The Hanged Man (23 page)

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?”