by C. J. Archer
My face flamed, even though I'd asked the question. In truth, I'd expected him to avoid answering. My embarrassment was amplified by the fact that he seemed so nonchalant about it. His face didn't redden.
"I, er, of course I do. I'm sorry for implying otherwise."
"Then let's speak no more of it." He turned to the window but his gaze seemed unfocused. Something about last night bothered him.
"I do remember something else," I said.
His head snapped around so fast that it was a blur. "Yes?"
His intense interest unnerved me and it took a moment to regain my composure. "It's regarding the fight you had with Gordon."
He let out a measured breath. Had he been expecting me to mention something else? Something from later in the night, when he put me to bed?
"It might be nothing," I went on. "It's just that I've noticed how keen your instincts are in a fight. You seem to anticipate blows a moment before they happen. It gives you a definite advantage against a stronger opponent like Gordon."
"Visual cues," he said. "You'll learn to look for them too with practice."
"I doubt it's something one can learn. I've seen Seth and Gus fight one another and their instincts aren't as good as yours."
"What are you implying?"
I swallowed heavily. His steely tone dared me to say it aloud. Dared me to accuse him of something quite extraordinary. I wasn't sure I was up to taking the dare if it meant getting on his bad side, but I'd come this far. It was too late to back away now.
"It's not just in a fight," I forged on. "You often anticipate when someone is about to ask you something, or come to your rooms. You also win at cards and dice much too often to put it down to luck. It's an uncanny gift." I cleared my throat, determined not to wither beneath that frosty stare of his. "Uncanny to the point of supernatural."
He searched my face until finally his gaze settled on mine. I tumbled headlong into the endless depths of his eyes, and I didn't care. Didn't want to escape. Time seemed to stop. We might as well have been in another world inside the carriage. The outside ceased to exist. It was just the two of us, connected by a charge more powerful than an electrical current.
He leaned forward and my heart ground to a halt. Would he kiss me? Berate me?
But he simply rested his elbows on his knees and lowered his head. Unruly strands of hair fell across his face.
"What is it?" I dared ask. "What have I said?"
He half shook his head, or perhaps he was merely turning away. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "No one has ever noticed that about me before."
"And?" I whispered.
"And I am coming to terms with the fact that you have noticed."
Was that a good thing or bad? I couldn't tell from his reaction. My observation had shaken him, however, and that was something. The unflappable Lincoln Fitzroy was rattled—by me.
"But…what does it mean?" I asked.
He leaned back again and once more held my gaze with his own. "It means you have discovered a secret I've kept from everyone my entire life. Even from the general."
CHAPTER 12
"What secret?" I asked, hardly daring to breathe.
"I've inherited something other than my coloring from my mother." Lincoln grunted softly. "At least, I think it's from her. I doubt it's from my father."
He was talking as if I knew more than I did about his parents, but I didn't want to interrupt him to ask for details. It was so rare for him to talk at all, I didn't want to startle him into stopping.
"Go on," was all I said.
"She may have been a seer."
Good lord! "But you're not sure?"
He shook his head. "I found a reference to her in the ministry archives. At least, I think the woman mentioned was my mother. The general wouldn't answer my questions when I asked."
That seemed grossly unfair. Surely Lincoln had a right to know about his parents. "So why do you think she was your mother?"
"The text was very old and written in a style that was difficult to read. The general probably thought I'd have no interest in old records, so didn't hide them particularly well. Not then, anyway. It was only a sentence or two, but it stated that the woman who bore the next leader of the order would herself be a seer."
"Did this information come from the same woman who foresaw your birth and role as that leader?"
He nodded.
"No name was mentioned?"
"No."
"But since you are the leader, then the detail must be correct."
"Yes."
I stared at him a long moment, trying to gauge how he felt about having a seer for a mother, and possessing some of her supernatural power, but he'd once more assumed a stony face. "How much can you foresee?" I asked.
He shook his head. "I can't tell the future. I can't see very far ahead at all. What I possess is a superior ability to anticipate things before they happen, but not everything. I don't know how people will act or what they'll say, for example. Gambling and fighting seem to be different. I can almost always anticipate the way the die will fall, as well as what my opponent's next move will be."
"That's useful."
The corner of his mouth twisted. "Very."
"I wonder…"
He frowned. "Go on."
"I wonder if your supernatural instinct has melded perfectly with your skill and natural instinct."
He arched a brow.
"You're highly skilled when it comes to combat of all kinds," I explained. "Anyone who has practiced for years would possess excellent instincts in a fight. But couple that natural instinct with your hereditary one, and you've managed to take it to new heights. Perhaps if you were as skilled in non-combative interaction, you could anticipate what people would say and do. It seems your inherited ability enables you to occasionally guess when someone is seeking you out, or is speaking about you, but that's all. If you were more sociable, your instincts with people could improve too."
"Is that your way of saying I don't have much empathy?"
I smiled. "Some would say you lack charm and witty conversation. Not me, of course."
"Witty banter is a waste of time. I'd rather get to the point of a conversation."
"Sometimes the witty banter is the point of the conversation."
"Then those conversations and the people who have them are dull."
I rolled my eyes and tried to contain my smile. "Then you're not going to enjoy yourself at the ball tonight."
"Probably not."
My smile faded altogether as he turned to look out the window again. The last time we'd spoken of the ball and the reason he was going, he'd wanted me to think he didn't know who his father was. I didn't dare ask again and risk his ire.
"Thank you, Mr. Fitzroy," I said. "I appreciate you confiding in me. I won't tell a soul."
"I know."
The certainty with which he said it shocked me a little. Then it warmed me. I would do everything in my power to keep his secrets if it meant that much to him.
The carriage slowed as we turned onto Ratcliffe Highway. We came to a stop, and Lincoln opened the door and alighted first. He helped me down and we headed into Lower Pell Lane, leaving Seth with the horse and carriage. It looked less forbidding during the day, but more derelict. Paint peeled off ever door and window frame, while the windows themselves were gray from soot. The buildings looked as if they'd sprung up haphazardly, with a wall of brick here, a crumbling plastered one there, and a wooden arch connecting them. Children played on the street, their own imaginations as their toys, while their mothers hung out washing from the upper levels.
Lincoln knocked on the dragon's nose carved into Mr. Lee's door, but there was no answer.
"Is Mr. Lee in?" I asked some of the children hovering nearby.
Several of them nodded, others merely shrugged. One of the older ones stepped forward, and I recognized him as the boy who'd brought me the message the night before. I smiled at him, but he didn't smile back.
"Mr. Lee is out marketing, miss," he said.
"We've come to see the body of the man who died there last night," Lincoln said.
"They took it away in a cart."
Damn. We were too late. The captain had returned and claimed the body already.
"They?" Lincoln asked the lad.
The boy lifted one shoulder. "Men. There was writing on the cart. English writing. But I can't read." He drew some lines in the air.
"An M," I said.
"That's all I remember," the boy said with another shrug.
"You've done very well. Thank you." I opened my reticule, but Lincoln already had coins in hand. He gave the boy two and one each to the other children. They beamed and rushed off with their loot.
"M?" I said to Lincoln as we left the lane. "Is that linked to the captain, do you think?"
"The captain wouldn't have returned. He was too scared of both Gordon and of capture, or he would have put up a stronger fight, perhaps even shot someone. M is most likely for Mortuary. The authorities have collected the body. I know where to find the nearest one."
Seth drove us the short distance to St George in the East church, Wapping. The mortuary had been built behind the church, almost on top of a cluster of gravestones. It was unattended and the door locked. Lincoln dismissed my idea to seek out a clergyman and instead used some long pins he withdrew from his pocket. He had the lock open in a moment.
"Impressive. Did one of your tutors teach you to do that?"
He nodded. "Mr. Jack Plackett was a master thief in his time, but was an ancient cripple when he came to tutor me. He was as sharp as a knife, though. I learned more useful things from him than from any of my other tutors."
"Including your female tutor?"
"Not for lack of effort on her part."
I covered my smile with my hand. It seemed inappropriate to laugh in a mortuary.
He pushed open the door. "Do you mind if I go in first?"
"I was hoping you'd offer."
He hesitated. "You should stay out here."
"But we both know I'm not going to."
His lips flattened. "Then prepare yourself."
I stood back while he entered, then followed. I wish I'd taken his advice to prepare myself more seriously. The mortuary wasn't what I expected. Bodies didn't lie on tables and shelves but on the floor, wherever there was a space large enough. Nor were they covered for modesty; they lay naked and exposed. I wondered if the wealthier parishes treated their dead in such a shabby manner.
I counted six bodies, some quite decayed and four of them grossly bloated, their skin pulled tight over swollen bellies and faces. Those four must have drowned, a common cause of death this close to the docks. The only woman had her head smashed in, and the sixth body belonged to our man from Mr. Lee's. He was in the best condition of the lot, but was extraordinarily thin. His skin was like worn paper, and it was a miracle the bones didn't protrude through it.
I drew in a sigh when I saw him and instantly regretted it. The smell of rotting flesh was much fouler than the butcher's cellar. I covered my nose and mouth but it was too late. The putrid odor clogged my throat. I gagged.
"Charlie, are you—?"
I raced out of the mortuary and threw up in the bushes. To my horror, Lincoln's warm hand touched the back of my neck. I pulled away, not wanting him to see me like this, and certainly not wanting his sympathy. I should be used to death by now. I was a necromancer and had seen death up close numerous times; I’d even touched decomposing bodies. My weakness appalled me.
"My apologies," he said.
I held up my hand. "You have nothing to apologize for."
"I should have made you wait outside."
I accepted the handkerchief he passed to me over my shoulder and dabbed my mouth on it. I couldn't return it to him in that state, so I tucked it into my reticule. "I would have looked in anyway," I told him.
"There's no need for you to go back inside. I have the name."
"You do? How?"
"It was written on a card, along with the names of the next of kin, where the body was found, who reported it, and the likely cause of death. Either Lee lied, and he did keep records of his clients, or there was some identification. My guess is the latter. I'm not sure Lee cares for record keeping."
I drew in a breath, grateful for some fresh air. "I'll summon him, but I won't ask him to enter his body, if you don't mind. Considering the lack of clothing, it seems rather insensitive. But that means you won't be able to hear his answers."
"I don't need to hear them. You're capable of reporting what he says to me."
"What is his name?"
"Bertram Purley."
I looked around to make sure no one could overhear me, then said, "Bertram Purley, I summon you to me. The spirit of Bertram Purley, show yourself."
I thought the mist was a low lying cloud at first, until it coalesced into the form of the dead man from Lee's garret. He scowled at me and then at Lincoln, who was watching me.
"He's here," I told him.
"You again," the spirit growled. "What do you want?"
"To know the name of the man known as the captain. The one who spoon fed a liquid to you."
"Who cares? I'm dead now. It doesn't matter."
"Of course it matters. It matters if we can save other lives. It matters if you'd like your body to stay buried."
The latter argument rather than the former elicited a response. Up until then, he’d looked both bored and irritated. "I told you his name last night, stupid girl."
And to think I'd felt some sympathy for him in the mortuary. "I can't recall what you told me last night. The opium affected me. Kindly repeat it."
"He told me his name was Jasper."
"First or last name?"
"I don't know. Captain Jasper, I called him." The mist swirled around me and up into the sky, only to swoop down again like a bird on its prey. He bared his teeth and snarled. "Why can't I go?"
"I must release you."
"Then do it!"
I looked to Lincoln and repeated the name Bertram Purley had given me. "Do you have any questions for him?"
"No," Lincoln said.
"Go, Bertram Purley. Return to whereever it is your spirit resides."
"I'm stuck in the waiting area," he said as he swept away again. This time he didn't return.
"He's gone," I said. "He had nothing else to tell me."
Lincoln held out his arm and I took it, but before we could leave, the vicar emerged from the rear of the church. He swooped down on us like a black robed version of Purley's spirit.
"You there!" he shouted. "Halt! What are you doing?"
Lincoln drew himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders. He was considerably taller than the vicar, but the clergyman didn't back away.
"That is none of your affair," Lincoln said.
I tightened my hold on his arm. "Don't snap, Brother dear," I said sweetly. "He was simply asking a question." I felt Lincoln bristle beneath my hand. I hoped he had enough imagination to go along with me. "We're visiting your charming churchyard," I told the vicar. "We'd heard of a distant relative who might be buried here, some years past, but alas, we weren't able to find his headstone."
The vicar blushed and stumbled through an apology. "I see now that you're just an innocent couple. Forgive me, sir, ma'am, but we've had trouble here only this morning and I thought you were he, returning to break the lock again." He nodded at the mortuary behind us.
"Trouble?" Lincoln asked. "Someone has burgled your mortuary?"
"How peculiar," I said. "Who would do such a thing?"
"The lock was broken mere hours ago. I've just replaced it."
"Did you see the burglar?" Lincoln asked.
At the vicar's odd look, I added, "My brother has an interest in law enforcement."
"You're a policeman?"
"Of sorts," Lincoln said. "Tell me what the man looked like and I'll see that the police are informe
d."
"That's good of you. I reported it to the police, but they said they were too busy to come immediately. I only caught a glimpse, but the man was middle aged, average height. He wore spectacles. I'm sorry, that's all I noticed."
Lincoln touched the brim of his hat and the vicar did the same. "God will see that the police catch him," the vicar said. "He must be reprimanded for his behavior. This is a house of God, not a place for childish games."
Lincoln and I walked swiftly out of the church grounds before the vicar noticed that his new lock had been miraculously unlocked without a key. At least Lincoln hadn't broken it, as Jasper had.
We found Seth waiting with the carriage nearby and climbed in. It was growing late and there was little we could do with the new information. Lincoln said he could find out where Jasper lived, but it would take some time. The easiest way was to see if the captain was indeed an army man. If so, military records would list his last known address.
Unfortunately, the general had gone out, and Gus returned to Lichfield without a response. He, Seth and Cook met us in the kitchen where Cook sat at the table, cradling his bandaged thumb, while Gus sliced up vegetables.
"The general's butler told me he would deliver your message as soon as he returns, sir," Gus said without looking up from the carrots.
"I'll send another message, this time with the name of Captain Jasper," Lincoln said. "It will narrow his search."
"I'll deliver it," Seth said. "I'm going out that way later."
Gus snorted. "To see your bit o' skirt again? Ain't she bored with you yet?"
"They don't get bored with me. And she's not a bit of skirt. As it happens, she enjoys dressing in men's clothing."
Gus whooped and even Cook's hound face lifted. "Seth," Lincoln warned, most likely for my benefit.
"Does she prefer gentleman's clothes or a workman's outfit?" I asked with a wink for Seth.
He chuckled. "Depends on her mood."
"How is your thumb?" I asked Cook as Lincoln headed out.