The Hanged Man (24 page)

“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.

 

CHAPTER NINE

In Which Lord and Lady Hollifield Provide Information and Mince Pies

Alex fought frantically against it, breath trapped, chest aching.

“There now, you're all right,” said Brook in a steady voice.

Her eyelids shot wide.

Brook held both her wrists; his concern was as solid as a physical embrace. She tried to break free, and he instantly released her. “You fainted is all.”

Not underwater. Not dying
.

Deep breath. A gasp, really. A shaky series of gasps. “I nev—I don't faint.”

“'Fraid you did. Dropped like a stone.”

They were on a level, she lying on a long settee in the front room, and Brook on one knee next to her. Her hat was gone and the top buttons of her collar undone. Good God.

Brook had a damp cloth in hand and put it on her forehead. She forced herself to remember … the kitchen … a door … the back hallway—the rush of utter terror had snaked through Alex and slammed her flat. “Faugh. I walked into that one like a green apprentice.”

“Walked into what?”

“If-if an emotional imprint is strong and you're not braced, it's like stepping blind from a cliff. You get a nasty jolt. That one was … exceptional.”

“What caused it?”

“Someone took Mrs. Veltre against her will. She was frightened to death, tried to fight but—did you smell ether?”

“I was busy getting you off the floor. Anything injured? You made quite a thump.”

She took stock. “I'm fine. I haven't as far to fall as some people.” Barriers restored, if brittle, she sensed his amusement. “What, no alarm? You're getting used to the job?”

“Plenty of alarm, I thought you'd been shot by one of those damned air rifles.”

“Oh.”

“It was a considerable relief to find you breathing and unpunctured.”

He would have left that emotion behind, contaminating the area. She'd allow for it on a second Reading. “Have you much experience dealing with fainting females?”

“Not directly. I read a lot. Ladies seem to faint in books and in plays far more often than in real life. In your case I went with my instincts. Couldn't find any smelling salts, though.”

“For which I am grateful.”

With some caution, she sat up, found that standing was possible, and did so. She had collected a few more bruises but nothing worse.

“You're not dizzy?”

“It was a psychical shock, a bit different from a theatrical swoon.”

He offered his flask.

She shook her head, lips going tight.

Gently eschewing his offered arm, she made her own way toward the kitchen. Doing up her collar, she was careful to block any emotions he might have left when he'd touched the buttons. She did not want to know what he'd felt. That would complicate things and … distract her.

This time Alex entered the back hall with more caution, slowly easing open her internal barriers. She separated Brook's fresh traces and sought the older imprint of sheer panic. The intensity of emotion was like an explosion, brief and devastating. Veltre had been surprised, fought desperately, and then abruptly faded. Though no scent remained, Alex was sure the smothering feeling was due to ether having been used. Her inner mind had linked the sensation to her next closest memory, taking her back to that ghastly immersion.

She proceeded down to a courtyard that served two more buildings. The court opened to Farm Street. Veltre could have been carried out and loaded into a conveyance after dark with no one noticing. On Christmas Eve most people would be indoors at dinner.

Futile as it was, she was thorough, but the psychic scent of Mrs. Veltre was long dispersed.

By his very absence, Alex knew who was responsible for the abduction. There was no trace of him, not in the hall, the stairway, or the door leading to the yard.

“It's the ghost,” she told Brook, coming back inside. From his puzzled look she realized he'd not heard of it yet. She explained.

“Someone with no emotions at all?” he asked.

“None that I can track.”

“But everyone has emotions. We can't help ourselves.”

“Inspector Lennon suggested an automaton without its box, but only as a joke.”

“I'd prefer to believe that than a man without emotions. Perhaps he puts himself in a mesmeric trance or something so it's impossible for a Reader to find him.”

“If so, then it works too well. I've found all there is to find here.” But on the way to the front room Alex paused at the bedroom door, staring in. “That's … that's not right.”

She hurried back to the desk and looked at the receipts again, noting the number of items and whether they'd been delivered.

“I'm a fool,” she muttered. “Tea gowns, hats, evening gowns—look at the number of them, the prices.”

Brook did so. “I didn't know fashionable ladies paid so much for their things.”

“They generally do not; these are outrageous and she's got two wardrobes for storage. Unless she's let another floor in this building, there's no room to hold all this.”

“Perhaps she bought them for a girls' school or something.”

“I doubt any academy has need of three dozen identical ball gowns. See the handwriting? These invoices are from different shops, but the writing is the same. The venues must be false, I don't recognize any of the names. No addresses, either.”

He went through a stack. “She's done a good deal of shopping in the last six months. Where's her bankbook?”

“Not here. The money amounts are probably correct, but the items themselves are not what was purchased. This sort of substitution code is not a new invention, but I've not seen it for sums like this. Thousands and thousands of pounds, but for what? And why was she recording them in this manner?”

Alex remembered the heavy envelope she'd brought up. The elegant handwriting did not match the invoices. No matter. She put the letter opener to use. The single card within had that day's date and
8:30—“Masters Impart”
perfectly centered on its cream-colored surface.

“An invitation with no address,” he observed.

“I think she gave that to Father.” Alex located her reticule next to the settee and pulled out the worse-for-wear calling card.

“Is that what you found in the—”

“Yes, Father's walking stick.”

He glanced at the card. “Twenty-five Grosvenor Square. We could walk over. A meeting, you think? The Ætheric Society?”

“It
could
be an ordinary gathering. Christmas dinner.”

“And I'm the king of Siam. You're going to go, aren't you?”

“How can I not?”

“I'm sure there are a dozen good reasons you will ignore. You will still be lumbered with me as a bodyguard, though.”

“Not lumbered, you're needed. It would be foolish to go alone.”

“Again, I am relieved. But why not telegraph the Service with this information and let them send in people? They could have half of Scotland Yard in tow.”

“Because at this point we have no empirical evidence that my father's death is connected to the Ætherics. We have no evidence his death and the attack on Lord Richard are connected. One followed close upon the other, but the methods differed. For my father, someone went to much trouble to make it appear not to be murder. For Lord Richard it was a determined and prolonged attack until the objective was achieved, and they were untroubled by the presence of witnesses. The man had enemies, so the timing of the two events could be coincidental. I do not like coincidences, but this could be one. Invading a meeting of the Ætheric Society might resolve only one issue.”