A Study in Sable (6 page)

The woman pursed up her lips, and shook her head. “You're a brave boy, you are. You couldn't get me next or nigh that place if the last dollop of Devon Double Cream in the world was just inside the threshold.”

Watson looked around at the four of them. “I think we can at least find out what's in there, and discover a way to lock it up before it kills anyone else.”

The woman looked at each of them in turn, eyes narrowed.
Sizing us up,
Nan thought.
I think she's a magician of some sort.

“That may be,” the woman replied. “But I know when I am outmatched, and whatever is in there, it's too much for the likes of me.”

“Beatrice, if anyone knows anything more than I've been able to discover, it's probably you,” Watson said flatly. “We've determined that the hauntings didn't start until after the owner went on some expeditions to dig up Roman ruins and brought back artifacts. But that's all we know.”

She tapped her index finger against her lip, her eyes lost in thought. “Well . . . there's a great deal of anger and hunger there, more than I've ever seen in a haunt in London.” She glanced over at Nan and Sarah. “Ghosts don't do well in London; all the friction of so many living souls about tends to thin them out and they go to tatters.”

Sarah nodded understandingly.

“Spirits
anchored
or
bound
to something, however, are another story. So it does make sense that your devilish thing is bound to
something physical.” She pursed her lips. “I do have a thought, Johnny. Buy me some teacakes, like a dear.”

John Watson didn't even blink. He got the attention of a passing waitress and ordered the teacakes, and for good measure, some sandwiches and scones, for which Nan, for one, was very grateful. “I think we can take the time for a proper tea first, unless you can think of a reason for us to hurry, Beatrice.”

“I can never think of a reason to hurry through teatime,” she countered, and kept the conversation going on a lighter note, telling John and Mary stories about her circle of friends, which seemed to include everything from artists to gypsies, but mostly held occultists whose names were vaguely familiar to Nan, but only vaguely. Nan didn't mind being only partly involved in the conversation; she was too busy eating ham sandwiches and scones with currant jam.

But Beatrice did not touch the teacakes that Watson had ordered specially for her. Instead, she wrapped them in her handkerchief and put them in an enormous handbag, almost the size of a medical bag. Watson didn't seem at all surprised at this.

John paid the bill, and they all got up to leave. “Off to Berkeley Square, then,” Beatrice said, with a sigh of resignation. “It's every bit of ten miles. . . .”

“Cab there, and I'll put you in a cab home,” Watson promised, and went out to hail a vehicle that could carry all of them. Beatrice looked a bit more mollified.

“Well,” the older lady said, when they were all settled inside an old-fashioned hackney carriage of the kind that had brought the four of them to Chelsea. “I suppose I should explain to you two youngsters that I'm a witch.”

“Earth Magician,” Watson said, with a weary sort of inflection as if he was used to making that correction.

“You call it what you want, dearie,” Beatrice said, patting his hand. “I'll call it what my mam, and my great-grandmam, and
her
great-grandmam, and so on back to Ireland called it. We're witches. It runs in the family.” She gave him a stern sort of look, silently admonishing him not to correct her anymore. “Now, the problem Johnny and dear
Mary have is that nothing they can summon is going to be able to give them any advice about what's inside Number 10. But the creatures I can talk to might, if they're not too frightened. And Berkeley Square has enough clean ground in the park there should still be some in residence.” She lifted her bag off her lap slightly. “I can't summon them, but I can call them, and they'll come for teacakes.”

“Earth Elementals don't stray much from their homes, do they?” Mary asked.

Beatrice shook her head. “Not unless they are forced to. The ones there will have been there for several centuries at least, and the thing in Number 10 can't seem to go outside those four walls, so it's likely that while they are afraid of it, as well they should be, they won't have been forced to flee. They'll simply avoid Number 10 and the area around it for a good distance.”

Nan knew enough about the Elementals by now to realize why neither John nor Mary had summoned their own creatures to give them information about Number 10. There wasn't enough water in or near the house for John to get any information from his, and the Air Elementals that Mary could summon were . . . flighty. They easily forgot things that had happened a mere month ago, and as for decades, well, that was out of the question. But Earth Elementals prided themselves on their long memories, and generally were happy to share information if they knew it.

“The thing in Number 10 didn't seem able to leave the four walls of the building,” Sarah offered. “At least when we encountered it, once we were outside, we were safe. And I think if it
could
have followed us, it certainly
would
have.”

Beatrice glanced at Sarah sharply. “Oh . . . so you two were
those
little girls.” She paused for a long moment, biting her lip.

“Neither we nor Memsa'b and Sahib ever found out who was behind luring us to that place, either,” Nan said crossly. “Though it might be just as well. I think Karamjit or Selim might have taken the law into their own hands if they had.”

“Well . . . it was a long time ago,” Beatrice said slowly. “And there's a lot that isn't mine to tell. But I can promise you that the
person responsible for putting you children in deadly peril never got the opportunity to do that again with anyone, child or adult.”

All four of them fixed their gazes on Beatrice, who just shrugged. It was clear she wasn't going to say anything more about it, so although Nan was curious, she decided that she wasn't
that
curious.
It's enough to know that nobody else fell victim to him.
And when she told them, it would satisfy Selim and Karamjit, who were still brooding over the incident.

Mary Watson immediately, and tactfully, changed the subject to the crowd that had been around Beatrice when they had first arrived at the tearoom. “I didn't recognize any of them,” she said, tilting her head at Beatrice in invitation to say something about them.

So for the rest of the ride, they got a very entertaining description of the gaggle of young poets, artists, writers, and musicians who were “courting” her.

“They want me to introduce them to the occult, of course,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I do my best to keep them occupied harmlessly without getting themselves into trouble.”

“Better you than some,” John Watson said darkly, and Nan nodded.

“Sahib and Memsa'b have extracted a few dilettantes from things they . . . regretted,” Nan added.

“They're harmless little ducks for the most part. A few are terribly earnest, most are only terribly earnest as long as their interest lasts, which isn't long. They all want to
see
things, of course, and have delirious visions of things they can paint or write about, and when that doesn't happen, they go on to some other enthusiasm. Usually it's the Lake District. I try to encourage that.” Beatrice shrugged. “Not a speck of our sort of Talent among the lot of them, of course, which is just as well. One never knows when the next fad might be hashish, opium, or cocaine parties, and mixing the occult and drugs is as dangerous as waltzing with tigers, if you don't know what you're about.”

“That's an understatement,” John Watson said darkly. “What about the one with the angry face? The one that was lurking within earshot, but not in the circle?”

“Oh, Alexandre.” Beatrice waved her hands dismissively. “He has ambitions and driblets and drablets of ability. I said to him the other day when he came oozing about, talking about what he was ‘about to' write, ‘Alex, you don't want to write, you want to
have written.
' Oh, how he glared! He knew exactly what I meant, though it escaped the others.”

“That he wants the laurels of being a writer without the work?” Sarah hazarded, which clarified things for Nan, who couldn't work out what Beatrice had meant, either.

“Exactly, my dear.” Beatrice patted her hand. “He would love to be Oscar Wilde, but he hasn't a tenth of Oscar's heart, nor a twentieth of Oscar's talent. He also fancies himself a grand occultist, and as you might imagine, he's going at it through the application of drugs and
atmosphere.
I've warned the ones that will listen against him.”

“And the ones that won't listen?”

“I can't be responsible for everyone,” she replied philosophically.

“Beatrice, you should be careful about him,” Mary Watson said, suddenly. “I've heard things about him. He's vicious, sadistic, and thrives on revenge.”

“And
I
have my little book,” Beatrice said, with a decided nod. “It's
my
version of The Woman's photographs. There are things I know about half of London, and proof of all of them. Why do you think I've never been run up before the judges on fortune-telling? No one wants me to start reciting what I know before a judge. But you're right, and I will be careful about him.”

Mary relaxed. “Good. He may be a weasel, but a cornered weasel is the most vicious of his kind. The best thing you can do is make him decide you're not worth the trouble.”

Beatrice pursed her lips, but nodded agreement.

By this time they had arrived at Berkeley Square; as directed, the cabby stopped the horses beside the park that made the square such a pleasant place to live. John got out and handed all the ladies out before paying the driver.

“Well, dearies,” said Beatrice, the jet ornaments on her hat bobbing
and shivering as she looked about the place. “Down there, I think,” she continued, nodding at the nearer end of the cartouche-shaped park. “Under that big tree.” The park was relatively deserted—too late for nannies and children, too early for evening strollers. Beatrice led the way down a broad gravel path with the air of someone who knows exactly where she is going and what she is going to do when she gets there. None of the few people walking, reading a newspaper, or simply enjoying the late afternoon air gave any of them a second look. Their timing could not have been more perfect.

There was a little group of wooden benches at the end of the graveled path, right under the tree, and Beatrice occupied the center of the middle one. “This'll do,” she said, and closed her eyes with the air of someone about to perform some sort of task.

Nan didn't sense anything, nor see anything except a trio of red squirrels at the roots of another tree to their left that slowly, nervously, began to edge nearer. Although it was a little odd for squirrels to be so shy; normally, at least in her experience, the little rascals were as bold as ravens, and here in a park, you'd think they were used to approaching people for food. The pigeons certainly had begun to gather, cooing hopefully and eyeing Beatrice's big bag.

Nan wished Neville was here; he could have scouted for Elementals, or other hints of magic.

The three little rodents ran in short little spurts until they were all huddled together in the center of the path, facing the bench. Beatrice opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on the squirrels. She smiled encouragingly at them. “Ah, there you are, lads. Come on then, show your proper shapes for us.” Now she reached into her bag and brought out the wrapped cakes, letting the handkerchief fall open so the squirrels could see the treat. “See what we have for you, dearies?”

If Nan had not been so used to magic by now, she knew she might have thought she was going mad. One instant there were three squirrels huddling together in the middle of the graveled path. The next—

They weren't squirrels. They were fauns. Goat-footed, handsome little boys with tiny horns peeking through their curly hair, goat eyes fixed nervously on the cakes in Beatrice's hand. “Come now,”
Beatrice cooed. “We've no intention of hurting you, and there's no Cold Iron about us. We just want to have a chat.”

They were goat from the waist down, and unlike some fauns Nan had seen in the past, they preserved a vestige of modesty by wearing ragged loincloths. Otherwise they were completely naked. Then again, it wasn't as if they were in
need
of trousers. Or shirts, for that matter. None of the Elementals Nan had ever seen had ever shown any hint that they were the least inconvenienced by cold or heat.

“A chat?” bleated the one in the middle, faintly. “About what?”

“Have a cake first,” Beatrice suggested. “Then we'll talk.” She held out the handkerchief, and slowly, slowly, the little Fauns edged sideways toward her, one at a time, getting just close enough to snatch a cake, then dart back to a safer distance. There they crouched over their treats, stuffing their cakes into their mouths so fast Nan feared they'd choke, their eyes never leaving Beatrice's face. It was only Beatrice they paid any attention to. So far as the rest of them were concerned, the fauns didn't seem to think they were of any importance.