The Phenomenals: A Tangle of Traitors (7 page)

‘Not if Quince has his way.’

There was another silence, broken only by the sound of liquid being poured into a glass.

‘I’ve been stitched up and left out in the cold,’ complained Edgar bitterly. ‘Expected to live on an allowance, for Aether’s sake. And our plans—’

‘Stop snivelling, you fool,’ hissed the shadowy companion, displaying the first sign of anger. ‘You should have been more careful. You know how Hubert felt about gambling. How
many times do you have to be told?’

Edgar quailed at the rebuke, and noticed, not for the first time, the man’s verbal eccentricity: how he omitted the
b
in gambling, pronouncing it ‘gamling’.

‘I didn’t know what was in the will!’ he protested.

‘Quiet! I need to think.’

Edgar sniffed and drank.

Then the man spoke. ‘This is problematic but not insuperable. But I need you to help with the will.’

‘Yes, yes, of course, just tell me what to do,’ said Edgar. ‘And then there is Citrine. I’ve done what you said, and kept an eye on her, but she still believes that
Hubert might be alive. She won’t rest until they find his body.’

‘Then let them find a body. We cannot allow Citrine to stand in my . . . our way.’

‘But . . . how?’

‘Leave that to me. Dr Ruislip, down at the morgue, owes me a favour or two. First things first, the will. I have a plan that can kill two birds with one stone.’

‘What are you doing in the safe?’

Edgar was kneeling in front of the drinks cabinet which Citrine knew was actually a small safe. He started at the sound of her voice and stood up to see her in the doorway.

‘Nany of your business,’ he retorted, his eyes flicking to her green bag before she could conceal it. ‘Looking into the future again?’ he mocked. ‘I don’t
need the cards to tell me what to do.’

Citrine came fully into the room. ‘They don’t tell me what to do; they guide me . . .’ she began, but she knew not to continue the conversation.

‘Why aren’t you in bed? It’s already Nox. Memories keeping you awake, I suppose.’

‘You woke me, slamming the front door. You’re wearing your coat. Are you going out again?’

‘How perspicacious of you.’ Edgar’s handsome face was easily disfigured by his curled lip. ‘Why, are you going to tell Florian, you little spy?’

‘How could I spy for Florian when I am practically a prisoner in my home? Actually I’m looking for something.’

‘This?’ Edgar reached over the leather-topped knee-hole desk behind him and picked up a brown, boxlike contraption from the chair where it had been out of sight.

Citrine gasped. ‘My Klepteffigium! Give it back!’

Edgar smirked, and before Citrine could stop him he tossed the Klepteffigium into the safe, closed the door and spun the combination lock. ‘There. Now you can’t take any more nasty
Depictions.’

Citrine was fuming. ‘What? Have you gone mad? I haven’t taken any of you. If Father was here, you wouldn’t dare to treat me like this.’

‘Perhaps not, but the fact is dear Uncle Hubert’s gone, and he can’t rule me from the grave.’

‘I think he might,’ said Citrine, unable to help herself, thinking of Florian’s earlier revelation.

Edgar’s face went dark as thunder and his hazel eyes glinted dangerously. He picked up a paperknife, the handle decorated with the Capodel crest, and pointed it at her. ‘I’m
warning you, Citrine,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘nanyone will get in my way – not Hubert, not Florian and especially not you.’ He pushed her roughly aside and left the
room.

‘One day I’ll find out what really happened,’ called Citrine after him. ‘Until then, unlike you, I prefer to believe that Father might still be alive.’

She closed the study door, shaking from the intensity of her anger, annoyed with herself for losing her temper and more than a little alarmed at the way Edgar had brandished the paperknife. She
stood in front of the safe, hands on hips, but she knew she couldn’t possibly open it. Edgar had set a new combination. With the news about the will she had an ominous feeling that things in
the Capodel household were going to change, and not for the better. Frustrated, she sat behind the desk, deep in thought. It was almost 12 Nox before she jumped up.

‘I shall go to see Florian. He’ll tell me what to do.’

Shortly afterwards Citrine’s Trikuklos turned on to the street outside the Capodel Townhouse and took off down the steep incline of Collis Hill. She drove across Mercator
Square and continued along the cobbled side streets until she reached Malpraxis Mews, where she brought the machine to a skilful halt in the courtyard. She ran over to Florian’s green door
and grasped the knocker before noticing that the door was already open. Hesitantly she stepped into the warmth of the hall. A white cat hurried towards her and weaved in and out of her legs.

‘Hello, Henry,’ she whispered, reaching down to scratch behind his ear. ‘Where’s Mr Quince? And why is the door open?’

The cat ran off and Citrine went quietly down the hall to Florian’s office and poked her head around the door. The lights were low and she could not see very much, but she could smell the
familiar aroma of the old legal books that were packed into the shelves on three sides of the room. But tonight there was another, different, odour. Citrine screwed up her nose worriedly. Something
was scorching.

Florian was asleep in his wing chair by the dying fire and it was one of his trouser legs that was smouldering. She went over to him and touched him gently on the shoulder. Immediately, with a
sharp intake of breath, she recoiled, almost tripping on something underfoot. Florian was dead. Instantly a vision of the third card flashed into her head, the three corvids pulling at the bloody
entrails.

‘So this is Death,’ she whispered.

Shakily she turned up the lights and gasped as she illuminated a scene of confusion. The room was in utter disarray. Papers were scattered across the floor, books teetered half off their shelves
and the desk drawers were rifled and hung out of their seats.

‘Domna! What in Aether happened here?’

Citrine forced herself to look closely at the aged solicitor. Florian had not died a peaceful death, that much was obvious from the grimace of horror frozen on his face. His eyes were wide,
fixed in a horrified stare, the whites bloodshot; his mouth was open in a silent scream. The front of his smoking jacket was stained with blood that had run from a deep wound in his chest.

With shaking hands Citrine closed his eyelids. She spotted a small white fleck between his collar and neck and picked it out; it was a broken fingernail. Florian’s nails were short and
evenly filed; could it belong to the murderer, broken off in the struggle? The thought disgusted her. She looked closely at the old man’s neck. Certainly there were scratches on it, one deep
bloodied tear and bruising. Citrine put the nail in her locket, carefully concealing it behind the tiny Depiction of her father. There was little more she could do.

Moments later Citrine was pedalating away. Her mind was working furiously. Was it a coincidence that Florian had died so soon after the row with Edgar? She shook the suspicion from her mind.
Edgar might be cruel and selfish, but he was the only family she had left. She looked out for an Urban Guardsman, but where were they when you needed them? Probably all down at the Tar Pit. It
wasn’t unknown during the festival for some overenthusiastic revellers to get themselves into trouble on the tar-clagged shore. So she headed for home. Much as it galled her, she would have
to tell Edgar what had happened.

Back at the Capodel Townhouse, her Trikuklos safely stowed, Citrine looked for her cousin, but he was nowhere to be found. She hurried upstairs; he was not in his room so she went to her own. As
soon as she stepped inside she noticed how cold it was. The French windows were wide open.

Did I not close them? she wondered, and then her heart jumped violently in her chest;
there was someone on the balcony.
She looked around frantically for something with which to defend
herself. A black pluvitectum was leaning against the wall so she grabbed it. She saw two hands part the flapping curtains and she raised the pluvitectum above her head, ready to fend off the
intruder.

‘Whoa!’ said Edgar, disengaging himself from the curtains. ‘What’s that for? Expecting rain indoors?’

Citrine lowered the makeshift weapon. ‘Domna, you gave me a shock!’ she exclaimed. She didn’t even bother to ask what he was doing in her room. ‘I have to talk to you;
something terrible has happened. Florian is dead!’

Edgar closed the French windows very deliberately behind him. Small spots of red began to burn on his cheeks. ‘Dead? How do you know?’

‘I found him in his office tonight.’

‘You’ve been to his office? But it’s the middle of Nox!’ Edgar couldn’t hide his anger. The muscles in his cheeks were clenching and unclenching.

‘I think it was a robbery. It hadn’t long happened. Florian was still . . . warm.’

‘You need a drink,’ said Edgar, suddenly sounding concerned. ‘I took the liberty of bringing up a tray. Brandy is good for a shock.’

Citrine saw then the silver tray on the dressing table and the decanter and two cut-crystal tumblers. Edgar turned his back to her and she heard the chink of the stopper. He faced her again and
handed her one of the glasses. Aware all the time of his eyes fixed on her, she sipped at the golden liquid. It burned and caused her to cough, but soon it began to warm her insides right down to
the bottom of her stomach. She took another, longer, draught. It was sweeter than she had thought it would be.

Edgar appeared to have composed himself somewhat. ‘Have you told anyone of this? An Urban Guardsman perhaps?’

‘No, but shouldn’t we report this now?’

Edgar brought his own glass to his mouth and allowed it to linger on his lips. Unconsciously Citrine mimicked him and took another drink. It was making her feel pleasantly warm inside, and a
little light-headed.

‘You were wrong to go out so late,’ said Edgar. ‘And on your own. Degringolade is a dangerous place, especially for a Capodel. Look what happened to your father.’

Citrine put her hand to her head. She felt a little nauseous and was finding it difficult to concentrate. Edgar was watching her, his head cocked to one side. He looked amused. Later she
remembered thinking that it was an odd expression under the circumstances.

‘We don’t actually know what happened to Father,’ she said with a yawn. ‘Shouldn’t you be going to get a guardsman?’ She yawned again. It was hard to
stop.

‘Leave it all to me,’ continued Edgar easily. But he stayed where he was. He put down his drink and leaned back against the dressing table. He steepled his fingers and somehow they
looked different. Citrine knew that it meant something, but she couldn’t quite understand what. Now she felt sickeningly dizzy. There was a terrible rushing noise in her head.

‘Edgar,’ she managed to whisper, ‘help me. There’s something wrong with me.’

But Edgar was unmoved. He watched as Citrine fell to the floor. And the last things she saw, she saw in great detail: the long white hair on his trouser leg and the ragged nail on the middle
finger of his right hand.

Vincent gave one final push at the unyielding trapdoor before sinking to the steps in defeat. Obviously someone had put something heavy on top. He had brought the key as a
matter of habit, but there was no way he could push up the trapdoor. He thumped the step in frustration.

‘How could I have been so stupid?’

He knew he had acted rashly and he was paying the price. He groaned as the realization of what had really happened dawned on him. Kamptulicon had obviously shut him in. But why hadn’t he
come down to confront him straight away? That alone was very worrying. And now all he could do was to wait for the ersatz oil vendor to come back and hope he could then somehow escape.

The tunnel was so short and narrow he could not conceal himself there, so he had no choice but to return to the chamber. He had a plan, of sorts; as soon as Kamptulicon appeared, he was going to
run at him, knock him to the floor and get the Aether out of there. With this in mind he spent another few minutes looking for a suitable weapon. He had his treen dagger of course, but he hoped to
avoid bloodshed. He was a thief but not a violent one. Finally he settled on a short thick baton he found near the humming cabinet.

He took up a position crouched near the chamber entrance, then changed his mind and crept under the table, before finally scooting to the far side of the room and hiding in among a collection of
tea chests. Briefly he thought about going into the humming cabinet, but sense prevailed. Apart from the fact that it would have been a squeeze, facing up to Kamptulicon was far preferable to death
by freezing.

If he had had the advantage of foresight he might well have changed his mind.

He settled down, alert and armed, truncheon in hand and a dagger on his belt. And so, berating himself all the while – his father would never have been caught in such a trap – he dug
in for an uncomfortable wait.

Vincent smelled their arrival before he heard it. A rotten stench rolled down the tunnel and filled the chamber. He had to hold his hand over his nose. Spletivus, what could
stink like that? he wondered.

He reached for the gas mask, but to his dismay it was no longer on his belt and there was no time to look for it. He readied himself for the confrontation. He felt the truncheon in his hand, but
his palm was sweating. His father had maintained that planning, wit and agility meant there was no need for weapons.

As Kamptulicon’s shadow filled the doorway he started to rise, but then he saw that the incomer was not alone. A man, at least he thought it was a man, followed Kamptulicon into the
chamber, and he was undoubtedly the source of the smell. Vincent swallowed hard in disbelief. The fellow looked as if he had been dug up from the grave. Then, to compound his horror, Kamptulicon
headed straight for the tea chests and smiled.