The Eterna Files (22 page)

The response was immediate and firm. “Never heard of him.”

The detective maintained his conversational tone. “You haven't heard about his arrest and the horror show found in his basement?”

Spire watched Stevens gulp hard. “No. Doesn't sound pleasant.”

Leaning across the counter, Spire was nearly nose to nose with the now sweating Stevens, all geniality vanishing. “It was hell, Mr. Stevens.”

Hatred sharpening, it took everything in him not to reach across the counter and throttle the chemist. But he had to be exceedingly careful. He had no proof to tie this man to Tourney, though his instincts were certain of it. He was also not supposed to be in this shop in the first place, or asking these questions.

Stevens kept looking around—out the window, around the shop. But no one was there.

“I … You should go, sir. My … lawyers said I should never talk about it. About anything. You should go.”

Spire shrugged and presented the man with his card, which bore two addresses. “If you think of anything you'd like to share, please write and send it here.” He tapped the first address, the post office box held in Grange's name. “Or go to this place. These days, I'd suggest the latter.”

The second address was that of a district safe house that Grange had told him had been arranged for this case. Stevens stared at the card without touching it. Spire set it on the glass countertop. Spire wanted to press the chemist, to break the man, especially in so fragile a state, but he was constrained by circumstance.

He thought of his new commission and looked at Stevens again. The man's eyes were glassy. Perhaps he indulged in the opiates he sold. He certainly couldn't become one of Omega's theorists, Spire thought, wondering how his name—and the others—had been suggested for Omega in the first place. If any of the others were like Stevens, he was not only unimpressed, but frankly frightened for Omega's entire operation.

It was past time to leave. There was nothing more to learn here.

“Be in touch, Doctor,” Spire said, turning to him at the door and offering a thin-lipped smile. “Sooner rather than later. Tourney was found dead in a prison cell painted red with his blood.
All
his blood. You may want to pay that safe house a visit and think hard about what you'd like to say. Been a lot of ‘suicides' recently around this city. Never know whose throat might be slit next.”

The unmitigated horror on Stevens's face was unmistakable. Spire felt a flash of triumph at the sight.

The clang of the shop bell was a herald of the sooty, fouled East End air that hit Spire like a blow as he stepped out of the shop and narrowly avoided a cesspool. The noise of the city was at its most chaotic, dire, and desperate in these parts.

He knew the area well; though it had not been his jurisdiction, he had traversed it often with trusted colleagues. The lack of communication between police precincts had been the foremost bane of Spire's existence and he had been determined to try to build bridges between departments. He'd have to leave that legacy, like so many things, to Grange.

He mused on all that remained to be done, walking at an impressive clip and weaving dexterously through the constantly bustling, teeming, terrifying city. Once he no longer felt twitchy with repressed energy, he hailed a hackney. While Spire wouldn't have minded crossing the whole of London on foot, he couldn't be too long missed.

Spire had the cab drop him a few blocks from the Millbank offices so he could return on foot and determine if he had been followed. As he approached the door, unwatched, he saw a portly man in a top hat and half cloak descending from a fine carriage in front of the old mill. Scowling, the man raised a meaty fist, preparing to knock. Spire intervened.

“May I help you, sir?”

The man whirled to face Spire. His eyes were small, his expression nearly a caricature of disgust, as if the mere act of standing were unbearable. “Do you work here?” the man demanded in a huff, mopping beneath the brow of his brown top hat with an embroidered kerchief. Taking an immediate dislike to the fellow, Spire assumed he'd be trouble.

“I have business here,” Spire replied. “Are you here to see someone?”

“Lord Black,” the man replied, the timbre of his voice as unpleasant as his face.

Spire used his key to open the door. “If His Grace is here, he can be found at the top of the stairs. You're welcome to check,” Spire said, gesturing the man inside and pointing up. “Have a nice day.” He breezed past him on the stairwell.

The man gasped and clucked his tongue. “Rude.”

Spire opened the door to his team's floor and closed it swiftly, cutting off any glimpse the interloper might have of their workspace. He heard pronounced huffing behind him and slow, heavy tread up the echoing stairs.

“We've found a fascinating doctor,” Everhart said in greeting from her desk as Spire, warm from his journey, took off his frock coat. He hoped she didn't mind a waistcoat and shirtsleeves.

“Good.” He looked around the empty office. “Knight come back with you?”

“No, she's gone to the museum, to examine new arrivals,” Rose replied. She'd chosen a desk near one of the windows; the light made for easier reading. “How did your visit—”

“There's a man here to see Lord Black,” Spire said, his interruption a warning. “And he doesn't seem pleasant.”

There was an echoing iron clomp on the stairs, accompanied by pronounced huffing. Their door was suddenly flung wide. The sweaty man with a bulbous nose stood at the threshold, his cloak thrown over his arm. His fine suit had been tailored to accommodate a pronounced paunch.

“Lord Black is not in! Who are you?” the man demanded.

“You, sir, are in
my
building. Uninvited, as far as I know. Here, I ask the questions,” Spire stated. “You have yet to introduce yourself.” Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Everhart turn away.

“Lord Snitt,” the man snarled. “Colleague of Lord Black, involved in financial…” He trailed off, staring across the room. Spire shifted instinctually to stand in the man's line of sight.

“I am Harold Spire, director of this branch. I doubt you have clearance to question us. If you have an issue with this reply, please alert Lord Black and he will assist you.”

The man gestured with a fleshy hand, calling across the room: “Miss. Turn around.”

Rose swiveled around, expressionless, sitting primly, hands folded over the file in her lap. She gazed steadily at the man and said nothing.

“State your business, Lord Snitt, else I'll have to ask you to leave,” Spire said, taking a step toward Snitt, making the space between them that much more tense.

“I am here,” Snitt said in his whining tone, “to do as I have on many missions before: determine what my government wastes its money on. And a question for any department, classified or no, is what is a
woman
doing here?”

“She works here,” Spire stated. “Not as a housekeeper or drudge, but as a capable employee. Now if you don't mind, we all have to get back to work, even our little lady friend here,” he finished with an edge.

“An unholy travesty, that a woman should be in the working company of the stronger sex.” The sour-faced lord seemed bent on humiliation, as if reminding Everhart of her inferiority was the whole of his joy. “I shall tell the prime minister to stop this nonsense at once.…”

“Oh, you'll tell the prime minister, will you?” Everhart said, standing suddenly. “Not if I get to him first, so he can reprimand your indulgence in
incivility
!” she snapped, hastily scribbling something on a piece of paper as she spoke. “If you're truly interested in wasteful government spending, Snitt, I can tell you, you'll not find it here. I know. I've seen all the numbers.”

Everhart strode toward Spire, pressed the paper in his hand and stalked out. Without looking at it, Spire tucked the paper in his pocket. He didn't blame her for walking out. But it left the huffing nobleman staring at him as if expecting an answer. Or validation.

“Lord Snitt, the prime minister is rather fond of Miss Everhart,” Spire said with a venomous smile. “You'll not find any sympathy for your case there. I'd leave it be.”

“Oh, we'll see about that,” the gentleman said before turning and harrumphing out.

Alone in the office, Spire opened the small paper whose rapid script was barely legible.

“Tell Black of mortal offense if he looks for me. Investigating last three names.”

Spire wanted to laugh out loud, to cheer the brilliant woman. But the part of him that had been hurt and betrayed kept cool, focusing instead on his part. He needed to meet with Grange and excuse Everhart to Lord Black.

Taking advantage of Omega's telegraph machine, Spire sent a wire to his old precinct, then charged out toward the exclusive club near St. James's Park. The place was within comfortable walking distance of his new home but a whole world and class away.

*   *   *

After a fresh argument with Foley, his mortal enemy, Spire felt ready to face any kind of slight as he explained to Black what had happened with Snitt.

“Why are you coming to me with this, Spire?” Black asked, swirling his snifter of brandy thoughtfully. “Why didn't she?” Spire's whiskey sat untouched.

“Offended, she plans to take time away from the office. Believe me”—Spire gestured behind him—“I'd not battle your troll at the bridge if she didn't send me here to say so.”

The nobleman ran a hand through his blond hair. “Rose is not a sensitive woman. She's endured more thoughtless affronts to her sex than I can count. Perhaps Snitt was a last straw. Even the prime minister made an insulting comment about women in front of her the other day.”

Spire hadn't considered until now if Miss Everhart had actually been wounded or if she had seen Snitt for the ass he was and dismissed his words accordingly. He wondered how much she didn't mention, how much she bit her tongue in a man's world.

“I've worked hard to ensure our Rose feels supported,” Black continued. “So either she's reached her capacity for callous commentary or she's up to something she doesn't want us to know about.” Lord Black grinned. “I hope it's the latter. I love surprises.”

Sipping his whiskey at last, Spire itched to ask for Black's blessing on further investigation, but didn't dare risk it. He pinned high hopes on Everhart's ability to remain favored.

“How did she get her appointment in the first place, sir?” Spire asked, genuinely curious.

Lord Black considered Spire over his snifter a moment. “Her parents were shot by a madman.” He waved a languid hand. “It was hushed up by the Crown as the murderer was a relative. The appointment was given out of pity, since she'd asked for something to
do
. She became invaluable. But, I warn you, if she so much as smells pity, she'll reject it.”

Spire understood this more than he'd let on. So he was surprised by Black's next words.

“It's why I picked you both for the division.” Spire stared at him. “
Death.
Who better to guard the secrets of immortality than those whom death has wronged, by striking prematurely and unjustly? I know about your mother—”

Spire interrupted, his voice low and vibrating with anger. “You know nothing about me—”

“But I do,” Black interrupted in turn. “And I'm right. I've a keen sense of what drives people, Spire. It's how I've gotten where I have. Unlike most of my peers, I don't rely on my status to propel me through the world. I've advanced in a calculated manner, largely by reading people's motivations.” He swirled his brandy again, holding it before his face and staring into the liquid as if he were some hag crouched over a crystal ball. Spire resisted the urge to knock the snifter from the man's hand. “Were it not for your mum, you'd not have joined the police.”

Spire rose stiffly to his feet. “Death happens to everyone, Lord Black. No one is spared it and no one is
special
because of it.”

Black simply smiled, further maddening Spire. “It's something you should embrace, this destiny of yours.”

Spire went to the door, fisting his hands into his frock coat pockets. At the threshold, he turned back. “You've got a knack for playing God, sir,” Spire said quietly. “With due respect, you should leave that to God. You know, the man responsible for death.”

Black kept smiling. Spire turned and let the gilded door of the club's mezzanine slam, damned if he cared if it was a sign of low class.

CHAPTER

TEN

“You will not see her!” Louis insisted, floating alongside his twin as they again wove through the winding streets at the tip of Manhattan Island. “I never told Clara about you, for your safety, and that's best. Not to mention the sight of you may grieve her unduly. You'll leave Smith's address and go.”

Andre chafed. “The woman on the boat offered protection, wouldn't she want to—”

“Explain yourself to the senator, then, and leave my Clara out of it,” Louis barked.

Andre again stared at the brownstone building marked 61. New York swirled and buffeted around him as if he were a tree and the populous were leaves in a breeze. He looked behind him nervously. He was sure American interests would serve him best. Perhaps vague stirrings of patriotism were awakening in his heart. More likely he was driven by the same healthy sense of self-preservation that had gotten him this far. After spending most of his life running away from things and getting himself out of sticky situations, he was faced with something inescapable—his brother's death.

He'd decided to throw himself on the mercy of whoever he found inside, hoping their first instinct wouldn't be to cause him harm.

Preparing to knock, Andre glanced through one of the glass panels in the door and spotted a young woman, dressed all in black, performing some sort of strange dance in the entrance hall.