The Hanged Man

CHAPTER SIX

She’d recovered by the time they left Victoria Street to negotiate between Westminster Hospital and Westminster Abbey. One would think the miserable cold would have discouraged revelers, but there was a fair amount of traffic.

“I am again obliged to you, Mr. Brook.” Her voice was rough and husky. Her bout with sorrow combined with nearly drowning left her barely able to breathe.

“Pleased to have been of assistance, Miss Pendlebury.” He was back on the opposite bench, none the worse for wear, proprieties restored.

No pretension from him, not at the moment, but even the most honest people eventually gave in. Lies were like vents on a boiler, preventing explosions during social interactions.

“I hope you will feel better,” he added.

“You’re very kind.” She did feel sharper than before, determined to square her shoulders and press forward. She found and pulled on her gloves, smoothing the fine leather to each finger before making a fist.

“If I may venture to ask … is it always like this in the Service?”

“No. Not at all. We do our work, same as anyone, it’s just things have changed. I don’t know what’s to happen with Lord Richard gone.”

“Do you think it will be disbanded?”

What? “I should hope not. That would be a terrible mistake. The queen herself called for it to be put together. She’d not allow it.”

“The idea disturbs you.”

“The Service is vital to criminal investigations. We’re instrumental in solving hundreds, if not thousands of crimes every year.”

“The general impression is that its contribution is a peripheral part of any inquiry. But last night they didn’t do anything until you arrived.”

She was glad he noticed. “We foster that impression. You won’t see much of what we do mentioned in the papers. People are uncomfortable with us yet. We’ve found it’s more tactful to give full credit to the police.”

“There is opposition to the employment of psychical talent, though.”

“Brought on by ignorance and superstition. Old fears run deep.”

“In these modern times? In England?”

“It’s no exaggeration, Mr. Brook. There are backward pockets of humanity all over the world who-well, I daresay you’ll get some history during your training. There are a number of books in our library that cover the topic, unpleasant as it is. Acquaint yourself with them. Whether you have a psychical talent or not, you will be subject to guilt by association. Don’t be shocked if someone spits on you or worse.”

“They’ll get paid back if they try.”

“You can’t. We’re servants to the greater good, whether they know it or not. I don’t wish to encourage a state of affairs of ourselves versus them; such divisions only lead to more distrust. You may find it better to impart to the curious that you simply work in the civil service. Conversely, the only thing worse than hostility brought on by baseless fear of the Service is unquestioning acceptance.”

“I did hear something of that. Such enthusiasm is preyed upon by spiritualist tricksters who-who-”

“Pretend to have a telegraph to the Almighty?”

He nodded.

“Beware of them as well, Mr. Brook. Misplaced adulation can too easily turn to loathing if they’re disappointed in some way. Many bear a perilously high regard toward those with psychical talent. It’s a shock to find we’re just as human and vulnerable as everyone else.”

Their coach passed through the short arched tunnel opening into the mews entrance of Her Majesty’s Psychic Service. It and the iron gates gave the building the look of a medieval fortress, though it had been constructed less than thirty years ago. She had expected to be delivered to the front door. Perhaps this was the first sign of change marking the end of the Desmond dynasty.

One of the porters closed and locked the gates, retiring to a tall, coffin-shaped guard’s box just within. His right coat pocket sagged from a heavy weight. A pistol of some sort, she thought with approval. With masked lunatics carrying strange air guns capable of multiple and nearly silent fire, it was only prudent to be prepared for another attack. Many of the staff were ex-army. How much did they know of events?

When Brook handed her out, she noticed an inordinate number of people around, more than on a normal working day. There was a worried tension in the air, but it lacked the heaviness of anger and grief as one might expect if they’d been informed of events.

There was also something missing from the yard.

“Lord Richard’s coach is not here,” she whispered to Brook.

“Mrs. Woodwake was keen to keep things quiet. A conveyance full of bullet holes would demand attention and explanation. Easy enough to hide one, there’s plenty of mews about, but where would they take him?”

“Any number of places for a general postmortem, but there are fewer choices for an investigation conducted by the Service. We have staff for that, but news of that nature is impossible to keep secret for long. Too many perceptive people about.”

“She must have put the fear of God into them. It worked for me,” he admitted.

The Service’s austere facade was echoed within: plain walls and doors with numbers on the lintels as an aid to navigation. Some had printed signs stating the name of the department or the occupant, others were unadorned. It was either madly inefficient, or intended as a test to see how quickly a new member could memorize things.

The ground-floor walls were white, the first floor’s were pale green, then pale blue, and the color of the top floor Alex did not know; she’d never been that high. There were rumors of a palatial suite with hidden staircases leading to secret passages and tunnels, one going under Whitehall to 10 Downing Street, another to New Scotland Yard, and a third having a small train with tracks leading straight to Buckingham Palace. Completely absurd, of course, such things required maintenance and lots of it, and it was quite impossible to expect members of the staff to keep that great a secret. Still, the stories were amusing to impart to new recruits to test their credulity.

Alex made her way to the front reception room and asked for messages.

“Just the one,” said Mrs. George, who supervised a busy desk and had no sense of privacy, at least for others. “Woodwake wants you in her office. What did you do?”

“I invaded Egypt and they’re very annoyed about it.”

“Who is? Them upstairs or the Egyptians?”

“Both.”

Behind her, Alex heard Brook make an odd noise. It might have been a laugh, but if so, he turned it into a throat-clearing sound. Mrs. George looked him up and down, unimpressed. She was as hard on new recruits as any drill sergeant. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of Brook’s disheveled disguise and she started to speak.

“Mrs. George?” Alex headed her off. “I’m frightfully hungry, is there anyone who can do sandwiches for us?”

“There’s better than that in the dining hall, a proper Christmas dinner for those called in.”

“I haven’t the time. I’ll eat after I see Mrs. Woodwake.”

“You won’t have an appetite then. She’s in a state, I know the signs. Go have a bite now than later. Anyway, she’s down in the cellars with some botheration, has been for hours. Something’s brewing, but they won’t say what. There’s no harm if she gets the news of your arrival a quarter hour late. Go on, off with you.” She turned her back on Alex’s objection.

“That would be that,” said Brook, following Alex.

“She’s a bastion of common sense.”

“Does she have psychical talent?”

“Not that I know. Some people here have to be ordinary sorts.”

“Like me?”

She glanced at him. “You are not ordinary, Mr. Brook.”

Evidently possessing self-confidence, he did not invite her to elaborate on the compliment.

She liked that.

The dining hall was in the east wing. Halfway there, she smelled the food and her stomach rumbled joyful encouragement. Thankfully, there was enough ambient noise to make it unlikely so indelicate a sound had carried to Mr. Brook’s ears.

The hall was a quarter full of people lingering to talk over the remains of their luncheon. She knew the majority of her colleagues by name or by sight, but didn’t stop to give greeting, heading straight to a long table holding a surprisingly large amount of food. While normal etiquette demanded that Brook seat her and then fetch her a plate, this was a working situation, and she was pleased to pick what she liked.

Not trusting her voice to have lost its rasp, she pointed and the servers gave generous portions of a traditional Christmas feast. Aunt Honoria would have tsked, but Alex was ravenous. Apparently so was Brook, who carried two plates and saw to it the surfaces of both were layered high.

A waiter, well acquainted with Alex’s preferences, brought a pot of tea and cups to their table. “You’re looking most elegant today, Miss Pendlebury,” he remarked. “Everyone’s dressed up for the holiday. Makes a change, though it’s a shame to have to work.”

Brook shot the man a look. At a restaurant or private house the staff were silent and spoke only when addressed.

Alex hoped he would catch on that the Service was a great leveler and a certain amount of camaraderie was inevitable. “Thank you, Sutherland. It’s kind of you to notice. Do you know why everyone’s here?”

Sutherland poured tea that was almost as black as coffee. “Not a peep. I had to be here regardless, but word came to get the kitchen staff in and start cooking and keep cooking until Mrs. George says otherwise. They’re not happy, but they’re getting paid well for it, so that should be all right. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s got to be something big, and big things are not good things. Not for us, they’re not. There’s worry hanging in the air; you don’t have to be psychical to feel it. Cut it with a butter knife, more like.”

Alex offered agreement and attacked her food in a manner that would have horrified her aunt. Aunts of a certain type, she thought, should be horrified at regular intervals.

Brook, following her lead, ate like a soldier at mess. They didn’t talk. Alex was glad of the respite, though she noticed his interest in their surroundings. A trio at the next table were in deep discussion about metallurgical stresses, and the tallest of them, his back to her, was busy defacing the white table cloth with penciled calculations.

“Who’s that?” Brook asked, his voice low.

She matched his tone. “Mr. Alexander Humboldt Sexton, and why he’s been called in, I cannot imagine. He’s usually on the other side of town with Professor Crookes working on psychical sciences.”

“On what?”

“The department seeking to find out why some are gifted and others are not. One section is trying to develop the means of artificially reproducing the same gifts, though I don’t see how that could be accomplished by a machine. Another section has hope of being able to detect ghosts, though. Crookes is a physicist and has some interesting theories on residual imprintings.”

“And Mr. Sexton?”

“A metallurgist and engineer with a smattering of chemistry. I expect he’s there to design and build such machines, but he got involved with the Service because of his interest in magic.”

“Good heavens, he doesn’t think he’s a wizard, does he?”

She nearly choked. “I meant stage magic. The same illusions you see at a music hall are employed by mediums to hoodwink the gullible. Mr. Sexton is keen to discredit them and studied all their tricks. His favorite ploy is to attend a sitting and then introduce considerably more spiritual activity than the medium planned for. He’s been too successful. Most know him by now and forbid his entry, though he has gotten around it with disguises. He was doing that sort of thing on his own as a hobby, got noticed by one of our investigators, and invited to join to train recruits.”

“That’s jolly.”

“Indeed. He gives the most amusing lectures, you should attend one. What raises gooseflesh in a darkened room looks quite silly with the lights on.”

“When’s the next? Perhaps we could-” He stopped as a woman, moving fast, approached their table and came to a rocking halt. She dropped a thin pale hand on his shoulder, preventing him from rising.

“Stay,” she directed in a flat voice, as though speaking to a dog. Her whole focus was on Alex, who was too surprised to do more than gape up.

An abrupt silence enveloped the hall as everyone became aware of her presence.

“Miss…?” began Brook, who seemed uncertain who to address, the woman or Alex.

At the next table, Mr. Sexton turned around and blanched. “Belt up,” he whispered urgently. “And don’t move.”

Alex had never seen her before but instantly recognized her from thirdhand descriptions. She tried not to shudder, but could not completely suppress the reaction. Her first instinct was to bolt from the room and keep running.

The woman’s uncommonly short hair was as pale as her skin, and stuck up in spiky clumps from her skull. Her intense eyes were black as soot with no boundary between pupil and iris. Unfortunate, as it made her look like a madwoman.

According to rumor, she was indeed mad, and had been so since girlhood, when her particular gift had manifested, wresting away any ordinary dreams of life she might have possessed. She gave a false impression of youth with her quick jerky movements, but her eyes were old.

They now narrowed as she shifted her hand from Brook’s shoulder to point at Alex. “I’m Sybil. You’re the traveler’s daughter,” she stated, her tone still flat, the words tumbling forth almost too fast to be understood.

Alex’s racing heart nearly stopped.

“The traveler’s journey ended. But I didn’t see until too late. I’m sorry.” She suddenly looked at Brook. “I could say it will be all right, but I know it is not all right. It’s perfectly awful.” Her voice deepened as she quoted him exactly, down to inflection and pauses.

His jaw sagged. “How did-”

“Not now,” said Sexton urgently. “Let her speak.”

Sybil spared him a glance, then focused on Alex. “Speak and be silent, see and be blind. Someone blinded me. They did, they did, they did theydidtheydid. The traveler almost saw, but one there and not there, stopped him. You will-will-will, I can’t see what you will. They block the forward, not the backward, they can’t take that from me. What’s done is done, but it’s useless, frozen in past time and-and-and-and forward flow goes into blankness. I cannot do what I must!”

As she spoke, Sexton made haste to write down her jumble of words.

“Traveler’s daughter-” Sybil’s voice thickened and her accent changed to that of Inspector Lennon. “Keep that pie hole of yours shut, your ears open, and your head down.”

Alex gripped the edge of the table so as not to fall over.

“Good advice and he can’t see, but maybe he does, no one’s asked him, but he’s right, he’s right, he’s right, will be right. Head. Down. Soon. Everyone. They’re going to-to-to-everyone. They won’t let me see it, damn them! I can’t even see them in the past. There’s a mirror in my face, looking backward, and it’s a blackness where they are.”

It was wrong to interrupt the flow, but Alex had an abrupt flash of memory of Master Shan and what he might say. “Then what’s next to their blackness?”

Sybil’s eyes closed. “Clever tweak … hah! Got you! Red curtains. Mirrors. Mirrors facing mirrors, facing me.” Opening her eyes, she bent toward Alex. “Break them. Break all of them and damn the bad luck, think of England!”

With that declaration, she slumped and her expression relaxed. She appeared to be a bit less mad. Her gaze fell on the second plate of food Brook had brought and she gave a great smile of delight.

“Oh, how kind! I’m famished!” she said, and then slipped onto a chair, seized a fork, and began eating, oblivious to all else.

Sexton finished his hasty scribbling, then stood, his face grim. A finger briefly to his lips, he signed for Alex, Brook, and anyone close by to rise and back away, which they did.

The three of them retired to a spot near the windows. Alex found herself trembling. She, along with nearly everyone in the room, had a wary eye on Sybil, who continued her meal with no small gusto. Somebody must have had the presence of mind to send for Mrs. Woodwake, for she and another woman cautiously approached the table.

Sybil noticed them. “Hallo, ladies. I’ve had something of a seizure. It must have been a really good one!”

Woodwake was unflappable, merely smiling and nodding. “Well, that’s progress.”

“I feel wonderful! The lad with the squarish face wrote out much of it, I think.” She gestured vaguely at Sexton’s vacated table.

Woodwake moved dishes and utensils out of the way and gathered up the tablecloth. “I’ll make sure it gets our full attention.”

The woman with Mrs. Woodwake had the look of a caretaker about her, and placed herself behind and to the right of Sybil, who resumed eating.

Woodwake came over, clearly in a dark mood. “Pendlebury, where the devil have you been? Never mind, I’ll get your report later. Mr. Sexton, are these your notes?”

“Yes, ma’am. Every word. In Pitman.”

“I don’t read shorthand.” She spread the cloth on another table and stared at squiggles that passed for writing. “Translate and make sure to repeat how she said it, not just the words.”

Sexton did so, running a long finger along each line.

“What’s that ‘pie hole’ business about?” Woodwake demanded.

Alex went cold. “It’s just something a friend said to me.”

“Recently?”

“How could she have known?”

“That’s not your concern. When was it said to you?”

“Last night, after the-incident in that house.”

“What about the part of something being perfectly awful? What’s the greater context of that?”

Now Alex felt a blush coming on. “That was-was a friend … offering comfort for my loss-and it was said in confidence.”

“When?”

“About half an hour since. Is she also a telepathist?”

“Not your concern. I shan’t repeat myself on that point.” Woodwake addressed the others in the hall, raising her voice to reach the corners. “Who else did she speak to?”

No one stepped forward.

“The three of you, then. Mr. Sexton, come with me and transcribe. You two will not discuss this with anyone. Pendlebury, to your office. Mr. Brook, who else was with you?”

“Only myself and Miss Pendlebury, ma’am.”

“You’ve three plates. Who were you expecting?”

“No one, ma’am. But there’s only two-” His eyes widened as he looked past her to Sybil, who was still wolfing down her Christmas dinner on the third plate. His skin faded to a sickly green tone. “Apparently that lady, ma’am.”

“Interesting. You weren’t aware of it, were you?”

He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “Mrs. Woodwake, I’d prefer not to-”

“No doubt. Stay with Pendlebury. And for God’s sake, no long face, you’ve done nothing wrong. It’s quite encouraging.” Mrs. Woodwake folded the tablecloth, thrust it at Sexton, and departed with him hurrying to keep up.

Keenly aware of the interested scrutiny of everyone in the hall, Alex considered returning to her interrupted dinner. If that fierce-looking caretaker hadn’t been present, she might have dared it. Sybil had, until now, only been another rumor, one that Alex discounted as an exaggeration. Now that she was over her initial fright, she was intensely curious to speak to her.

“Who is she?” asked Brook, pitching his voice so it wouldn’t carry.

“A Seer.” Why did she come to me?

“I’m sure you’ll explain that shortly.”

Giving Sybil a wide berth, they found a table away from the other diners. When Sutherland came by with a fresh pot of tea, he made no effort to engage in conversation. Like many of those on staff, he knew when topics were not to be discussed. The look on Woodwake’s face certainly had put the fear of God in everyone; conversation was subdued in the great hall.

Sybil finished her repast, rose, and left with her companion, apparently unconcerned by so many watching her smallest move.

“The exhibition, Miss Pendlebury, is concluded,” Brook said.

“One would hope.”

“Who or what is a Seer?”

“An improbability. Not wholly impossible, just improbable.”

“How could she know what I said to you in the coach?”

Alex hesitated. Woodwake had made it clear this was a sensitive subject, but some general knowledge couldn’t hurt. Brook would learn about it if he delved into the building’s library. “It’s to do with her Talent. I have a gift for Reading; Seers can see the past, present, and future-not necessarily their own or in order. A certain kind of precognition is common enough in some. For instance, knowing when one might get an unexpected letter from a friend, or taking an umbrella instead of a walking stick when going out on a sunny day. Is that not what you have?”

His mouth snapped shut into a thin flat line.

“When you took that extra plate of food to the table I thought you were just very hungry, but you weren’t aware of it, were you?”

“This is about Sybil, not me.”

Alex considered pressing him, but understood how that felt. Most of those born with a psychical gift did not want the special attention it brought them. She gave a short nod and returned to the other matter. “Seers are rather more than precognitive. Something special and … frightening.”

“How so?”

“Think about it-seeing the future? Would you really want to know what’s to happen? Especially if it was something awful.”

“But people want to know their future. Fortune-tellers make their living from it.”

“Their predictions are always general in nature. They can’t tell you that at half past three next Tuesday you’ll encounter a man with a wooden leg. But some Seers are able to do just that, if it’s important enough. The future is in flux. The past is fixed, but all that’s to come is in constant motion. Any action we take at any given moment influences our future. If you choose to walk home by one route, perhaps nothing happens. If you take a different route you could trip and twist your ankle. That’s two possible futures. Now imagine the countless choices made by everyone.”

“It’s what we do, it’s ordinary living.”

“Now imagine being able to see all those choices in your head at the same time.”

“Impossible.”

“The word is ‘maddening.’ The mind cannot hold it all. I suspect the more gifted one is, the more unstable one might become.”

“But why is she here? Shouldn’t she be in a hospital?”

“I expect she’s able to predict things that are useful, providing one can correctly interpret what she says. She’s obviously being well looked after. Her clothes are clean and tidy, her face and hands washed. She’s luckier than many.” Involuntarily, Alex recalled a wisp of memory of a desperate, ragged-looking woman with matted hair and wild eyes. She was curled in the corner of a brick-lined room, hugging her knees, crying for a bottle of gin, crying like a child.

Mother.…

Then someone, one of the Fonteyns, had grabbed Alex by the arm and dragged her away, scolding. The family had taken care of her mother as best as could be expected at the time. The links between psychic abilities and madness were still being explored-or discounted-by the scientific community.

To most people, including her mother’s family, madness was a shameful weakness of character to be hidden behind closed doors. They’d kept it a secret even from Gerard. He’d been in a towering fury about it, too, once he discovered the truth. However estranged from his wife, he said he should have been told. He had bellowed it so loudly that young Alex heard him on the other side of the house. She’d hidden under her bed, thinking he was angry with her because Mother had died. But when he came upstairs, he’d coaxed her out and hugged her close and said it was time to go on an adventure.…

“She wants you to break mirrors,” said Brook, returning her to the present. “That was specific.”

Alex forced the memories back into their box. “She mentioned red curtains, too.”

“Do you know of such a place with both?”

She shook her head, feeling a little sick. “If there’s anything to it, I expect I shall find out.”

“Is that not the nature of predictions? To come true?”

“With countless variables keeping the future in flux, not necessarily. I’ve read somewhat of the theories involved. If an event is large enough, important enough, its impact on the future might be such that a Seer sees it across all the variations. For instance, a war. If she sees thousands of military funerals, she should be able to backtrack to the cause of the war and perhaps prevent it. Oh!”

“What?”

“Improbable, but not impossible.”

“What?”

“Think of the advantage it would be to a government if one could glean a glimpse of the future from a Seer.”

“If one can sort out the nonsense from her babbling.”

“Indeed. This is disturbing, but it makes sense. What if our government-”

“Please. It’s too terrifying a speculation. The prime minister or the queen herself relying on a fortune-teller?”

Alex raised an eyebrow. “No more so than Scotland Yard relying on Readers to guide investigations. Such a thing was once impossible, but here we are. Why not a Seer to help in making decisions? No wonder Mrs. Woodwake wanted no questions or talk.”

“Too late now,” said Brook. He finished his tea. “Mind you, if this is true, that woman is exceptionally dangerous to foreign nations. They wouldn’t want an outsider becoming privy to their plans.”

“If they’re aware she exists. For all we know, they could have their own Seers.”

“Now you’re going from the terrifying to the monstrous, Miss Pendlebury. The governments of the world influenced by such women, all playing a vast and mad chess match?”

“It is possible,” she said in a quiet tone. “It need not be mad, but for the good of the country. Think of the last forty years since the queen took the throne. They’ve been the most peaceful in English history.”

“But we’ve armies in place throughout the empire. They deal with skirmishes all the time.”

“Yet no major wars. Not like stopping the Armada or defeating Napoleon. Our last great battle was at Waterloo.”

“Attribute that to excellent diplomacy.”

“We didn’t have diplomats in place when the Americans were in the middle of that slavery war. English mills were howling for cotton from their southern region and urging us to side with them and lend aid.”

“Which we did not.”

“It was a close thing, though. What would the outcome have been if we’d allied with a slave-holding nation in a war against the northern half of America?”

“I expect life would be much the same.”

“Not if our respective fathers had participated in the fighting and been killed, changing things for their families. Neither of us would be here.”

Brook gave this some consideration. “Perhaps it’s better to not worry about might-have-beens and focus on what is at hand.”

She decided he was right. Just thinking about it got her overwound. How much worse was it for Sybil? Was that even her real name? “Sybil called my father ‘the traveler.’ I think it confirms he was doing work for the Home Office.”

“How do you come to that conclusion?”

“Fingate told me. He said it was something delicate.… I probably shouldn’t say more until I’ve spoken to Mrs. Woodwake. We should go now.”

He rose and saw to her chair and gathered the bag, along with her father’s walking stick, and followed her out.

* * *

Alex’s office door was open, its usual state. She shared with three other Readers and people were constantly in and out. Miss Heather Fagan, the youngest and newest of their group, and thus relegated to working on holidays, was at her desk. She was a pretty girl with sharply defined features, fair skin, stubbornly curly dark hair, and remarkably bright clear eyes. Those were focused on a large, complicated machine on the desk before her. It was black, box-shaped, and looked heavy, producing a clacking noise as Heather’s long fingers stabbed at small disks on stalks extending from the main body.

She bounced to her feet and gave a wide smile as Alex and Brook came in. “Alex! You must see! It finally arrived!”

Her excitement struck Alex like a large happy puppy. It made a change from darker emotions, but she had to brace herself to move forward. “Your new toy?”

“This ‘toy’ will be a revolution, you mark me. Oh, Hallo, Mr. Brook. What a shambles you are. Been working?”

“Yes, Miss Fagan. It’s been interesting.”

Alex was glad to be spared from making another introduction, but wondered how the two had come to meet. Heather would doubtless inform her later; at the moment the younger woman was too distracted by the machine. The floor around her desk was obscured by the remains of a crate, drifts of excelsior, and crumpled newspaper. A hammer and jimmy, weapons used in what had clearly been a violent assault, were on Alex’s desk.

“It was here when I came in,” said Heather. “Just arrived on one of the freight airships-all the way from America.”

“That great beast? What it must weigh!” Alex had no idea what the conveyance cost might be, only that it would start at “exorbitant” and go up from there. Heather came from a wealthy, not merely well off, family. When the Service did not apportion money for her obsessions, she used her own. That she’d chosen swift but expensive air travel over a slower and less risky steamship was typical of her natural impatience.

“I’ll never have to bother with ink and pen again,” she said.

“You’ve had typing machines in before,” said Alex. This one looked like those made in England, perhaps less aesthetically pleasing with most of its works showing. The thing would the very devil to dust, if it lasted more than a week.

“This one’s much better; the Americans have perfected it.” Heather twisted a roller on the top, releasing a sheet of paper. “Look at that! It’s like having your own printing press.”

Alex cast an eye over the sheet. “Certainly an improvement over your handwriting.”

“It’s not as fast as writing something out, but I expect to improve with practice, rather like learning the piano. Once I know where all the letters are I shall type-write everything.”

“You’ll only ever be able to work on reports here. You can’t possibly carry this to an investigation.” Alex attempted to lift one corner and barely shifted the behemoth.

“Trust you to find the weak point in a marvelous invention, but I’ve thought of that already. I shall take notes as usual but type full reports here. Of course, once I’m proficient I’ll be finished in half the time.”

“Unless you’re tempted to add in more details.”

“Bother you! This is so much better than the other machines. It has upper- and lowercase letters, and you can see the paper as you type. Such an obvious thing, that. After all, one really should know where one is in a sentence.” She put a new sheet of paper in, the roller executing a complicated threading maneuver, then haltingly typed the alphabet.

Brook watched with interest. “The letters are jumbled on the-the-”

“Keys,” Miss Fagan said, now typing numbers, which were set out in order along the top row. “The letters used the most often are in the middle where the strongest fingers may strike them-or so I’ve read. I must disagree with the placement of the letter ‘a’ though. My little finger slips right between it and ‘s’ and gets stuck if I don’t look.”

“It’s noisier than pen and ink,” Alex pointed out, going to her own desk.

“I like the sound. Makes me feel as though I’m doing something. And my hand doesn’t get cramped from holding a pen for hours. The ends of my fingers are a bit numb, but that’s better than a cramp.” She noticed Alex assembling pen, ink, and paper. “What are you going to write?”

“A scene report.” Alex wouldn’t get much of it done, but she could make a start. She shifted the hammer and jimmy out of the way.

“I’ll help! You dictate and I’ll type.”

“Another time? Please.”

Heather’s enthusiasm faltered. “What’s happened? Oh no, someone’s died.”

Readers really should have separate offices, thought Alex. “It’s a scene report, of course someone’s died.”

“Someone you know.”

It was impossible to hide anything from a Reader. Alex gave up. “Yes.”

Heather abandoned the machine and came around, reaching out, but not touching. “Oh, Alex, I’m so sorry. Who?”

“I’m not allowed to talk about it. Not yet.”

“One of ours?”

“I’m not allow-”

“Is it to do with what’s going on? With everyone getting called in today? I had to be here, and it was quiet until a few hours ago. No one seems to know why and they’re annoyed about it. Mrs. George organized a Christmas dinner, but that’s not the same as being home with one’s family.”

Depends on the family, Alex thought. “I expect we’ll find out soon enough.”

Mr. Humboldt Sexton rapped on the doorframe to announce himself. “Hallo, all. Miss Pendlebury?”

Time to face consequences. “Yes. I’ll go along now. What sort of mood is she in?” Alex quit her desk.

Sexton blinked as he moved out of her path. “Um … distracted? I should tread lightly.”

“Who? What?” demanded Heather. “It’s to do with what’s going on, isn’t it?”

“Can’t really talk about it, Miss Fagan, sorry.” He turned to Brook. “Hallo, we’ve not been properly introduced.…”

Alex left them to it and hurried down the hall and up one flight of stairs. She noticed, with strange irritation, that the blue of her dress clashed with the pale blue walls. Why would something as silly as that even come to her notice?

Because what awaits is likely to be unpleasant and you want the diversion.

Fair enough.

Woodwake’s door was open. Alex knocked on the frame and went in.

“Close that, if you please,” said Mrs. Woodwake. “Turn the sign.”

A card hanging from a string tacked to the wall outside bore the declaration No Interruptions, which usually meant a Reading was in session. She flipped it around and softly shut the door.