The body in the center of the room had one of its arms ripped off. The clothes were peculiar for central London, a colorful dhoti wrapped around his waist and what was left of a smoking jacket. A pipe lay in the blood, and Simon smelled the faint hint of opium. The grey face had a moustache and very surprised eyes.
He turned back and shook his head to Kate. She seemed slightly relieved that the cadaver wasn’t her sister, but then she rushed for the closed door. Simon stopped her and she started to shove him aside with, “My sister is in there.”
“Miss Anstruther,” he hissed quietly. “Please stay here. We have no idea what may be inside that room.”
With a steady hand on the chipped-glass doorknob, Simon listened again, trying to block out the buzz of curiosity from outside. The sounds of the city reverberated louder behind the closed door.
He knelt quickly and ran his hand through the blood. With a dripping index finger, he began to scrawl runes on the door. After he completed several symbols, he drew a bloody circle around them. He whispered and the circle shimmered translucent and became a window into a bedroom. The bed was unmade but not tossed. Vases and lamps were sitting upright on tables.
Simon saw no bodies nor any great washes of blood. However, the rear window was open. Not broken, merely open. The dingy curtains danced in the wind. A wisp of silk snagged on the soft wood, splintered by time. Perhaps Imogen had time to flee.
“She is not here,” Simon reported. His attention was drawn back to the dead body on the floor. It lay within a circle of magic and Simon caught the faint whiff of brimstone. There was something about the man’s face. Simon stepped carefully through the blood and knelt next to the cadaver without putting his knee down. He used the tip of his walking stick to move the head from side to side, examining the features. “I know this man.”
“What?” Kate exclaimed with anger. “Why didn’t you say before that you knew Colonel Hibbert?”
“I didn’t know him as Colonel Hibbert. I encountered him years ago at a party. His name was Sunderland, and he was a doctor.”
Her voice rose an octave in distress. “He wasn’t an officer in the East India Company?”
“He was. He was a brilliant surgeon in their ranks, but deeply disturbed.” Simon rose and stepped carefully from the blood. “He was drummed out of the East India service for practices they would not even commit to a private report. It was said that he murdered numerous Indian women for his own amusement.”
Kate put a trembling hand to her cheek and stared at Simon in disbelief.
“And more,” he continued, “I assume you’re not aware that your father encountered Dr. Sunderland…Colonel Hibbert here, in India, and was instrumental in having him broken from the service and ruined in acceptable society.”
“Oh my God,” Kate whispered. “What has he done to Imogen?”
Simon crossed back to the rear door and threw it open. He saw a hint of blood on the floor leading toward the open window. Bloody footprints. They were close and regularly spaced. Walking, not running. They were the footprints of a huge hound.
A werewolf.
The hackney cab clattered east along Oxford Street. Kate huddled under a blanket in the evening chill. She was silent and grim, and had been since they left the Boulware. She said for the tenth time, “Why can’t we go back to the Mercury Club and inquire after Hibbert’s other contacts?”
“Tomorrow,” Simon confirmed easily. “Hogarth has returned to Hartley Hall should she return there. I’ve put the word out. If someone has seen something of your sister, we’ll hear of it soon.”
“The lamplighter you spoke to?”
“Yes, they’re very helpful lads. There is no more we can do tonight.” He shouted up, “Cabbie, south on Crown.”
“Right, sir. Where’re we headed?”
“Gaunt Lane.”
There was a pause as gas lamps flashed by. “I don’t know any Gaunt Lane, sir.”
“Drive on. I’ll point it out.”
The hackney turned right onto Crown Road. Simon could hear the cabbie muttering about there being no Gaunt Lane, and he’d wager his rig on it. After a few minutes, Simon tapped the edge of the roof and pointed with his cane. The driver swore.
On their right was a narrow gated lane and an aged bronze plate reading GAUNT LANE.
“I never,” the driver breathed, shaking his head. He accepted Simon’s generous tip. “Thankee, sir. I’d have sworn there was no such street. Ever. You and the lady have a pleasant evening, sir.”
“My cousin,” Simon said. “Up from Surrey.”
“You have a lovely family, then, sir.”
Simon waved pleasantly as the cab rolled away, and Kate said, “I’m surprised he had never seen this lane.”
“He’s already forgotten it. The street plate is runed.” Simon ushered her past lamps that glowed strangely toward a home on the short dead-end lane. It was a most unremarkable residence, almost bleak. He noticed Kate staring at one of the odd gaslights. “Don’t get too close. Lit by brownies; they’re quite vicious.”
“Brownies? Please, Mr. Archer. I appreciate your attempts at levity, but there is no need.”
Simon shrugged. “Still, don’t get too close to them if you value your fingers.”
Kate scoffed again, but then squinted close at the flickering lights. Little figures moved behind the pebbled glass.
“You realize,” Simon said at the door, “that it may not be completely respectable for a lady to be staying the night with a gentleman.”
“I want to stay in London to be near the search. I’ll risk the blow to my reputation.” Kate glanced at Simon. “I’m not inconveniencing you, am I?”
“My house is yours for as long as you wish,” Simon announced graciously. There was no door handle, but when Simon brushed a brass plate, the door opened. Once inside the narrow foyer, he took her wrap. “Would you care for a bite to eat? Or a cup of tea?”
“I wouldn’t want to trouble your servants at this late hour.”
“You won’t. I have none.” He tapped the opaque glass of a lamp and clicked his tongue as if summoning a pet. The light rose obediently. “No need for a cook, as Nick and I dine out. But I’d like to think I’m a skilled chef, at least skilled enough if you’re hungry.”
Kate watched as he tossed her topcoat casually onto a chair. “I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea. I don’t think I can sleep just yet.”
“I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Might I freshen up first?”
“Take the room at the top of the stair, second on the left. There are suitable nightclothes in the closet, and you should be able to find a change that will serve for tomorrow. Or I can arrange to have your clothes laundered. If it’s too dark in your room, simply tell the lamp to burn. If it balks, tell it you’re speaking for me.”
Kate gave him a curious glance and went up. Simon stuck his head into the sitting room; it was empty. He padded upstairs and knocked on Nick’s door. There was no answer; his friend was likely drinking at the Devil’s Loom. He returned to the ground floor and made his way to the back, removing his coat before shuffling around the kitchen to gather things for tea.
A sound at the door alerted him to the arrival of Kate with her eyes half-closed and distant. She had shed her jacket and wore an embroidered plain-weave cotton dress with gigot sleeves. The long skirt brushed the floor.
He said, “If you’d care to settle in the sitting room, I’ll be right in.”
Kate studied the frosted glass of a lamp. “Would you mind if we just sat in the kitchen? Some comfortable domesticity would be calming.”
“Excellent idea. It’s a terrible disaster in there. My housemate is quite a slob. Gather around the table. Did you find everything you needed?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“And did the lamps cooperate?”
“Eventually, although I had to play a simple game of Simon Says,” Kate remarked wryly. “And your closetful of ladies’ nightclothes and outfit
s of varying sizes shows remarkable taste. They are for…?”
Simon set the kettle on the cold stove, trying to appear nonchalant. “Guests.”
Kate shifted the sugar and cream from the counter to the simple oak table, regarding him with a side glance. “Should I inquire further?”
He gave a slight smile. “Only if you wish to know more.”
She remained silent on the matter and continued to set the table. Finally, after moments of quiet punctuated by only the clatter of dishes, she said, “What do you think happened to my sister, Mr. Archer?”
“I don’t know.” Simon watched her. The reserve of power she dredged up so she could attend tasks even in the face of such emotional burdens was extraordinary. “The fact that Imogen did not share Hibbert’s fate at the Boulware is heartening.”
“Perhaps the killer simply carried her away,” Kate muttered.
“I don’t think so. Werewolves don’t do that sort of thing.” He took a stubby grease pencil from the stovetop and began to write symbols on the steel kettle. The runes glowed faint green and the sound of water boiling rose almost immediately. “If it had killed her, she would have been there, dead.”
“Do you believe that lycanthropy is transmissible?”
“No, I do not. Everything I’ve heard about werewolfism says it’s something a person is born with. There’s never been credible evidence of one werewolf creating another. There’s never been an epidemic of any sort. I wouldn’t fear that Imogen has been transformed in any way.”
“Oh, where is she, Mr. Archer?” Her eyes followed his movements even as they betrayed exhaustion.
“I don’t know, Miss Anstruther, but we shall find out. I pledge that to you.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was growing ragged with fatigue.
“What troubles me most is that there appears to be another werewolf. The creatures are rare enough, but to have two in one location is damnably unusual. As is the fact that Hibbert wasn’t consumed. It’s a bit odd.”
“A bit odd?”
“Werewolves are animals, Miss Anstruther. They kill for the same reasons animals kill. For protection and for food. And the man was merely killed and mutilated but not eaten. Biscuit?”
“You make it appetizing, but no, thank you.” Kate grimaced.
Simon crunched into a small cookie as steam began to hiss from the kettle. “Do you shoot? I can arrange for you to have a pistol loaded with silver.”
“I do. So you hold to the legends about silver?”
“To an extent,” he said cautiously as if she would dispute it and expose the fact that his lycanthrope knowledge was hardly encyclopedic. He poured boiling water into a small porcelain teapot with a simple flower painted on it. “Certainly anything will harm them, but they are ungodly tough. Silver seems to make the wounds more grievous and gives us a chance at taking them down.”
“And is magic a substantial weapon against them? Your style of magic seems particularly effective.”
Simon hesitated, pouring cream into her cup to buy time. He recalled all the warnings that his mother had impressed on him about maintaining secrecy, as well as Nick’s constant demands to stay in the shadows. Still, he looked at the troubled expression, which shifted beneath the assured pretense on Kate’s face. She had already seen so much it seemed ludicrous to pretend any further. He was eager to take Kate into his confidence, so he said with offhand casualness, “Yes, magic is very effective.”
She seemed to visibly relax as he poured tea into their cups. “You’ve a very dainty teapot for a man.”
“It was my mother’s.” Simon adjusted the teapot slightly and tapped it lovingly with a finger.
“Was she a magician too?”
“No, she was better than that. She was a saint with no interest in magic, only in magicians.”
“Well, in my family, I had some exposure to mysticism, but I must admit I’ve never experienced magic used with such everyday facility.”
“Parlor tricks. A criminal waste of skill, given what the greatest of us are reportedly capable of. Like using a cannonball to send a love note.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, what school of magic do you practice?”
He sipped tea. “I am a magician of the type often called a scribe.”
Kate’s tired eyes widened. “I’ve read about scribes, but even the most trusted magical tomes hold them to be as rare as rocs and likely extinct in our time.”
“Well, I’m not quite ready for a museum display, but there are very few of us. In fact, I might be the last. Much of the knowledge related to the discipline is lost.”
“But not gone entirely.”
“No. I’ve a rather large library dedicated to the art, and Nick has a useful store of knowledge. He’s been something of a mentor for a number of years, helping me to perfect my use of runes to cast spells.”
“Your friend is a scribe as well?”
“Nick?” Simon laughed. “No. He’s something of a jack-of-all-magical-trades. There’s no classical way to describe him. There is little in the way of practical magic that he can’t muster in some fashion.”
Kate set her cup down with an exhausted stare. “Believe me when I say I would love nothing more than to discuss this topic at length, but I hope you won’t think me rude if I go to bed. The day is catching up with me. The tea was delicious. Thank you for it and the company. And for everything you’ve done.”
“You are most welcome.” Simon stood. “Sleep well. If you need anything during the night, my room is at the end of the hall.”
The woman shuffled from the kitchen. Simon leaned back in his chair, listening to the sounds of her footsteps on the stairs and her bedroom door closing. There was much to contemplate about the turn of events and it required another biscuit. Kate was ever more fascinating; she had more than average knowledge of the occult, just like Beatrice. But she was wildly different, as he had noted at Viscount Gillingham’s home. She was an extraordinary blend of unbendable and uncontrollable. Simon couldn’t imagine what horrifying emotions were embroiling Kate, but she was holding up far better than he would’ve suspected. The woman’s strength was remarkable. He hoped something good would come out of this affair for her, but it was hard to imagine it could.
Kate rose after a restless night, shifting and sighing in the dark. A peculiar wall clock that appeared to have a glow told her it was after eight o’clock. Scandalously late to rise. She quickly found suitable clothes from the many outfits in the closet, all complete with dressmaker tags. She felt a little better that she wasn’t just the next in a line of occupants of these fashionable outfits.
Coming downstairs, Kate smelled coffee and porridge and turned into the kitchen. “Good morning, Mr. Archer. Oh.” Kate looked at a short, stocky man who was stirring a pot on the stove. She had seen him at Viscount Gillingham’s fighting alongside Simon but never spoken to him. “I’m sorry. I thought you were Mr. Archer.” The man gave her an arched eyebrow. He seemed completely unfazed by the sight of a woman coming downstairs in the morning. Obviously he had spoken with Simon about the situation. Hopefully.
“Did you sleep well?” he asked. “I took the liberty of starting a bit of breakfast. My name is Nick Barker. I am Simon’s…colleague.”
“Have you seen Mr. Archer? Is he up?”
Nick tossed her a fine bone china cup. “He went out.”
“Without me?” She cursed under her breath, catching the cup easily.
Nick chuckled at some private thought. “He seemed anxious.” He jutted his chin at the coffeepot on the stove and continued stirring.
She poured a cup for herself. “So you cook as well?”
“As well?” Nick laughed, but without much humor. “Simon likes to trot out his old I’m a chef tale.”
Kate grinned uncomfortably as Nick continued to chortle.
“His concept of cooking is cultivating an extensive knowledge of the chefs in the finer clubs of London. Left to himself, Simon couldn’t toast a herring.
”
Kate collected things to set the table. She noted Nick’s gruff glance as he watched her move easily around his kitchen.
“Make yourself at home,” he muttered.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Barker. Are you the type of bachelor who is offended by feminine assistance?”
“I’m not much offended by anything.” His tone was resistant nonetheless.
Just then, Kate heard the sound of the front door. She went quickly to find Simon tossing his hat onto a table.
“What did you find?” Kate exclaimed, her interest in his discoveries outweighing her annoyance at being excluded.
“I went to the Mercury and the Boulware again. I spoke to several servants and residents in hopes of further information on Colonel Hibbert or to find someone who had seen Imogen recently. There was one man at the Boulware who saw a rather large blond woman. He describes her almost like a man. Afterward he heard a disturbance in the colonel’s room.”
“A woman killed Hibbert?” Kate surmised. “A jealous quarrel? What about the werewolf?”
“The witness was drunk. His reliability is quite lacking.”
“What shall we do now?”
“Let’s go into the sitting room and discuss it.” Simon directed her into a sun-dappled room of very masculine style. The homey scent of leather and wood. Suitably disheveled. Books everywhere. Used dishes stacked in various spots. Small piles of burnt tobacco on corners of tables and desks where they were knocked from pipes and left.
“I apologize for the state of the house. I’ll bring coffee.” Simon stepped to the door of the parlor. “Nick! Coffee!”
A muffled rude word wafted from the back.
Simon began to tidy the room halfheartedly, taking small stacks of books and making large stacks of books, sweeping pipe ash from the desk onto the floor.
Kate parted the sheer curtains to peer out. She jumped when she saw a wiry orange cat sitting on the brick sill staring strangely back at her. “Mr. Archer, please. Cleaning seems pointless now. What is our next step?”
The Shadow Revolution: Crown & Key Page 9