The Hanged Man (31 page)

“That'll be the blood, I expect. The smell of it is … not right.”

She lifted her arm to sniff the stains there.

“You won't catch the difference.”

“What is it, sir?” Unspoken was the thought
And what are you?

If he picked up a hint of the second question, he ignored it. Despite his torn clothes and general disarray, he looked as imperious now as he did in the coach on Harley Street with his ramrod posture and frosty manner. “I cannot say. The one fact I know is that the instant I clapped eyes on the thing I wanted to kill it. Instinctive reactions that bypass thought are placed within us for a reason, usually to ensure our survival. You have my congratulations and gratitude for your timely intervention, Miss Pendlebury. I will not forget it.”

“My duty, sir, though…”

“Yes?”

“I felt the same. This thing is
wrong
.”

“Agreed. Have you studied it sufficiently for the present? Then come.”

He led the way in. The building's double doors were apparently locked but a smaller one on the side was in use and gaslight dazzled her a moment when it opened.

The interior was bright, indicating that work went on here at all hours of the day and night. If not as tidy as a hospital, it had the same look of controlled efficiency and organization. Long rows of workbenches filled the barnlike space; machining apparatus and other tools she could not identify were everywhere. The smell of oil, hot metal, and sweat hung heavy in the stuffy air. The plank floor glittered with embedded brass filings.

“It's an air gun manufactory,” she whispered, taking in sturdy bins holding long barrels and other parts.

“There's hundreds—thousands of them,” said Brook.

To the left was a partitioned-off area. Wood walls about nine feet high framed it, but it was open at the top. Within were drafting tables covered with papers and other clutter.

In the center, bound tightly to a chair with his arms behind him, was the captured horseman. His back was to the door. His fingers clenched into fists and opened again as he strained against the ropes.

Mourne's lean form bent close; he spoke quietly to the prisoner, who kept shaking his head. Lord Richard remained without, close enough to listen, but not participate.

Alex spared them a single glance, then attacked a stack of unopened mail on a table outside, having spied something on top. With a rush of satisfaction she showed Brook the card she'd ripped from a familiar cream-colored envelope.

He read, “
8:30—Masters Impart
. Well, well. It must not be an exclusive gathering if that sort of fellow was invited.” He nodded toward the office.

“If this was addressed to him, and I think it was. Look at his boots.”

“What about them?”

“They do not match the drabness of the rest of his clothes. Those are a gentleman's boots. As for his hands … he's no laborer. Does a bit of writing to judge by the ink stains and—oh, bother this minutia; look at these invoices. Does the handwriting seem familiar to you?”

“Mrs. Veltre again—with an order for five thousand tea gowns?”

“We've found her dressmaker.”

“What's this?” asked Richard.

She gave him a truncated report of the coded receipts they'd found at Hill Street.

“How did you know to go there?”

That was somewhat more difficult to report.

He was ill-pleased at the answer. “Why did you not pass this information to Mrs. Woodwake?”

“I discovered it after she interviewed me. She gave no indication that my father's death and-and yours…” She faltered, voice fading a bit. “… were connected. I wanted to be sure of things before bringing it to her attention.”

“The truth, if you please, Miss Pendlebury. You knew she'd send someone else.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Whatever the outcome, there will be consequences for your ignoring orders.”

“I know, sir.”

“But not right now. Continue with what you're doing.”

Before she could, Alex caught the word “regret” from Colonel Mourne and the prisoner raised his head and declared, “No, sir. Not one! If you had a shred of true honor you'd see to your duty as I have. England for the English!” he called out in a ringing tone as though it were a triumphant battle cry.

Lord Richard, battered and weary, reacted with a marked straightening of his already straight spine. On an altogether different level, Alex felt such a powerful wave of anger coming from him that she almost staggered from the force.

“Sir—” she began, but cut off when Richard raised a finger.

He left them, had a quiet word with Mourne, and took his place as interrogator.

Richard put one hand under the prisoner's chin, forcing him to look up. His lordship's full attention was in play; the man visibly trembled. Alex was glad not to be under the focus of those ice-blue eyes. They were intimidating enough when he was being friendly. Now, well, whatever it was, it looked intense and unpleasant.

However, she had endured and overcome that gaze. She was prepared to wait until he finished and could explain things.

But Colonel Mourne snorted and gestured for them to follow, muttering, “Get along, you two. Over here.”

Flying squad men were busy throughout the place, opening bins and poking at machinery. When Mourne came to one of the long benches, he eased down with a groan of relief, abruptly looking old and tired.

He sniffed. “Lieutenant, any of those mince pies left?”

Brook obligingly opened the carpetbag and Mourne fell on the supplies like a starving man. Alex made use of another bench, pulling it close. A wave of cold fatigue seized her, stifling even her rampant curiosity as countless little aches and bruises began to make themselves felt.

Eyes closed, she slowed her breathing, creating a calm center within until the physical distractions subsided. When she could face things again, she opened her eyes to find both Brook and Mourne staring at her.

“Emma Woodwake teach you that?” asked Mourne.

“It's what I learned when Father and I were in Hong Kong.…” Treacherously, her control slipped and she gulped to keep from breaking into mortifying sobs. She would
not
allow it. “The man … the thing I shot—that's the ghost. That's what killed my father.”

“You saying or asking, girl?”

“Both. What is it?”

“I've never seen the like before, but officially, things have gotten worse.”

“What things, sir? Worse than Father's murder, worse than an attack on the Service, worse than what we've just been through?” She managed to keep her voice from rising, but her throat was tight.

“Yes. I'm deciding how much to tell you. I'll talk to a calm member of the Service, but not to an excitable outsider. Choose.”

Brook took one of her hands and pressed his flask into it. “Drink,” he ordered. “You're thirsty.”

Indeed, she was parched, and she wanted water more than anything else, but choked down enough peaty fire to steady herself. The stuff had a more immediate and powerful effect than controlled breathing. She gave back the flask with a nod of thanks.

By then Mourne had finished off the mince pies and produced his own flask to wash down the last morsel.

Even with the rush of alcoholic heat making her head feel heavy, Alex plunged forward. “Lord Richard said he'd explain. He gave his word on it.”

“Of course he would. He's a sentimental fool when it comes to pretty girls, and he should know better.”

“This very morning he was shot dead right in front of me. Please don't say I was mistaken.”

“I won't, though it's true. He was in a bad way for a bit, but it takes a lot to put a dent in our Dickie. I imagine there's times when he'd like it to take him away for good, but he wasn't killed. Not today.”

He paused for another drink.

She recognized the kind of hesitation that preludes a difficult task. He'd speak in his own time, but perhaps a topic change and some small prompting would help. “I've seen tigers in India—but never ones with green eyes.”

“How long were you in India?” he asked, giving her a sharp look.

“Several months.”

“Get to see some of the stranger things their fakirs got up to? Listen to any of their stories? Doesn't matter if you did or didn't, what those johnnies flog to the crowds for begging bowl money ain't the real show. There's hardly a handful in the whole damnable country able to do it … and they keep it to themselves lest some raja wants 'em dead or chained up as a slave.”

“Sir, of what are you speaking?” asked Brook.

“Nightmares, Lieutenant. Legends that are real and shouldn't be.”

“Like the ghost?” suggested Alex.

“No, missy. Like myself and Dickie over there. You've got your ability to Read. Is it a gift or a curse?”

“Equal parts of both, sir,” she said drily.

“I've heard the same from all of those with psychical talent. Some are born this way, others come to it late, and others acquire it. Dickie and I are in the last lot. He volunteered God knows how long ago; mine was against my will but I've made the most of it since. We serve queen and country, which is all that matters. Before you say you don't understand, don't bother. It'll come with time.”

“This is ridiculous,” said Brook. “Conjuring tricks. Magic lanterns. You can't ask me to be a part of such flummery.”

“Too late for that, Lieutenant. You're square in the middle, like it or not. There is the psychical and then there is the supernatural, and for that there's no proof but your own eyes, but don't expect me to go the whole tramp. I'm all in.”

With that, Mourne closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Alex held her own, not knowing what to expect. Brook froze.

Mourne's features, his whole body, seemed to ripple like air over a hot oven. For an instant his form stretched in a wholly impossible manner, skin and clothes melding, changing color and texture. She glimpsed the supple, dangerous beauty of black and yellow stripes, deadly grasping teeth, and arresting green eyes set in a wide, flat skull.

Then it ceased and he was as solid as before, a savage-faced old hunter showing dour regard, as though expecting the worst.

“Rakshasa,” Alex whispered.

“Close enough,” he grumbled. He looked at Brook, who remained frozen. “Shape-shifting demon to you, Lieutenant, but leave off the ‘demon' nonsense. I'm a man, same as you. Most of the time.”

“Impossible.”

“Believe your eyes or not, I'm too tired to do a full shift. Makes me hungry and we're out of mince pies. The tiger would be ravenous. He's fond of raw meat and sometimes not too particular where it comes from.”

Brook glanced helplessly at Alex. “Shape-shifting demon?”

“It's from Indian folklore, a myth,” she said, recalling what she'd read as a child. “Rakshasas are supposed to take any form and haunt graveyards looking for human flesh.”

“That's the myth part, at least so far as I'm concerned,” the colonel added. “Thank your lucky stars.”

“How is it possible?”

“Any number of nasty things can happen to a soldier when he's off in a strange place. He might bring home a case of malaria to haunt him for life—or worse. This is what I brought back. There've been times when I'd have gladly traded.”

“How did it happen?”

“I'm not giving my life story. Suffice that when I was much younger and more foolish I was in the wrong place at the right time and you don't need details. I'm all for females having an even footing with men on most things, but the rest of the tale ain't fit for a lady's ears.”

Alex considered arguing the point, for she had read a number of books that were outside of what was thought to be “fit” for her sex. But it would be useless to press. Once a man got it into his head that he was being protective, there was no shaking him.

“Very well.”

“Sensible girl.” Mourne lifted his flask again, seemed to think better of it, and put it away. “I came back changed, we'll leave it at that. So what is it? Gift or curse? I'll say along with you that it's both. What matters is we're on the same side.”

She glanced toward the office. Lord Richard must have been making progress, for the prisoner appeared to respond to questions. That was a good sign, though his lordship did not seem pleased with the replies.

“Does … does the queen know?” asked Brook.

Mourne gaped with naked disbelief for a moment, then barked a short laugh. “
That's
your first question?”

“A reasonable one, I think.”

“Of course she knows, though it's the Lord Consort who usually deals with us. He and Dickie's family have a long history. They haven't always gotten on, but times have changed. There's too many dangers afoot to be choosy about one's allies, but Lord Richard's always been bound to defend the throne, and I mean that in a literal sense.”

“Is he also … a rakshasa?”

“No.”

“What is he?”

“The official title is Queen's Champion, though you won't find it written down anywhere. As for how that came about, he'll tell you himself if he's so inclined. He's older than he looks, stronger than any half dozen of my men together, and it'd take more than a few rounds from some pop-gun toy to remove him from this life, the poor devil.”

Alex could not imagine Lord Richard as an object of pity, though the memory of his bloody body on her cousin's floor was yet fresh. How had he survived
that
? She repeated the question aloud.

“Once upon a time, they called it magic,” said the colonel. “Now young squibs like Crookes and Sexton are trying to explain us with science. Good luck to them.”

Brook shook his head, a thread of helplessness in his tone. “Sir, this is impossible!”