The Hanged Man (16 page)

She and Alex each breathed a sigh of relief.

“Sorry,” said Alex.

“It's good to have family about, but some of them do get underfoot. I'll make sure no one else comes in.”

Taking advantage of the respite, Alex's busy mind turned to how she'd come to be here in the first place. Where would Fingate have taken himself? What had Father been investigating? What awaited her at the head office of the Service? She'd have to get to the bottom of this nonsense about the Ætheric Society.

No time to waste, then.

She stood and performed the undignified gyrations necessary to dry her hair: bending double, her head upside down, swaying one side to the other, shaking and combing through with her fingers. The result was an untidy tangle, but a few pins would keep it hidden under a hat.

The matron answered a knock at the door, exchanged a few words, and accepted a carpetbag from someone. Alex recognized it as one of her own and padded over. It contained not only dry clothes and her best wool cloak and hat, but undergarments, stockings, walking shoes, her brush, comb, hairpins, and a bottle of hair pomade that would smooth the wild disarray on her head.

She vowed to make the acquaintance of Boodles Churchill's fiancée and treat her to a lavish tea and some shopping.

The dress was not one Alex would have chosen for an interview at the head office. The blue was too frivolous, the fabric too rich, but the hat matched, as did the gloves. The ensemble was better suited for social calls, but it would have to serve for now. With the matron's help, she dressed and stuffed her damp clothes into the bag.

At the door, Alex hesitated.

“What's wrong, dearie?” asked the matron.

“Whatever awaits outside. That's what's wrong.”

“Lord bless you, is that not the truth?”

*   *   *

After imparting her sincere gratitude to the matron (privately resolving to write a letter to the R.H.S. praising her), Alex left the sanctuary of the women's side and entered a sort of lobby. It had a lofty ceiling, dim in the winter gloom, and the gas was alight. Benches were placed along the walls, and a plain receiving desk was in the middle, but no one manned it. Several people were about, all strangers. She expected James and his friends to be there, perhaps Teddy still lingered. She didn't like him, but he was familiar.

No relatives in sight. That was oddly disappointing.

Brook, his cabman's clothing the worse for wear but dry, detached from a group and hurried over. He seemed on the verge of reaching out to her, but checked himself. He did take her in, head to toe, his eyes strangely intense. Her barriers were back in place, so she could not tell if he was anxious or angry. Certainly he was entitled to the latter.

“You're all right, Miss Pendlebury?” His tone expressed concern. She could deal with that.

“Thanks to you, Mr. Brook. Are you restored, no ill effects from immersion?”

“They looked after me marvelously fine.”

“Thank God for that. Mr. Brook, I am deeply, deeply sorry to have caused you such hazard and distress and am very grateful. You saved my life. I shall never forget that. Thank you.”

His fair skin went pink. “I'm glad I was there to help, but would be gladder still to have possession of an explanation.”

“I did not intend we should fall in.”

“So I was informed. I felt my foot slip and then it was over and gone for us both. May I ask why you impeded my pursuit of a wanted man?”

“If I may ask why you did not make yourself known to me sooner. I assume the Service delegated you with the task of keeping watch on Pendlebury House?”

“They did. My round was up at noon. The next man will wonder where I've gotten to; I hope the horse and hansom are where I left them on the crescent.”

“If not, we'll find them.” Alex was chagrined. She should have noticed their presence, but Teddy had distracted her with his chatter. “Is my cousin about? Either of them?”

“They left. Dr. Fonteyn seemed to be in a hurry about something and said he'd be in touch. Mr. Pendlebury insisted I persuade you to return home. He was much in earnest about it.”

She was not surprised, but it still stung. Teddy would have to be at the dining table so as not to offend his mother and whatever guests she'd invited. James must want to get back to whatever bacchanal he'd planned prior to her invasion of his house. She'd nearly drowned, but God forbid they should hang about. Had Alex died, then might they have been upset for a time, but not for long.

The flow of frivolous life must return to its normal course.

But not for Father.
The thought jabbed her, knife-sharp. Teddy could be excused, he didn't know, but she'd thought James might be more considerate. On the other hand, he had jumped in to save her. She should have thanked him for that, and would have had he not hared off.

“Are you all right, Miss Pendlebury?”

She was a breath away from a harsh complaint, but smothered it. The shortcomings of family were her cross to bear, not Brook's. “They can do without me. We must get to the head office. Mrs. Woodwake may have sent for me already.”

“Yes, Miss Pendlebury.” He took the carpetbag from her, gathered a bundle of his own from a bench, and followed as she briskly launched into the cold again.

*   *   *

Brook's hansom was where he'd left it along Wilton Crescent commanding a view of Pendlebury House. Anybody would assume the driver would be waiting to be called to one of the houses. While it should have been in the mews behind the trees banking the crescent, it was so common a sight as to be invisible. Little wonder she'd not noticed.

Behind the hansom was a coach, and two men Alex recognized as Service emerged as she and Brook crossed the street. Dressed as cabmen, they were alert, but lacked a certain tension of manner she expected to see. News of Lord Richard's murder must still be a secret, even within the walls of the Psychic Service.

They had orders she was to report to the head office as soon as possible. One took up post in the hansom, the other handed Alex into the coach—her long skirt and cloak were impediments to agility—and Brook followed after with the bags, settling them on the floor between.

She relaxed marginally when they were away from the crescent, proceeding along Upper Belgrave. This was Uncle Leo's daily route to the Home Office. They would travel a bit farther to get to the Service's offices, which were next to Scotland Yard.

“My question, Miss Pendlebury,” said Brook.

“Question?”

“Why did you interfere with my catching Fingate?”

Why indeed?

“My answer wants for logic, Lieutenant. He took fright at your approach and I … I caught it.”

“You caught fright,” he said, his expression neutral.

“I caught
his
fright. Did they explain about Readers and how we work?”

“You sense the emotions of others and the residual of emotions they leave behind.”

“Yes. When my internal defenses are down, the feelings generated by others can be overwhelming. Fingate was terrified and did not know who to trust. I was trying to convince him to come with me when your approach set him off.”

“Sorry, miss, but I had orders.”

“Not your fault, but singularly bad timing. Another moment and I'd have brought him around. We'll have to wait until he contacts me again.”

“You'll pardon my curiosity, but when I came up you didn't look frightened.”

“Readers learn to conceal emotions. If you don't know whose they are, it's best to keep them hidden.”

“If you were so fearful, why did you not run yourself?”

She shook her head. “That's an acquired foolishness. I learned to fight rather than run from a threat.”

He responded with a ghost of a smile. “Next time I'll give you a wider berth.”

“I hope there will not be a next time, Mr. Brook.”

“Indeed, Miss Pendlebury. Once was sufficiently damaging.”

There was that warmth of spirit again, strong enough that it filtered through her barriers. She pushed aside its distraction. “You followed me from the house?”

“At a prudent distance. I planned to stay clear of you at the church, didn't want to intrude on the family, but you went haring off toward the park. Lost you in the crowd. Couldn't think why you did that, though now I believe it was to meet with Mr. Fingate.”

“That was my intent, yes. Before running away last night he passed me a note on where to meet.”

“You did not mention that then.”

“We got rather busy. By the time I remembered—well, I know I'm going to be hauled over the coals. Had I brought him in, the situation would be different. Just have to deal with things as they are and hope they improve. I'll make a full report and mention you did your duty. You went above and beyond in your actions to preserve me. I hope you'll get proper recognition for that.”

“Really, now.”

“I mean it.”

“I would prefer to forget it altogether—not my most shining moment, falling off a bridge.”

“Nor mine.” Alex was not keen to report; she'd look like a fool. There was a possibility of disciplinary action, but they'd not dismiss her. Good Readers were rare, and she was one of the better ones. “How long have you been with the Service?”

“A week. They gave some instruction in protocol, lectures on investigations, and yesterday was my first day of active duty.”

Good God. Greener than grass
. “Where were you prior?”

“I'd rather not discuss that, if you don't mind, Miss Pendlebury. This is where I serve now.”

“Offended someone?”

He hesitated, eventually offering a wry smile. “I got noticed.”

“In a good way or bad way?”

“I'm still sorting that out.”

“What sort of experience do you bring to the Service?”

“Ample.”

She verged on giving in to annoyance, but for his smile. A person must be forgiven for wanting to preserve their privacy; she certainly put effort into keeping herself apart from others. She had but a handful of friends, none outside the Service; like her, they had various quirks due to their psychical talents that had to be tolerated. Social gatherings tended to be an extension of work, with talk centered on whatever was going on at the time. Usually it was interesting, but Alex wanted to try ordinary chat about ordinary things. A simple conversation about weather that did not involve working out how long a corpse had been exposed to the elements would make a pleasing change.

As for anything approaching courtship, she'd found that impossible. Some men were too curious about her Reading ability, others discounted its existence, and the rest were unsuitable for one reason or another. Human relationships relied on pretense and lies, and one could maintain neither with a Reader.

She rather liked Lieutenant Brook, but Sergeant Greene would return on Boxing Day as her usual driver. Brook would remain a colleague to be nodded at as they passed in the halls, though perhaps a bit more, for having saved her life.

“Your cousin had me keep this for you,” said Brook. He pulled her mud-smeared reticule from his bag. Her revolver was still in it.

“Thank you again, I'm glad to have this back.” She slipped the firearm into her cloak pocket.

“Yesterday I'd have found the idea of a lady carrying one of those around to be a bit of a shock,” he said.

“And today?”

“A necessity. That attack last night—well, you should have a spare.”

What an enlightened sort
.

“I've also this for you.…” He drew a walking stick out. “Never saw one like this before. Certainly unique-looking.”

Her father's cane.

She'd been too distracted on the bridge to recognize it, but the memory rushed back sharply. The stick had been a gift from some South American dignitary, made from a type of wood that was almost as hard as the iron ferrule. The handle and intricately wrought wide collar were silver, its detailed, one-of-a kind crafting by a master smith.

Only yesterday her father's living hand had carried it.

Blinking, she pulled off her right glove and—

The imprint of him remained. She shut her eyes and felt his presence like a solid thing. He was next to her, warm, caring, proud, his love tinged with worry. It washed over her soul like a sun-warmed wave. Whatever his actions, wherever their travels had taken them, his love for Alex had been the force that kept him moving. If he hadn't found help for her …

I might have become like Mother or turned drunkard like most of the other Fonteyns.

That had been the unspoken threat over much of her young life. He'd all but obsessed on it, looking for some way to
save
her.

Alex drew back, opening her eyes. How much of that was from the cane and how much dredged from her memory?

They were too closely blended. For all she knew it was wholly from memory and only wishful thinking made him alive again.

But he was gone, the door between shut. He was never to return, and she was truly an orphan. All that remained were echoes in her mind of his voice, glimpses of his face, a thousand memories of travels past, and nothing for the future but grief. Her limbo of waiting was ended, cruelly ended. No chance to say good-bye, he'd said that on a pier in Hong Kong a decade past. In London he could have walked just a few streets over and knocked on her door.
Why
hadn't he done so? If he loved her that much, what could possibly be more important than seeing his only child?

Tears fled down her cheeks. She dropped the cane.

“Miss Pendlebury?”

“It was Father's. He's … something of him lingers.”

“And it is not enough.”

“No.…”

“I'm so sorry.”

Alex dug blindly through the reticule for a handkerchief. One should be there, she always had two or three.… Had she forgotten, how could she forget anything so fundamental as a bloody handkerchief—