Singh nodded. “We can. And after it arrived, testimony from the servants confirms that the book—or a very good copy of it—was in Lord Wyndham’s study all day every day, madam. The maid who dusted it was quite definite on the subject. Lord Wyndham wanted it kept in perfect condition.”
“Very good. So . . . either the real thing or an excellent copy was on display throughout, but Bradamant definitely picked up the fake. And the real book cannot have been removed until the forgery was ready. If the forgery was only ready a few days before Wyndham’s murder—given that the auction was a little over two weeks before the murder, and the forgery would have taken two weeks—then the real book must have been taken from the house in those last few days. That is, if it isn’t there now.”
“An interesting train of thought,” Vale murmured, and Irene had to work to suppress a blush of pride. It’s nice to have just one little daydream come true. And it’s even better when it’s actually deserved. “But why not keep it in the house?”
“There is a risk of theft—from someone other than Belphegor, that is,” Singh suggested. “His safe might be impregnable to the Fae, given that it was cold iron, but human thieves could have opened it.” He gave Bradamant a meaningful look. “If the real book wasn’t hidden very thoroughly, and it came to light, it would show Wyndham’s display copy was a fake—whatever the reason for all this cloak-and-dagger subterfuge. I wonder what he was up to . . .” Finally he nodded to Irene. “I agree with your theory, madam. Although it does mean we’d have to assume Lord Wyndham handled the book himself, rather than passing it to some agent or third party to deal with.”
“Let us commence with that as a working hypothesis,” Vale said briskly. “In those three days, where did he go? And when could he have been carrying a book with him? How large is the book, in any case?”
“A large hardback,” Bradamant said, sketching the shape in the air with her hands. “Leather-bound and illustrated. Perhaps six inches by eight. Impossible to conceal under a fashionable coat. It could be carried in a briefcase easily enough.”
“Excellent,” Vale said. “That limits the possibilities. Lord Wyndham did not favour overcoats. What can you give us based on that, Inspector?”
“Just a moment, please, sir,” Singh said, flicking through the papers. “I have some statements here from Lord Wyndham’s valet, concerning his comings and goings over the last few days before his murder. We managed to assemble quite a timetable of the gentleman’s movements while we were establishing who might have wanted to kill him. He didn’t make that many outings during that period, so I believe we should be able to rule out a number of possibilities.”
Tension hung in the room. The seconds went by painfully slowly. Irene considered suggesting that they all help by taking a paper each and checking them separately. Then she decided it was a stupid idea. Then she considered it again. Then she watched Singh’s moustache and beard twitching as he muttered under his breath and turned pages.
With an effort, she glanced towards the window rather than watching Singh read. The weather outside still seemed to be good—for this alternate, anyhow—with high-flying clouds and sunshine. The dreamcatcher that she’d noticed earlier was dark against the pale sky.
She wondered what sort of dreams Vale had, that he, sceptic and logician, should hang a dreamcatcher in the window.
“Ah,” Singh finally said. “I think we may have something here.”
CHAPTER 16
“The day before his murder, Lord Wyndham visited his bank,” Singh said. “It wasn’t a scheduled visit. Apparently he couldn’t be seen immediately, and he made a few complaints, which caused some of the tellers to recall his visit when we were questioning them. While none of the statements there confirm that he was carrying a briefcase, they don’t say that he wasn’t, either. It’d be quite the normal sort of thing for a gentleman consulting his banker to be carrying.”
“Who did he bank with?” Bradamant asked.
“Lloyds,” Singh said. He frowned. “I’ll need to get a search warrant if we’re to look inside his safe-deposit box, sir. That’ll take a few hours at least. And it’d be easier with a bit of evidence that we could take before the judge.”
There was a glum silence throughout the room.
“Not impossible, of course,” Singh added. “But it might get us a warrant a trifle faster.”
“If the Iron Brotherhood were behind last night’s attack on the embassy, and they’re looking for this book too, then they might try to steal the deposit box from Lloyds,” Irene offered hopefully.
Singh looked disappointed in her. “I said evidence, madam. Not conjecture.”
“Well!” Vale brought his hands together in a brisk clap. “Inspector, I suggest you set that in motion—and if there’s anywhere else that the gentleman might have concealed the book, we can review the possibilities while we’re waiting. Is there anywhere else that’s reasonably plausible, or even possible?”
“There is one other thing,” Singh said. He turned back to one of the earlier pages in his bundle of papers. “Apparently Lord Wyndham did regularly donate books to various museums around London. They were usually ones which he had collected earlier, but which were no longer of interest to him or his associates.”
Irene twitched at the very notion. Give books away?
“How very frivolous,” she finally said.
“More altruistic than keeping them to himself,” Vale corrected her. “Please go on, Inspector.”
Singh rustled his papers, just enough to emphasize that he was in charge of the situation. “Two days before Lord Wyndham’s murder, he sent a small box of such books to the Natural History Museum. Herbariums, bestiaries, that sort of thing. My men looked into it as a matter of course while in the process of investigating the goings-on before his murder. The clerk to whom they spoke said that nobody had got round to looking at it yet. Please don’t stare at me like that, madam. It’s quite regular for persons of quality to make donations to the museums. It might be months before anyone gets round to checking it, unless they’d been specifically notified that there was something of importance in it.”
Kai frowned. “Are you suggesting that he hid the genuine book in the crate of donations? Wasn’t that, well, extremely risky? If even one person had found it there, he would have lost it. His bank deposit box seems much more likely.”
“No, I can see the logic of it,” Bradamant contradicted him. “If there is a backlog of such donations, it could have been as much as a year before anyone opened it, and he could have asked for it back if he needed it to present to Silver—or to anyone else,” she added thoughtfully.
“Well, the gentleman was a vampire,” Vale agreed, “so it would fit certain scheming aspects of his character—even though one should probably not speak ill of the undead.” He paused, but nobody laughed. “Oh, very well. Are there any other possible ways by which the book could have been smuggled out of the house, Inspector?”
“Possible, certainly, sir,” Singh said cautiously, “but none plausible. I had my men check the cellars very thoroughly. There are no connections to the local sewers or to the Underground. Of course, if he trusted it to one of his servants, then we have a whole new set of possibilities. If that’s the case, then we might do better watching the black market for such things to see if it shows up. Or we could see how the Iron Brotherhood go about finding it—if they’re after the damn thing too.”
Irene and Bradamant glanced at each other, and Irene could guess what the other woman was thinking. If they did have to resort to scouring the black market, or liaising with secret society members, then it might be better for Bradamant to break away from the group. She could then use any contacts that she’d made as Belphegor, rather than be known to be working with Singh and Vale. Of course, Bradamant could then find the book and be the one who took it back to the Library. So which was more important for Irene? Finding the
book herself, or making sure that it was found? She knew what the answer should be, but that didn’t mean that she liked it.
Vale and Singh were also looking thoughtfully at each other. Then Vale leapt to his feet. “Well, then! I believe this calls for a visit to the Natural History Museum. Ladies, Mr. Strongrock, I trust I can prevail upon you to accompany us. Inspector, do you have a cab downstairs? You can give us a lift there before going on to get your search warrant.”
Singh looked at Bradamant, Irene, and Kai with less than total enthusiasm but controlled his expression. “I have one, sir, but I believe that we may require a second one if we are not to subject the ladies to unduly close quarters.”
“I’d rather not delay,” Irene broke in. A growing sense of urgency was pricking at her. Maybe the bank deposit box was the more likely possibility, but what if they were wrong? “Inspector, do you think you were followed here?”
Singh frowned. “I can’t deny that it is possible, madam. Not that anyone would find it strange. A great many people from the Yard come to visit Mr. Vale here, and very frequently at that.”
Vale stepped across to the window and stood to one side of it, peering down at the street below. “I can’t say whether they followed you, Inspector, or whether they’re watching me,” he reported, “but Hairy Jimmy of the Whitechapel Roaring Boys is watching my front door.”
“That’ll be Lord Silver, I believe,” Singh said, slipping his papers back into his case. “The Iron Brotherhood wouldn’t have anything to do with werewolves.”
Vale considered for a moment. “Well, with London traffic the way it is at this hour of the morning, even if they are going to the museum, we should still make it there before they do.” He snatched a coat from the overloaded hat stand, flung it on, and caught up his hat and sword-cane. “Let us be off.”
Kai had also sprung to his feet in wild enthusiasm and was busy finding his own hat and coat, which allowed Irene to tug Bradamant into the passage for a word in private.
“What is it?” Bradamant asked quietly.
“What are the identifying marks for the book?” She saw Bradamant begin to say something and held up a hand to stop her. “Look. You said that you’ve already been fooled once with a fake. If it was your superior who sent you back—if you’re actually here with permission”—she saw Bradamant’s eyes narrow in anger at that—“then he wouldn’t have sent you back again without giving you some sort of way to identify the genuine article. Are you really going to risk losing the book because you’re not prepared to share that with me? A book which may be that important to this world?”
Bradamant’s glare was pure poison. “Don’t rush me,” she said. “I’m thinking.”
“Think fast,” Irene said. “Vale will be coming to find us in a moment.”
“Tale eighty-seven,” Bradamant said. “‘The Story of the Stone from the Tower of Babel.’ If it’s there, then it’s genuine.”
“Thank you,” Irene said. She picked up her hat and veil and skewered them in place with a hat-pin. Bradamant seemed about to say something but with a visible struggle managed to contain herself. She adjusted her own hat, then swept out, calling sweetly, “We’re coming!”
A few seconds later they were jumbled together into a hansom cab and heading to the Natural History Museum. From what Irene could remember of London’s geography, it was at least half an hour away—more, if the traffic was bad. Singh had muttered the instructions to the driver rather than shouting them loud enough to be heard across the street and was now brooding in the corner of the cab. Kai, Vale, and Singh were all sandwiched onto one seat, while Irene and Bradamant shared the seat opposite and tried not to look too comfortable.
“Do you know who we need to speak to when we get there, Inspector?” Vale asked Singh.
Singh nodded. “I have the name from last time—Professor Betony, and even if you can’t find her, then you can find her office in the Department of Cryptidology downstairs. With any luck, you can be in and out of there before anyone who might be following you catches up. We can then establish if the book’s here or not. And I’ll be getting that search warrant in the meantime.” He gave Bradamant one of his flat looks. “And then this young lady can return the other books that she made off with.”
Bradamant flushed, lowered her eyes, played with the strap of her handbag. She looked in every way like an innocent young woman who had been led into crime by bad company and wanted nothing more than to make amends. Irene had to admire the performance, especially given Bradamant’s probable feelings of rage towards her.
“Do you often get sent on missions like this for this Library of yours, Miss Winters?” Vale asked Irene. He tried to make it sound like casual conversation, but she could feel the deeper curiosity beneath his words.
“This one is a bit more . . . ah, dramatic than most of them,” Irene said, a little relieved that Vale was asking her rather than Bradamant. And that was perfectly true. She’d had dozens of missions where she’d simply wandered in, quietly bought a copy of the book in question, and left without anyone so much as noticing her. And at least ten assignments where there had been some minor illegality involved, but none had featured chases through the streets, dangerously flamboyant personalities, or cyborg alligators. “There was a time before this when I was in France.” Well, a France. There were a lot of Frances. “I was trying to secure a copy of a book about alchemy by someone called Michael Maier, a few hundred years old. It was called . . .” She frowned. “Something about nine triads, and it contained intellectual songs about the resurrection of the phoenix, or something along those lines. I ended up getting involved with a group of Templars and having to leave in something of a hurry.” About five minutes before they’d broken the door down, to be precise, but no need to tell Vale that bit.
“And then there was the cat burglar affair,” Bradamant said sweetly.
Irene felt her hands tighten in her gloves. She forced herself to stay calm. “Yes,” she agreed. “There was that.”
Kai leaned forward. “What was this cat burglar affair?” he asked.
Bradamant smiled in a sympathetic, understanding, non-judgemental sort of way. “Oh, it was when I was mentoring Irene, when she was first working in the field. We were trying to locate a book which had been stolen by a notorious thief. Everyone knew who she was. The best police officers in the city were watching her every move and still they couldn’t catch her. And when Irene and I were trying to investigate her, well . . .” She smiled again, tolerantly. “The lady in question was very charming. And it isn’t as if I was in any significant danger while Irene was so, shall we say, ‘preoccupied’ with her. And I managed to find the book, so all’s well that ends well.”
Irene looked down at her knees and bit her tongue. It hadn’t been like that at all, it hadn’t, but that was all the story that anyone would know now. Bradamant had cheerfully spread it all over the Library in murmured detail, and anything that Irene had said then, or could say now, would simply make her sound as if she was making excuses. The alternate had been one with a very specific set of social standards. Theft was a comparatively petty transgression there, even if it was illegal; immoral behaviour was the sort of thing that could entirely destroy a woman’s reputation. Bradamant had set the whole thing up, arranging an identity for Irene as a freelance thief herself, suggesting that perhaps the woman could be persuaded to hand the book over, and even fixing up an assignation. And then she’d simply burgled the woman’s house while Irene had been sincerely trying to talk her round. And Irene had been left floundering and making excuses and trying to explain what had happened to the other woman’s house, and her possessions, and her reputation . . .
She had come out of it with a bitter, lasting fury against Bradamant and a resolution that she would never do the same thing to someone who actually trusted her. Never. Never.
And if she tried to object now, it’d be just the same
as before. She’d look as if she was trying to make excuses for something that must have been her fault if she was making excuses for it. She’d look guilty. She’d look petty . . .
She’d look like a child.
“Yes,” she agreed, with a smile as pleasant as Bradamant’s own. “All’s well that ends well.”
Kai glanced from Irene to Bradamant, then back again. “Of course, this is the first time I’ve worked with Miss Winters,” he said, a fraction too quickly. “I was rather hoping we might be sent to fetch some poetry at some point. I have a high regard for poetry. My father and uncles always felt that it was very important for anyone who had any claim to culture.”
“Hm.” Singh leaned forward, looking genuinely interested. “The epic poem, or shorter forms?”
The conversation shifted, much to Irene’s relief, into a debate on poetry that lasted for most of the journey. She herself was mostly silent, being more used to acquiring it than reading it. Bradamant put in a word or two in favour of the Elizabethan styles, and fortunately there had been an Elizabeth on this alternate. Vale had a fondness for Persian poets, though his pronunciation of their names was bad enough that Singh twitched. Singh himself refused to consider anything shorter than an epic poem as worthy of serious study. And Kai, not too surprisingly, favoured classical Chinese modes, with a passing nod to constructions like the sestina and villanelle.
It took a moment for her to realize that she was actually enjoying herself. Even if she wasn’t contributing much to the conversation, she was taking part in it. She was speaking her mind, she was having an honest exchange of opinion, she was . . .
The Invisible Library (The Invisible Library Novel) Page 21