The Hanged Man (5 page)

Alex had been fifteen and adored him, but Father's odd reticence against answering her reasonable questions had left a lasting hurt. Until then, they had always been so comfortable together and talked about everything.

“Something's come up,” was all he'd said.

Something more important than me,
she'd finally concluded.

Ten years since she'd last seen him waving from the dock in Hong Kong, and in that time, not a letter, not a telegram. The thorny pain of being sent away like a discharged servant had been slow to root, for she had not wanted to believe it, but it burrowed deep and had grown strong. She'd consciously pruned it back over the years, but now it jabbed her, all over again, making her flinch.

Why did he not contact me when he got home?

Why had he not contacted her, period?

He'd been in London at least three weeks, perhaps longer, living less than half a mile away. Surely he'd have gotten in touch with his brother, her uncle Leopold, to get her address.
Why
had no one spoken to her of this? She wasn't on good terms with the Pendlebury clan, but Leo had always been polite to her and would have sent word.

She'd have to remain here until another member of the Service arrived, but once free she'd go straight to the Wilton Crescent house and make a holy terror of herself.

Damned Pendleburys,
she thought, then more charitably wondered if Leo had simply not known his wandering brother had returned. That didn't seem right. Certainly Gerard would have—

Or not.

Alex did not fight the surge of old anger that rushed her. It was a familiar if tiresome companion.

If he'd not contacted his own daughter, then he might not have called on the rest of the family.

Why?

That question could only be answered by the inquiry into Lord Gerard's murder, but she was now banned from the case.

The next Reader will clear me, though.
That done, she'd get back into the middle of things—starting with Fingate. He'd been her father's valet for ages and would know everything. It might spare her the need to storm the Pendlebury sanctum.

Inspector Lennon accomplished what he was good at, making an ungodly row, stirring things around far more effectively than she'd expected. He took possession of the front parlor of the house next door, expediting Brook and Fingate's efforts to shelter the servants from the weather. Alex was included and dragged inside with them, but kept apart. Despite orders, there was considerable conversation going on until Lennon snarled a believable threat to clap everyone in darbies and set them back in the street if they didn't shut their bloody pie holes.

Their host, a sturdy-looking doctor named Millcrest, didn't seem to find anything objectionable about the irregular use of his home. His bearing and clipped manner marked him as ex-military. He set his staff to work making tea, and they hopped to it as though the fate of the British Empire hung in the balance.

Alex sealed herself within the leaden armor of her imagination to avoid being emotionally overwhelmed by the crowd. She would get through this part of things, get answers from Fingate, and then deal with the looming grief.

Or not. Her father's death was still an abstract concept. In her mind's eye he remained alive, active, and vital. She could hear his voice, see his smile, and almost feel his tall, reassuring presence next to her, as clear as it had been more than a decade ago. However angry she was that he'd sent her away, she had no reason to think she would never see him again.

Which was simply
not
sinking in. She was numb and must remain so for the present. Later, when alone and able to let down her defenses, she might succumb to tears, but not now.

She took a seat at the house's bay window to keep watch on the street. Fingate approached, silently offering tea. Constrained by Lennon's orders, neither could speak. It was cruel.

She accepted the saucer and its cup of sweetly fragrant jasmine, nodding her thanks to him. Fingate winked once, his somber gaze dropping to the tea, then he moved off.

Under the cup was a scrap of paper. Alex covered it with her thumb and continued as normally as possible, given the circumstances. It took a moment to shift things to make an examination without anyone noticing. The flimsy piece had been torn from the margin of a newspaper, about half an inch wide and an inch long. The message, written in neat pencil, was disappointing:

Cold duck, 9:00.

What the devil?

It appeared to be a dining or drinking appointment, being vague enough for either; it was meant to mislead others, but have a meaning she alone would appreciate.

It was too outlandish. To cast her mind back ten years to recall some incident involving Fingate and ducks was ridiculous. How could the man expect her to remember?

Duck—was it meant as animal, action, or drink?

Ducks swim and duck under water to feed. That covers both animal and action.

There were plenty of ducks in London. Most of the parks had ponds, and the ponds all had ducks. Did
cold
mean they were to meet at a park? If so, then which one?

What about vintners or poultry shops? Impossible, there were too many. He could just as easily written cold goose or beef or—

Cold
duck
. Any duck would be cold at this time of year, with some ponds frozen over, preventing them from swi—

The meaning came in a gratifying flash.

For decades the maddest members of the Serpentine Swimming Club met in Hyde Park for their Christmas morning race. There were always stories about it in the papers. As a child she'd walked with her father to one such event. Fingate brought a hamper with bread, apples, and cheese. She'd given bread to some wayward ducks, finding them of more interest than the swimmers. Fingate had picked apart his loaf to tempt the ducks in closer, but none would leave the water. They'd fled, quacking with indignation, when the swimmers dove in.

Alex had not witnessed the race for herself for years, finding the press of crowds and their emotions to be wearing. Why meet her there? Why not wait until things were sorted out, when they could sit for a proper talk?

She spared a glance toward Fingate, to let him know she understood, but he was no longer in the parlor, probably in the servant's hall negotiating more tea and seeing about sandwiches.

She slipped the scrap into her coat pocket just as a black landau rumbled to a stop next to the walk. Its front and back hoods were up, and a curtain covered the window set in the door. That should have been the conveyance sent to fetch her in the first place.

Not waiting for the driver to descend, a slender, competent-looking woman a decade older than Alex emerged, looking around with a stern face. Lennon hurried to put himself in her way, escorting her to the house next door.

Alex knew her: Mrs. Emma Woodwake. A widow, she was in charge of the psychical training branch of the Service and rarely ever called to do Readings. She was many rungs up the ladder from those out in the field.

Lennon returned a moment later, going straight to Alex.

“You're for it,” he said, jerking a thumb to indicate the general direction.

Instead of the murder house, Lennon guided Alex toward the coach, opening the door and assisting her inside. He was a hindrance to balance with his great paw tight on her lower arm, and she dropped with a clumsy bump onto the thinly padded bench. The interior was cold and dark with the black velvet curtains in place. It turned to pitch when Lennon slammed the door and strode off, growling.

As she tumbled in, Alex glimpsed another passenger sitting opposite: male, wearing black trousers, a walking stick with a worn iron ferrule braced between his polished black boots. The rest blended into the shadows, including his face.

“Hallo? Who's there?” she asked.

On the seat next to the man was a bull's-eye lantern, as she discovered when he eased open its shutter. The beam of light fell on her, but there was enough ambient glow to fill most of the interior. Her mouth went dry as she recognized the imperious-looking fellow across from her.

“Lord Richard?”

“Miss Pendlebury,” he said in greeting. His voice was soft, just enough for the confines of the coach. Any listeners without would hear nothing.

She matched his level. “Sir, I was not aware of my relation to the deceased, else I would have—”

“Miss Pendlebury, be assured that had we known, you'd have never been called. This was an oversight. There will be repercussions, but not directed at you.” He fixed her in place with a chill and impersonal gaze. His eyes were a clear icy blue, but the lantern light stole their color so they seemed to be white, the pupils like black pits. “May I offer my condolences for your loss?”

The question, spoken in the same tone one might use for any mundane social inquiry, caught her off guard, and her breath hitched in her throat. Lord Richard Desmond was the head of the Psychic Service, so far upstream as to be unreachable. He reported and answered directly to Queen Victoria herself and no one else, not even the prime minister. Only the Lord Consort Arthur was higher up. For someone like that to unbend enough to offer Alex sympathy, however formally framed, took her aback.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

She had only ever seen Lord Richard this close on the day three years ago when she'd been accepted into the Service. Shockingly tall, strongly built, a faint red tint to his gold hair, he did not look old enough to have been running things since 1848. When she discreetly asked, she was informed that the Psychic Service had been wrested into existence by Lord Richard's father (also named Richard) as an outgrowth of the Ministry of Science. Exactly how that happened and how he'd gotten the ear of the queen in the first place were not general knowledge.

That the son took over his retired father's duties was hardly worth notice. There were many families in more or less hereditary service to Her Majesty, after all—such as the Pendlebury clan, who'd been at it for generations. Uncle Leo did something at the Home Office. Her cousins held positions in other areas of service, and without a second thought she'd used family connections and the fact that she was one of the queen's many goddaughters to apply for her own place in the great machine that ran the empire.

Three years ago Lord Richard had personally welcomed Alex and five other nervous recruits, shook their hands, and presented them with the gold medallions that identified them as bona fide agents of Her Majesty's Psychic Service. Since then, he had been a rarely seen figure in the distance.

“Sir, if I may ask, why are you here?” Alex had expected her supervisor to deal with the situation, or perhaps
his
supervisor, but not the head of the Service himself. She was a small cog in the machine; just how bad were things to bring out the chief engineer?

“Mr. Jones is unavailable.”

She didn't believe him. No need to tap into her ability to know that. It made no sense. “There's something serious afoot.”

Lord Richard's expression did not change, but neither did he contradict her. “Every murder is serious. Please report your initial impressions.”

“But—”

“I'm aware of regulations, but there is no reason to think you had anything to do with the crime. Please report to me the same as you would to Mr. Jones.”

So she did, beginning with her arrival. She felt as though another person had taken over to use her voice to speak. Alex recognized it as a means of getting through the unpleasantness without breaking down. That could come later, if it did come. For the present the emotional recusation was a comfort. She covered everything, even those horrid moments in the foyer until Fingate had gotten her away.

Lord Richard was silent for many long moments. Sleet ticked persistently on the roof and sides of the coach, and she felt the cold seeping into her limbs.

“I would hazard to think,” he said, “that you are wondering why Gerard Pendlebury was posing as a certain Dr. Kemp.”

“Indeed, sir, I want to know everything.” She hoped Lord Richard would respond to that, but he did not. “I last saw him—”

“A decade ago in Hong Kong. I am aware of your personal history, Miss Pendlebury, but so far as your father is concerned, I have no more information than you and am also mystified.”

“Perhaps my uncle Leo may be of help. He's the elder brother.”

“Do you think your father communicated with him?”

She hesitated. “Not to my knowledge, sir.”

“A carefully chosen phrase. Why do you use it?”

“My uncle is at the Home Office.”

“A branch of government not given to sharing information.”

“None of them are. Father was once attached to the Foreign Office. When my mother died, he resigned and collected me, and we traveled, usually calling on embassies. I believe he was an unofficial envoy of some sort—or so I concluded years later. I must stress that if his trips were of a sensitive nature, Father never said anything to me. Neither has my uncle.”

“Do you think he would have not passed word to you about your father?”

Leo had his limits. “Family concerns come second to his duty. I don't think he would, he is absolutely dedicated to his work.”

“Your uncle could be accused of being overly diligent.”

“Relations between myself and Father's family have always been difficult, sir.”

Lord Richard's mouth thinned ever so slightly. “It is their loss, then.”

Just how much did he know of her private life? She felt discomfited under the press of that unblinking gaze. A change of topic was overdue. “Sir, my father's valet may be of immediate help in this inquiry. His name is Percival Fingate. He's been in my father's employ since before I was born. He'll know everything.”

“Of that I have no doubt. One cannot keep anything from one's servants.”