by Amanda Quick
“Yes,” Caleb said. “But I doubt that you will ever see either of them again. The Order of the Emerald Tablet does not tolerate failure.”
Lucinda shuddered. “Do you think they will be killed?”
Caleb shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me, although it’s possible they will survive at least for a time. Indeed, I’m hoping they will.”
“Why?” Patricia asked.
“Because I have a great many questions for them. If they have any common sense, they will go to ground in the stews. From what I can tell, the Order draws its members from the upper classes. Such individuals are unlikely to have the sort of connections required to track down those from the criminal underworld who do not wish to be found.”
Lucinda raised her brows. “But you do have connections of that sort?”
“One or two,” he said. “Not nearly as many as I believe I’m going to require in the future. It is obvious the agency will need them.”
“A chilling thought,” Lucinda said.
“Meanwhile, I cannot be with you and Miss Patricia at all times,” he continued, “so I am going to employ a bodyguard to keep an eye on both of you.”
Panic shot through her. “You think Patricia is also in danger?”
“You are obviously the primary target,” he said. “But if I were in the shoes of whoever was behind tonight’s activities, I would see your cousin as an elegant way to lure you into a trap.”
“Yes, of course,” Lucinda whispered. “I never thought of that.”
Patricia was clearly impressed. “No offense, Mr. Jones, but you do tend to think in a rather convoluted fashion.”
“You are not the first to point out that unfortunate habit.” He stopped and took out his watch. “It is nearly seven. I must send a message immediately. I want the bodyguard to come to this address as soon as possible this morning so that I can get on with other aspects of the investigation.”
Lucinda put down her cup. “I have never dealt with a bodyguard. I am not entirely certain what one does with such an individual.”
“Think of him as a footman,” Caleb said. He opened a desk drawer and took out a sheet of paper. “In other words, make sure that he is always conveniently at hand.”
TWENTY-TWO
IRA ELLERBECK OPENED THE DELICATELY HINGED LID OF the tiny gold-and-emerald snuffbox. With a practiced motion, he took a pinch of the yellowish powder, raised it to his nose and inhaled.
Snuff was no longer a fashionable way of taking tobacco, having been replaced by cigarettes and cigars. Personally, he found Nicotiana tabacum repulsive in any form. It was not the powdered form of that particular herb, however, that he carried in the tiny container. The drug in the snuffbox was far more potent and infinitely more dangerous.
He felt the frisson of heightened awareness immediately and opened himself to the seething currents that swirled in the vast conservatory. An array of vision-inducing cacti, psilocybin mushrooms, belladonna lilies, Turkestan mint, henbane, opium poppies and so much more—all carefully cultivated and hybridized with the aid of his unique talent to enhance their toxic and intoxicating powers— whispered their dark energies into the atmosphere. At once his nerves steadied and his confidence trickled back.
He looked at his son. Allister lounged against the edge of a workbench with an elegantly languid air.
“What went wrong?” Ellerbeck asked, fully in control again, at least for a while.
“The pair of thieves that I hired failed.” Allister’s mouth twisted, his disdain obvious. “According to the rumors in Guppy Lane, Miss Bromley distracted them with some sort of noxious substance that burned their eyes and made it hard for them to breathe. In the confusion Bromley was able to summon assistance.”
Rage surged. With great effort, Ellerbeck willed the distracting sensation back under control. The formula had some tedious side effects, one of which was that, in addition to temporarily enhancing his eroding psychical senses, it stirred certain violent emotions. Unfortunately, he had not discovered that particular problem until after he had started Allister on the drug. Now it was too late for both of them. Hope was fading fast. He had only a few months left, at best. If Hulsey did not come up with an improved version of the formula soon, all was lost.
“You must get rid of both of those men,” he said. “If Jones tracks them down—”
“Do not concern yourself.” Allister smiled, flushed with the prospect of two more kills. “I will take care of Sharpy and Perrett tonight. Meanwhile, they are hardly likely to go to the police. It would be tantamount to admitting that they took part in a kidnapping attempt. Even if they did talk to Jones, there is no danger to us. They have no way of knowing who I am. As far as they are concerned, they were employed to abduct Miss Bromley for the purpose of selling her into a life of prostitution. There really is no problem, I assure you.”
“Damnation, don’t you see? The problem is that Caleb Jones is now aware that someone attempted to abduct Bromley. He has gone so far as to install a bodyguard in the household.”
He had been so certain that getting rid of the apothecary would put an end to the thing; so sure that once Daykin’s sideline in poison had been exposed, Jones would consider the investigation closed.
Instead, Jones appeared to be continuing his inquiries. In desperation the decision had been made to get rid of Lucinda Bromley. Now that plan, too, had failed.
Thaxter had sent word to him an hour ago. According to the rumors swirling in the clubs this morning, Caleb Jones was intimately involved with Lucinda Bromley. There could be only one logical explanation and it was highly unlikely that explanation was of a romantic nature. Jones was hunting.
“What makes you think Edmund Fletcher is a bodyguard?” Allister asked. “According to the maid I talked to in Landreth Square this afternoon, he is a friend of the family who will be staying with Miss Bromley and her cousin for a time.”
Ellerbeck resisted the urge to throw a heavy watering can through the glass wall of the conservatory. He picked up a glass jar instead and walked a short distance along a path to his collection of carnivorous plants. He noted that one of the large, pitcher-shaped traps of his Nepenthes rajah was still digesting its last meal, a tiny mouse.
He stopped in front of an intensely green Dionaea.
“That would be too much of a coincidence by half,” he said. “This is Caleb Jones we are talking about. He will have sensed what really happened last night. There can be no doubt but that Fletcher is a bodyguard.”
“I could easily get rid of Fletcher for you.”
Ellerbeck sighed. “Jones would simply install yet more guards around the Bromley household.”
“I can take care of Jones, as well.”
“Do not be so certain of that.”
Allister tensed with anger as he always did when Ellerbeck implied that there were limitations to his talent.
“You told me that Jones is merely some sort of intuitive talent,” Allister said. “He may be very good at chess but that ability will not protect him from what I can do.”
Exasperation flooded through Ellerbeck, a hot acid that made him want to scream. He tried but he could not keep all of the emotion out of his voice. “Damn it to hell, don’t you see? If you managed to kill Caleb Jones, we would be left with an even greater problem than we now face.”
“What do you mean?”
Ellerbeck fought his frustration. To think that he had once believed that the drug might save his son. Allister had always been dangerous. The streak of madness had shown itself early in life. But for a few weeks after he had begun taking the formula, he seemed to become more stable. Within days, however, the side effects had appeared.
“Consider what you are suggesting,” Ellerbeck said. “The murder of Caleb Jones would draw the attention of the Master, the Council and the entire Jones family. That is the very last thing we want.”
“But no one would realize that Jones had been killed,” Allister insisted. “You know how I work. It will appe
ar that he died of a heart attack, just like Daykin.”
“It is not common for a man in his prime to drop dead of a heart attack.”
“It happens on occasion.”
“Not in the Jones family. They are a healthy lot. Your methods might satisfy the members of the Council, but trust me when I tell you that without a very creditable explanation, no one in the Jones clan would believe that the death of Caleb Jones was due to natural causes. Not for a moment. The Master and everyone else on that damned family tree would turn over every stone in London until they found answers.”
“They wouldn’t find any.”
“Do not be so sure of that. I doubt that either of us would survive the investigation that would be launched. Even if the Joneses did not succeed in discovering us, the First Circle would be furious. The leaders would see to it that our supply of the drug was cut off entirely.”
“We have Hulsey. He can continue to brew the formula.”
“The First Circle would take him from us in a heartbeat.”
Allister began to prowl along one of the pathways. “So we come up with a creditable explanation. Bloody hell, where did you come by this unnatural fear of the Jones family?”
“There is a reason why every Master of the Arcane Society since the founding of the organization has been a Jones.”
“Certainly there’s a reason. The founder himself was a Jones. It is no mystery why his offspring have always wielded so much influence within the Society. It is simply the weight of tradition.”
Tradition played a part, Ellerbeck thought. But so did power and talent. There was no denying that the bloodlines of the Jones family carried a great deal of both. Hunters, in particular, abounded within the clan. As it happened, Caleb Jones was not endowed with that signature talent, but many of those who would come looking for his killer would most certainly possess such preternatural predatory abilities.
If even a fraction of the legends that swirled around the family were true, it was a certainty that they would pursue their quarry to the gates of hell and beyond.
But there was no point trying to explain that to Allister. In addition to the whisper of insanity, he was imbued with the natural arrogance that was the hallmark of all young males in their early twenties. Nothing a father could say would shake that. The only hope that remained for either of them was that Hulsey would concoct an improved version of the drug.
I must buy us some time.
He thought about what Allister had just said. So we come up with a creditable explanation.
He contemplated the spider in the bottom of the jar. The insect stared back at him with its chillingly inhuman eyes. The members of the First Circle would exhibit a similar lack of pity if they discovered that things were going so badly wrong.
A creditable explanation. It would require a great risk but it just might work. And there was nothing left to lose. He was dying and his son was plunging back into madness.
“You may be right,” Ellerbeck said finally. “Perhaps we should remove Caleb Jones.”
“I know that you would prefer that we avoid any contact with the Society and with the Joneses,” Allister said, sensing an opening. “But we no longer have a choice. Like it or not, thanks to Lucinda Bromley, Caleb Jones has been drawn into this affair. You claim that he is dangerous.”
“He is a Jones,” Ellerbeck said simply.
“Very well, unless you can think of a way to convince him to abandon the case, we have no choice but to get rid of him before he discovers any links that will lead him back to Hulsey. The doctor would not last five minutes under questioning.”
“He has been the weak point in this business all along. But we need him, Allister. He is the only man of talent I know who might be able to reduce the side effects of the formula.”
“The drug works very well as far as I am concerned.”
That is because you are already insane, Ellerbeck thought. A great depression threatened to drown him. His only son was a madman with a talent for murder.
He set the jar on a workbench, took out the snuffbox and inhaled another pinch of the drug.
Immediately the crushing weight of his morbid thoughts lifted. Given time, Hulsey would perfect the formula and Allister would be saved. And so will I.
The key was time.
“You have given me an idea.” A flicker of anticipation pulsed through him. “Perhaps we have been too timid in our approach. Desperate times call for desperate measures.”
Allister was momentarily taken aback by the concession but he recovered swiftly. “Don’t worry, I won’t have any trouble getting rid of Caleb Jones for you.”
“I believe you. But you will have to carry out the project in a manner that will satisfy the Jones family. They must be given the firm impression that there is no mystery to pursue. A death that appears to be a heart attack or stroke will not work.”
Allister scowled. “You have a plan?”
“It occurs to me that if Caleb Jones is found dead, there is one thing that might keep his family from tearing London apart in the search for the killer.”
“What?”
“The death of the murderer.”
Allister’s brow furrowed. “You intend to cast suspicion on someone else?”
“Yes.” A very similar scheme had worked in the past, Ellerbeck thought. There was no reason it would not work again.
Allister looked skeptical. “I like the notion but if it is to be convincing, the evidence would have to point to someone who possesses a very strong motive.”
“Not only a motive, but a history of having committed murder with poison. In other words, the perfect suspect.”
Allister went quite blank for a few seconds. Then understanding dawned.
“Lucinda Bromley?” he said, voice rising a little in amazement.
“By all accounts Jones is involved in an intimate liaison with her. Miss Bromley poisoned her last lover. Why not another?”
Allister smiled his slow, cold smile. “That is bloody brilliant. It will be no problem to stage the scene so that Jones appears to have died of poison.”
“I know you think that he will be an easy target but the thing must be planned carefully. We cannot afford any more mistakes.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything.”
Ellerbeck picked up the jar again, removed the lid and turned the container upside down. The spider tumbled into the bloodred mouth of the Venus flytrap. The spiny-leafed jaws snapped shut faster than the eye could follow, sealing the insect’s doom.
Ellerbeck watched the spider’s useless struggles for a moment. The plan would work. It had to work.
TWENTY-THREE
“MR. FLETCHER IS MOST CERTAINLY NO FOOTMAN,” PATRICIA fumed in low tones the following afternoon. “What’s more, he obviously doesn’t know how to act like one, either. Look at him, lounging there against the wall, eating tea sandwiches as though he were a guest in this household.”
Lucinda exchanged a quick, amused glance with Lady Milden. It was three-thirty in the afternoon and the drawing room was decorated with more than half a dozen elegantly dressed young men. Through the window she could see two more eager, rather anxious-looking gentlemen in their early twenties, coming up the steps, bouquets in their hands.
The room was already crammed with cut flowers and posies of every description. She had been forced to dampen her senses to suppress the reek of decay but Patricia and Lady Milden seemed to find the floral offerings delightful.
It was not just the underlying essence of the mass of dead flowers that rattled her senses. Faint currents of psychical energy pulsed lightly in the room. All of Patricia’s admirers were members of the Society. That meant that each was endowed with some degree of talent. Put that many psychically gifted people in a confined space and even a person with minimal sensitivity would notice something in the atmosphere, she thought.
Mrs. Shute and two of her nieces who had been brought in to assist with the expected crowd of suitors b
ustled in and out continuously with fresh tea and an endless supply of sandwiches and small cakes. It was amazing how much food healthy young males could consume, Lucinda reflected.
The social rules that governed this sort of visiting between eligible young ladies and gentlemen were quite strict. Patricia was ensconced on the sofa in front of the teapot. Lucinda and Lady Milden were seated in chairs on either side, flanking her but allowing room for the admirers to approach Patricia and chat with her.
None of the young men should have remained for more than ten or fifteen minutes at most but half an hour had passed and thus far none had left and more were arriving by the minute. They took turns complimenting Patricia, but under the watchful eyes of Lady Milden and Lucinda, few of them could sustain a conversation for long.
“I will agree there is no way we could pass Mr. Fletcher off as a footman,” Lucinda said calmly. “That is why Lady Milden and I decided to introduce him as a friend of the family.”
“But he isn’t a friend of the family,” Patricia snapped. “He’s supposed to be a servant of sorts but he doesn’t take orders at all well. I told him to remain out in the hall. He would have had no trouble keeping watch from that location. Instead he insisted on coming in here.”
Lucinda was forced to admit that Edmund Fletcher was not at all what any of them had been expecting in the way of a bodyguard. One assumed that men who chose such a career came from the streets. Mr. Fletcher, on the other hand, not only dressed like a fashionable young gentleman, he had the manners, airs and—hardest of all to imitate—the accent of a man who had been well bred and well educated. He was also, she sensed, a man of some considerable talent.
“Just ignore Mr. Fletcher,” Lady Milden advised cheerfully. “I expect he is merely trying to carry out his responsibilities.”
“Not only doesn’t he take orders, he tries to give them,” Patricia muttered. “He actually had the nerve to inform me that I was not to stand in front of the window. Can you imagine?”
A young man with a ruddy complexion and an empty teacup in hand approached hesitantly. Patricia gave him what Lucinda thought was an especially brilliant smile.