The Hanged Man (7 page)

Revenge for Alex, if not prudent, was imperative. Circumstances suggested a suitable retaliation. She poured out her cousin's perfume and filled the bottle with gin. Andrina had no sense of smell, owing to a childhood illness, and the next day departed for a lengthy visit to Balmoral reeking like a drunkard.

There had been no repercussions since the prank could as easily been carried out by any of the other cousins—who were not talking. The only thing they abhorred more than Alex was a tattletale (and none them liked Andrina), so they closed ranks. Andrina, though, knew who was behind it, and from that point on ignored her cousin completely, thinking that a snub from a person of her social standing would completely crush her foe.

Nothing could have had less impact on Alex, who was unaware that she was supposed to be miserable. It proved to be an imperfect but workable resolution to both girls. They found ways to avoid each other and not speak at the dinner table.

Family disputes aside, Alex had written her father nearly every day, the first letters addressed to him in Hong Kong with “please forward” printed neatly on the envelope in English, French, and Chinese. She did not ask why she'd been sent away, reserving that question for the next time she would see him. She did inquire where he was and when he expected to be in England, then went on to describe the happenings of that particular day, certain that he would be interested as he'd always been.

Her certainty wavered as the months crawled on without a reply, puzzlement gradually giving way to hurt, and then anger. No one knew where he was, not even Uncle Leo, and no one seemed inclined to find him, though Leo made inquiries. Nothing had come of them.

A year after her return to England, a battered packet of unopened letters turned up, half a dozen out of the more than three hundred she'd sent. Someone had scrawled “return to sender” on the front in pencil and by some miracle it had found its way to her. It was not, so far as she could tell, her father's handwriting. They were some of the earliest, on stationery acquired in San Francisco. She'd opened each, reading the events within, recalling forgotten details, but not relishing them as treasured memories. They mocked her then-belief that being sent away was only a temporary thing.

Five years with Father, a total of twenty years without him, and now he was gone forever.

*   *   *

“It must have been quite an adventure,” stated Lord Richard.

“Indeed, sir. The adventure of a lifetime.” She'd left out much from her account, and everything to do with her family. Childish feuds between cousins could hardly be of interest to him.

“Beginning when you were only ten? There is the danger that ennui might overtake a person exposed so soon to such variety.”

“I have thus far been spared.”

Not strictly accurate. Alex loved traveling and it had been difficult adjusting to living a quiet, relatively predictable life. While Samuel Johnson's declaration that when one tires of London, one tires of life might be true for some, he'd never ventured farther than the Hebrides.

Besides, he'd not been plagued with a psychical ability for Reading or he'd have ended up in Bedlam.

Some of her Fonteyn relatives had done so or been secreted away elsewhere for their own good. The psychical gifts that ran in their blood sometimes had a malignant effect, hence the family reputation for brilliance mated with instability. Had Father not gotten Alex a measure of special training early on, affording her control of her talent, she might well have gone down the same path.

Mrs. Woodwake returned, climbing inside the landau to sit next to Alex. She nodded once in greeting, looking exhausted. “Pendlebury.”

“Ma'am,” she said, and nodded back like a schoolgirl to a respected teacher. Woodwake had that effect on her. “Shall I leave, Lord Richard?”

“No.” He looked at Woodwake. “Your report, if you please.”

It was much as Alex expected. The emotional traces in the murder room were contaminated, so they would have to rely on the physical evidence. It was well there was a goodly amount, with more being gathered. On the roof, Inspector Lennon traced the intruder's tracks to an empty house along the row that had been broken into; Woodwake inspected the premises, finding only faint echoes of its previous occupants.

“You interviewed the servants?”

“Yes. Innocent, so far as I am able to ascertain. They're genuinely shaken, no one is hiding anything. They've no idea where Fingate's gone, either.”

He looked at Alex, who felt an uncomfortable prickling under her arms. She should tell him about the note. It was not too late. She could talk her way out of any serious disciplining. Knowing where Fingate was likely to be hours from now was different from not knowing where he was at present, though she doubted Lord Richard would appreciate the argument.

Besides, it was now her turn to be questioned by a Reader. It was a foregone conclusion that Woodwake would sense a lie and any lie to cover the lie.

“Sir, I—”

Something struck the coach with a great deal of force, making a strange, flat percussive sound like a hammer on iron. Several more percussive somethings struck, shattering the glass window facing the street. The curtain twitched.

Lord Richard flinched and grunted, then Alex felt the brute force of his hand on her shoulder. She and Woodwake were shoved down to the narrow confines of the coach's floor with his lordship's considerable weight on top.

 

CHAPTER THREE

In Which Hokery-Pokery Is Judged to Be Useless

Alex felt a wave of rage that was not her own and another of fear not her own, the first from Richard, the latter from Woodwake, before closing herself off from the onslaught.

More things pelted the coach, tearing through the leather hood. She was certain they were bullets, but could not hear gunfire. The curtain and hoods were holed, the supporting hoopsticks splintered, but nothing penetrated below the sides. From the sound those were made of metal, not wood.

She smelled blood and realized Lord Richard had been hit. She tried to shift, but he snarled at her to keep down.

“I have my revolver, sir,” she said, her voice strained, given the fact she could hardly breathe. “In my coat pocket…”

“Good for you; stay where you are. The driver is armed.”

So it proved when the bark of a firearm put a stop to the hammering. The coach rocked as the man apparently quit his position on the bench.

His pistol barked twice more and men shouted.

The conveyance lurched forward. Once in motion it kept going, picking up speed, the horses' strength overcoming the brake. She heard more shots as they rocked away unchecked. Alex had a horrible feeling—this time, entirely her own—that matters were about to get worse. She pushed and squirmed, Richard ordering her to keep still, Woodwake getting in the way. Whatever was being used in the attack was directed at one side only, so she'd be safe enough. She hoped.

Alex wriggled her torso clear, kicking his lordship in the process, to judge by his curse, and pushed the door open. The sidewalk was on the move, or so it seemed from her vantage on the floor. The alarmed horses were trotting away from the uproar. Alex undid the buttons on her ulster and struggled to shed it.

“Get
down
!” Richard ordered and caught her by the back of her collar—the coat's collar, which was a bit of luck. He pulled, she pulled, and she was suddenly free. Her revolver was still in the pocket, but she had no time for shooting. She turned to face the interior and backed out the door, holding tight to the leather roof as they swayed along. The hoopsticks supporting it on this side were still intact and held her weight for an instant as she swung her right leg up. Her foot landed on a horizontal spot, then skidded awkwardly into the skeleton boot under the driver's bench. It gave her leverage. She boosted over and made a successful grab at the seat irons, then pulled herself onto the bench to pick up the reins.

Her instinct was to stop, but a bullet—or whatever it was—whipped by her ear like an angry bee. Men were giving chase or attempting to; the sleety glaze on the paving made it hazardous for attackers and defenders alike.

She released the brake, gave the reins a smart snap, and yelled at the horses. The animals plunged ahead. She sent up an incoherent prayer that neither of them broke a leg.

The slippery road was clear of traffic at this hour on Christmas morning. She risked a glance back, but darkness, their movement, and distance kept her from seeing anything. Best to assume the worst. Lord Richard shouted, but she ignored him and kept going. They passed Devonshire Street and were approaching Weymouth before she looked back again. No one seemed to be immediately behind.

Fortunately the horses were inclined to respond when she pulled on the reins, and slowed to the point where she could make a turn without tipping the landau. She went right, then right again, doubling north on Marylebone High Street. His lordship was cursing loudly enough that she could make out words even over the rumbling wheels and the ring of horseshoes. She urged the horses left onto Paddington with the idea of getting to Baker Street and a doctor. Harley Street was chock-a-block with physicians, but too warm a climate for the moment.

Warm? She was freezing up here. The sleet stung her face, clung to her lashes, and the cold wind hurt her teeth because she was grinning. Nothing to do with mirth, though her short huffing breaths might be mistaken for laughter rather than a reaction to nearly getting killed. She could still hear the heavy tearing sound of that missile passing her by a quarter inch. What could do that? A bullet crossbow? No, not enough velocity for the distance, but close. Ah, of course, it would have to be—

“Pendlebury, stop this damned thing at once!” Lord Richard's anger intruded on her deductions. She grimaced.

“Almost there, sir,” she shouted back.

“Where?”
he roared.

Paddington intersected with Baker Street. She eased the horses into the turning. They trotted smartly, heads tossing and bits jingling, apparently ready for another mad dash. She brought them to a stop, set the brake, and clambered down. Lord Richard was already out of the coach, glaring at her. Mrs. Woodwake crept out more slowly, looking rumpled and somewhat wild-eyed. More alarmingly, her clothing was bloodstained.

“What happened?” she asked, righting her hat. “Bullets and no gunfire?”

“Air guns,” Alex and Richard said at the same time, then looked at each other, startled.

“How do you know about those?” he demanded.

“A member of my shooting club collects them.” She pushed past Woodwake to get her coat—the sleeves were inside out—and the bull's-eye lantern, which had fallen off the seat. It was one of the “safe” models, and had hardly leaked any fuel. She sought and found lucifers in her coat pocket and lighted the thing, aiming the beam at Lord Richard. He had a thin streak of blood on one temple, but his left side was soaked.

Woodwake gasped and went to him. “Sir, back in the coach. At once. We must find a doctor.”

“I'm all right.” But his face was white and sheened with sweat.

Alex had seen that kind of shock when she'd crossed Mexico. Their party had been attacked by bandits, and a man hadn't noticed he'd been shot. He'd bled to death in the saddle denying to the last that there was anything amiss. She checked the house numbers, ran to the one she wanted, and yanked the bell chain until an annoyed-looking young man opened the door.

“You better be dying,” he said, bloodshot eyes unfocused. His hair stuck out in a variety of directions, and he wore evening clothes that had seen better times. “Oh, Cousin Alex. To what do I owe the honor?”

“Wake up, James, I've brought you a shooting.”

“Thoughtful of you. Half a minute—I recall you don't like me.”

“I don't, but you are convenient. Now
help
us.”

Showing no consternation or much speed, he quit the doorway to light the gas, calling to someone within to shift himself. “This is your lucky night. I've a houseful staying over. You might like one of
them
.”

Woodwake struggled to prop up Lord Richard but he wasn't cooperating. “Get back in the coach and have the madwoman drive us back,” he insisted. He held his left arm clamped tight to his side. Alex took his elbow.

“This way, Lord Richard, we're nearly there.”

“We are not.” But his legs gave out partway up the steps, and she and Woodwake were obliged to take his weight to keep him from cracking his skull.

“What is this place?” asked Woodwake. “Where are we?”

“Baker Street. Mr. Fonteyn is my cousin. He's an eye surgeon … and a bit eccentric.” That was putting it charitably. “He lets rooms to medical students, so there's bound to be someone here who can help.”
If they're sober enough
.

James wakened sufficiently to lend a hand. He took Alex's place and dragged Richard into a parlor. “Where
shall
we put him?” he asked. “He's too long for the settee, and anyway, it's occupied.”

Another young man in evening dress sprawled asleep on that object of furniture. He didn't stir despite the commotion.

“The floor, James,” Alex said. “For God's sake, take this seriously.”

They eased the patient down. James swatted at his clothes. “Damn, I've blood all over my suit. Haven't finished paying for it, either. Just what sort of parties are you attending these days, little cousin?”

“I'll explain later.” Alex ripped her gloves off, knelt, and began unbuttoning Richard's clothes. Her hands shook. There was so damned much blood. “Blanket? Clean water? Bandages?”

“Try the kitchen, I think the water's still working. Don't know about the rest, that's the housekeeper's domain, and she went home ages ago.”

“Mrs. Woodwake? The kitchen's toward the back. Open cupboards, Mr. Fonteyn won't mind.”