The Angel of the Crows

by Katherine Addison

  “Now,” said Sir Henry, “perhaps you can explain, Mr. Crow, what is the meaning of that? And who can possibly have taken such an interest in my affairs?”

  Crow raised his eyebrows at Dr. Mortimer. “There is certainly nothing supernatural about this.”

  “No, but that in itself means nothing. Anyone knowing of this business might send such a warning.”

  “What business?” asked Sir Henry sharply. “You gentlemen seem to know a great deal more than I do about my own affairs.”

  “We shall share our knowledge,” Crow said. “Perhaps you will have a different perspective on it. Do you know of your family legend?”

  “What, you mean the Hound?” He laughed. “My father scared me half to death with stories of the Hound when I was a little boy. I remember when he was dying, I didn’t sleep for two nights, trying to listen for the Hound to make it go away and leave my daddy alone. But I was too little to understand what a fetch was. What does that have to say to this?” And he flicked the paper with his fingernail.

  “That’s the part that isn’t clear,” said Dr. Mortimer. He explained to Sir Henry what he had told us the day before, finishing with the footprints of a giant hound in the south flower beds two days earlier.

  Sir Henry listened intently, eyebrows drawn together. “You think someone in the house is a hell-hound and they scared my poor Uncle Charles to death?”

  “Someone with access to the house,” Dr. Mortimer said. “And I don’t know that I think that, precisely. But I am concerned.”

  “It seems very unlikely,” said Sir Henry. “Perhaps the ghost of Constance Burry got riled up with not having a baronet around all these months. It’s a ghost, not a clockwork toy. It doesn’t have to do the same thing every time. Besides which, why should anyone want to scare Uncle Charles to death? Aside from me—and I hope you’re not suggesting I had anything to do with it.”

  “Oh, good Lord, not at all!” Dr. Mortimer said, horrified.

  “Who is the next heir?” Crow asked.

  “We did go into that,” said Dr. Mortimer. “After Sir Henry, we have to go back to Sir Rodger, Sir Hugo’s father—they all have the same names, the Baskervilles. Sir Charles had an elder brother Hugo, but he died before Sir Hugo did. But Sir Rodger had a younger brother, and we traced his line to an elderly, childless, and utterly unambitious vicar in Westmorland.”

  “After him?” said Crow.

  “After him, we should have to hire an augur or similar professional, and I don’t think that putative heir can have any more idea than we do that they are third in line to the baronetcy.”

  “Did my uncle have any enemies?” said Sir Henry.

  “He was a most uncontentious soul. Even the Baskerville Course was only disappointed when he shut the kennels, not angry.”

  “He shut the kennels? But even in America, they recognize the name Baskerville in foxhound lineages.”

  “Sir Charles was terrified of dogs,” said Dr. Mortimer. “He couldn’t bear to have them on the estate.”

  “Good Lord,” said Sir Henry, clearly taken aback. “Well, I guess I know what I’m doing first off.”

  “McAllister will weep with joy,” said Dr. Mortimer. “He was Sir Hugo’s kennel master and he’s never gotten along with Mr. Tenby quite the same.”

  “Well, there’s someone who wanted Uncle Charles dead,” Sir Henry said, perhaps a shade flippantly.

  “It can’t be McAllister,” Dr. Mortimer said. “He has forty dogs which would betray him instantly if he were a hell-hound.”

  “I didn’t mean it,” Sir Henry said. “And anyway, you said disappointed, not swearing vengeance.”

  “No, Sir Charles insisted that McAllister’s employment went with the pack—even if Mr. Tenby had wanted to get rid of him, and as far as I know he didn’t. There was no enmity there. And even those who might have disliked Sir Charles personally would never want to do anything drastic, not when having a Baskerville at the Hall affects so many people’s livelihoods. You, ah. You will be very popular when you arrive.”

  “Will I?” Sir Henry looked even more taken aback than at the news his uncle had closed the Baskerville kennels.

  “Your uncle was a very good landlord, and a charitable one, which is not the same thing.”

  “No indeed,” said Sir Henry. “But that makes it all the more unlikely that someone deliberately set out to kill him.”

  “Except for this letter,” said Dr. Mortimer, “which certainly has been sent by someone who wants to keep Baskerville Hall empty.”

  “You yourself said they might be referring to the ghost, or the fetch, whichever it is,” said Crow.

  “Yes,” said Dr. Mortimer, but he looked dissatisfied.

  “For myself,” Crow continued, “the more I think about it, the less I believe this letter writer to have any benevolent intentions. If he did, why not come to Sir Henry in person? Or at least sign his epistle? Or at least use his own handwriting, which he seems to have been at great pains not to do—you notice that ‘MOOR’ is written in the same capitals as the address. None of this suggests a person with any legitimate concern for Sir Henry’s welfare.”

  “No, it does not,” Sir Henry agreed.

  “Or, if perhaps this warning is genuine, it has been written by someone who, for some other reason, most passionately desires to remain anonymous. It does seem to have been composed in a state of great agitation—which seems unlikely for someone plotting your doom. But either way, it makes it unlikely that the footprints in the flower beds belong to the ghost. And even makes it unlikely that what Sir Charles was seeing was the genuine Hound. Do you know of anyone in the neighborhood who is a hell-hound, Dr. Mortimer?”

  “I don’t,” said Dr. Mortimer. “And since all of the local landowners course, like McAllister they would be betrayed at once.”

  “And the servants at the Hall?”

  “Sir Charles made do with just a butler and a housekeeper—he’d shut up most of the house. They’re a married couple, the Barrymores. And I suppose I don’t positively know that neither one of them is a hell-hound, but I cannot think it very likely.”

  “That seems like a good first line of inquiry,” said Crow. “We have hell-hound footprints in a flower bed—I don’t suppose anyone thought to take a cast of them? No, of course not. We need to find a hell-hound to match them.”

  Dr. Mortimer scribbled a note on his cuff.

  “But we cannot do that from here,” said Crow. “From here, we can only decide whether Sir Henry ought to go to Baskerville Hall or not.”

  “Why shouldn’t I go?” said Sir Henry.

  “This is either a threat or a warning,” said Crow. “Either way…” And he shrugged.

  “That’s only if all this isn’t the fetch or the ghost. If it’s the fetch, it doesn’t matter where I go. I’m not afraid of the ghost of Constance Burry, nor am I afraid of dogs. And if it is someone who wishes me ill, I’d much rather face them there, where I can see them, than to try to do it in London. I can’t even keep track of my own boots here.”

  “You’ve lost your boots?” said Crow.

  “Just the one,” said Sir Henry with a self-deprecating smile. “And I only bought them last night. Good brown boots. It’s enough to make a cat cry.”

  “I’m sure it’s only mislaid,” said Dr. Mortimer. “We shall look thoroughly, and I’ve no doubt it will turn up.”

  “I hope so. Six dollars I paid for ’em, and I haven’t even got them on my feet yet.”

  “The question remains, Sir Henry,” said Crow, “what are you going to do?”

  “Well, how the … how the Sam Hill should I know? This is an awfully heavy load of information to dump on a man all at once. Look. It’s eleven-thirty now, and I’d like a quiet hour or so to myself to think things through. If Dr. Mortimer and I go back to the Northumberland now, and you and Dr. Doyle come around at two and lunch with … oh.” His face fell. “You don’t eat, do you?”

  “No, but I don’t mind watc
hing,” said Crow. “And Dr. Doyle eats, so that it’s not as though your invitation is wasted.”

  “Would that be satisfactory to you, Dr. Doyle?” asked Sir Henry.

  “Perfectly,” I said. “I am long used to Mr. Crow watching me eat.”

  “Excellent. Then we will see you at two o’clock. I want a walk, Dr. Mortimer, do you care to join me?”

  “Gladly,” said Dr. Mortimer.

  No sooner had the front door closed behind them than Crow was all but hauling me out of my chair. “Quick, Doyle, your boots, your boots, oh my sainted hat, how are you still in your dressing gown?” He chivvied me into my outdoor clothes as relentlessly as any nanny.

  I said, “If you wanted to walk with them, I’m sure you had only to say so.”

  “Yes, but I most particularly do not want to walk with them. Come on!”

  Bewildered but game, I followed him down the stairs and out onto Baker Street, where Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry were still visible about two hundred yards ahead of us in the direction of Oxford Street.

  “Are you sure?” I said. “You could easily catch them up.”

  “I am perfectly satisfied with your company, if you will tolerate mine,” said Crow. “It is certainly a beautiful morning for a walk.”

  That much was true. It was rare to have a truly blue sky over London, but this was as close as it came; the air was crisp with the promise of winter without actually being uncomfortably cold.

  Crow might not have wanted to walk with Dr. Mortimer and Sir Henry, but he certainly wanted to keep them in view. He edged us closer, bit by bit, into Oxford Street and down Regent Street, until we were only about one hundred yards behind them, and I could see that Sir Henry was talking animatedly and Dr. Mortimer was nodding periodically. When, once, they stopped and stared into a shop window, Crow grabbed my elbow and we did the same. “Looking for another pair of boots?” I said.

  Crow said, “I hope you aren’t suggesting he should give up on the one lost at the Northumberland. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet.” Then he gave a cry of satisfaction, and following the direction of his glance, I saw that a hansom cab with a passenger, which had halted on the other side of the street, was now proceeding slowly onward again.

  “Come on!” said Crow. “We’ll get a look at him, if nothing else.”

  At that moment, I was aware of a bushy black beard and a pair of piercing eyes turned upon us through the side window of the cab. Instantly the trapdoor at the top flew up, something was screamed to the driver—I could not for the life of me make out the words—and the cab clattered madly off down Regent Street. I was just in time to keep Crow from dashing into the street in pursuit.

  “It’s too late,” I said urgently, remembering not to grip as hard as I wanted to, for I did not know if angels were breakable and did not want to find out. “He’s driving like a man demented—you’ll never catch him.”

  “No,” said Crow, “no, I suppose not. Blast it all!” I thought for a moment he was going to fling down his hat and stomp on it.

  “Who was that man?”

  “I have not the least idea.”

  “A spy?”

  “It would seem so.”

  “But for whom? and why?”

  “Both excellent questions, to which at the moment I have no answers, except the surmise that it is someone who knows Dr. Mortimer by sight, for otherwise how should he recognize his quarry?”

  “Not just someone who knows Dr. Mortimer,” I said, “but someone who knows—and is passionately interested in—his errand. For I can think of no other reason why anyone should be following him.”

  Crow laughed. “You need to exercise your imagination more, Doyle. I can think of several. But I agree with your principle that Sir Henry is the object of our spy’s attention rather than the good doctor … and these things together suggest that the spy is interested in something happening before Sir Henry reaches Baskerville Hall. For if not, why bother coming to London? Why not just wait for Sir Henry to come to you?”

  We had resumed walking, still toward the Northumberland, although the doctor and the baronet were out of sight. “Well,” I said, “why not just wait for Sir Henry to go to Baskerville Hall? You’re right—it would make him infinitely easier to find.”

  “But, on the other hand, it is much harder to hide oneself. There’s no convenient crowd in which to become lost. Did you, by chance, get a good look at him?”

  “I could swear only to the beard.”

  “And so could I—from which I gather that in all probability it was a false one. But I got the cab number, 2704. The cabman should at least have an interesting tale to tell. Hold up a moment, Doyle.”

  The Nameless collect in front of houses of worship and also in front of bakeries. Bakers believe they are good luck and, at least in London, any bakery without a few Nameless clustered in front of it tends to be regarded with suspicion. The bakery we were passing was no exception to the rule, and I waited obediently while Crow plunged into discussion with the handful of Nameless standing in front of it. I watched as one turned, took three strong steps, and jumped into flight, passersby ducking his wings as a matter of course. After a few more minutes of animated discussion, two others hurried away in the direction of Charing Cross.

  “There,” said Crow with considerable satisfaction. “Two lines of inquiry started.”

  “Which are? Or do you not intend to tell me?”

  “Of course I— Oh, you’re teasing. Well, I sent one off to find out the driver of hansom 2704, and the other two are going to canvass the hotels around Charing Cross and see if they can find a copy of yesterday’s Times with some very particular words missing.”

  “Do you really think they’ll find it?”

  “No. It’s most likely been burned. But if they are successful, it could prove exceedingly instructive.”

  “He won’t have registered under his real name.”

  “No, that would be too much to hope for. But if someone has remarked the beard, we’ll know it’s the same man as the one in the hansom—which, I confess, I’m inclined to assume it is. And someone might have seen him without the beard. Or someone might remember his voice. There are a thousand details I can tease out that he wouldn’t have thought of disguising. In any event, it is certainly worth the effort. And it gives two of my Nameless kindred something to do. One of the things I remember very vividly about being Nameless is how boring it is.” He paused a moment, considering the matter, and said, “Although, of course, having a habitation is not necessarily better in that regard.”

  “That’s a radical opinion,” said I.

  He shrugged wings and shoulders together. “They’ve already blackballed me.”

  “But I thought angels were kept very busy with the … with the household work, for want of a better term.”

  “And that isn’t boring in and of itself?” said Crow. “Yes, as the Angel of the Sherlock Arms, I supervised the maids and the porters and the cooks, but they were all people who knew their jobs. I spent most of my time in the lobby waiting for guests to greet. It was horrifically boring.”

  He made me laugh, as he had intended, and shifted the topic of conversation. “I have been thinking about the matter of finding an aetheric practitioner. Have you any objection to going ’round to see Oksana Timofeyevna now? We should have just about the right amount of time.”

  “No, no objection. You’ll be tactful, though?”

  “My dear Doyle!” said Crow. “How you wound me!” He was grinning as he flagged down an empty hansom.

  * * *

  Crow had become closer friends with Madame Silvanova than I had realized. This time when we reached Southwark, he led me around to the mews behind Madame Silvanova’s shop and there without hesitation rang the doorbell beside a bright red door—which was answered, very swiftly, by the lady herself.

  “Mr. Crow!” Her face lit up, making it less composed of angles and more composed of facial features. “And Dr. Doyle! Do pray come
in.”

  We followed her up a narrow staircase—I noted the door that had to lead to the back room of the shop—and into a warren-like apartment of tiny rooms that opened into a common hallway or into each other or both without any discernable system. Madame Silvanova led us into a sitting room so tiny that a person on the settee was nearly knee to knee with anyone in the armchair, and the second chair was wedged back in the corner as if it feared the settee would do it a mischief. The window was tall and deep, and the cream-colored tabby on the windowsill was sleeping soundly in the sun.

  “I regret that the accommodations are not better,” said Madame Silvanova, “but please have a seat.” She chose the chair in the corner, I took the armchair, and Crow managed to arrange himself on the settee.

  Madame Silvanova smiled at us both. “I do not think this is a social visit. How may I help you?”

  “We have need,” said Crow, “of an aetheric practitioner who is morally opposed to the Registration Act.”

  It was in fact a very tactful way of phrasing the matter.

  Madame Silvanova clearly understood what he meant. She said, “There are very few who are trustworthy. Oxborrow when he’s sober, but that is only about a fourth of the time. Blundell wouldn’t turn anyone in, but she’s a ham-handed wretch—Grigori’s friends call her Charlotte Blunder. No, Martha Damon is your best choice. Excuse me one moment.” She left the room by the door we had not entered through.

  Crow said, “So many things are a matter of knowing whom to ask.”

  I said nothing, for in truth I found it difficult to believe it could be so easy, and Madame Silvanova returned before either of us spoke again.

  She said, “I’ve given you three addresses, just in case. Martha Damon, Cyrus Oliphant, and Thomas Oxborrow. Oxborrow’s the best of them, in truth, but his wife’s death … he is killing himself with laudanum as fast as he can. All of them are honest, and all of them hate the Registration Act.” She handed a folded piece of paper to Crow, who squirrelled it away in his waistcoat.