He remembered the oath he’d taken, given by Rory Keen and verified by being spit in the face from twenty-six members of the Broodie clan: I solemnly swear to be faithful and true to the Black-Eyed Broodies and hold my brothers and sisters in the highest regard and respect, show no mercy to their enemies, and do no harm to nobody who is or ever was a Broodie.
And here before him stood a contradiction to his belief that after the murder of Rory Keen by Mother Deare he himself was the last of the Black-Eyed Broodies. But no, no…this was his ‘sister’ standing before him, the young woman who had slaughtered Dippen Nack in front of his eyes and very nearly had emptied his own innards out upon the ground.
His ‘sister’ Elizabeth Mulloy, otherwise known as RakeHell Lizzie.
She put her glove back on. “Your eyes almost popped out,” she said.
He nodded, dumbly, and finished off the Armagnac.
“Now you’ve got to get out of here,” she told him.
“Pardon me?” Was his hearing failing, to add to this wonderful evening?
“Out of here,” she repeated. She held up the large brass key she’d used to open the door. “This will unlock a door further along the passage. There are tunnels that go under the park. Samson says they’re what remains of the old Roman streets. You’ll come to a chamber where they throw the bodies, but don’t go in. Keep going straight. I’ve never been very far in there, but the tunnels must come out somewhere close, because they bring the men through there.” She jerked a gloved thumb up toward the lantern. “Give me a boost and I can pluck that off the hook for you. You’ll need the light.”
Matthew was again struck dumb.
“You can’t waste time!” she urged. “They’ll be coming for you soon. Listen, you’ll have to hit me with something. Have to make it look real, like you took me by surprise.” She looked about the room, bent down and picked up a dead man’s boot. “Hit me with this. Back of the head. Hit me hard, I can take it. Have to put a lump there. Go on, do it.”
“I…I…” What was he trying to say? Had he lost his senses? He felt as if his tongue were mired in mush and his brain no better. “I…” He forced it out: “I can’t leave here.”
“What?”
“I can’t leave here,” he repeated, “without the book of potions and Doctor Firebaugh to go with it.” He realized he was omitting something. “Oh…and Julian. I can’t leave here without all three.”
It was Elizabeth’s turn to be open-mouthed and struck dumb for a few seconds. Then: “Are you insane? I’m offering you a way out!”
“Through tunnels that may only get me lost in a maze without an exit? I can’t risk that. Thank you, but no.”
She shook her head and let go a long breath of frustration. “They’re talking about you up there. Samson and that so-called cardinal. Black told Samson you really do work with the Herrald Agency in the New York colony. He said he learned that from the woman who calls herself Mother Deare. Called,” she corrected. “I understand she’s dead.”
“As the proverbial doornail,” Matthew said.
“No matter. I do know about the Herrald Agency. I have no idea how you’ve gotten mixed up in this, but I doubt you’re completely and willingly affiliated with Professor Fell. Don’t you want a chance to get out with your skin?”
Matthew decided he had to trust this young woman, even in spite of her deadly instincts. “I am here to retrieve the book and to take Firebaugh with it, because Fell’s previous chemist used a formula on the woman I love, to turn her into…well, into the shell of what she once was. If I don’t return the book and a new chemist to decipher the potions, she will continue to mentally decline into an infantile state. Fell agreed to let Julian and me at least try to get the book back. But I don’t think he cares much about the book itself anymore. He has bigger fish on his plate.” He paused, watching her expression as she took all this in; it was perhaps of sisterly concern, but still not enough to fully understand. He decided also to open another tin of worms. “Do you know that Cardinal Black and his gang murdered every Broodie but Rory Keen and myself? And then Mother Deare shot Rory in the head. I was there to see it happen, but I couldn’t stop it.”
“Wait…wait,” she said. “Murdered all the Broodies? When?”
“Not a month ago. I was present when Black—with Lash’s help—raided Fell’s village in Wales and took the book of potions. By that time, Berry—the woman I love and plan to marry, if I can bring her back—was already under the drug’s influence. Obviously Lash was the one who wanted the book, but Black wanted a second book that concerns his interest—obsession, I would say—with demonology. So that’s the story. I do appreciate your saving me from yourself, but I doubt Fell is going to offer any further bid to get the book of potions back. He’s not going to want Black to get his hands on the second book.”
Elizabeth appeared still shaken by the news that the Broodies had been murdered. “I…can’t…why did Black kill all of them?”
“He was after the supply of White Velvet the Broodies were keeping for Mother Deare’s gang, which was part of Fell’s organization.”
“White Velvet?”
“A drugged gin that Fell created by using one of the book’s formulas. Mother Deare was losing her mind and had been working with Black for some time. How those two got together, I don’t know. But I suspect Black knew he had to kill the Broodies to get the cases of Velvet out of their warehouse. Mother Deare likely knew that as well. I don’t know if Lash was in on this or not, or where the cases of Velvet wound up, but I do know for certain: I cannot leave here without the book, Firebaugh and—” Could he leave Julian to the wrath of Black and Lash, if it came to that? “And Julian,” he finished.
“Murdered all the Broodies?” she said quietly. “Every one?”
“Every one,” Matthew answered. “And I won’t go into great detail, but they did not die easily.”
She was silent for a while, as she digested this foul information.
“The Broodies took me in off the street when I needed refuge,” Matthew continued. “In their own way, they were kind to me. I believe I came to look on Rory as a true brother, of a sort. I would venture to say that Samson Lash is driven by his need to build this airship and prove a point to the Royal Navy—a point they will likely always refuse to grant him—but that Black’s influence is corrosively evil, and under it Lash will be drawn into deeper and darker depths.” He refrained from stating his belief that Lash was probably already at dark depths even without Black’s demonic hand pushing him deeper; it seemed to him that the airship idea had unhinged the vice admiral and made him believe that any wretched crime and murder was done for the advantage of England in her future wars.
Elizabeth stared for a moment at the discarded clothing on the floor, but Matthew saw that she wore a blank expression as if she were regarding items for paper dolls that had been torn in two and tossed into a fire. “I didn’t want Samson to become involved with Black,” she said. “I advised against it when the Owl came to speak to him about the collaboration. Yes, the Owl put all this together. It was quite a pretty penny for him, and another feather in his—” She paused, deliberating, and then said, “Tail.”
When she didn’t go on, Matthew decided to push her for the sake of his own curiosity, and possibly there was some information he might grasp upon and use. “How did all this begin?”
“It started several years ago,” she said. “I had only been living here a year before it began. Samson had heard about the airship plans from the captain of a Portuguese vessel that was wrecked off the Canary Islands. It was what he’d been envisioning all his life. He made inquiries from some people he thought might help, and one day the Owl came to visit. For a fee, the Owl learned that Duke de Valasco owned the plans and would give them up in exchange for the assassination of his elder brother. So—again with the Owl’s help—connections were made with the Prussians,
who had a reputation for excellence. The duke didn’t wish the assassins to be anyone in Portugal who might be traced back to him and Samson didn’t wish to use anyone with an English affiliation, so the Owl—or someone the Owl considered a loyal confederate—served as the go-between. Then there was the matter of paying the Prussians for the work. Something had to be found that would be of extraordinary value to those who could make use of it. That’s where Black came in. The Owl introduced them to each other. Black told Samson about the book and about what he wanted from Fell. The scheme took over a year to put in place and had some fits and starts. But I told Samson from the beginning not to put too much trust in Black. That was one time he disregarded my advice, and I believe he’s yet to pay for it.”
“A scheme that must’ve run on many wheels,” Matthew said. “Tell me this: if Lash really only wanted the airship plans, why did he include the others in this auction?”
“He wasn’t certain the Prussians could get the plans. They might have failed in the attempt, or been caught, or whatever. He—and I—thought it best to bring others into the fold. Once again, the Owl took care of this through his contacts. You can be sure he’s nearly as powerful—or as ambitious—as Professor Fell once was, but his true talent is in diplomatic communication. And another reason: when Samson builds the airship he wants to be sure there are other markets for the vessel if the Royal Navy refuses to buy it. In that regard, he’s announcing his name to the guilds that the ones upstairs represent.”
“I don’t think Victor’s guild is going to be too pleased,” Matthew said.
She shrugged. “Everyone here understands that it’s business. Yet Samson draws the line at personal threats, and it was a wise thing to show them what crossing that line will do.”
Matthew nodded vacantly; he decided another line should be crossed. “What are you to Lash? Besides his business advisor and a source of rather cruel entertainment?”
Elizabeth lifted her chin. “I am his figurehead,” she replied. “I live in great wealth and luxury, to be—”
“A wooden effigy?” Matthew interrupted. “Is that all?”
“He enjoys my company and my advice.”
“That’s all he enjoys?”
“It is,” she said. Her eyes narrowed. Matthew felt a heightening of danger in the room. “I cannot be touched by any man. I refuse to touch any man, except for what you’ve witnessed. Samson has never seen my tattoo, for I always wear the silk gloves…unless I’m wearing the others. If you wish to know more, I would warn you that travelling in that direction has the effect of awakening my condition.”
“Well, let’s park the wagon,” Matthew said quickly.
“I agree.” She reached out and took the empty glass from him. “Now…if you are so stupid as to remain here when I’m offering you an escape, that’s all I have for you.”
“Not quite,” Matthew said before she could turn for the door. “As you say, Lash has the object of his desire. He doesn’t need the book, and Black doesn’t need that other book, either. God can only dare guess what use Black would put it to. So I am asking you as a sister to help me.”
“You’ve already rejected my help.”
“No. Help me to get the book, to get Firebaugh, to get Julian, and escape from this place with a good chance of finding my way back to Fell’s village.”
She allowed herself an incredulous smile. “Impossible. As much as I might like to sever the relationship between Samson and Cardinal Black, Samson’s planning for you to leave in the coach before dawn.”
Matthew grunted. His mind was working furiously and it seemed he could smell the friction of his brainwheels burning themselves. The tunnels…she said they brought the men through there for her to kill in the pit, but where might be the nearest entrance and exit?
He had a thought to bend down and examine the discarded clothes. He searched the pockets, not knowing what he was looking for…the spark of an idea…a shred…anything that might—
He felt something grainy on his fingers. A further inspection and he discovered that the substance grimed both sets of clothing. He stood up and held his hand where the light would benefit his vision.
“Coal dust,” he said. “On the clothes. Your victims aren’t delivered through a coal chute?”
“Samson uses wood in the fireplaces, not coal. As I say, they come through the tunnels. And my ‘victims’, as you call them, have been up to this point drunkards and the dregs of London gathered up from the low streets. Small men, as Samson would say. They only come in at night, and I’m sure Samson takes great precautions not to be seen.”
“I’m sure he’s a fine provider,” Matthew replied. He rubbed the grainy coal dust between his fingers. “Coal dust on both sets of clothing.”
“That tells you something?” Elizabeth prodded.
“Possibly that the constables were brought here on a coal wagon, and I doubt they didn’t have to be knocked senseless and covered over. But it would be a risk for Lash. A little screaming and commotion if one of the men happened to break free, and this quiet, privileged neighborhood would be looking askance at the vice admiral. If indeed they came in a coal wagon they were taken off somewhere not too near the house just in case of such mishap, but not too far away either.” Matthew realized he was basically thinking aloud, for he had no surety of any of this. “I doubt that Lash would like his neighbors to know what goes on in here,” he said. “He might be booted off the park.”
“Samson would be the one doing the booting,” she replied, with a haughty air. “He owns the park. Now, I don’t believe I can help you any further. What you’re asking is out of the question.”
“Two things you can help me with,” Matthew said. Again his mind was racing, trying to solve the problems that lay before him. It seemed that Julian was right, and everything was left up to the whims of Fate. “Number one, tell no one what we’ve been talking about, and number two—” and here was the real risk at hand, “—make sure that when I’m taken away in the coach, the door to which that key is suited is unlocked.”
That gave her pause. She frowned and her mouth twisted. Whatever she was about to say, it would have to be left unsaid because the chamber’s door suddenly opened and two of the Owl’s toughs were there.
“Come along,” one said to Matthew. “He wants you.”
“Am I presentable enough for a chat with the vice admiral?” Matthew asked Elizabeth as, smiling tightly, he brushed the last of the coal dust from his fingers.
“Not Lash,” said the guard. “Cardinal Black. Come on, he’s waiting.”
twenty-two.
“You interest me,” said Cardinal Black, fully three minutes after Matthew had been escorted into what had to be the library at the rear of the house, for all the books on the oak shelves and two large wooden models of naval frigates mounted on stands. Wood crackled in a fireplace of rough gray stones. On the floor was a dark blue rug with a golden pattern at its edges. To the right, an oval window showed curtains of snow flying in the wind.
Black was seated on a red leather lounge chair with his long legs stretched out and his boots up on an ottoman, a low table at his side bearing a glass of red wine. Overhead, six candles burned in a brass chandelier of intricate design. Black had told the two guards to leave and close the door behind them, and then Matthew waited for Black to take his time in filling a clay pipe with tobacco, fire up a tinderbox, touch flame to the bowl and start puffing out blue clouds that slowly changed shape as they drifted toward Matthew’s face. Matthew thought it was quite ironic that Cardinal Black’s pipe of choice was called a churchwarden for its long curved stem, but he decided against pointing it out.
Matthew had not made a move to sit in any of the other two chairs, nor had Black suggested it. After Black had made the single statement, eyes that seemed to hold centers of scarlet in the long-jawed, pallid face fixed upon Matthew as if regarding anot
her feast. He smoked in silence.
“It interests me,” said Matthew at last, “that you chose to have this presumed discussion in the library. A certain book on your mind, is it?”
“Of course.”
“And what would you do with that book if you had it? It’s not one for bedtime reading.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Black, with a thin little smile.
“I’ve looked through a copy. Several copies, in fact. One in New York, one on Fell’s island and the one you wanted in the village.”
“You must know that Fell has bought up every copy in existence. At least, I’ve been unable to secure one…and you can be sure I have shaken the trees.”
“Unfortunate that one didn’t tumble down and knock your brains out,” said Matthew. He walked past Black to the hearth to warm himself. Any fireplace implements here, poker or tongs? No…likely recently removed just for this meeting. He held his hands out before the fire. His bravado toward Black was both a shield and a valve to relieve pressure, for standing here he could put himself back in an instant among the dead Broodies, their faces eyeless, their eyeballs having been plucked out and put into an empty White Velvet bottle down in the warehouse’s cellar, their throats slashed and upon their foreheads the bloody Devil’s Cross courtesy of the monster who sat across the room from him, smoking a churchwarden pipe and puffing small exclamations of smoke like the scrawls of a secret language.
“The reason you interest me,” Black went on after a short pause in which Matthew heard the wind shrilling and whining beyond the glass, “is that you are here. I can understand Devane being sent by Fell to get the book…but sending you? Whatever was he thinking?”
“That I could get the book back, I suppose.”
“Ohhhhh no.” Black puffed another blue cloud of smoke and wagged a slim finger back and forth. “There’s more to it than that. Isn’t there? You know, Mother Deare confided something to me that you might care to hear: the professor likes you, in spite of your misdeeds toward him. It seems…now how did she put it?…oh…it seems you remind him of his deceased son. Or…of what he might have been, had he not been beaten to death at a young age. But, Matthew…let us be honest…he doesn’t like you enough to set you loose from that village of his, not even with Devane riding on your back. What’s the truth?”
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