Her Majesty's Necromancer

by C. J. Archer

  I arched my brows, but she didn't elaborate.

  "You told Millard that you wanted to speak to me about Lincoln," she prompted.

  It would seem we were going to have our discussion in the entrance hall. Perhaps I wasn't fit to be invited into the drawing room. So be it. "I wanted to ask you about Mr. Gurry."

  Her lips parted and she stared at me. "Gurry?"

  "Yes."

  "How do you know about him?"

  "Seth and Gus."

  "Oh. Of course. They were there." She pulled the gown tighter at her throat as if there was a draft. The entrance hall wasn't very warm, but it wasn't cold either and there were no drafts. "And why do you wish to know more about him?"

  "They told me Mr. Fitzroy killed him," I said quietly, so that no servants who might be hovering in one of the adjoining rooms could overhear. "Is that true?"

  "Yes." She didn't appear to notice my avoidance of her question by asking one of my own.

  "But nothing ever came of the murder? Mr. Fitzroy wasn't arrested?"

  "Of course not. He's a gentleman, and the matter was an internal ministry one. Lords Marchbank and Gillingham saw that nothing came of it."

  It was more than I'd hoped she would say. I decided to press my luck. "How did Mr. Fitzroy know him?"

  She adjusted her over-gown again, this time letting the edges part, revealing her lush bosom through the nightgown laces. "Gurry was one of Lincoln's tutors as a child. He taught international politics and relations, I believe."

  "Why did Mr. Fitzroy kill him? It would have been some years later, long after Mr. Gurry stopped tutoring him."

  "I don't know, and if you want my advice, Charlie, you won't ask him. I did once and he…made it clear to me that he didn't like that I knew about Gurry's death. He'd be furious with us both if he knew you'd come here seeking answers and I'd told you this much."

  It begged the question then, why had she told me anything at all? Getting answers from her had seemed rather too easy; although, to be fair, she knew very little. At least I now knew Mr. Gurry had been Lincoln's tutor.

  "Thank you, my lady. I appreciate you speaking to me."

  She smiled. "I know things haven't been comfortable between us lately. But I hope you understand that I was quite upset when you didn't take up my offer to work for me."

  "I'm sorry I offended you. It wasn't my intention." Considering she'd recanted the offer when Lord Marchbank suggested exile was better for me, I didn't feel all that sorry.

  "How is Lincoln?" she asked. "I thought he seemed a little distracted yesterday. Does he get enough exercise, do you think?"

  "I suspect so." In addition to training me, he also continued with his own exercise routine in the evenings, according to Seth and Gus.

  "Good. I do worry about him there, all alone in that big house. I know he has your company, and Seth's," she added quickly, "but I'm not sure it's enough for a man like Lincoln."

  From what I could see, Lincoln didn't require much company at all. He seemed content to spend time alone and work. Then again, I didn't know him as well as Lady Harcourt. Perhaps she was right and he ought to get out into society more and befriend his peers.

  "I can't picture him attending a ball or soiree," I said, trying hard not to laugh at the image of Lincoln dancing or making idle conversation with toffs.

  "What a grand idea!" She beamed, dazzling me with her perfectly white teeth. "A ball would be just the thing."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Very. He needs to get out of that macabre old house of an evening. It's stifling. I'll see that he's invited to something."

  She would be disappointed when he refused, but I smiled anyway. She seemed pleased with her plan.

  "Thank you for stopping by, Charlie. Next time, however, go down to the service stairs. Millard is a stickler for the proper order of things."

  I gave her a tight smile. "I wouldn't want to upset your butler."

  The front door suddenly burst open and a man sauntered inside. He was a little older than me and clearly a gentleman, going by his tailored suit. His tie was askew, his brown hair disheveled, and he wore no hat. Heavy lids drooped over red-rimmed eyes and his slack mouth firmed into a sneer upon seeing Lady Harcourt.

  "Good morning, Mother dear," he drawled.

  Mother? This must be one of her stepsons.

  "Andrew." Her tone was as crisp as the morning air outside.

  "What are you doing down here, dressed like a harlot?" His gaze slid to the deep V of her bosom, visible through the gap of her unfastened over-gown.

  Lady Harcourt clutched the edges of the gown closed. "Miss Holloway has called upon me. She was just leaving."

  Andrew regarded me with lazy indifference then dismissed me with a sniff. "You're inviting the riff raff in through the front door now, Mother? How amusing."

  She didn't bother with a reply, merely stepping around him. She gave me a forced smile. "Thank you for stopping by, Charlie."

  I bobbed a curtsy and left. She shut the door, but not before I heard Andrew tell her to "Be a good mother and keep the noise down" while he slept. What a horrid man.

  I thought about Lady Harcourt and her stepson on the omnibus to Kentish Town. Or, more specifically, the way they'd treated me. Servants were supposed to be invisible. A maid wasn't worth acknowledging, except when it was to give her an order. Lady Harcourt hadn't introduced me to her stepson, and he'd not addressed me at all. None of that bothered me. I wasn't in the least concerned about what Lady Harcourt or her family thought. But it did cast a light on something that I found more upsetting. Two months ago, I was important to the ministry, a curiosity because of my necromancy and because I'd lived as a boy for so long. Even when I'd revealed myself to be female, I'd been the daughter of a respected vicar. Now I'd sunk to being a maid, and maids were a step below vicars' daughters.

  It was no wonder Lincoln treated me differently. Ever since I'd accepted the position of housemaid, he'd avoided me except during our training. It was only natural that he'd want to keep me in my place and not allow me ideas above my station. I'd wanted a friendship with him, at the very least, but it was becoming clear now that he couldn't allow that to happen. The only thing maids were good for, besides cleaning, was keeping their master's bed warm, and Lincoln was too much of a gentleman to offer even that. I wasn't sure if it would be enough for me anyway.

  I was trying to wade through the quagmire of my thoughts when the omnibus sailed right past the squat gray building of The Red Lion. I called out for the driver to stop and he pulled the coach to the curb for me and another passenger to alight. I hurried back to the tavern and was surprised to find that it was open. Only two old drinkers hunkered down at each end of the long polished bar like bookends, their gloved fingers grasping tankards as if they were anchors in a storm. Both looked around as I entered and straightened. One even shot me a gap-toothed smile.

  "Mornin', miss," he said. "Come join me for drink." He patted the stool beside him.

  I hesitated. A mere two months ago, such an offer from a grubby, grizzly fellow would send me scurrying out of the tavern again, but I was a respectable woman now, and this wasn't a greasy lane where thugs ruled. I smiled and sat on the stool. My new companion seemed pleased. The other drinker moved up a stool, closer to me. I smiled at him too.

  "What's a girl like you doin' at The Lion?" asked the one beside me, on my right.

  "P'haps she heard the company's good." The other man chuckled.

  The tavern keeper emerged from a door behind the bar. He raised his brows, searched the rest of the taproom, and upon seeing no one with me, arched his brows higher. "You lost, miss?"

  "No." I allowed my smile to slip into a wistful, worried one. "I'm looking for my brother. He hasn't come home for several days and our mother is concerned. I believe he drinks here some evenings and plays dice." I looked at all three men in turn, blinking owlishly. I'd never had to use my femininity to get what I wanted, and I hoped I looked the part of sweet, worri
ed sister and not like the liar I felt.

  "Brother, eh?" The man beside me wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "You should come back in the evening when it's busier. Your brother might show up then."

  "Tosser," said the other drinker with a shake of his head. "She can't come back at night. Only doxies come in here after dark, and she ain't no doxy."

  That seemed to be an invitation for all three men to appraise my form openly. My face heated and I resisted the urge to slap one of them. At least they didn't mistake me for a harlot.

  "My brother's name is Jimmy. He's older than me by a few years, has brown hair and a solid build." I'd seen the grave robbers the first time they dug up a body two months ago. They'd not had any remarkable features, and I wasn't even sure I'd recognize either of them again, but I did recall their strong builds.

  "Many Jimmys come in here reg'lar," said the innkeeper, moving away. "It's a common name."

  "Weren't that fellow asking about a Jimmy last night too?" said the man on my left. "Tall cove, black eyes, longish hair."

  Lincoln. I affected a gasp. "Oh no! Is my brother in some sort of trouble, do you think? Mother will be so upset." I clicked my tongue and shook my head. "Jimmy is forever getting himself into difficulty. We were worried he was in over his head this time and was too ashamed to come home. My poor, fool of a brother. I must find him before this other man does."

  "You be careful, miss," said the innkeeper. "The black-eyed fellow is dangerous. He fought off several fellows. I only just finished cleaning up the mess they made." He picked a hessian bag off the floor. Broken glass clinked inside.

  "How did the fight start?" I asked.

  "Some folk didn't take too kindly to him joining their game of dice, then winning every time. When they all owed him money, he said he'd wipe their debts if they answered his questions."

  "That sounds like a fair exchange to me."

  One of the old drinkers chuckled. "Aye, but they suspected him of cheating."

  "Could they prove it?"

  "No," said the innkeeper. "And that only riled them more. They were sure he cheated. No one wins every round of dice unless they’re weighted."

  "Had the luck of the devil, the cur," muttered the man on my right. He downed the contents of his glass.

  I bought him another, and the second man too. They thanked me with yellow-toothed grins.

  "So the dice players attacked him?" I asked as the innkeeper handed them full tankards. "That doesn't sound very fair when they couldn't prove he cheated."

  "He had a look about him." The man on my left wrinkled his nose. "Reminded me of a gypsy I once met in Cork. Black-eyed snake he was, always cheating and lying. Couldn't trust him."

  A gypsy? That was rather extreme. Lincoln did have the black hair and eyes of that kind, but his bearing was that of a gentleman, not a carnival trickster.

  "And he was asking too many questions," said the other fellow. "If he just took the money and left, he might have got away with it. But he had to go and ask questions."

  "The wrong ones, by the look of it," said the innkeeper. "And of the wrong people."

  "Was one of the dice players Jimmy, do you think?"

  "P'haps." The innkeeper shrugged then edged away. I got the feeling he was hiding something.

  The man on my right slapped his palm down on the counter. "Jimmy Duggan!"

  The innkeeper glared at him, but the man was too busy grinning at me to notice.

  "Jimmy Duggan was one of the dice players. I remember now. He wouldn't answer the gypsy when he asked if he'd been to the cemetery recently."

  Lincoln had asked a direct question like that? Good lord, his interrogation technique was worse than I thought.

  "What's he want to know about cemeteries for?" asked the other patron with a shiver.

  "Jimmy Duggan is my brother," I told them, sitting forward on the stool. "Do you know where he went after the fight?"

  "No," said the innkeeper. "He left with his friend."

  "What was his friend's name?"

  "Don't know."

  "Pete Foster," said the man on my right. He was being particularly helpful so I touched his arm to encourage him. "Do you know him too, miss?"

  "No. He must be the one encouraging Jimmy to get up to no good." I pinched the bridge of my nose. "Jimmy's a good fellow, and he wouldn't do anything wrong on purpose. Mother and I are so worried. Is there anything else you can tell me about them? Do they have other friends?"

  "They came in alone and left alone." The innkeeper shrugged. "That's all I know."

  "Sorry, miss," said the man on my right. "If he stops by again tonight, I'll tell him you were looking for him."

  I doubted Jimmy and Pete would be back so soon, now that they knew Lincoln was after them. I thanked him and hopped off the stool. It all seemed rather hopeless. I'd learned their names, but not where to find them. Perhaps Lincoln could do something with the information.

  "Did the man with the black eyes leave after Jimmy?" I asked.

  They glanced at one another and shrugged. "I didn't see him go," the innkeeper said. "Did you?"

  The man beside me shook his head. "Must have slipped out when we weren't looking."

  I bought them each another round, thanked them again then left. With a sigh, I trudged up the street. On the one hand, it had been a waste of time visiting The Red Lion, but on the other, I'd at least learned both grave robbers' names. I'd also learned something else just as important—I was capable of getting answers if I asked the right questions in the right way. It was a small victory, but only in the war against myself.

  I was close to the destination of my third stop for the day, so I decided to leave luncheon until afterward. I'd passed by the handsome red brick Kentish Town orphanage many times when I lived in a nearby lane, but had taken very little notice of it. It was a large building compared to the others in the wide street, and had perhaps belonged to a wealthy merchant in the days when the land was used for farming. It now looked odd, set back from the street amid a row of joined townhouses, but impressive for the same reason.

  It was the third orphanage I'd visited since learning of my adoption, but I went in with high hopes. Kentish Town wasn't too far from Tufnell Park, where my adopted parents had lived. I was shown into a small office with a poorly rendered painting of the queen hanging on the wall. The balding bespectacled man at the desk looked annoyed by the interruption. He steepled his fingers and blinked at me over the top of his glasses. According to the carved wooden plaque on his desk, his name was Mr. Hogan.

  "Do you have an appointment?" he asked.

  "No, but I hope you can help me anyway."

  "You need to make an appointment." He returned to the open ledger on his desk. "I'm very busy."

  "I understand, but I'm also very busy and can't come back. Please," I added when he gave no reaction. "I was adopted as a baby by a couple named Holloway—"

  He glanced up. "Holloway?"

  My heart skid to a halt. "Do you remember them?"

  "Of course not." He frowned. "But you're the second person in two days to ask about a baby adopted by them."

  "The second? Who was the first?"

  He steepled his fingers again. "I received the request by letter, and I won't divulge the name on the correspondence. It's unethical."

  "Of course." It must be Lincoln, also trying to discover my real mother's name and if she was still alive. She was, after all, a necromancer too, and the ministry needed to know if she still lived.

  "I can tell you what I wrote back, however. There are no records of any babies adopted from here by a Mr. and Mrs. Holloway. Now, if you don't mind…"

  "Of course. Thank you for your time, Mr. Hogan."

  He was once more looking down at his ledger before I even rose from the chair.

  I saw myself out into the windy, grim street and was contemplating whether to catch an omnibus or walk home when I spotted a man watching me from the other side of the road. He quickly walked off, but not bef
ore I saw that it was the same man who'd stepped off the omnibus outside The Red Lion along with me. I clutched my reticule tighter and hurried away. I checked over my shoulder every few steps, but he seemed to have gone. Perhaps I was silly to worry. He might simply have business in the area too. My recent experiences had made me over-anxious.

  It began to rain when I reached the Lichfield gates. I ran up the drive but was thoroughly wet by the time I entered the house through the back door. Cook was alone in the kitchen and I joined him by the warm range.

  "You're wet," he said.

  "How observant of you."

  "Best change into something dry. Soup'll be ready when you return."

  "Are the others about?"

  "I'm here," said Seth, striding into the kitchen from the same direction I'd just come. He joined Cook and me at the warm range and stretched his hands over the simmering pot of soup.

  "Oi," Cook snarled at us. "You be dripping on my floor."

  "It's pouring out there."

  "Don't mean you can drip all over my floor."

  "I'll wipe it up after I dry off," I said. "Where's Gus?"

  Seth grinned. "Getting drenched while he watches those grave robbers."

  "What?" I pulled back my hands and rounded on him. "Where?"

  "They live in a hovel in Whitechapel. Didn't Death tell you?"

  "No, he didn't. When did he learn where they lived?"

  "Last night. He followed them to Whitechapel from The Red Lion. They got into a fight—"

  "Yes, thank you," I said through a clenched jaw. "I knew that part. But bloody Fitzroy didn't tell me he'd discovered where Pete and Jimmy lived."

  "Who?"

  "The grave robbers. Jimmy Duggan and Pete Foster are their names."

  "Is that so? And how do you know that?"

  "Never mind." I removed the pins from my hair and shook it out so it would dry faster. "Excuse me, I need to speak with my employer."

  "Wait." Seth caught my arm. "How did your visit with Lady Harcourt go? Did you find out any more about Gurry?"

  I glanced at the door to make sure Lincoln wasn't lurking there. I didn't want him knowing I'd visited Lady Harcourt to learn more about him. It felt as wrong as eavesdropping had, and part of me regretted doing it. "I discovered…very little. Nothing about Gurry." It wasn't my place to tell them Lincoln's story. No doubt they'd asked him at the time of Gurry's death and he'd refused to answer. I was still surprised that Lady Harcourt had told me that Gurry had been Lincoln's tutor. It seemed traitorous, considering they'd once been lovers and she still seemed to consider him a friend.