The Hanged Man (19 page)

“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.

 

CHAPTER SEVEN

In Which Miss Pendlebury Makes a Decision and a Discovery

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.”