook charged in like a sight hound after flushed prey. He was much younger than Fingate and those long legs would eat up the ground, closing the valet’s lead.

She’d promised to keep Fingate safe, and though Brook was Service and had been vetted by a Reader like herself, she did not know him. A remnant of Fingate’s terror, of not knowing who to trust, clung to her, and though it was not her emotion, it raised the same physical reaction, the instinct to run or fight.

Alex chose to fight-or at least delay.

She put herself between and ordered Brook to stop.

“Sorry, Miss,” he said. He changed course just enough to avoid her.

As he passed, she bodily launched herself.

She was too small to stop him, but few men could ignore eight stone of anything hitting them from the side. Alex struck him hard, wrapping her arms around him. For once, it was her own emotions that dominated the contact: mostly shock at the solid muscle under the concealing clothes. It was like tackling a mountain.

Brook was thrown off stride, of course, and she intended to hang on for as long as she could to slow him.

She did not intend for him to slip on a patch of ice and tumble over the bridge rail, taking her along.

Alex let go, but too late. She gave a short cry, cut off when they struck the freezing water with a great splash. The stuff went straight up her nose, filled her mouth, and what breath she had was lost to overwhelming, paralyzing cold.