The Hanged Man (9 page)

Another lamp was found. Lord Richard's breathing went from quick and labored to a slow, shallow sighing, then silence.

James pulled Woodwake away and took her place next to Hamish. They employed techniques used for reviving drowning victims, forcing air into the man's lungs and listening for a response from his heart.

For naught. Richard's flesh remained inert. He looked smaller lying there so still.

Mrs. Woodwake seemed in shock. She clutched the fullness of her skirts, as though to raise them for running, but there was no place to go.

Alex's composure, held together by necessity, began to crack. Her sight blurred, and she swiped at the tears spilling down her cheeks.

Eyes shut to stem the flow, she slowly drew a long breath, ignoring the taint of blood and gunpowder in the air. She held for the count of five and slowly released, letting the turmoil of her emotions go out with the exhalation.

Master Shan could never have anticipated her applying his training under these conditions.

Or perhaps he had. She imagined his serene eyes, a hint of a smile always in them and amid the fine lines of his face. What would he do?

Another deep breath and exhale.

He'd tell her to step up and bowl her best. Unlike many of his countrymen, he had a keen interest in cricket.

Eyes open, Alex went to work. Centered and in control, she moved toward the entry, her internal senses open for clues about the armed men. Emotions washed over her: fear, excitement, and a bright exultation from the act of killing. She pulled back from it as though recoiling from contagion. The feeling was so strong that it threatened to overtake her. She was well schooled to avoid that trap. Apprentice Readers often had a hard time, especially when it involved pleasant emotions. Such mad joy could be perilously addictive.

Then the calmer and stronger impression of Lord Richard's feelings swept through her: fear, not for himself but for others. It had raised him to his feet to defend them. He'd not allow it … righteous anger, contempt for faceless cowards, sudden bursts of surprise as they shot him and finally a weakening as his body slipped past the point of return. She pulled back to avoid experiencing his death, but the last trace from his psychic spoor was, oddly, annoyance and exasperation. He knew he was dying and instead of a final prayer to his Maker he—

“Alex, wake out of it.”

James was before her, concern on his face. She slammed her lead barrier between them before his emotions could intrude. That was enough Reading for one night.

“You're not all right, so I shan't inquire if you are,” he said. “You will sit a moment. You will sit
now
.”

His hand on her arm, not pinching this time, he guided her to the settee. She noticed its back was full of holes, as were the walls.

“We're lucky no one else was killed by those bas—bounders. Terrible shots.”

“They were aiming high on purpose,” she said. “Lord Richard was their target, not the rest of us.”

James gave no reply, but glanced at the room as though to confirm her assessment.

Mrs. Woodwake, moving like a sleepwalker, drew the remnant of a sheet over Lord Richard's body. Dr. Hamish was still on the floor, and he looked ill. James went to what was left of his liquor stores and found an unbroken bottle and a glass. He poured and pressed the contents of the glass upon Woodwake and gave the bottle to the doctor.

“Get up, John. Drink to a fallen warrior, not a dead patient.”

Hamish gave a great weary sigh and stood and drank, then handed the bottle back. “We need to find a policeman.”

That snapped Woodwake out of her daze. “Absolutely not. This is a matter for the Psychic Service, not Scotland Yard.”

“Bit late for that, ma'am,” said James, nodding behind her. Flanked by Lieutenant Brook and two wide-eyed constables, Inspector Lennon stood in the entry taking in the scene of battle with a great scowl.

*   *   *

Mrs. Woodwake had a barrage of instructions for him once she got his attention, and Lennon had an objection to all of them, apparently. His low rumblings were reminiscent of a lion with a bellyache. He never actually roared, but made his opinions clear.

The guests in the house were asked to stay on the stairs for the time being, until they could be interviewed. They retired, grumbling and full of questions. Dr. Hamish sat with them. He wore a black look and perhaps needed the company of friends.

Alex kept to herself on the settee, thinking it best to stay out of the way until called for; James joined her, taking a swig from the bottle.

“What the devil is going on?” he asked quietly. He looked to be a dangerous creature with his bloodshot eyes, hair a wild mess, and blood halfway up his arms and streaking his face, but his manner was composed. Events had boiled the fool out of him. “Who were those men?”

“I don't know,” Alex whispered. “I was called to a case over on Harley Street … and … and things went wrong. Lord Richard arrived…” She faltered over her story. It was no proper report made to a senior in her department, but a rushed and disjointed muddle of random words, conjuring images she wanted to forget. Beneath it all, she knew she'd have to tell the whole thing later again and again and that there would be no ease in her spirit from it, no catharsis of release. This would be with her forever.

“What happened?”

“Father.” She felt herself choking. “My—my father's dead, James.”

“Gerard? When did he get back from—dead? Good lord … was
that
the case?”

She nodded. “I didn't know. Not until after. I didn't know. Murdered … and I didn't know it was
him
.”

“Oh, my poor little Alex.”

She used to resent him calling her that, but not now. He put an arm around her. He'd never done that before, not even when they were children. But she couldn't relax against him, couldn't allow herself to break down and howl her grief—she had none. She was numb inside. That wasn't right. She should feel something. That was her trade, feelings. Emotions of death and life and truth and lies—but belonging to others, not her.

“What's to be done?”

She shook her head. “The Service will deal with it. Why didn't he write to say he was home?”
Why didn't he write at all?

“Are they connected?”

“What?”

“Your father's death and this attack. Are they connected?”

“I don't know.”

“One did follow hard upon the other.”

Indeed they had. She slipped free of his arm and went to Mrs. Woodwake, breaking in on what looked to be an increasingly tense exchange between herself and Lennon.

“Ma'am, I need to know—”

“Know what, girl?”

Alex repeated her cousin's question.

Woodwake glared at her, mouth tight, eyes hard. “I cannot answer.”

“You must have some insight, ma'am.”

“If I do, then this isn't the time or place to impart it to you or anyone else.”

“But—”

“The matter is closed. Protocol was violated at Harley Street, accidentally, but there's to be no repetition. Miss Pendlebury, you are excluded from both investigations except as a witness.”

“I can't be excluded!”

Woodwake rounded on her like Medusa, and with the same effect: everyone froze in place. When she spoke, her voice was low yet penetrating in the hush. “You will follow orders. I am aware of the unique circumstances of tonight's events and how difficult this is for you, but rules are in place for a reason. You cannot be involved.” Her face softened. “Reverse things: If it had been my father, what would you be telling me this moment?”

There could be no argument for that. “May I know how things progress?”

“So long as it does not compromise the inquiry—inquiries.”

Alex hated it, certain that she would be told nothing.

“I require your attention, please.” Woodwake raised her voice, directing it at the others present. When they were looking at her, she delivered the startling order that Lord Richard's demise, indeed, all that had happened tonight, was not to be discussed with anyone.

“I rely on your discretion and loyalty to the crown,” she said. “Until further notice this whole incident is a state secret. Anyone speaking of it will be prosecuted for treason.”

This resulted in a near-collective gasp from those present.

Only James did not appear awed. He stood, still holding the bottle. “
What
did you say, madam?”

She repeated the order.

“That's mad,” he drawled. “How the devil do you expect this lot to not talk? Everyone talks. First thing tomorrow someone will share a hint with his barber or her dressmaker, another will wink at an old school chum at his club or get to yarning over the port and in an hour it'll be in every paper in the land. You cannot possibly hope to keep
this
secret.”

“I fully expect it to remain so, sir,” she snapped. “Or will you accuse any here of being disloyal to queen and country?”

“Not disloyal, merely careless. Come now, you lot. Which of you has never dropped a word when you shouldn't? The more important the word, the more dire the promise, the faster it fell, am I right? You can't get more important than Lord Richard. Unless it's the Lord Consort Arthur, God forbid. This thing's a proper blister, masked hooligans tearing through London and murdering men.… One word in the wrong ear and it's all up.”

Mrs. Woodwake's glare had no effect on James, but the whole house seemed to hold its breath. “For the sake of Her Majesty's feelings, we
must
keep this quiet. I will
not
have the queen reading of the death of a dear friend and faithful servant in the paper. How do you think she would feel? How would your own mothers feel?”

The small crowd stirred, and frowns of anger for James subsided into a sheepish awkwardness.

“To a man, we'll swear on the Bible that this goes no further,” said Hamish. “Is that right, lads? For the queen's sake?”

They responded, as loyal subjects must, with growls of affirmation and stubborn faces. “We know our duty,” confirmed one, the others agreeing.

“I'm proved wrong,” said James. “If you lot can keep such a secret, then the Empire is secure. Count me in as well. Swear on a Bible or this bottle of excellent whiskey, whichever you hold more sacred.”

Woodwake and Brook looked appalled at the blasphemy, but Lennon was amused. Alex was too tired to show her disgust. James was incapable of being serious for longer than a minute, even with the shrouded body of a murdered man at his feet.

“I'll swear on both, if you don't mind, sir,” said Lennon, stepping forward. He accepted the bottle and drank to the pact.

Alex spoke to Mrs. Woodwake, keeping it between them. “What about my family? My uncle needs to know his brother is dead.”

The woman shook her head. “No. Not yet.”

“He has a right to know, ma'am.”

“He will be informed, but not yet. It's impossible. Until we know what your father was doing posing as Dr. Kemp, until we know how or if his death was connected to the attacks on Lord Richard, you are not to speak of this to your uncle or any member of the Pendlebury family. The nature of a state secret is that it overshadows personal considerations. I realize this places a heavy burden on you, but you must find the strength to bear it.”

How?

“You're all in, girl. I'm sending you home.”

“It's just up the street at the end. I'll walk. I need the air.”

“Not alone and not there. You're to pick up what things you'll need for the next few days and stay with your uncle's family for the time being.”

Alex was initially too stunned to speak. “I-I can't. Your pardon, ma'am, I simply cannot go there.”

“They're your family, of course you'll go.”

“You don't understand … my dealings with them are not—congenial.”

“A state of affairs you share with many others in the Service, including myself. Our gifts are often misunderstood by those closest to us.”

“That's not it—”

“Are they a danger to you? Have they ever done you physical harm?”

“What? No, but—”

“Then you're to stay with them.”

“I'll put up in a hotel or the Service dormitory with the apprentices. Either will be fine.”

Woodwake leaned close. “Miss Pendlebury, put your feelings aside and consider that if someone murdered your father then that same person might have similar designs on your uncle or the rest of the family, including yourself. I want you there to keep an eye on them. There is safety in numbers. You should not be alone and vulnerable in a hotel, and you cannot look after your family hiding among the apprentices.”

Alex went red. “Hiding? Madam, you've no—”

“I've every right,” she said. “You're the only one in the whole damned Service who can get under the Pendlebury roof without raising questions. You're keen to be on the investigation; this is as much of it as can be allowed. I'll arrange to have armed people on watch in case there's another attempt like this. Now for God's sake, do as you're ordered and see to your duty.”

Woodwake's startling language and the force behind her words seemed to steal the strength from her. She swayed; Alex steadied her without thinking and felt a rush of feelings strike like the lash of a whip. The woman was on the edge of screaming from the turmoil within. Panic, guilt, terror, rage … held in check by sheer will, and there were cracks in that brittle barrier. Her greatest fear was that she would lose her tenuous control, break down, and fail to uphold her facade—and Alex was not helping.

She backed off, ending the contact. “Of course, ma'am. Whatever is required.”

Woodwake shut her eyes a moment, composing herself. When she looked at Alex again they were softer and infinitely tired. “Go. However horrid, go be with your family. Whether you like them or not, you need them. I'll send for you tomorrow to give a report at the head office. Have a detailed account ready to hand in. Keep your wits about you and your eyes open. I don't want another body in the morgue.”