The Hanged Man

CHAPTER SEVEN

The office was the same size as Alex’s but seemed larger with a single desk and occupant. The one tall window looked out on the Thames, visible through the bare winter branches of the trees on the Embankment. The river was the usual dull brown, its flat flow supporting a variety of boats and barges. To the right was a glimpse of Westminster Bridge. Woodwake faced away from the view, which put her figure in silhouette. She gestured at a chair opposite the desk, and Alex took it, aware that the light from the window was full upon her. She used such methods herself when interviewing people in the aftermath of a crime. Reading involved more than sensing another’s emotions; one had to study their features. The least twitch of the mouth, the slightest tilt of the head, any number of things helped to reveal what lay behind the eyes.

It wasn’t quite as bad as she’d anticipated. Delivering her report had a strange cathartic effect, lifting a portion of weight from her shoulders. Alex kept to the essentials of cold fact about the Harley Street murder room and did not allow emotion to color her narration. Now did she mention getting Fingate’s note, and the reaction was as she’d expected. Woodwake demanded to know why she was hearing of it only now.

“I am sorry, ma’am. I was about to inform you and Lord Richard in the coach when the shooting started. I didn’t remember again until much later when I was on my way to Pendlebury House with Inspector Lennon.”

“You should have sent a message to me about it.”

“Yes, ma’am. No excuses. I should have done that.”

“Did you then meet this man, this suspect in your own father’s murder?”

“He did not do it, and yes, I did meet him.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Please explain why.”

Alex did so, recalling in detail the conversation on the Serpentine Bridge. She stressed the fact that Fingate was in the throes of a profound fear and not thinking straight. “I entreated him in the strongest terms to come with me to the Service offices.…”

Then she had to relate the incident of tackling Brook and the nearly fatal outcome of that debacle. Alex tried not to feel too much the fool. It had been an accident, after all.

There was, however, some satisfaction to be had at seeing Woodwake’s jaw drop.

Alex expected a question or comment at that point, but neither came. She continued, touching on, in the briefest terms, the conversation she’d had in the coach with Mr. Brook. This fleshed out the context around Sybil’s word-for-word echo of what he’d said.

“Is her name really Sybil? Or is it a title taken from the Oracle of Delphi?”

Woodwake shook her head, not as a reply, but in exasperation, and ignored the question. “I am not happy with you. Consider that to be a great understatement. You could have been killed.”

“But I was not, thanks to Mr. Brook.”

“He could have been killed. What if he’d been injured in the fall? You’ve a responsibility to your colleagues as well as to the Service. You took it upon yourself to meet with this Fingate, putting yourself and others in peril. I’m not talking about your near drowning, though that’s bad enough. Those bloody madmen with air guns are still out there and so is this ‘ghost’ that you could sense only by his lack of a trail. By your account he murdered your father and was lying in wait in your own home, yet you slip away alone-”

“I had to. Mr. Fingate-”

“Will be located in due time by the police.”

“I think not, ma’am. He is singularly resourceful.”

“I’ll grant that, but you are not thinking things through.”

“Progress was made. I Read him. He spoke the truth. My father was inquiring into something delicate for the Home Office-those are Fingate’s very words. He was told the only person he could trust was Lord Richard. Father impressed upon Mr. Fingate the necessity of trusting no one else, and that is why he’s hiding. At some point he will contact me again, I’m sure of it. He knows I work here; this is the most likely place to get a message to me.”

Woodwake gave a ladylike snort. “I suppose the man cannot be blamed for obeying his master, but he should have had the wit to stay with you.”

“He was overwrought about Father’s death and the Ætheric Society. One of the last things Father did was go to one of their meetings. Some woman was helping him-or so Mr. Fingate related. We must find where this meeting took place and who this woman might be.”

“If not for the fact that a man is dead-”

“Two men, ma’am.”

“Yes. Two deaths. If not for…” She shook her head. “It’s utterly absurd. The Ætherics are a joke, a bad one.”

“But what if they’re not? What if there is something dangerous about them?”

“We are aware that the Ætherics are rather more than what they present to the public, but they’re no threat except to themselves.”

“But if so, then why is the Home Office interested in them?”

“Perhaps they’re concerned with members of the government being subjected to blackmail, should any be foolish enough to join that so-called society. Some particulars about it are … distasteful.”

“More than my Reading a room with my father’s corpse hanging from-” Alex stopped. Anger would not progress things.

Woodwake frowned, but not unkindly. “I am sorry for your loss. I know this is difficult, but be aware that I am trying to protect you. Extraordinary events have overtaken us, and until we have a better idea of what’s behind them, I must be cautious. It will be a trial to your patience and inclinations, but it is necessary.”

“Is learning additional information about the Ætherics likely to be a danger to me?”

“Girl, you should have read law.”

“I might have, if not for this damnable ‘gift’ of mine.”

“And if not for mine, I should have … Well, I’d be anywhere in the world but here, and glad of it.”

There were far worse places than a dim office by the Thames, but Alex knew better than to gainsay her.

Mrs. Woodwake shot her a look, as though picking up the thought, then shook her head. “All right, reports in the general press about the Ætherics may mention scholarly papers on esoteric topics. Members don robes and enact commemorative rituals celebrating ‘High Masters’ passing down great wisdom from some location in the Æther, wherever that might be. They enact elaborate magical rituals as well, which is enough to dismiss them as silly eccentrics. They don’t hide any of that.”

“So I’ve read in the library.”

“At first and even second glance, they are ridiculous. The only danger they present is embarrassment to themselves. Some members boast their association and thrive on the notoriety, while others are secretive, lest they suffer socially or financially from it, though the latter is unlikely. Ætherics tend to give preference to the wealthy when it comes to invitations to their meetings.”

“That would describe my father’s impersonation of ‘Dr. Kemp,’ posing as a physician made wealthy by a patent nostrum.”

“So it would seem. Now, we move to things that are not in the files. Miss Pendlebury, just how worldly are you? Notwithstanding your travels about the globe, what do you know about the nature of men?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

“Men have appetites and desires, and even beloved fathers are not immune to the demands of the flesh.”

Alex gaped at her, too shocked to draw breath.

“The hidden side of the Ætheric Society are the special meetings that take place in private houses. Those gatherings are open to a select few who have the means and mind to pay for certain services that are there rendered.”

“Services? Like a brothel?”

Woodwake grimaced, her ears going pink. “Exactly like a brothel, but dressed up in robes and with chanting. I am inclined to think that your father made a visit to the Ætheric Society for a baser purpose than to act as an agent for the Home Office.”

Understanding came in a flash. “I won’t believe that!”

“It is a more logical conclusion than them being a threat to queen and country. To save face in front of his manservant your father gave him to think he was investigating something important. It sounds better than to admit attending a Christmas Eve debauchery held by a bizarre remnant of the old Hellfire Club. As for this woman he mentioned, one could consider that she was hired for the occasion, though I’ve heard that some female members of the Ætherics are known to voluntarily fill such roles as required by their … rituals.”

Seething, Alex had to fight to keep from leaping up to strike the woman. She’d not been this angry in years. “How dare you?” she finally whispered.

Mrs. Woodwake remained silent, watching with a calm eye.

Alex pulled into herself, slamming the rage down and thinking, thinking. There was more going on here than this woman casting aspersions on the character of Lord Gerard Pendlebury. Woodwake was Reading her, of course, and the process often involved provoking the one under scrutiny.

“This is a diversion,” she pronounced, strangely reassured. “You know what’s true and what is not about Fingate’s story.”

“I know that you believed him and if you Read him accurately, then he believed his master, but that doesn’t mean Lord Gerard was being truthful with him or that there’s anything more sinister afoot.”

“Begging pardon, ma’am, but there must be or my father would never have been murdered. You made mention yourself of blackmail. That could well be the ‘delicate matter.’ Why else would Father adopt such an elaborate disguise?”

“The answer to that will doubtless be discovered in due course. Be confident that our best people are looking into everything concerning this case. The house servants, the neighbors, anyone your father had the least association with as Dr. Kemp, are under full scrutiny. We will find who is responsible.”

Alex picked up on the truth of that statement. While it was heartening, she was still annoyed over Woodwake’s attempt at provocation. I should have seen it coming, but then I’m used to delivering, not receiving. There was nothing more to be gained on that subject, though. Time to try another direction. “What about Lord Richard? Are the cases connected?”

“I cannot talk to you about it. You are removed from the first because of your relation to the victim and from the second because you are a witness. It would be a conflict of interest for you to participate in that investigation.”

“But you’re also a witness.”

“I am, and therefore I am also off the second case.”

That was unexpected. Considering her temperament, Woodwake would have insisted on being in the thick of things or knowing the reason why. Alex tried to come up with any name in the Service’s limited hierarchy who would be senior enough for the job. “Who’s taken charge of it, then?”

“Not your concern or mine.”

“It is being seen to, is it not?”

“Of course it is.”

Woodwake again spoke truthfully and with impatience, but Alex sensed something hidden. If she’d been the one conducting the Reading, she’d have pounced on it. A less direct approach was required.

“With regard to my father, Sybil called him ‘the traveler,’ and if she is a Seer, then that’s important. Of all the people in this building, I am the one she sought out and spoke to.”

“That’s not your-”

“If it’s not my concern, then it certainly must be yours. Allow me to help. That’s why I’m here.”

Woodwake’s lips parted as though to reply. Alex’s barriers were down and she felt an unpleasant emotional twinge from the woman, like an instrument out of tune. Woodwake was not merely uneasy, she was deeply frightened. That was unexpected, and at odds with her outwardly cool manner. It lasted but an instant, then she regained control. “I am aware of that. But for now, other business must be sorted out first. There’s the matter of your delay in reporting that message from Fingate.”

Alex couldn’t believe she was still considering such a minor issue. It’s another diversion.

“You will face disciplinary action on that, but not today. For the present, I require that you make your written report-in detail-and do what Sybil told you in regard to keeping your head down and mouth shut.”

“And eyes open.”

“Don’t press me, girl. Think. The unknown person who killed your father was waiting in your home for your return. He is a real threat to your life. You must impress upon yourself that you are in danger and like to remain so until he is caught.”

“I am cogent of the danger, ma’am, but I want to find him.”

“Of course you do, but my duty is to keep you safe. Reason things out. If his purpose was to kill you as well-then why? So far as he knew, he murdered a man named Kemp. You’ve no connection to him. Therefore, he knew Kemp to be Pendlebury.”

“But why kill Father? He’d been away from England for years.”

“So far as you know.”

“Indeed. But if so, then why kill me? Ma’am, is there any information from the Home Office yet on what he was doing? I don’t ask for details, only to know if there’s been progress.”

“It’s too soon to say.”

Which did not answer the question. “Will you let me know when there is progress?”

“I will consider it, providing you do as instructed. Do not disappoint me. Finish your report, then take a coach home to Pendlebury House and stay there. We’ll have at least two men on watch at all times.”

“If it’s a question of my safety, then is this not a far better place for me? I’ve no wish to put my uncle’s family at risk by my presence, and I expect those men can be used elsewhere. The apprentices’ dormitory will have a spare bed.”

Woodwake pinched the bridge of her nose.

“I can be of use here, especially when you break the news about Lord Richard. I’ll be one of the few who won’t be in shock.”

“W-what?” She looked up.

Alex felt a wash of … panic? She wasn’t sure, the emotion was too fleeting and instantly smothered. “Has the queen been informed yet?”

When the woman’s face flushed a deep, dangerous red, Alex knew that she’d pressed too far and had been caught out. The Reading in this session was to be one-sided. Woodwake stood and pointed to the door, apparently too angry to speak.

Alex left and hoped it didn’t look too much like a flying rout. It felt like one. She made it downstairs before realizing she’d been holding her breath and had to hang onto the stair rail to recover. Her head felt squeezed, turned inside out. An ordinary interview wouldn’t have that kind of effect on her; Woodwake was just bloody intimidating. But for all that, what had her so afraid?

Anything to do with Lord Richard.

Why?

Cold logic led Alex to wonder if the woman had aught to do with his death. Such fear … of what? Being discovered? Alex had dealt with that on more than one murder case. The guilty were always terrified of being found out.

However, it was highly improbable. Woodwake had been in the coach with the first attack and equally vulnerable to being shot along with Lord Richard and Alex. The second attack at James’s house was more questionable. The hooded men had focused their fire on Richard, but aimed more or less over the heads of everyone else in the room, at least until others in the house began firing back. Woodwake had done so. Had she hit any? Yes, certainly one, perhaps more. Alex had been busy ducking.

Absurd. Mrs. Woodwake’s loyalty to the Service was above question. Some other reason lay behind this oddness.

Might she have had a personal attachment to Lord Richard? Something stronger than the friendship of colleagues? If so, then she was more likely to be engulfed by grief, not fear. She’d want that kept private, but was it enough to account for that level of fear?

And I dared to Read her, spoke in that manner to her. Alex would be lucky if she still had a place here come Boxing Day.

If I am dismissed, then what?

She couldn’t and would not think that far ahead. First the report, then-

Not to Pendlebury House. At least not directly. There was a special line of inquiry she wanted to make about those air guns, and getting there wouldn’t be too great a detour. It was direct disobedience to orders, but bother that. No one would blame her for trying to turn up useful information.

A deep and distant clarion sounded, carrying through the walls. Tolling from Westminster, Big Ben gave the hour to anyone within hearing: two o’clock. The short winter daylight would be gone altogether by the time she finished writing that report. She did not care for the idea of a coach trip after dark, either. Best to postpone one and expedite the other.

Alex had her plans sorted by the time she returned to her office.

* * *

Sexton was gone, along with Mr. Brook, which was disappointing, but Heather Fagan remained, still playing with her new toy. She’d removed a flat spool that trailed a black ribbon halfway across the office to the window. Alex knew the ribbon held some import in the printing operation.

“Problem?” she asked.

“Just seeing how it works,” Heather replied. “I should have ordered extra ribbons. It will be a bother when this one wears out of ink.” Much of that substance had transferred to Heather’s fingers, so it wouldn’t be long. “I might be able to roll another ribbon in if I can find similar-size ones made here.”

Alex’s desk was as she’d left it, but now her father’s walking stick lay on it. She’d not left it there. The carpetbag with her damp clothes was in the corner out of the way. “Where did Mr. Brook get to?”

“Off to the bog, I expect. Not that he said it in so many words, but I got a bit of anxiousness from him.”

Alex had attended to that necessity on her way back.

“And Mr. Sexton?”

“Who knows? He was unsettled, but not showing it much-rather the way you are now. Peeled your skin, did our Mrs. Woodwake?”

“It wasn’t so bad, just a report.”

“That you can’t talk about.”

“That I can’t talk about.”

“Well-rot on it. There’s too many secrets in this place. Everyone wants to know why we’re here and those at the top aren’t sharing. Much more of this waiting and there will be a mutiny.”

Alex debated ordering a pot of tea. The interview with Woodwake, the day’s harrowing events, and lack of sleep were catching her up. She was about to ring for one of the pages when her attention caught on the walking stick’s sliver trim: a detail that should not have been there.

An extra band had been added; indistinguishable in style from the original work, it stood out to her eye. There had to be a reason for her father to make such a change.

She found her gloves and pulled them on, not wanting another emotional jar, and picked it up. A swift and firm twist caused the stick to separate into two parts. The additional band hid the seam. The upper portion was hollowed out, and within the cavity was a scrap of paper rolled tight to fit. She coaxed it free with a letter opener.

“What’s that? A calling card?” Heather asked.

“Apparently.” Alex fitted the two cane parts together again.

“Clever place to hide things. I’ve an uncle with a stick that serves as a sort of elongated brandy flask. He likes to think no one knows about it.”

On one side of the card was a name in the delicate cursive script favored by the finer printing shops, Rosalind Veltre, on the other, in pencil, 25 Grosvenor Sq. 8:30-“Masters Impart.” The writing was not her father’s.

Alex forgot about tea, slipped the stick under the papers, and made her way to the file rooms. The main room was long and narrow; a line of card drawers took up the center and banks of files lined the walls. All of Alex’s investigation reports were here, along with all the others conducted by her colleagues. The service was a great one for keeping detailed records.

She opened the card drawer for “V” and with considerable satisfaction found one for Mrs. Rosalind Veltre, her name neatly printed at the top and under it the numbers to indicate which file report contained her information.

The lack of content in the file sheaf was a disappointment:

ROSALIND VELTRE, b. 1851, London. Res. 3 Hill Street, Mayfair, London.

Widow of Thurman Veltre, Esq. 1840–1875, burst appendix, interred Highgate Cemetery.

Began attending séances 1876, approx. Favored those held by “Madam Szakaly.” See file #M272.

Member of the Ætheric Society, 1877, approx. Attends public lectures and private parties.

Attached to the page, a clipping from The Times proved to be Mr. Veltre’s obituary. He had been a solicitor with Veltre, Veltre and Caldershot and was survived by a number of relatives.

Mrs. Veltre would have to be well off to afford such a fashionable resting place for her husband and thus be of interest to the Ætherics. It was clear how the lady’s path had taken her to them. Bereaved widows were bread and dripping for thousands of mediums plying their trade throughout England. The Psychical Fraud Section was always busy.

Should Woodwake be correct that the private parties were some form of debauch, then was Veltre a hapless victim gulled into acceptance or a willing participant? Alex had no illusions about her sex being passive when it came to certain activities of the body. Women were just as easily tempted by the demands and desires of the flesh as men.

But this was pure speculation. It was a capital mistake to weave possibilities out of imaginings, not facts, and there were few of those as yet. Rosalind Veltre was a cipher. Why had Father been interested in her? What if she had not been helping him? What if she had aided in bringing about his murder?

There was but one certain way to discover that.

Alex made note of the address, shut the file drawer, and held the briefest of inner debates about mentioning this to Woodwake.

Not in the humor she’s in.

Woodwake would send someone else to question Rosalind Veltre and see to it Alex was physically hauled away to Pendlebury House.

No, thank you.

Alex had places to go first.

* * *

Mr. Brook was in her office again, combed and shaved, wearing a proper suit with a well-cut frock coat and polished boots, and carrying a top hat. Alex stopped in the doorway, taken aback by the transformation. He looked the gentleman and stood when he saw her.

“Miss Pendlebury.”

“Mr. Brook. Heading home?”

He showed puzzlement.

“You’ve been on duty since last night,” she reminded.

“So have you.”

She took her cloak from a peg behind her desk and settled it on her shoulders. Her reticule was where she’d left it, heavy with the pistol inside. “I’m about to leave. Mrs. Woodwake ordered me back to Pendlebury House.”

“Then I’ll escort you.”

That wouldn’t do. She wanted a driver who wouldn’t question her detours. “Most kind, but I don’t think-”

“Alex!” Heather spoke from behind her typing machine. More parts had been liberated from it. Her face was smudged with ink, her hands black as a coal miner’s. “Mr. Brook would like the pleasure of escorting you home. He would be greatly disappointed if you denied him such a small boon.”

Brook cleared his throat. “Uh-hm, that is to say…”

Alex felt herself flush pink, possibly a florid red at the implications behind that boon. They’d been talking about her. Heather, a forward young lady, was much given to speaking her mind, however socially awkward it might prove. She possessed a hearty disdain for consequences.

But I do not want a gentleman caller! Certainly not now.

Heather arched one eyebrow and fixed her with a glare. Alex instantly recognized the threat. Heather had picked up on her swoop of panic and would inform Brook about it unless-

“Thank you, Mr. Brook. I would welcome a little quiet company.” There, a conditional compromise. He could not possibly expect more, given the circumstances.

Brook fetched Alex’s carpetbag. “What’s happened to the walking stick? I left it propped against the wall.”

“You left it on the desk,” said Heather, whose attention was back on the machine. “Alex was fiddling with it.”

“But I-” He bit off the rest, looking uncomfortable.

Another precognitive occurrence?

“Interesting,” said Alex, echoing Woodwake’s assessment.

“Not to me,” he muttered.

If he hadn’t left it there, she’d not have found the calling card, not as quickly anyway.

“What a deuced inconvenience,” he added as they went downstairs.

“I feel the same way about my so-called gift,” she said.

“But you have control of yours. The devilry about mine is not being aware of it.”

“Manifested early, did it?”

“No. Last year I took a knock with a polo mallet, fell off the horse, and haven’t been the same since. That is, I recovered in body, but this … it started just afterward.”

“Unusual. Most people are born to it, but a few are made.”

“I’d like it unmade. More than once I’ve thought of giving myself another clout to see if it would cure me, but I might wake up and be even worse off.”

“It takes time to adjust.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He did not seem in the right mood to suggest that with training he might learn to control the ability. Another day would suit better.

Mrs. George still commanded the reception area, which was crowded with people demanding to know when they were to be allowed to leave.

“It’s been hours,” complained someone at the back.

“And it may be hours more,” she said with the weariness that comes from repetition. “Until then, make yourselves useful and do something else besides this botheration.”

Alex took the lead, going around rather than through them-and stopped dead.

Sybil, minus her caretaker, stood with her back to the front entry. Pale face consumed by an unsettling grin, she put a finger to her lips. “Pie hole shut,” she whispered.

A number of thoughts on how to deal with the situation galloped through Alex’s head. She fell back on instinct and nodded. “Ears open, head down?”

“Yessssss!” Sybil responded, mad eyes bright. She stepped back, bumped against the doors, and walked out, backward.

Unlike the incident in the dining hall, no one seemed to have noticed her presence.

Alex followed, half terrified, half fascinated. She wanted to bolt, she really did. The woman continued to walk backward, negotiating a step down to the sidewalk as though she could see it. She continued along, heading toward the street. Alex rushed to catch her up.

“I’m sure it’s much too cold,” she called out. “You’ve forgotten your coat.”

“Haven’t got one. They keep me like a hothouse orchid, but I want to have a walk. This is fresh!” she declared, stretching her arms. She’d stopped inches short of a low stone balustrade that served to separate the Service’s entrance from the public sidewalk.

Brook looked to Alex for some hint of what was needed, but she was at a loss. Getting Sybil inside seemed the thing to do, but how to accomplish that did not suggest itself. The woman was in the throes of an unsettling giddiness. That could change in a blink. Reason and respect might work.

“You’ll be able to stay out longer with a coat. I know where we can borrow one.”

“What color? Oh, never mind. I like this!” She turned slowly in place. “Yes! What’s next to the blackness, traveler’s daughter. You were clever to suggest that. Can’t look for long or it will know. I saw what’s reflected in one mirror, just-just-just the one.”

“What did you see?”

“Not enough, of course. It’s never enough or it’s too much, each a tiny bit different and all bad. You told him how it is.” She pointed at Brook.

“I should like to hear more,” he said. “Over a cup of tea?”

“Whiskey’s better. The traveler’s daughter will need some soon.” She looked past him toward a muffled and cloaked man strolling their way from the south.

Alex started, wishful hope making her think it was Fingate for an instant, but this man was taller with a different gait. He gave them no notice and turned for the entry, not in a hurry, but not wasting time, yet another member of the Service called in on the holiday.

“Bad news,” said Sybil. “Very bad news.”

From the pocket of her dress she removed a small pistol and, showing no hesitation, shot the man squarely in the back.