The Angel of the Crows

by Katherine Addison

That did not, however, mean that either Crow or I was prepared to deal with Master Moriarty’s announcement. After a moment of rather scrambling silence, Crow said cautiously, “We do not know where the treasure is.”

  “No,” said Master Moriarty. “Only Jonathan Small knows that.”

  “We don’t know where Jonathan Small is, either,” I said. “And Mor—James knows where the warehouse is as well as I do.”

  “Ah,” said Master Moriarty, looking uncomfortable. “That’s the problem. The hemophages have decamped from the warehouse.”

  “An unexpected display of intelligence,” said Crow.

  Master Moriarty gave him a brief, dimpled smile. “Thus, you see, we need to find Jonathan Small, and while we have our own ways of searching, it occurred to me that we might easily double or triple our chances of success if we pooled our resources, you and me and the Russian girl—necrophages know more about what goes on in a city’s understory than anyone.”

  I said, “What about the police?”

  “What about them?”

  “Jonathan Small is a murderer and a burglar and is wanted for questioning in the death of Bartholomew Sholto, and while I don’t know to whom the treasure properly belongs, if anyone, I think it is safe to say Her Majesty’s government will want its share.”

  Master Moriarty said—sullenly, if that word can be used of the Master of a vampiric hunt—“I don’t see that there’s any reason the police need to know.”

  “Master Moriarty,” Crow said sternly, “I hope you are not suggesting that we should dispose of Jonathan Small in some clandestine and illegal manner.”

  “Good gracious, nothing like that!” said Master Moriarty, either genuinely surprised or a very talented actress. “I just see no reason the police need to be involved until after we find Small.”

  “He will not hold his tongue if his treasure gets appropriated,” I said.

  “Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” she countered. “And unless there’s a manifest—”

  “Please don’t plot illegality in front of me,” said Crow. “Recollect that I cannot lie to the police about it.”

  “So inconvenient that must be,” murmured Master Moriarty.

  “Ha,” said Crow. “He will be looking to get out of London as quickly as possible; we had best proceed with some dispatch. We are looking for a hemophage with a wooden leg and a Benares-work iron box. If my ‘forces’ find him first, I will notify you, and I trust I may rely on you to do the same?”

  “Yes,” said Master Moriarty, lowering her veil. “My word is not as good as a werewolf’s, but you may trust me that far.” She held out her hand; after a dubious moment Crow shook hands with her.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Crow, Dr. Doyle.” And the Master of the Moriarty Hunt took her leave.

  Crow went to the bow window to watch her progress along Baker Street. “I don’t trust her,” he said, as if I had voiced a protest. “Vampires are liars—it’s how they hunt. But at least this way, we have some information about what they’re doing, instead of being wholly in the dark.”

  “We wouldn’t have known about the hemophages deserting the warehouse if she hadn’t brought us word,” I said. “There is at least some reason to believe she wants what she says she wants.”

  “True,” said Crow. “Maybe it is just greed. But regardless, I must get the Nameless searching for Jonathan Small and send another telegram to Oksana Timofeyevna. I’ll only be a minute.”

  I leaned back in my armchair and thought about covetousness and jealousy and the swath of disaster the Agra treasure seemed to leave in its wake. Three men murdered, four men imprisoned for life (with one escape—but he only escaped the prison at Port Blair, not the treasure), Major Sholto’s life consumed with the obsessive fear that someone would take the treasure away from him, Bartholomew and Thaddeus searching for six years and quarreling so bitterly that Thaddeus moved out. Bartholomew, I thought, would never have agreed to share; he had been infected by his father’s greed. And now we had the hemophages of Lambeth, the Moriarty Hunt, the necrophages of Madame Silvanova’s brother’s circle, the Nameless angels of London, the Metropolitan Police …

  When Crow returned, I asked him if he thought the treasure was cursed.

  “It certainly could be,” he said. “The original owner might have cursed it to keep his courier honest—if you steal it, it will destroy you—which rather makes one wonder what the courier’s plans were, given that he was eaten by hemophages.” He shuddered, his wings rising protectively and then settling again. “And then Small and Singh and Khan and Akbar stole it, and then Major Sholto stole it. And then Small stole it again. You’re quite right, it does seem to be accompanied by, well, evil, if that’s not too strong a word. I personally want nothing to do with it.”

  “Nor do I,” I said. “Nor does Thaddeus Sholto—or, at least, so he claims—nor does Miss Morstan.”

  “Her indifference may very well have saved her life,” said Crow. “Although I do note that she kept the pearls, rather than selling them as Mr. Sholto seems to have intended.”

  “It isn’t as if he sent instructions,” I said.

  “No. And perhaps she kept them for the mystery of it—which, I admit, is what I would do if I were a governess and someone started sending me flawless pearls.”

  “It must have been rather a disappointment to find that the sender was Thaddeus Sholto,” I said, suddenly seeing a certain black comedy in the matter. “Hardly the preux chevalier of a maiden’s dreams. Much more like Carroll’s Tweedledee.”

  “He has been a paragon of chivalry,” Crow pointed out.

  “Is he still imprisoned?”

  “No. Most fortunately for him, it was proved that Bartholomew Sholto was still alive and yelling at the servants after Thaddeus left the house. And he has an unimpeachable alibi for the rest of the night. He went to a salon. There are at least twenty people prepared to swear in court that he did not leave until nearly five o’clock in the morning.”

  My eyebrows rose. “It must have been a most remarkable salon.”

  Crow smiled. “Even without Small, Thaddeus Sholto is safe. Mrs. Bernstone and Mr. Rao are in a slightly tighter spot. But Jones can’t really make a case out against them.”

  “Have you informed Jones of the new plan?”

  “I’ve told him he has to swear not to arrest or collect evidence against anyone but Small and his confederates. I don’t know which way he’ll jump. I do prefer working with Lestrade. Or even Gregson. Either of them would have sworn in a heartbeat.”

  “You are asking Jones to ignore a great deal.”

  “I personally have no proof that the necrophages of Grigori Timofeyevich’s circle are committing any crimes—and I’m taking care to keep it that way. It is not a crime to be a necrophage.”

  “No,” I said. “As long as you remember not to ask if any of them are registered.”

  “Exactly,” said Crow.

  We had no news of any kind that evening. Crow went back to his press cuttings and I went gratefully to bed at nine o’clock. I was too exhausted to remember my dreams, and if I turned into a hell-hound in the night, it did not wake me.

  The morning brought fresh headlines and a wire from Athelney Jones. Seven people had been savaged by hemophages in a doss-house in Lambeth. Only one of them had survived, and she would almost certainly die before the day was out. All of the witnesses agreed that the leader of the hemophages had had a wooden leg.

  Jones’s wire read, IF CATCH SMALL BLIND TO ALL ELSE.

  * * *

  The Nameless were in and out of our flat all day. At two o’clock, Madame Silvanova arrived, beautifully dressed and coiffed, with small but obviously genuine emeralds glinting at her ears and throat.

  She saw my glance and smiled a little wryly. “When you are fleeing your country one step ahead of the police, do be sure to pack all your jewelry. Easy to carry, easy to hide, easy to sell. And if you do not sell it, you can always wear it and look like a lady of qual
ity.”

  “You would look like a lady of quality regardless,” I said without thinking and then blushed hot scarlet to the roots of my hair.

  Madame Silvanova said, “You are gallant, Dr. Doyle. But I am glad to see you unharmed?” There was just enough lift in her voice to make it a question.

  “Aside from the loss of my second-best walking stick, yes. Quite unharmed.” I tried not to think about James Moriarty’s mark on my wrist.

  I told her a short and somewhat expurgated version of my imprisonment and escape. She listened with great attention, saying when I had finished, “Always the hemophages causing trouble. And Jonathan Small is surely the worst.”

  Crow came back in from one of his frequent forays to accost a Nameless on the street and demand a report. Because of the Consensus, he said, they all had equal access to information gathered by any one of them. This time, he had one of them trailing after him. It looked faintly alarmed, for which it could not be blamed. Crow seemed frenetic. He remembered to greet Madame Silvanova, but immediately turned back to the Nameless and said, “Tell them.”

  “Sir,” said the Nameless. “There is a steam launch called the Aurora, which many people say is the fastest on the river. She is owned and captained by a man named Mordecai Smith. One of our sisters heard him complaining about a client who hired the boat, canceled the hire at the last minute, hired the boat again, and this time wants to bring three other men with him. He made derogatory references to a wooden leg and said with great emphasis that he was going to demand payment before allowing this client on board. Our sister thinks that Smith is afraid of this client.”

  “And can you lead us to this launch?” Crow said.

  “I can lead you to her dock. She isn’t supposed to cast off until sundown.”

  “Perfect,” said Crow. “I have to go summon the others.”

  “Others?” said Madame Silvanova as Crow flung himself out of the room again, the Nameless at his heels.

  I explained about the augmentation of the hunting party and reassured her that Inspector Jones knew better than to ask awkward questions.

  “Do you trust him?”

  “Crow does.”

  “Crow trusts everyone,” she said.

  “Jones wants the hemophages, not anyone else. I don’t think he’ll ask.”

  “Then I suppose we must stay. I had come only to report that my brother’s friends had provided reams of rumors, but nothing that could be acted upon. Pray excuse me. I must go pay off the cab and bring Grigori up to join us.” She departed, but was back in mere moments, shepherding a man nearly twice her size. She introduced him as Grigori Timofeyevich Silvanov, and after peering anxiously at my hand, he engulfed it for a handshake. He was mountainous, much darker than his sister, and clearly nervous of people in much the same way an elephant is nervous of a mouse. He muttered something that was almost lost in a strong Russian accent, but which I thought might have been, “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” and sat obediently in the wing chair his sister pointed him to. She resumed her seat by me and said, “I am impressed that Master Moriarty came to you rather than compelling you to visit her.”

  “Compelling?”

  “Threats, bribes, blackmail, her bullyboys. The Master of the Moriarty Hunt is subtle only when it pleases her.”

  “I think she was curious,” I said, “and Crow has had some sort of dealings with the Moriarty Hunt in the past, though I don’t think directly with the Master. It doesn’t seem to have gone terribly well.”

  She gave an unladylike snort of laughter. “I do not think vampires are the strict opposite of angels—that would be the Bodiless Ones, the demons—but they are close. Most angels would ban vampires from their dominions if they could.” She gave me a curious sidelong look. “But Mr. Crow allows the Master of a hunt into his home?”

  “He said curiosity trumps everything else.”

  Her laugh this time was a restrained chuckle. “He does remind me of my cat, who must know what is on the other side of every closed door.”

  “A cat is not the worst comparison,” I said.

  Silvanov said something in Russian to his sister, who replied in the same tongue. “Grigori says there are two angels approaching,” she said to me, “one white as snow, the other black as night.”

  “Your brother is a poet?”

  “A folklorist.”

  Crow bounded back into the room as energetically as he had bounded out. A Nameless followed him. It might have been the same one—a man with dun-colored hair and a gray suit. I saw what had caught Silvanov’s eye. They were the same height, almost the same coloring, and their suits were the same soft fog gray. Swan’s wings and crow’s wings stood out dramatically, as if Crow had planned the spectacle, although I knew such a thing would never occur to him.

  And it was the same Nameless; it had the same wide-eyed expression.

  Madame Silvanova introduced Crow to her brother. Silvanov shook hands even more tentatively and seemed grateful to be able to retreat to the wing chair.

  “Now we have to wait,” Crow said with considerable horror. “You said the Aurora is due to cast off at sunset?”

  “That is our sister’s information.”

  “And it’s already three o’clock. Well, the good part is that we can’t wait long. Anyone who can’t be here by four will have to be left behind.”

  But the hunters were all eager. Jones arrived at quarter past, bringing with him Sergeant Forbes and a good deal of suspicion. “Another of your secret informants, Mr. Crow?” he asked in a tone that might have been anywhere from jocular to menacing.

  “Not at all,” said Crow. “I’ve told you before where I get my information, Inspector. There’s no mystery, and you know perfectly well I can’t be lying about it.”

  “I know you say you can’t, but the angels I’ve talked to aren’t so sure.”

  Crow made an exasperated noise that defies transcription and said, “I am not Fallen. It isn’t the sort of thing one can hide.”

  “But you don’t have a habitation.”

  “I have London.”

  “I was nearly killed by one of the Fallen in Afghanistan,” I said. “If Crow were Fallen, I would not be anywhere near him.”

  I don’t think Jones truly believed Crow was Fallen; I don’t even think he was truly concerned. He said grudgingly, “All right. Where are we going?”

  “Wherever the Nameless lead us,” Crow said solemnly but with mischief glinting in his eyes. He waited until Jones was on the very verge of expostulation, then said, “Which will be a steam launch called the Aurora. That’s where we will find Jonathan Small.” He drew Jones and Forbes into a discussion of the evidence and their theories until ten minutes to four, when Master Moriarty arrived.

  She and Inspector Jones eyed each other with wary hostility, while Silvanov seemed to shrink even farther back into the wing chair—which, as he had already made himself as small as possible when Jones came in, was an impressive feat. Jones had barely glanced at him, all his attention on Crow; Master Moriarty gave Silvanov a long, thoughtful look, but said nothing. Madame Silvanova, who had joined her brother when Jones came in, glared back at Master Moriarty as if daring her to attack.

  Crow interrupted before either of them said anything. “We’d best be going. And I believe we’re going to need more than one cab.”

  He was correct about that. We in fact had a bit of a fox-goose-corn conundrum, since neither Master Moriarty nor the Silvanovs wished to share a cab with Inspector Jones, and the Nameless, evincing the first sign of personality I had ever seen in any of them, refused to be parted from Crow. It was not ideal for Moriarty and the Silvanovs to share a cab, either, but Crow gave me an imploring look, and I made the fourth in their cab, while Jones and Forbes squashed in with the angels.

  The Silvanovs sat on one bench, Madame Silvanova almost invisible beside her brother’s bulk, and Master Moriarty and I on the other. I was very aware of the taffeta of her skirt brushing my leg, and althoug
h a vampire’s normal temperature is only a few degrees below that of a human being, I felt as if I were sitting beside an ice sculpture, for she seemed both that cold and that inhuman.

  It was only a few minutes before she spoke, sounding amused. “You needn’t worry. I’m not going to denounce you or eat you or whatever it is you’re imagining.”

  “I do not know what you mean,” Madame Silvanova said stiffly.

  “Of course not.” Master Moriarty still sounded amused. “But your brother does.” She said directly to Silvanov, “Truly, you need not fear me. I have no love for the Metropolitan Police and no grudge against necrophages, and I do not attack people wantonly in the street. If I bite you, it will be because you asked me to.” I did not imagine she lacked for willing victims.

  Madame Silvanova was looking at her with loathing. “Vampires are liars.”

  Master Moriarty laughed, the cold chiming of the Devil’s clock. “True,” she said, “but whatever you may choose to believe, I have no interest in you.” She turned her head to look at the street, dismissing Madame Silvanova from existence.

  “In Moscow,” Madame Silvanova said to me, “the political prisoners are given to the vampires.” Which I supposed explained as much as I needed to know.

  The dock where the Aurora was moored was dreary and uninviting, but it was clear she was preparing for a journey. A number of half-grown boys were running back and forth with sacks of coal, under the direction of a man who had to be Mordecai Smith. He was no very prepossessing figure, and drunk into the bargain, but the Aurora herself looked trim and well-maintained. There was no sign of Jonathan Small. He must have been expecting pursuit, but he did not seem to have banked on the pursuit getting to the dock before the Aurora was ready to go.

  “Finally,” Crow said, “we might be one step ahead of him instead of lagging three steps behind.”

  “We just have to be careful he doesn’t get scared off,” I said.

  “Jones is an old hand at this part,” Crow said. “As far as I can tell, most of police work is waiting for the suspect to show up. I’m sorry you got dragged into that earlier. It drives Jones insane that I can get information from the Nameless and he can’t.”