(A Charm of Magpies 1)The Magpie Lord (4 page)

“Good Lord,” said Stephen.

Black, white and blue, three magpies perched and cawed and flew over Crane’s torso, the colours magnificently vibrant. Another bird stretched its wings on his left shoulder. He turned, and Stephen gave a tiny gasp as he saw the huge single magpie that brooded on his back, claws clutching a branch that was made of an old, jagged scar.

“Good
Lord
. What’s that, five of them?”

“Seven.”

Stephen peered round him, frowning slightly. “I only see five.”

“The other two are lower down,” said Crane. “Two for joy.”

There was a blank moment before Stephen felt his face flood with scarlet, reddening further as he saw Crane’s slight, untrustworthy grin.

“I see.” He kept his voice determinedly neutral. “Is there a reason you have seven magpies tattooed on you?”

“Seven for a secret never to be told.” Crane shrugged, making a magpie ripple. “Actually, I just ran out of useful space.”

“Why any magpies at all?”

“Whim. I was being forced to have a very large and expensive tattoo, and it seemed a change from the usual dragons and carp. I rather liked it, as it turned out, so I added more.”

“…forced to have a tattoo?”

“It’s a long story.”

Stephen couldn’t tear his eyes away. Crane’s body art was spectacular, but what it covered was equally striking: a muscular torso, powerful and much broader than he’d realised. Crane’s height and the elegant tailoring made him look deceptively lean to a casual glance, but bare-chested, tattooed and scarred, this was unmistakably the hard body of a hard man. Stephen felt himself shiver suddenly.

He needed to look away now.

He turned abruptly, unable to do it with grace. Crane, apparently unembarrassed, reached out a long arm for his shirt and began to dress as Stephen pulled himself together.

“Right. Well, that might do it, but… You came back to England four months ago, yes? No visits before then?”

“None. I hadn’t planned to return at all. Wouldn’t have, but the lawyers were making a fuss.”

“Mmm. Tell me how your father and brother died.”

“Is that relevant?”

“I hope not.”

Crane gave him a narrow-eyed look as he buttoned his shirt. “I’m told they both killed themselves. Hector hanged himself from the same bell rope I tried to use. Father shot himself.”

“Where?”

“In the head.” Stephen made an exasperated noise, and Crane gave a twitch of a smile. “Piper. In the library.”

“Blast. Can we sit down? Lord Crane, the Judas jack was created to drive its victims to madness and self-murder. Its choice of victims was driven by the magpie feather, your family symbol. It was hidden in your family home. It would have been made to order, carved for its purpose, and that wood is clearly more than a few months old. It was in the Piper library until it came back here with you. So—”

“That device attacked my father and brother?” Crane’s eyes were steady on Stephen’s. “That’s why they killed themselves? They experienced what I did?”

“Yes. I think so. It’s
possible
that their suicides were coincidence, but the balance of likelihood is against that.”

Crane nodded. He walked to the door, opened it, and bellowed, “Merrick!”

The manservant appeared almost before Lord Crane was seated again, and took a chair at his jerked thumb.

“The shaman thinks the jack thing got the old man and Hector,” said Crane without preamble. “It was aimed at the family. A device to kill Vaudreys.”

Merrick considered this, nodded slowly.

“Which raises a question,” Crane went on. “Is someone trying to wipe out my entire family, or was it a trap for Hector and my father, and I fell into it?”

“That’s a good question.” Stephen looked at the aristocratic, emotionless face opposite him. “You don’t seem surprised to learn your family may have been murdered.”

Crane shrugged. “I always found it deeply improbable either of them killed himself. Hector was incapable of remorse, and it’s much more plausible that my father was driven to suicide by sorcery than that he chose to clear my way to the succession. What seems to me very likely indeed is that someone hated them enough to kill them. And I find it very unlikely that person was trying to kill
me
because I haven’t been here, so do we in fact have a problem?”

“Murder?” Stephen knew he sounded scathing, couldn’t help it. “It is a crime.”

“Mr. Day, you know what they were,” Crane said. “If someone killed them, it was about bloody time.”

“No, it was murder,” said Stephen. “No matter what they were.”

“I dispute that. Hector did exactly as he chose—rape, assault, abuse—with my father’s protection and complicity, and he got away with it for thirty years and more because not one single person had the guts to stand up to them—”

“My father did
.”

Stephen was on his feet, he wasn’t sure how, and his hand was painfully tight round the sharp-edged crystal stem of his glass. Crane’s eyes were on his, intent.

“Did he,” he said calmly. “I didn’t know that. Who is your father?”

“His name was Allan Day. Of Ruggleford.”

“I don’t know the name. When was this?”

“Sixteen years ago.”

“After I’d left. He must have been a brave man,” said Crane. “I take it things did not end well for him.”

“Your father destroyed him.” Stephen’s throat was tight on the words. “His business, his reputation. His career. My mother. He brought an action—he was a solicitor—against your father’s abuse of his position, for the sake of all the people who needed someone to stand up for them, and Hector Vaudrey—he threatened my mother, and when Father wouldn’t back down—he came to our house—” The wine was slopping over the sides of the glass as his hand shook. “And, after, when Father gave in, they made him sign papers, admissions, of theft and malpractice. Lies. They humiliated him in court, then wherever we went after that, your father’s lawyers made sure the lies were spread about him. If anyone hired him, there would be a letter sooner or later, and he’d be dismissed. Even when he was doing the most menial work, till we were reduced to nothing. There was no money to treat Mother when she fell ill, and—” He swallowed hard, staring with hatred at the arrogant, expressionless Vaudrey features before him. “My father died of a broken heart. Your father broke him.”

He stopped, too raw to say anything else, waiting to see what defence the man would offer. The silence stretched.

“I can’t apologise,” said Crane, at last. “It wouldn’t mean anything. Your father was a brave man who tried to do what was right, and mine was a callous, deluded fool who cared about nothing but that repulsive madman Hector.”

Stephen groped for a response. He had expected dismissiveness, denial, something he could fight. He didn’t know what to do with agreement.

“The fact that you came here at all, let alone saved my life, suggests that you take after your father,” Crane went on. “I’d like you to believe that I don’t entirely take after mine.”

“I wasn’t going to help you,” Stephen jerked out. “I was going to tell you to go to hell. I couldn’t even do that.” He sat down abruptly and put his hand over his face.

“Here.” Crane leaned forward with the bottle. Stephen’s hand, holding his glass, was still shaking. Crane’s fingers closed firmly round Stephen’s wrist, holding the hand and glass steady as he poured, keeping the grip for a couple of seconds afterwards, calming, until Stephen took a deep breath and pulled away.

“One question.” Crane settled back into his chair. “You mentioned my father’s lawyers. Did you mean Griffin and Welsh?”

“Yes.”

Crane nodded. “Mr. Day, I understand entirely why you don’t want to be here and I don’t blame you. I would appreciate it if you could tell me what now needs to happen, though.”

Stephen took refuge in professional thought. “You need a practitioner to go down to Piper and confirm whether the jack was used to murder your father and brother. He needs to identify the maker, ascertain their motive, bring them to justice.”

“Justice?”

“What was done to you is a crime. And if the jack was used on your family, they were murdered. Justice.”

Crane exchanged glances with Merrick. “How exactly would one go about dealing with murder by magic? It would hardly be something to take to a judge and jury.”

“Wrong.” Stephen suddenly felt very tired. “There’ll be a judge and jury. Of its kind.”

Crane nodded. “Very well. Then the question is, are you able to recommend someone, a practitioner, to undertake this?”

Stephen’s eyes flew to his face. Crane gave him a faintly sardonic look. “Please, Mr. Day, I’m not going to ask you to hunt down my father and Hector’s killer. If you can recommend someone I’d be very grateful. If you can’t, I’ll go back to Rackham, and let him know his favour was well repaid.”

“I’ll find you someone,” Stephen said. “I’m better placed to do that. They’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you. Let Merrick have your address. I doubt I’ll see you again, Mr. Day, so accept my thanks. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your father.”

“Thank you.” Stephen managed a half smile. “I’m sorry about yours.”

Crane tipped his glass in salute. “Yes. Aren’t we all.”

Chapter Five

It was the following Thursday, and hot. The iron girders that roofed Paddington Station shimmered in the heat that rose from the engines and beat down from the cloudless sky, more like August than April. Clouds of steam belched and rolled across the platforms. Metal screeched, porters bellowed, horns blared, and Stephen Day sprinted down a platform, dodging crowds of full-skirted ladies and the importunities of railway officials.

“Mr. Day!” yelled Merrick from the first-class carriages, waving, and Stephen ducked under a protesting guard’s arm, threw his bag into the carriage, and made it onto the train a full four seconds before the wheels began to turn.

He slammed the door and collapsed onto a seat, trying not to suck in breath too noisily.

“You cut that fine,” remarked Crane. “This is a surprise, I must say.” He was wearing a superbly cut light-grey suit that matched the grey of his eyes, and looked cool and patrician and unruffled, as befitted a man who owned a sizeable part of Gloucestershire and could afford people to carry his bags. Stephen had run from Baker Street and could feel his face glowing and sweat running down his spine.

“I got held up.” He was horribly uncomfortable, and he was not going to stand on ceremony. “Is there nobody else in here?”

“As you see.”

“Then if you don’t mind…”

Crane inclined his head. Stephen stripped off his gloves and his shabby coat with relief, grateful that no ladies were present. He slung his bag onto a luggage rack and sank back into a well-upholstered seat.

On the other row of seats, Merrick and Crane looked at him, and at each other.

“Busy morning, was it?” said Crane eventually. “Or a long night?”

“The latter, running into the former. Some business to take care of.”

“So I see. Merrick, get a pot of coffee lined up for Mr. Day, strong, and on your way, tell the guard we’re reserving this whole carriage to the end of the line. Encourage him not to come in. Get the blinds on your way out.”

“My lord,” said Merrick woodenly, pulling the blinds on the compartment door and letting himself out.

“Is there a reason you’re making this a private compartment?” Stephen enquired warily.

“Yes,” said Crane. “Is there a reason your sleeve is soaked in blood?”

“What? Where? Oh
bother
.” Stephen contorted himself to look at his left elbow. “Blast.”

“It looks to the untutored eye as though you have been leaning in a puddle of blood,” said Crane. “Quite a large puddle.”

“Yes. I dare say it does.”

“Because…?”

“I can’t talk about my business. I’m sure you understand.”

“But since you’re now about
my
business, Mr. Day, I’d like to know whose blood you’re wearing. Within the bounds of discretion. For my own peace of mind.”

Stephen gave him a narrow-eyed look. “It was a cat,” he said. “And bleeding it wasn’t my idea, I can assure you.” He stifled a yawn.

There was a subdued knock and Merrick entered bearing a tray.

“Another small miracle, thank you.” Crane nodded towards Stephen. “It’s cat’s blood, in case you were wondering.”

“Course it is, my lord.” Merrick manipulated cups and coffeepot deftly. “There you are, sir, that’ll set you up. You won’t be disturbed, my lord. Do you need me?”

“No, carry on,” said Crane. Merrick said something in Chinese and there was a brief staccato exchange before Merrick withdrew again.

Stephen sipped his coffee, watching Crane over the cup’s brim. “What was that?”

“I reminded him not to fleece the fireman too badly. He’s a devil with a pack of cards. Why are you here, Mr. Day? We were expecting Mr. Fairley.”

“Yes, I know. I, ah…I got your lawyer’s letter.”

The stiff cream vellum envelope, wildly incongruous as it lay on his doormat with the cheap stationery and the bills. The letter it contained, from Crane’s lawyers, who were not Griffin and Welsh. The written, notarised statement from Humphrey Griffin, stating how he had forced Allan Day to sign the documents that had ruined him, laying out the lies, detailing the persecution he had subjected him to, all on the orders of Quentin, Lord Crane. The list of names to whom copies of that notarised statement were being sent, on the orders of Lucien, Lord Crane. The dry request that Stephen should supply names and addresses of any parties to whom further copies should be sent.