The Hanged Man

CHAPTER EIGHT

The weapon made a businesslike snapping sound, like dry wood breaking. His momentum took him a few unsteady steps, then he toppled and lay twitching.

Alex gasped in horrified shock and froze, training forgotten.

Brook surged forward and took the weapon from Sybil. It proved to be a single-shot Derringer and God knows how the woman had gotten it. Weapons were kept in Service offices, but locked up.

The man’s cloak had flapped wide when he fell. Grasped in his right hand was the gleaming shape of a strange-looking pistol with a long thin barrel and a bulky tube above the trigger.

“Head down,” Sybil intoned.

Gaping at what must be a smaller version of one of those deadly air rifles, Alex felt blank lunacy seize her. She responded: “Ears open?”

“No. Head. Down. They’re here.” Sybil abruptly dropped flat.

Brook grabbed Alex. For the second time within four and twenty hours, she experienced the shock of a man throwing himself over her body.

The air whooped from her lungs, curtailing immediate protest. She struggled to move, but he had her pinned, face to the cold walkway. A scant foot from her nose she saw a piece of the pavement the size of a shilling vanish in a tiny cracking explosion. There had been no sound of a shot, but the ricochet was distinct enough.

Air gun.

Bloody hell.

They were behind the questionable cover of the knee-high balustrade, which was better than nothing, but bullets began smacking into the barrier like horizontal hail.

“Back inside,” said Brook. “I’ll cover.” He shifted from her, rolling once and pulling a revolver from his coat pocket. Between themselves and the doors lay thirty feet of open space. It might as well have been thirty miles.

“You’ve five shots and that Bulldog is only good at close range,” Alex said. She got her own revolver, a breakfront Webley, from her reticule. “Where are they?”

“Can’t tell, no sound, no muzzle flash or smoke.” He flinched as a bullet whizzed overhead, shattering a glass panel in one of the entry doors. Someone ventured to look out. Brook bellowed a warning. Another bullet followed, breaking more glass, and whoever was inside ducked away with a curse.

A pause came in the hail strikes; Alex risked peering between the fat columns supporting the top of the barrier. Amazingly, people strolled along Parliament Street unaware. Carriages rolled past, carrying revelers. She heard drunken laughter and song. When a hansom heading north cleared the entrance to Downing Street across the way, a bullet winged off the pavement. She sighted along the barrel of her Webley, waiting for the shooter to show himself around the corner.

A shot pocked the stone barrier above her head.

“Two of them,” she said. “The near corner of Downing and to the right, behind that tree.”

Sybil added, somewhat muffled: “Head. Down.”

“It’s impossible,” said Brook. “We can’t shoot back with the street so busy.”

“We use that. They hold fire when something’s in the way. Wait until both are obscured and run.”

“Head down, down, downdowndown,” Sybil insisted, peevish.

“Or perhaps not.”

“What?” he asked.

“She wants us to stay here. She can see the future, perhaps-”

“Miss Pendlebury, I have little confidence in that.”

“Fell off the horse and haven’t been the same since,” Sybil told him in a scolding tone.

“Then again…”

“Hallo out there!” called someone from the building. One of the doors was open a crack.

Alex forced herself to keep low. “Mrs. George! We’re being shot at!”

“We worked that out, dearie. Help’s on the way!”

Brook yelled the probable location of the shooters.

“I’ll pass the word,” she said. “Mind you, there’s-”

They missed the rest when a number of bullets slammed into the remaining glass panels, shattering them. Mrs. George squawked and removed herself from the area.

More than two were engaged in the assault now. Where the devil were they?

Alex’s heart gave a leap of hope when she saw three men threading through the trees from the Richmond Terrace end of the building … until she realized they weren’t Service, but wearing hooded cloaks, carrying their peculiar weapons at the ready. She suspected the rifles were not as accurate as their noisier percussive cousins and that closer range was needed. She and her companions had no cover from that direction.

But from her angle the three were apart from passersby. Alex brought her Webley around, sighted, and fired at the closest man, who strode forward boldly, his rifle up and aimed right at her.

She’d missed, but he stopped in his tracks, apparently surprised at a show of deadly resistance. That made her second shot easier, and she did not flinch. He dropped, and his two companions faltered in their forward progress, staring at him.

Brook’s short-barrel Bulldog gave a loud, sharp bark for its size. He also missed, but the noise had a discouraging influence; they began backing away.

Alex sighted on one of them, but a different pistol above and to the side spoke first. He staggered, giving a surprised grunt before falling. Several upper-floor windows in the Service building were open, and people fired from them.

The third fellow coolly raised his weapon. No sound came from it, nor was there any sign of recoil. The only way to tell if it fired was when a bullet struck. She shot at him, but he seemed unconcerned, perhaps counting on distance and her shaking hand to keep him safe.

It was a poor choice. Her next shot brought him down.

The people in the windows aimed at targets across the street, shooting over the heads of pedestrians-who, alarmed by the unexpected row of gunfire, began sensibly hurrying away.

Service members seemed to run out of bullets at once. Reloading would take precious seconds. Alex tensed and bolted, not for the entry-it was too much in the open-but toward the three fallen men. She’d get one of those damned rifles or die trying.

Brook shouted after her, but she was away, skirts held high. She made it to one of the trees and paused behind it to gauge distance.

The hooded figure around the corner of Downing Street stepped out and called an order to cohorts scattered along Whitehall. They snapped to and made a firing line, aiming at the Service building and the balustrade. If they had sufficient ammunition, it was a certainty that bullets would strike home between the squat columns. Brook and Sybil had no chance against that. Alex had two rounds left and was in a good spot to take out the leader of the assault. If he fell the others might run.

Unfortunately, he was also in a good spot to take her out. His rifle muzzle was pointed straight at her and if he fired, she did not hear, but something struck the tree at the level of her head. She braced her revolver against the trunk, allowed for distance and …

Too far to the right and too high to judge by the pockmark appearing in the building behind him.

Her last bullet. Again, she allowed for error … and missed.

He stalked forward, ignoring all else, shot after shot striking the tree or sheering past. She could stay pinned or be a moving target. The longer she delayed, the closer he got, the better chance he had to-

Then came the powerful and distinctive crack of a rifle.

The man’s relentless forward progress stopped. He rocked on his heels.

The crack repeated, and he fell heavily in the middle of the now deserted street.

She knew that sound; there was nothing else quite like the no-nonsense report of an American Winchester.

The shot came from a top-floor window of the Service building. The shootist had command of the field and took full advantage of it.

The crack repeated many times, the authoritative sound echoing off buildings and sending civilian stragglers shrieking for cover. Cloaked and hooded men fell, one after another in the space of seconds.

Silence for a moment: even Winchesters had to be reloaded.

Three cowering survivors seized the pause to escape, running north toward Whitehall.

Alex completed her dash, grabbed an air gun, ignoring the groaning and bloodied man on the ground near it. She hurried back to Brook, who was yet behind the low barrier. She counted softly, estimating how long it would take the rifleman on the top floor to reload.

He was quicker than she’d hoped. Two more shots: the farthest runner stumbled forward and fell, then the second farthest. The last cast away his weapon, yelling and waving his hands in surrender, but kept going. His right leg went out from under him. Rolling in the street, he howled and clutched his backside through his cloak.

From the top window, the shootist boomed a triumphant “Hah!” It, too, echoed off the buildings.

“Bloody hell,” Brook said, staring up. “Who’s the madman?”

“Be glad he’s on our side. That’s Colonel Mourne.”

“Good God.”

“Wrath of God, more like.”

“The Colonel Mourne is … is with the Psychic Service?”

“As an advisor.”

“He’s supposed to be the best shot in England.”

“I think he proved that just now.” She looked down. “Sybil? Are you all right?”

The woman, lying on her back on cold, wet pavement, grinned at her. “Now that’s an outing!”

Colonel Mourne called to them. “You three fools in front, get inside. I’ll keep the rabbits from popping from their holes-if any are left!”

Sybil immediately bounced up. “They’re gone. No more rabbits!”

“You sure about that, missy?”

She adopted the tone of a petulant schoolgirl. “Yes, Colonel. Gone-gone-gone.” Sybil spun once in place and abruptly wrested the air gun from Alex’s grasp. “Silent death, but not today. Not for us-it’s Christmas!” She whooped and spun again, laughing.

“Allow me,” said Brook, attempting to ease it from her.

“You can’t carry this in your pocket,” she informed him and thrust it back at Alex. “Under your cloak, there’s a good tweak.”

Alex didn’t know what else to do with the thing. She put the fat stock awkwardly under one arm, the muzzle pointing downward. Her cloak fell into place, covering everything.

Sybil gestured west. “Be in a place that isn’t here-make yourselves useful and do something else besides this botheration.” She gave an exact impersonation of Mrs. George.

“We have to go back,” said Alex, picking up her reticule.

She fixed Alex with a look. “You go forward. I do what’s backward.” So saying, she trotted off, still facing them, to the entrance. She avoided the body of the man she’d shot, went up the step without turning, and vanished inside.

“Were those orders?” Brook asked.

“I believe so. But for me. You stay here and report. I’ll find my way home.”

“Excuse me, Miss Pendlebury, but I don’t believe you, and I’m coming along.” He got her carpetbag.

“Lieutenant Brook, you’re witness to a shooting battle just steps from the PM’s house, there’s more than a dozen dead and wounded up and down Whitehall-Mrs. Woodwake is going to want to know what happened.”

“She can hear it from Sybil and good luck to her. If you’re leaving, then do so before someone comes to stop you.”

Argument meant delay, so Alex set a smart pace toward Richmond Terrace. Porters now looked after the two wounded on that side; the third man had a handkerchief over his features.

“Is that one you got?”

She shook her head. “Not that I wasn’t trying to kill them.”

“You’ve done this sort of thing before.”

“Not in London.”

They put more distance behind, passing Scotland Yard. Several constables were about, staring north. “Wot’s ’appened?” one demanded of them.

“Don’t know,” Brook answered.

“’Ere, is that you, Miss Pendlebury?”

“I think so,” she said, not stopping. “Have to go, Service business.”

He looked dubious, but let them continue on. They crossed to King Charles Street and were out of immediate sight of the Service building and the Yard. Alex slowed, her legs wobbling, sending her off course and into Brook. He caught her arm and steadied her.

“Easy,” he advised.

Her internal barriers were up, but she had to deal with her own emotions, the chief of which was annoyance … until it was replaced by-Oh, God, not now.

She pushed violently away from Brook, made it to the curb, and lost her Christmas dinner to the gutter.

* * *

“Refreshment?” asked Brook. He tilted a flask at her.

She took a sip, rinsing vile acid from her mouth, then spat. The peaty-tasting drink within was of better quality than that favored by Inspector Lennon. A shame to waste it, but she was unsure of her ability to keep anything down.

Sybil said I’d need whiskey.

“Sorry,” she said, handing back the flask. It was heavy silver, engraved with the letters J.M.S.B. She realized she did not know Brook’s first name. Not that she would require its use, but knowing that sort of thing about a colleague-in-arms was only being polite.

“A perfectly understandable reaction.”

“I’ve never, that is…”

“You shot people before,” he prompted. “Not in London.”

She puffed a laugh without mirth. “I was a girl, hardly fourteen. My father and I were in a large group crossing Mexico. It was wild country, no towns for miles, just a thin track the guides called a road and banditos. We had to make a run, shooting from horseback. I’m sure I got two of them, but I wasn’t like this afterward.”

“A younger mind has better protection against such violence. Does it feel as though it happened to someone else?”

“How do you know that?”

“I’ve had scrapes, nothing quite so exciting as this, though. If you’re recovered, we should keep moving. Those attackers were after you and there could be more about.”

“Theirs was a planned assault on the Service, not me. No one could know I’d be coming out the front doors chasing after Sybil; I certainly didn’t.”

“Unless they have a Seer who knew you’d be there.”

“Good God.” What a terrifying thought. She began walking, glancing about for hooded threats.

“Of course, it could have just been bad luck and coincidence. We followed her and simply got in the way.”

“That first man … Sybil knew he was armed. However strangely she acts, there is purpose to it. She was there to stop him. Shot him in the back. Didn’t even blink.”

Brook sampled from his flask, then put it away. “That’s the coldest thing I’ve ever seen, but if he’d gotten into the building with that pistol, a nearly silent weapon like that, no warning-it’s unthinkable.”

“She saved all of them … and us.”

“Who are these men?”

Alex shook her head. “They attempted an organized attack. The first man was likely set to go in, kill and wound as many as he could, the others follow him-they’d have slaughtered everyone in the building. Nearly the whole Service destroyed in one move.”

“Two moves. Lord Richard’s assassination prompted the gathering of all under one roof in the first place. Someone knew what the reaction would be. But why the Service? Forgive me, but it’s not that important.”

“What?” She stopped, staring at him. “It most certainly is.”

“I don’t mean insult, but it’s not as vital as the police. Why not attack them?”

“Policemen are more easily replaced than those with psychical talent. All our most experienced people might have been murdered. It would take years to recover.”

“Therefore, the Psychic Service presents an obstacle to some greater plan.”

“Greater plan?”

“There must be something larger going on. As you said, it’s organized, and such things do not come into being overnight. Long thought and planning has gone into this-and a good deal of money.”

The Ætheric Society? They had wealthy patrons, but it was absurd. They were too small a group and had nothing obvious to gain from eliminating the Psychic Service. Mediums and their ilk would be glad to see the Service removed, but hardly the sort to band together. The nature of their ongoing business of fraud made them all rivals vying for the same customers. The Service was more nuisance to them than anything else.

“It could be a foreign government,” she said. “They’d have the resources. But speculation is pointless. The wounded from that attack will be questioned. We’ll make our contribution by-oh, dear God. I need a telegraph. This way!”

She rushed ahead, but he caught up and did not ask the reason behind her abrupt urgency. He must have come to the same conclusion.

Alex spotted an office across the road, ran over, and snarled upon seeing it was closed, the shades down. “Here!” She shoved the rifle at Brook and dug through her reticule for a small leather case. Within was her collection of skeleton keys. She tried one after another in the lock and hoped there was no bolt as well. The fifth key worked and she opened the door, quickly drawing Brook inside.

“Aren’t those illegal?”

“Haven’t the faintest idea.” She went around the front counter.

“Well, this is. We’ve broken and entered.” He appeared to be sanguine about it, though. How sensible of him.

“Just entered. We’ll be gone soon without breakage. I’d be obliged if you would keep watch in case a policeman comes by to rattle the doorknob.”

Someone had thoughtfully left a box of lucifers out, and she lighted the gas. A quick survey of the long room showed this to be a major routing nexus, with telegraphs for specific countries as well as a dozen machines with links to various other locations within England. She went down the line and found the one that connected to the Service offices. There had been debate in the government about the funding of such lines. A fearful number of politicians objected, arguing against the cost. More than one wag pointed out that if the Service was truly psychic, then they had no need of a telegraph.

The issue was resolved in a most astonishing manner by Lord Richard Desmond (senior), who paid for it out of his own pocket. Many questioned why he’d thought it important, many still did. Alex accepted training to learn Morse code as just part of the job.

The telegraph mechanism was not engaged, but she put it in order and made use of the one wired to the Service’s telegraph office. She tapped the code to signal an incoming message, waited, tapped again, waited.…

It took a few moments before anyone responded. No one could be blamed for that, considering the circumstances. The place would be stirred up like an anthill.

When a response came, Alex tapped in the words STAND BY, grabbed pencil and paper from a desk, and wrote her note. Her Morse was adequate, but she knew she’d get muddled trying to spell everything in her head. Once started, she attained a fair speed.

She ended her message and waited for a reply. It was not the expected MSGE RCVD. Instead, the clicks commanded RETURN AT ONCE.

Alex hadn’t given her signature, but someone had worked out the identity of the sender. Their code people were so good they could identify a sender’s tapping style as readily as hearing their voice.

Mrs. Woodwake was probably looming over the Service operator, looking grim.

Better to err on the side of good manners.

FLLWING INQUIRY CNFRM OTHER HQS WARNED.

The confirmation came, and Woodwake repeated her order, RETURN RETURN RETURN, as though she’d caught Sybil’s peculiar speech pattern.

SORRY MSGE END.

Alex shut the mechanism down, putting things back as found, taking the paper she’d written upon, and turning off the gas. “Done.”

“Dare I ask for details?” said Brook.

“Had to warn them that ours might not be the only Service office subject to attack. They might have come to it on their own, but I wanted to be sure. I wanted to ask if everyone was all right, but Mrs. Woodwake-we should go now. Someone will guess how close we are and come to retrieve us.”

“Then lock the front and we’ll leave by the back.”

She made use of the key again. “They may not know you’re with me. I want to keep it that way. You’re to return and make a report, whatever’s needed.”

“You’ve no idea how ridiculous you sound,” he said. “I’m staying.”

“Lieutenant Brook, my actions have just now guaranteed that I will be dismissed. There is no point in you also being dismissed.”

“They’ll do no such thing. With an unknown group making bold attacks, the Service will need everyone they can muster.”

“You might be safe, but I’m disobeying a direct order from Mrs. Woodwake-several, I should think.”

“But you’re obeying an order from Sybil, and if I judge things correctly, she holds a higher level of importance than Mrs. Woodwake.”

“I doubt Mrs. Woodwake will see it that way.”

“Nonetheless, I’m staying. Sybil didn’t exactly include me, but neither was I excluded.”

“I had the impression you didn’t take her seriously.”

“She is an impossibility, but since she saved our lives, I will accept the impossible for the present. Now, where are we going and why?”

They’d made their way, stumbling and bumping into things in the black recesses of the office, to a small chamber with a single window and a locked door. This one was bolted, but Brook remedied that while Alex tried her keys again. A moment later, they were outside in a narrow alley, the door relocked.

“We need to get to Mayfair, Berkeley Square,” she said. “I want to consult an expert on air guns.” She put the keys away and took the rifle from Brook. “He’s in my shooting club and might have an idea where this was made. That could lead us to the ones behind the attack.”

“Have a look at it yourself,” he suggested. “If you spot something we could go back to the Service office and avoid further ire from Mrs. Woodwake.”

What an excellent idea, she thought.

The rifle’s general form didn’t appear too different from others she’d seen and fired, except for the bulky stock, which was made of dark metal, not wood. She could find no maker’s stamp anywhere.

“Custom made, expensive,” she pronounced.

“No smell of gunpowder to it.”

“They don’t use powder. Compressed air propels the bullet, which no longer needs a cartridge. This is the air reservoir.” She tapped the stock. “One of the problems is having a metal of sufficient strength to withstand the internal pressure of that compression. By the time it’s thick enough to support multiple firings, the weapon might be too heavy to carry. I wish Mr. Sexton was here to give an opinion on the metallurgy.”

“You seem to know a lot already.”

“I know air gun enthusiasts. None have anything like this, though. Theirs fire only a few shots, and then the reservoir must be pressured up again by an attached pumping mechanism. I don’t see any obvious opening for air to go in.”

“How many rounds might this one fire?”

“I don’t want to break it open just yet to see. It could blow up in our faces if we get that wrong. It has power, but lacks balance. Distance accuracy is rotten, though that was fortunate for us. However, if you shoot often enough in the right direction…”

“I know.” Brook removed his top hat and pointed out two holes just above the brim where a bullet had passed clean through. “It fell off when we ducked. Rather glad I didn’t have it on at the time. Not a large round to judge by the damage.”

“There’s probably a trade-off between bullet size and weight against its effective range, but these are enough to kill.” The awful memory of Lord Richard taking shot after shot intruded on her mind’s eye for a moment. She blinked it away as best she could, looking at Brook.

He put his hat back on. The hole in front was just center of his forehead.

She focused on his eyes instead, truly noticing them for the first time. They were a deep and merry blue. She quashed a rush of warm awareness. She’d felt that sort of thing before and it never ended well. Better to not let it get a foothold. Disappointment was inevitable.

She concealed the rifle under her cloak and led off again. “I’m no expert, though. Best we get to one. This won’t take long.”

They had the good luck to acquire a hansom and sorted themselves within its confines: Brook with the carpetbag squashed on his lap, Alex with the rifle pointed at the floor and out of sight. She took advantage of the respite while it lasted, closing her eyes and clearing her mind. The near-meditative state was almost like sleep, but she remained alert to the gait of the horse, the movement of their conveyance, the chilled air … and Brook’s solid body next to hers.

Undeniably pleasant, even with her barriers up. She could enjoy that for its own sake and no harm done.

“We’re here,” said Brook.

She snapped awake, chagrined that she’d nodded off after all.

He handed her out. “I should mention that we are not quite at Berkeley Square.” The bare trees of the square were visible a hundred yards ahead, along with a few hardy strollers taking the afternoon air.

“Intentional. I’ve a call to make first and she lives on Hill Street.”

Number three proved to be a tall structure on the corner of Hill and Farm. The entry was too grand for such a narrow street. Four Doric columns supporting a false balcony overwhelmed the doorway, but the step’s chessboard pattern of black and white tiles was pretty. No light showed in the narrow windows on either side of the black-painted door.

Above the door was a faux Roman arch, the keystone decorated with a head like a death mask. It was a common enough embellishment, but the address used by “Dr. Kemp” also had one. They were, in fact, identical.

“What’s the matter?” asked Brook.

A bit late, she got control of her features and offered him the air gun. She dug in her reticule for the Webley and the box of spare cartridges. She broke both open and reloaded.

He watched, one eyebrow up. “Are we to expect trouble?”

“I prefer to be prepared for it.” She chose not to point out the coincidence of the keystone. It might be a chance thing, after all.

“Who are we visiting?”

“Rosalind Veltre, widow, member of the Ætheric Society, and possibly one of the last people to see my father alive.”

“How do you know of her?”

“Her calling card was in his walking stick. I found a hidden compartment once I had a closer look. The precognition that compelled you to leave it on the desk instead of propped in the corner is what brought us here.”

Brook’s mouth twisted in a strange way, and he looked like a man who wanted very much to express something, but there being a lady present, he could not.

She smiled. “I won’t suggest that you’ll ever get used to it, but perhaps you’ll be able to come to a working tolerance of such an ability. It’s proved useful twice now.”

He settled for a long sigh, which might have been taken for a soft groan. “Well, at least in the Service no one gives such things a second thought.”

“That’s it, see the bright side.”

“Perhaps you will afford me the use of your revolver until we know the lay of the land?”

“Your Bulldog wants feeding?”

“And I am without reloads.”

She traded her Webley for the air gun, again concealing it under the cloak.

Alex tried the door. Locked, but her skeleton key collection solved that, and they were soon in the kind of vestibule common to houses with multiple residents. A long hall extended ahead; its two doors on one side were closed. A staircase led up. The wood was polished, the floors swept. There was no indication where in the building they might find the home of Mrs. Veltre. A table on one side served to hold mail, and it was evidently up to a servant to sort whatever dropped through the letter slot. Two untidy stacks, the first for a Mr. Smoles, the other for Veltre, remained unclaimed from yesterday’s post.

Most of Veltre’s letters seemed to be bills from dressmakers, milliners, and the like. With a satisfying disregard to the woman’s privacy, Alex ripped one of the bills open and examined the totals. An expensive establishment indeed-a single tea gown had cost as much as a year’s income to Alex, who considered herself fairly well off. Even Heather would have thought twice, but the widow Veltre had ordered half a dozen. She could well afford to indulge eccentricities like those and the Ætheric Society, so why not have a private house and staff?

“Well, well,” Alex muttered aloud, plucking out a cream-colored envelope and dropping the rest. It was heavy card stock; someone had used a pen with a fine nib, the writing fair and regular as engraver’s art, and most important, it gave Veltre’s full address. She was on the first floor. “Hand delivery for this one, I think.”

She hurried up the stairs, hampered by the air gun, until shouldering it like a soldier on the march. Her skirts were a nuisance. Perhaps she could persuade Brook to stop at Baker Street so she could change to more practical and cleaner garments. Rolling about on wet pavement while dodging bullets had left its marks.

There was a single door off the stairs to assault, and she made a vigorous action of it, making enough row to rouse the heaviest of sleepers but getting no response. Handing the air gun to Brook, she used the skeleton keys again and pushed the door wide.

The dim interior was silent, the air still and clammy.

As he had for her home, Brook went in first. He left the carpetbag in the hall and swiftly paced through the flat, pronouncing it empty.

“Wait out here a moment,” said Alex. “I’m going to Read.”

She and Brook changed places. She removed her gloves and bit by bit lowered her internal barriers as she paced around, getting a feel for the place.

The general impression left by the resident was that of frustration and anger. This was not a happy house.

The front room with two tall windows overlooking Hill Street was comfortably furnished, tidy, and nearly as cold as the outside. She moved toward the grate. Within lay the remains of the type of ash one got from burning paper, not coal. What had Veltre been so inconsiderate as to destroy?

A writing desk held only invoices for more expensive dresses and hats. Those were stacked according to date. She kept track of her accounts. Little emotional trace remained, just a residue of annoyance. Alex felt the same herself when dealing with bills, though not to this degree. She picked up a silver letter opener and a thrum of anger left by the last hand to hold it almost made her drop it again. Perhaps bad news had come in a previous post and the letter was burned.

No sign of a bankbook or money box; there were just a few stray coins in the corners. Disappointing and oddly sterile. Not one letter or even a visiting card, though there were empty shelves where such might have been stored. The blotter was well used, so Veltre did plenty of writing, but nothing of it lurked in the alcoves. She must have taken it with her or fed it to the fire. Damn the woman.

Alex signed for Brook to come in. He did, closing the door. She moved toward the back, finding a small study littered with theater programs and magazines. The books, not many, were on esoteric themes of interest to the sort of eccentrics who patronized séances. A stack of pamphlets for the Ætheric Society lay on a table. Topics were varied, from the true origin of Atlantis to dreams as a means of communication with the High Masters, whoever they might be.

Each issue bore the motif of a black sun with two white eyes staring out from its face. She’d never liked that emblem; it seemed to grimly demand that one take it seriously, and she could not. Black rays extended from it and beneath was a phrase from no language she could recognize. Such declarations were usually in Latin, and she understood that the Ætherics had their own language, chants of power supposedly passed to them by their High Masters.

“That’s interesting,” said Brook.

“What is?”

“That sun face thing. It looks like the one over the door.”

“You noticed that?”

“I noticed you. Gave you a turn when we were on the step. Why was that?”

“It was on the Harley Street house, a new addition to the entrance facade. If my father was looking into the Ætheric Society, he’d have joined them. Perhaps that thing is common to their members, a way of recognizing one another.”

“Or he happened to see it here, admired it, and had one put on his house.”

“No.” She said that without thinking twice. “He never gave a fig what a place looked like on the outside so long as it was organized on the inside. That was always Fingate’s job. He will know for sure.”

“You’ve no idea where he might have gotten to?”

“We could call on my cousin. I told Fingate he could trust James, but I don’t know if he really heard me on the bridge.”

“That would be Dr. Fonteyn?”

“Certainly not Teddy.”

“Yes, the doctor is a steady sort.”

She shot him a “What the devil?” look. “Steady? James?”

“He was at the Humane Society building. Checked me over along with the others who dove in for you, made sure we were-”

“James did that?”

“He’s a doctor, why shouldn’t he?”

Any reply would be too complicated and take hours. Alex reluctantly conceded that James must put the fool aside now and then, else he’d never have gotten through medical college. People behaved differently with friends and strangers than they did toward family, after all. She knew that rather too well, but it hadn’t occurred to her that James wouldn’t bother to put on a foolish front before others. One needed less protection from strangers than family.

She continued through the flat. A room with a bathing tub, a nice deep one, and a gas water-heating device above it-the woman enjoyed her comfort. The tub was dry. Alex opened a cabinet above the washstand and rocked back.

“What’s the matter?” Brook asked from the hall.

“Just the unexpected.” Not touching it, she pointed to a bottle of Dr. Kemp’s Throat Elixir on the lowest shelf. “I didn’t think it was real.”

The label was a smaller version of the framed poster in the Harley Street house.

“May I?” Brook removed it, pulled the cork stopper, and sniffed. “Smells like flavored liqueur, has some mint in it. You all right?”

“Father went to considerable trouble and detail to present himself as Kemp right down to having this made up. One doesn’t go to such lengths on a lark.”

“Perhaps someone saw through it, recognized him as Lord Pendlebury. But why would the Ætherics want to be rid of either of them?”

“It need not be the whole society, just one member in fear of exposure would suffice. Mrs. Woodwake said that at some of their gatherings they indulge in activities that”-How to phrase it? — “would leave a person vulnerable to blackmail. If he thought my father presented a danger, then he acted decisively and with imagination to stage things. This Veltre woman might well have played a part and fled. Whatever inspired her departure, it was before the last post arrived yesterday.”

“Long before your father was … Well.” Brook did not complete his thought and Alex was grateful for it.

She went on, “Fingate said a woman was helping Father. It might be a different lady than this one, though. I wish to God she’d been here, I’d have throttled answers out of her. Keep looking-an engagement diary, names of friends, anything useful.”

Alex crossed the hall to Veltre’s bedroom; it was less tidy, the bed unmade and clothing strewn about. She had two wardrobes containing the clothing, boots, and shoes needed for every season and social event. A dozen hatboxes were stacked on the floor, each labeled, each containing a pretty bonnet.

The dresses were lovely and favored certain warm colors, but no trousers, no cycling or walking clothes. Veltre was a lady’s lady, like Cousin Andrina. A pleasant floral scent permeated things.

Alex took down her remaining barriers to determine more of the woman’s personality.

Appetite … unsatisfied, a longing for something, a need, a hole in her soul, anger, frustration, fear, worry, grief-a lot of that. The young widow desperately missed her husband. Alex pulled back. Her own grief was too fresh.

What could be determined without Reading?

Vanity, to judge by the cosmetics crowding the dressing table. No prints or paintings, a few photographs, family perhaps. The table by the bed held more pamphlets, theatrical programs, nothing of note or practical use.

No photographs of the dead husband were on display. She should at least have the wedding portrait somewhere, if one had been taken. Alex checked the drawers and cupboards, wanting to know what her quarry looked like, but for a vain woman, Veltre kept no images of herself. How annoying.

Ah-what was that between the bed and table? A reticule, apparently in recent use and shoved out of the way. Alex usually hung hers from a doorknob. She emptied the contents on the bed: house keys, coin and paper money, calling cards in a gold case, a pencil, but no paper or address book. Was the woman friendless, or possessed of an excellent memory for house numbers?

Why would she leave this behind? Just how hasty was her exit?

In a bottom drawer was the type of family Bible given as a wedding gift. Between the Old and New Testament was a section for births and deaths and pages where small photographs might be slipped in. One held a single image of the Veltres in happier times, she in a wedding dress and he in a morning coat. Unfortunately it was too small to show much detail of their faces. Alex memorized the woman’s features as best she could given the limitations. For a woman obsessed with expensive clothes, the bride’s dress was plain and modest. Perhaps she’d not been able to afford better back then and was making up for it now with her inherited wealth.

“The servants’ door in the back is unlocked,” said Brook. “That’s careless.”

Alex wanted a Reading of that. She moved past him to a small kitchen and scullery. It was in good order, clean, but the bread in the box was moldy.

She bent for a close look at the outer side of the door lock. Just the usual scratches, nothing to suggest a breaking-in. She stepped into the back hall.

The icy pressure of the Serpentine seized her body and dragged her into darkness.