The Hanged Man

CHAPTER TWO

There was hell to pay when Lennon was informed.

As a relative of the deceased, Alex should never have been allowed anywhere near the house. In a case of murder, family members were always the first suspects.

Her psychical observations would be discounted, the room sealed again until another member of the Service arrived. Of course by now the scene had been emotionally contaminated by the coroner’s men, by Brook and Lennon, and by Alex herself. A very experienced Reader might make sense of the mess, but each passing second meant the dispersal of latent emotions-including those of the servants who had yet to be questioned. Given time, some suspects could cover their reactions, masking their feelings as well as the most adept actor.

Murder disguised as suicide was complicated enough, but the procedural breach put Lennon in a fury, which he aimed at Lieutenant Brook.

“I’ll not be responsible,” he roared. “If you bloody Service people can’t keep track of your own, then it’s not my fault when things go wrong.”

Alex sat numb and silent in the parlor, out of the direct line of fire, finding Lennon’s reaction to be more comforting than if he’d taken her hand and offered sympathetic condolences. Though his anger clouded this part of the house, it was a good thing. He’d stir people up, get them moving, see to it they found out who had murdered her-

God, I can’t get my head around it. It’s too grotesque.

She choked at the rose scent of the handkerchief and threw it away. The smell clung to her hands. She clenched them into fists and hammered them once on the arms of her chair. Only Fingate, standing protectively over her, noticed, but made no move, just a soft humming sound of distress.

Alex glanced up at him, noting other minor changes the years had made. His soft brown eyes were sad and full of pity for her. Her control slipped and she felt a wickedly strong slap of anguish and grief from the man. It was unintentional, but the purest emotions could bowl one over; he was in great pain from the death of his master. She took a breath, eyes shut, and had to imagine a lead barrier clothing her like a suit of seamless armor. It was the first exercise in self-preservation she’d taught herself and the most reliable. She steadied out and squared her shoulders.

“We must get outside,” she said. “All of us.” The last thing the next Reader would want was a fellow member of the Service failing when it came to basics.

No one heard. Lennon was still on a rampage.

Alex raised her voice to a strident, cutting level. It felt unpleasant to speak, was unpleasant to hear, but she repeated her statement as an order, and this time it got through even to Lennon. He was in charge of the investigation, but she was the senior member of the Service here, and ultimately her authority trumped his.

This was the first time she’d ever used it. She wondered if he would comply. She locked her gaze on him and hoped he’d fall back on duty and training.

Apparently yes. He shut down and turned to the servants. They’d crowded into the entry, drawn by the row and to get a glimpse of the remains being carried out in a basket. Fingate had spared her that, bless the man.

“Everyone out,” rumbled Lennon. He wasn’t shouting, but his size and tone made it seem so. People fled through the front door into the sleety night as though the house were afire. Lieutenant Brook herded the last ones clear, pausing on the threshold.

Alex stood, forcing herself to be steady, and indicated to Fingate to precede her. He slipped past Brook. She followed, then Lennon, who slammed the door with a bang.

Strangely, he had her ulster over one arm. He glared at her as though not pleased at being caught doing a kindness and thrust it at Brook, then stalked over to one of the mystified constables to pass the word up the ranks about the disaster.

Brook came to her, awkward for a moment, then politely held the coat that she might thread her arms through. It was so mundane as to be ridiculous. Alex fought down the treacherous ripple of hysterical laughter that wanted to break free. That was dangerously close to losing control, which would not do at all. She was in charge until someone else arrived.

She murmured gratitude to Brook and buttoned in, grateful to have silk-lined wool between her and the wind. The servants were not so lucky, huddling together with miserable faces, not a coat or cloak in sight. Fingate stood next to her when he should have been with them. No matter.

“Mr. Brook, please organize something with Mr. Fingate and get those people to shelter in one of these houses as quickly as possible. They are not to speak to anyone. Impress that upon them.” She could trust that Fingate would know of a friendly neighbor who would lend their home to such a purpose and that Brook’s official standing would smooth the way.

“Yes, miss,” they said in unison. Suddenly working together, they exchanged unsure looks, but sorting credentials would have to wait.

They moved off, leaving her alone with the sleet speckling her face and clinging to her hair. She found her hat in a pocket and pulled it on, then her gloves and the muffler. Everyone had something to do, the world rolled on, and yet her father …

Mere yards away, shoved into the anonymity of a morgue wagon, his cold clay growing colder.

How could I not know his emotional trace?

Because she’d not expected it. Why should she? She hadn’t seen him for ten years, not since he’d cut short her education in China and sent her packing back to England without a word to explain why.

Alex had been fifteen and adored him, but Father’s odd reticence against answering her reasonable questions had left a lasting hurt. Until then, they had always been so comfortable together and talked about everything.

“Something’s come up,” was all he’d said.

Something more important than me, she’d finally concluded.

Ten years since she’d last seen him waving from the dock in Hong Kong, and in that time, not a letter, not a telegram. The thorny pain of being sent away like a discharged servant had been slow to root, for she had not wanted to believe it, but it burrowed deep and had grown strong. She’d consciously pruned it back over the years, but now it jabbed her, all over again, making her flinch.

Why did he not contact me when he got home?

Why had he not contacted her, period?

He’d been in London at least three weeks, perhaps longer, living less than half a mile away. Surely he’d have gotten in touch with his brother, her uncle Leopold, to get her address. Why had no one spoken to her of this? She wasn’t on good terms with the Pendlebury clan, but Leo had always been polite to her and would have sent word.

She’d have to remain here until another member of the Service arrived, but once free she’d go straight to the Wilton Crescent house and make a holy terror of herself.

Damned Pendleburys, she thought, then more charitably wondered if Leo had simply not known his wandering brother had returned. That didn’t seem right. Certainly Gerard would have-

Or not.

Alex did not fight the surge of old anger that rushed her. It was a familiar if tiresome companion.

If he’d not contacted his own daughter, then he might not have called on the rest of the family.

Why?

That question could only be answered by the inquiry into Lord Gerard’s murder, but she was now banned from the case.

The next Reader will clear me, though. That done, she’d get back into the middle of things-starting with Fingate. He’d been her father’s valet for ages and would know everything. It might spare her the need to storm the Pendlebury sanctum.

Inspector Lennon accomplished what he was good at, making an ungodly row, stirring things around far more effectively than she’d expected. He took possession of the front parlor of the house next door, expediting Brook and Fingate’s efforts to shelter the servants from the weather. Alex was included and dragged inside with them, but kept apart. Despite orders, there was considerable conversation going on until Lennon snarled a believable threat to clap everyone in darbies and set them back in the street if they didn’t shut their bloody pie holes.

Their host, a sturdy-looking doctor named Millcrest, didn’t seem to find anything objectionable about the irregular use of his home. His bearing and clipped manner marked him as ex-military. He set his staff to work making tea, and they hopped to it as though the fate of the British Empire hung in the balance.

Alex sealed herself within the leaden armor of her imagination to avoid being emotionally overwhelmed by the crowd. She would get through this part of things, get answers from Fingate, and then deal with the looming grief.

Or not. Her father’s death was still an abstract concept. In her mind’s eye he remained alive, active, and vital. She could hear his voice, see his smile, and almost feel his tall, reassuring presence next to her, as clear as it had been more than a decade ago. However angry she was that he’d sent her away, she had no reason to think she would never see him again.

Which was simply not sinking in. She was numb and must remain so for the present. Later, when alone and able to let down her defenses, she might succumb to tears, but not now.

She took a seat at the house’s bay window to keep watch on the street. Fingate approached, silently offering tea. Constrained by Lennon’s orders, neither could speak. It was cruel.

She accepted the saucer and its cup of sweetly fragrant jasmine, nodding her thanks to him. Fingate winked once, his somber gaze dropping to the tea, then he moved off.

Under the cup was a scrap of paper. Alex covered it with her thumb and continued as normally as possible, given the circumstances. It took a moment to shift things to make an examination without anyone noticing. The flimsy piece had been torn from the margin of a newspaper, about half an inch wide and an inch long. The message, written in neat pencil, was disappointing:

Cold duck, 9:00.

What the devil?

It appeared to be a dining or drinking appointment, being vague enough for either; it was meant to mislead others, but have a meaning she alone would appreciate.

It was too outlandish. To cast her mind back ten years to recall some incident involving Fingate and ducks was ridiculous. How could the man expect her to remember?

Duck-was it meant as animal, action, or drink?

Ducks swim and duck under water to feed. That covers both animal and action.

There were plenty of ducks in London. Most of the parks had ponds, and the ponds all had ducks. Did cold mean they were to meet at a park? If so, then which one?

What about vintners or poultry shops? Impossible, there were too many. He could just as easily written cold goose or beef or-

Cold duck. Any duck would be cold at this time of year, with some ponds frozen over, preventing them from swi-

The meaning came in a gratifying flash.

For decades the maddest members of the Serpentine Swimming Club met in Hyde Park for their Christmas morning race. There were always stories about it in the papers. As a child she’d walked with her father to one such event. Fingate brought a hamper with bread, apples, and cheese. She’d given bread to some wayward ducks, finding them of more interest than the swimmers. Fingate had picked apart his loaf to tempt the ducks in closer, but none would leave the water. They’d fled, quacking with indignation, when the swimmers dove in.

Alex had not witnessed the race for herself for years, finding the press of crowds and their emotions to be wearing. Why meet her there? Why not wait until things were sorted out, when they could sit for a proper talk?

She spared a glance toward Fingate, to let him know she understood, but he was no longer in the parlor, probably in the servant’s hall negotiating more tea and seeing about sandwiches.

She slipped the scrap into her coat pocket just as a black landau rumbled to a stop next to the walk. Its front and back hoods were up, and a curtain covered the window set in the door. That should have been the conveyance sent to fetch her in the first place.

Not waiting for the driver to descend, a slender, competent-looking woman a decade older than Alex emerged, looking around with a stern face. Lennon hurried to put himself in her way, escorting her to the house next door.

Alex knew her: Mrs. Emma Woodwake. A widow, she was in charge of the psychical training branch of the Service and rarely ever called to do Readings. She was many rungs up the ladder from those out in the field.

Lennon returned a moment later, going straight to Alex.

“You’re for it,” he said, jerking a thumb to indicate the general direction.

Instead of the murder house, Lennon guided Alex toward the coach, opening the door and assisting her inside. He was a hindrance to balance with his great paw tight on her lower arm, and she dropped with a clumsy bump onto the thinly padded bench. The interior was cold and dark with the black velvet curtains in place. It turned to pitch when Lennon slammed the door and strode off, growling.

As she tumbled in, Alex glimpsed another passenger sitting opposite: male, wearing black trousers, a walking stick with a worn iron ferrule braced between his polished black boots. The rest blended into the shadows, including his face.

“Hallo? Who’s there?” she asked.

On the seat next to the man was a bull’s-eye lantern, as she discovered when he eased open its shutter. The beam of light fell on her, but there was enough ambient glow to fill most of the interior. Her mouth went dry as she recognized the imperious-looking fellow across from her.

“Lord Richard?”

“Miss Pendlebury,” he said in greeting. His voice was soft, just enough for the confines of the coach. Any listeners without would hear nothing.

She matched his level. “Sir, I was not aware of my relation to the deceased, else I would have-”

“Miss Pendlebury, be assured that had we known, you’d have never been called. This was an oversight. There will be repercussions, but not directed at you.” He fixed her in place with a chill and impersonal gaze. His eyes were a clear icy blue, but the lantern light stole their color so they seemed to be white, the pupils like black pits. “May I offer my condolences for your loss?”

The question, spoken in the same tone one might use for any mundane social inquiry, caught her off guard, and her breath hitched in her throat. Lord Richard Desmond was the head of the Psychic Service, so far upstream as to be unreachable. He reported and answered directly to Queen Victoria herself and no one else, not even the prime minister. Only the Lord Consort Arthur was higher up. For someone like that to unbend enough to offer Alex sympathy, however formally framed, took her aback.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

She had only ever seen Lord Richard this close on the day three years ago when she’d been accepted into the Service. Shockingly tall, strongly built, a faint red tint to his gold hair, he did not look old enough to have been running things since 1848. When she discreetly asked, she was informed that the Psychic Service had been wrested into existence by Lord Richard’s father (also named Richard) as an outgrowth of the Ministry of Science. Exactly how that happened and how he’d gotten the ear of the queen in the first place were not general knowledge.

That the son took over his retired father’s duties was hardly worth notice. There were many families in more or less hereditary service to Her Majesty, after all-such as the Pendlebury clan, who’d been at it for generations. Uncle Leo did something at the Home Office. Her cousins held positions in other areas of service, and without a second thought she’d used family connections and the fact that she was one of the queen’s many goddaughters to apply for her own place in the great machine that ran the empire.

Three years ago Lord Richard had personally welcomed Alex and five other nervous recruits, shook their hands, and presented them with the gold medallions that identified them as bona fide agents of Her Majesty’s Psychic Service. Since then, he had been a rarely seen figure in the distance.

“Sir, if I may ask, why are you here?” Alex had expected her supervisor to deal with the situation, or perhaps his supervisor, but not the head of the Service himself. She was a small cog in the machine; just how bad were things to bring out the chief engineer?

“Mr. Jones is unavailable.”

She didn’t believe him. No need to tap into her ability to know that. It made no sense. “There’s something serious afoot.”

Lord Richard’s expression did not change, but neither did he contradict her. “Every murder is serious. Please report your initial impressions.”

“But-”

“I’m aware of regulations, but there is no reason to think you had anything to do with the crime. Please report to me the same as you would to Mr. Jones.”

So she did, beginning with her arrival. She felt as though another person had taken over to use her voice to speak. Alex recognized it as a means of getting through the unpleasantness without breaking down. That could come later, if it did come. For the present the emotional recusation was a comfort. She covered everything, even those horrid moments in the foyer until Fingate had gotten her away.

Lord Richard was silent for many long moments. Sleet ticked persistently on the roof and sides of the coach, and she felt the cold seeping into her limbs.

“I would hazard to think,” he said, “that you are wondering why Gerard Pendlebury was posing as a certain Dr. Kemp.”

“Indeed, sir, I want to know everything.” She hoped Lord Richard would respond to that, but he did not. “I last saw him-”

“A decade ago in Hong Kong. I am aware of your personal history, Miss Pendlebury, but so far as your father is concerned, I have no more information than you and am also mystified.”

“Perhaps my uncle Leo may be of help. He’s the elder brother.”

“Do you think your father communicated with him?”

She hesitated. “Not to my knowledge, sir.”

“A carefully chosen phrase. Why do you use it?”

“My uncle is at the Home Office.”

“A branch of government not given to sharing information.”

“None of them are. Father was once attached to the Foreign Office. When my mother died, he resigned and collected me, and we traveled, usually calling on embassies. I believe he was an unofficial envoy of some sort-or so I concluded years later. I must stress that if his trips were of a sensitive nature, Father never said anything to me. Neither has my uncle.”

“Do you think he would have not passed word to you about your father?”

Leo had his limits. “Family concerns come second to his duty. I don’t think he would, he is absolutely dedicated to his work.”

“Your uncle could be accused of being overly diligent.”

“Relations between myself and Father’s family have always been difficult, sir.”

Lord Richard’s mouth thinned ever so slightly. “It is their loss, then.”

Just how much did he know of her private life? She felt discomfited under the press of that unblinking gaze. A change of topic was overdue. “Sir, my father’s valet may be of immediate help in this inquiry. His name is Percival Fingate. He’s been in my father’s employ since before I was born. He’ll know everything.”

“Of that I have no doubt. One cannot keep anything from one’s servants.”

She’d planned to be at the Serpentine at nine of the clock, but this would make it unnecessary. Lord Richard had the authority to question the man. Alex was certain Fingate would be forthcoming in her presence. If allowed to stay, that is. She would argue for it.

Lord Richard tapped the door with his cane. The driver climbed down. Instructions were given to fetch Dr. Kemp’s valet; the driver passed the word, then returned to his bench. Shortly afterward Inspector Lennon could be heard bawling orders. A good deal of activity took place between the houses as the constables rushed about.

Lord Richard remained quiet, but Alex sensed his growing anger.

Both buildings were turned inside out. Fingate was gone. No one had noticed when. Alex guessed that it had been right after he’d given her that note.

“Why would he leave?” she wondered aloud.

Lord Richard said, “You tell me.”

“I can’t think why.”

“Do so, Miss Pendlebury. It is your job, after all. Remove your feelings from the facts and tell me why.”

She felt her face turn hot and red. “One might conclude he had something to do with the crime-which I will not believe. The man’s character is above reproach.”

“When you last saw him. Time changes people, twists them out of shape, turns saints into monsters, monsters into saints. You have no reason to assume-”

“Your pardon, sir, but neither do you. For all we know, Fingate might have been forced away against his will by the murderer and be lying dead in an alley hereabouts.”

“Then he will be found.” Lord Richard seemed to be unused to interruptions, staring in such a way as to make her feel like a bird under the hungry regard of a cobra.

But she did not back down. “If Fingate had a hand in this then I want him brought to justice, but I believe him to be the same honest and loyal man I once knew. I would urge … prudence.”

Who was she to make suggestions to the likes of Lord Richard? He could twitch his little finger and swat her sideways into the Psychical Fraud Section to catch out mediums at séances.

In a mild tone he asked, “Is precognition one of your gifts?”

“Not that I’m aware, sir.”

“Then the source of your recommendation would be…?”

“My instincts, sir.” She refused to feel foolish for stating the truth.

“Just so,” he murmured. “I am inclined to trust instinct in most situations. Whether this is such a situation is yet to be determined. Why prudence?”

A good question, and the answer required cold logic. “If treated as a fugitive rather than as a resource, he could be hurt. Fingate is clever and capable and I’m sure he’s aware that his departure will look bad. If he left of his own volition, then I have absolute confidence that he had an excellent reason.” She was risking much on that confidence by not mentioning the note; she should do so now. She really should. He’d clearly planned from the start to get away and meet her later. “Perhaps Fingate has knowledge of a suspect. His temper is such that he would go after that person himself rather than wait.”

“Seeking revenge?”

“Oh, no, sir. He would turn the other person over to the police. If he has taken himself away of his own accord, then he has done so as a hunter, not as a guilty man avoiding capture.”

“Or a fearful man avoiding the fate of his master. It has been ten years, Miss Pendlebury, since you last saw him.”

“Some people do not change, sir. Mr. Fingate is as constant as the north star.”

“In which case, his motives are well obscured by fog.”

“Which will clear, given time and more facts.”

Good God, the man cracked a smile. It had the quality of an involuntary facial tic, but Alex was heartened by his response. He seemed to be listening. She kept quiet, taking care not to open herself to catch a hint about his internal feelings. The temptation was there, but it was unconscionably rude, and, if he sensed it, unforgivable. She had no idea if Lord Richard possessed psychical talent, but it was best to not test things.

“Or,” he said, after some thought, “he is guilty and could not allow himself to be in the same room with a Reader once suicide was discounted in favor of murder. Or he knows who did the deed and is protecting that person. Perhaps he knew he would be unable to successfully lie to you and concluded his best course was to leave. There are a number of reasons to explain his actions.”

She wanted to protest, to defend Fingate, but Lord Richard’s tone, so soft that she could barely hear him, was speculative rather than accusatory. His colorless eyes were focused inward.

Then his attention was full on her again. “Whatever the causes, Mr. Fingate is required to aid the police in their inquiries. I will make sure Inspector Lennon understands that caution must be exercised in the search.”

Tension that Alex had not been aware of left her shoulders. “Thank you, sir.” He was being inordinately generous, and though she was consciously not Reading the man, that did not feel right to her.

What else was afoot?

* * *

It was discovered that Fingate had apparently made his way home, packed, and departed via the mews, slipping past the constable on watch. Mrs. Woodwake lost his fading psychic trace in the lane behind the house. His modest quarters were stripped of clothing, papers, and money. So far as could be determined by the housekeeper, nothing else was missing. The man had efficiently cleared out and vanished.

Alex admitted that it looked bad, but Lord Richard held fast and did not change Fingate’s status to that of a fugitive. That was a relief.

None of the servants had any idea where Fingate might have gone, agreeing that he was friendly, but not given to idle chatter. All of them had come to Dr. Kemp’s house from the same agency and had excellent characters, confirmed by Mrs. Woodwake when she questioned each in turn. They thought Fingate was also from the firm; he had never said anything contrary to that assumption. He always addressed their employer as Dr. Kemp, never by another name. No, Dr. Kemp had no patients, he’d not opened for practice yet. He had no need for a practice; his money was from that throat elixir, didn’t you see the sign in the parlor?

Alex remained with Lord Richard, the misery of the cold and her state of mind mitigated by hearing the reports as they arrived. In the lulls between, he questioned her about her travels around the world. She was certain he wasn’t simply passing the time, but more likely fleshing out whatever information he already possessed. He was skillful, making it seem like ordinary drawing-room conversation, exactly what was not to be found in a chilly landau next to a murder house at four in the morning. Alex suffered it, though. For all its shortcomings, she was committed to her duty. If the head of the Service wanted to know about her, so be it.

* * *

When Alex was ten, her father swooped in to remove her from her mother’s family. He and his wife had been estranged for a few years; Alex never knew why, though she suspected it was because the Fonteyns were manifestly unstable and given to drink. That’s what had happened to her mother. Alex barely remembered her. She was a dim face and a babbling voice, supplanted by a succession of nannies and aunts.

Lord Gerard judged that none of the Fonteyns possessed the temperament suitable for raising a child and claimed his paternal rights. Later, Alex suspected a sum of money had changed hands to speed things and, given the mercenary nature of her maternal relatives, she was not particularly surprised.

For the next five years father and daughter had journeyed around the world-twice. Though at times dangerous, it had been a marvelous series of adventures.

Those came to an end one night in Hong Kong when an English messenger stopped at their house in Victoria, departing less than a half hour later. Though curious, Alex had not been privy to the conversation that had taken place between him and her father, but afterward she’d been told to pack. She was used to sudden departures, always traveling to a new place to learn new things. They’d been in China for nearly two years, though, and she’d not completed her studies with Master Shan.

Father had not answered her questions, which was unusual, just told her to see to the packing-which included that of her paid traveling companion, the fearfully proper widow of a Methodist minister. Mrs. Falleson had been stranded in Hong Kong after the death of her husband and had lost her enthusiasm for converting the heathen. The lady was happy to chaperone Alex if it meant a trip back to England at some point.

The last time Alex saw her father was on the steamship that would take her eastward across the Pacific. It was her second crossing, but this time she was bound for the United States, not Mazatlán, in Mexico. He saw to it that she and Mrs. Falleson were well accommodated and had more than sufficient funds and the means to get more, but never said exactly why they had to depart without him.

“I’ve business to see to first, my dear,” was all he imparted to Alex on the topic. “Please do look after your companion. I fear she is no sailor.”

He kissed Alex on the forehead, and then waved from the dock as the ship left the harbor. Alex kept him in sight for as long as possible, but eventually her tears and distance became too great and he was lost to view.

She initially thought Father would catch up with them in San Francisco and that they would wait there, but Mrs. Falleson had strict orders to get to England as quickly as possible, which was in line with her own heart’s desire. Their choices were limited. The much-touted transcontinental rail line was yet incomplete. Mrs. Falleson refused to inflict a long, dusty stagecoach journey on herself and her charge, convinced they would be slaughtered by Indians or robbed by outlaws (and then slaughtered) at some point along the way. The contents of various newspapers validated her avoidance of that route.

They could take a slow steamship around Cape Horn, make a dangerous land crossing of Mexico, or court death in the fever swamps of Panama. Alex had traversed Mexico on her first trip around the globe, but in a large, well-armed party. Her accounts of that journey were enough to send her chaperone on a hunt for smelling salts.

Mrs. Falleson, after a number of prayers pointedly asking the Almighty for a solution, picked an unorthodox alternative that delighted Alex.

The Americans were an enterprising lot when it came to commercial exploitation of their inventions, even the more terrifying ones. The San Francisco papers had been full of stories about the triumph of air travel. Mrs. Falleson read of the many successful flights achieved by the Aerial Navigation Company, particularly those executed under the command of a certain Captain Lucius Miracle, whose surname offered a strongly symbolic appeal to her spiritual side.

Taking it as a sign from above, she and Alex boarded one of the lighter-than-air ships to skim (barely) over the Rocky Mountains and beyond. Though not the first females to make the trip, they were enough of a rarity that their participation was of interest to the newspapers. Mrs. Falleson was more horrified at having her name in a common rag than by defying gravity in a frail-looking gondola suspended beneath three balloons shaped like fat cigars.

The ladies boarded swathed in veils and heavy coats, having been warned it would be cold, and at her request the captain of the ship gave false names to anyone who asked. Alex did not understand until her chaperone explained that a proper lady should only ever be mentioned thrice in a paper: when she was born, married, and died. Anything else was simply vulgar.

Alex had heard stranger views expressed on her journeys and learned to discount them without offence to the speaker. A nod and a polite smile usually sufficed, and so it proved again.

Their air transport was wanting in comfort, but peerless in speed. They rode the prevailing winds far above the wilder portions of territories claimed by the United States. For three days and nights Alex clung to the gunwales, gaping in wonder at the changing landscape below. Her eyes stung from the chill, her face hurt from smiling so much, and she grew hoarse asking countless questions of the crew and the captain. Mrs. Falleson prayed a great deal, only occasionally pausing in her orisons to admire the view. Alex tempted her often with that distraction, having the idea that God might appreciate the respite.

Their airship landed in St. Louis amid fanfare that included a brass band and jugglers. Mrs. Falleson once more resorted to obscuring veils and managed to get them away unscathed and unidentified by the local press. She found a respectable hotel and there they rested for two days before boarding a slower if more sensible train for Chicago, another to New York, and finally a clipper ship back to a country Alex barely remembered.

In London, the remarkable Mrs. Falleson tearfully delivered her charge to the Pendleburys and departed to seek out her own family, never to return. Though they did sometimes correspond, those occasional letters did not entirely mitigate Alex’s sense of having been dismissed again.

Thus ended her second circumnavigation of the globe, which put her ahead of all the adults in the Pendlebury clan, most of whom had never stirred from England unless one counted occasional trips to Balmoral Castle in Scotland.

It certainly put Alex ahead of the cousins of a like age to herself. She had nothing in common with them. What was normal to her was to them strange and worthy of ridicule. They teased her as a liar when the adults weren’t around and otherwise treated her like an exotic and not terribly safe zoo specimen. Cousin Andrina (who had often been to Balmoral as a lady-in-waiting to Princess Alice and her daughter, Princess Charlotte) informed her that Alex’s hiatus abroad was a disagreeable family scandal. It was on a level with Gerard marrying that unstable Fonteyn creature. Alex was told to keep both shames to herself and never mention her sordid history again.

Alex considered Andrina to be a great fool, but this was cruel and unnecessary. Cousin Andrina was wonderfully resentful and unreasonably jealous that she and Alex shared the same name and royal godmother. It didn’t matter that the girls were two out of the hundreds of Alexandrina Victorias named after the queen, Andrina was always putting about that the honor was wasted on her odd cousin.

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.