A Hanging at Lotus Hall

by Corrina Lawson

  While Margaret answered the door, Joan placed the bill for fabric in its slot on the secretary. The wooden cherry desk had been one of her first purchases, a twin to the one turned to ashes in the blast that had destroyed Krieger & Sims. One legacy she had from both her parents was a head for money, at least. Her fortune would not be squandered.

  She tilted her head to hear the voices at the door. A man, but not Gregor. There was talk of a package. Margaret returned with her arms wrapped around an oversize box. Joan helped the older woman place it on the kitchen table.

  “Well. Any idea who it’s from?” Margaret adjusted her hairpin to pull back a few strands of gray hair that had come loose. “It came by special messenger.”

  “The return address is Lotus Hall.” Dispatched the same time as the flying carriage? But then, why not have Henry deliver it? “That’s Gregor’s family estate.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t realized Mr. Sherringford came from one of those families. I thought this was one of those cases he takes on for the nobility.”

  Joan smiled. “One side of his family, in any case. Well.” A peace offering from his mother, perhaps? Hard to tell from the unadorned boxboard. “Let’s open it now. It could be something I should have when I travel to Lotus Hall.”

  She cut the tape with her letter opener, then pawed through several layers of packing material. They lifted the item out together, hands on both sides.

  “Well, that is right beautiful,” Margaret said as the silver teapot was fully revealed.

  Beautiful was a poor word for the ornate teapot they set on the stove. It was real silver, Joan suspected, not silver plate, and the metal gleamed in the light of the kitchen window. It came with its own heating mechanism below the removable teapot.

  But the true beauty lay in the etched engravings. Scenes of a young woman, bent to sewing, occupied one side, while the other was the same woman wearing the dress she’d been sewing.

  “Oh, my, it’s been special made for you, Miss Krieger,” Margaret breathed.

  “It certainly has.” Joan ran a hand over the handle. A small spark of magic met her palm. Artists often left something of themselves behind in their creations, as she did with her clothes. This artist clearly had poured their gift into their work.

  “Let’s see how it works. Brew enough for two, Margaret.” If this was a gift, better to use it now so she could compliment the giver, when she encountered whoever it was at Lotus Hall.

  Margaret smiled. “Tea, it is. I’ll feel right fancy pouring from it.”

  “Lovely. I’ll fetch my trunk and coat downstairs while it’s heating, as it would be just like Mr. Sherringford to arrive as we’re sitting down.”

  Joan heard the water running to fill the new pot as she climbed the stairs, then the clink of the cover as it was set to boil. Tea, yes, a particularly strong pot would be needed for today.

  Her foot missed the next step. Odd. She tried another and almost fell, dizzy. She grabbed the railing and went down on one knee, for balance. The world around her blurred. Her throat closed up.

  This felt wrong. Magically wrong.

  No air could enter her lungs. She swayed and doubled over. Magic prickled over her skin. Breathing halted.

  An attack!

  With shaking hands, she curled her fingers around the lotus pendant, slipped open the catch, and revealed her grandmother’s antique Grecian cameo. A thing of antiquity but also an item of magic. The focus of her power.

  Her eyesight dimmed from lack of air. She crawled to the top of the stairs and rolled to her back, unable to even pant. Cold encased her. She closed her eyes to shut out distractions and called her power. Instantly, shields surrounded her, a glowing golden armor. Her sight cleared.

  She could breathe again.

  She pulled herself upright using the railing, still swaying, and remembered the touch of magic on the teapot’s handle.

  Margaret was right next to it!

  Joan cursed each careful, infirm step of her descent. It took both hands on the railing to maintain balance. An unseen magical force pressed at her shields.

  Finally, she reached the solid floor and rushed to the kitchen, flinging her power ahead of her, hoping to dispel the magical poison that must be responsible for this weakness.

  Margaret lay on the floor. The new kettle whistled, steam pouring from its spout. Joan gathered her hands in front of her, as Gregor had taught her, and flung her golden shields around the teapot.

  Margaret groaned. Alive!

  Joan would have rejoiced, save she could feel the pot’s malevolent spell press against her golden shield. She could hold it in check, but for how long?

  It must be destroyed.

  She shuffled closer, tightening the shields around the teapot. Color returned to Margaret’s cheeks. Wisps of green magic still swirled in the heat below the teapot. Worse, the miasma flowing from the spout pulsed, warning that it might well burst.

  An explosion could destroy the shields. Joan gathered her talent again, felt the prickles at the back of her neck that always signaled her full power, and set loose a bolt through her shields, at the teapot.

  The magical bolt bounced off the teapot, staggering her. Her fingers dug into the wooden table for support.

  “Rubbish,” she muttered.

  “Joan, I realize you may be reluctant to visit Lotus Hall but I’d thought—”

  Gregor broke off as he stepped into the kitchen.

  “It’s a gas,” she called out. “Magical gas. Deadly, perhaps.”

  “Huh. How am I unaffected, then?”

  She gritted her teeth. Of course, his first reaction was curiosity.

  “I don’t know! Suggestions, Gregor, as I can’t shield it forever.”

  “Right. Wait a few seconds, then release your shields from around the teapot, and pull Margaret away from danger.”

  He waved a hand and vanished into shadow. In a second, a layer of blackness encased the teapot, directly over her golden shield.

  “Now,” Gregor ordered.

  She called the power back to her with a wiggle of her fingers, reinforcing the magic surrounding her.

  The darkness descended on the teapot. A metallic clink sounded from it, then a nasty, high-pitched whine, so loud she wanted to cover her ears. Instead, she grabbed Margaret’s arms, pulled her into the back foyer, and opened that door to let in fresh air. She knelt to the housekeeper’s chest. Her heart still beat, and steadily.

  A distinctive “pop” followed by another whine that was more of a scream echoed from the kitchen. She ran to Gregor, but the noise stopped as she stepped into the kitchen again.

  Gregor formed across the table from her, emerging from the blackness.

  On the table sat a molten pile of silver, unshapen and inert.

  “Trojan horse,” Joan muttered. “I should have guessed.”

  “This requires explanation.” Gregor frowned.

  “Margaret first.”

  They set the housekeeper on her own bed. Margaret blinked her eyes. Joan breathed a sigh of relief.

  “The teapot came in a box that I put in the pantry,” she informed Gregor.

  He swept out of the room to examine the box. Joan clasped Margaret’s hand. Their fingers were both still cold. The housekeeper finally spoke, asking what happened. Joan debated covering up the magical attack but chided herself for the very idea. Margaret deserved the truth.

  “The teapot contained a trap, a sort of magical poison gas triggered when it was set to boil. It hit you full force. I was farther away and was able to shut it down, with Mr. Sherringford’s help.”

  “Goodness!” Margaret’s eyes widened. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Joan shook her head. “I don’t know. Can you describe the messenger?”

  “No, I barely noticed him, only the package. I’m sorry, I should have—”

  “Done exactly as you did,” Joan finished. “Did he have an accent of any sort?”

  “He spoke like a typical Londoner. He was d
ressed in tradesman’s clothes, I think, and said it was a special delivery. Then he was gone.”

  And likely untraceable now. Dammit. “Margaret, I think you should take the rest of the day off,” she advised. “In fact, take the week. Visit your daughter. I know you’ve been eager to see your new grandchild again.”

  Margaret protested. Joan prevailed, insisting it wasn’t safe in the house. Joan pressed the tiny sliver of mage coal that had formed in her hand as a result of her magical strike on the teapot into her housekeeper’s palm. “Sell this and take that holiday, Margaret. It’s past time and it’s perfect. You will enjoy yourself, and I will have peace of mind as to your safety.”

  “But the deliveries?”

  “My man, Garth, can watch out for those and the house,” Gregor said from the doorway. “I hear he’s been wanting a bit of a vacation from his crowded family home.”

  Margaret accepted that easily enough. After some hasty packing, Garth, who’d been waiting with his cab on the street, headed out to deliver Margaret to her daughter’s home across London.

  “Thank you,” Joan said as Garth’s carriage pulled away. “Where’s the flying carriage?” she asked Gregor.

  “I sent Henry to the telegram office, to make some inquiries. He should be back soon.”

  “Ah.” Joan closed the front door. “Will Garth be safe alone here?”

  “Safe enough. He’s used to the possibility of this type of thing from working with me.”

  She snorted. “I’m glad someone is. A poisoned teakettle is the last thing I expected today.”

  They walked back to the kitchen. Gregor poked at the pile of molten silver with a stick. The edges of her table were burned. She waved a hand over the ruined pot.

  “I sense no more magic.”

  “It’s quite inert, but I’ll have Garth remove it to my storage area, just in case. Can you tell me what happened?”

  She related it all to him, step by step, from the box being delivered to the walk up the steps and her efforts to shield herself and Margaret from the miasma.

  When she finished, his face was shuttered tight.

  “This was meant to kill,” he said.

  “And leave no traces, at least to ordinary eyes.” She took a deep breath and plunged in. “It either came from Lotus Hall, or someone wanted me to believe it did.”

  “More than that,” Gregor said. “In case it was uncovered as a murder weapon, the trail would lead an investigator to Lotus Hall. I recognize the box as the type my brother the duke uses.” He clenched his hands behind his back.

  “If so, this was an expensive murder weapon.”

  “Money might have been no object. This attack was directed at you but meant to unsettle me.” A deep breath. “And it has.”

  She slipped her fingers through his clenched fist. He pulled her close, his arm tight around her waist.

  “Perhaps you should go somewhere safe as well while I alone answer my mother’s summons.”

  “And hide while you risk your life uncovering the culprit? I think not.”

  He raised her hand and kissed it, with a bow. “As you say.” They walked to the front door. Joan spotted the flying carriage through a window.

  “Here we go,” she said.

  Chapter 4

  Joan finally retrieved her trunk from the upstairs bedroom, using her mage power to float it down the stairs. She wrapped the coat tight around her. Of course, it was only protection from the cold. Not anything else she’d face in the coming day.

  Once outside, she set her trunk gently down beside the “flying” carriage.

  The carriage, the latest model built, contained an overhang with fitted windows to protect the driver, plus a back seat for passengers. Henry, the chauffeur, stood by the open door, revealing an interior lined with plush fabrics, no doubt fully protected from the elements by the windows.

  But it was the inflated tires on the wheels that drew her full attention.

  “Is that how it flies?” she whispered to Gregor.

  “Not quite,” he whispered back.

  Henry bowed to them, with deep respect. “Let me be the first of the staff of Lotus Hall to welcome you, Miss Joan Krieger. Lord Gregor said you had a trunk. I’ll stow that for you.”

  The movement allowed Joan to see his shoulder patch, a dagger crossed with a hammer, the personal sigil of the Duke of Bennington. So martial.

  But she smiled, sensing, for some reason, approval from Henry. Odd that, given that she must be viewed as Gregor’s mistress. “Thank you,” she said to him.

  Joan accepted Henry’s hand to step inside the carriage and placed her travel bag at her feet. Gregor had already tossed in his satchel. Not clothing, she knew, but the tools of his trade, including a magnifying glass and some of those chemicals he used to determine the origins of different substances.

  She peered around the compartment. So far, no sign of how this became a flying carriage. Did it sprout wings?

  “Errands finished, Henry?” Gregor asked when the man had strapped her trunk to the back.

  “Aye, milord.”

  “How long did the journey from Lotus Hall take?” Joan asked. How long a ride was she in for today?

  “Slow, at regular speed. Her Grace was hoping you’d make better time in the return. She’s eager to see you.” He stuck his hand into the compartment and offered Gregor a sealed envelope. “Here’s a message from Her Grace. She said not to give it to you until you were on your way.”

  Henry tipped his cap, climbed into the driver’s seat, rolled up the window between the passenger and driver’s benches, and settled in.

  “Her Grace? Is he referring to the current duchess, your sister-in-law?” Joan asked.

  “My mother is the only ‘Her Grace,’ for Henry,” Gregor said. “But don’t tell Victoria that.”

  If those in service at Lotus Hall accepted Gregor’s mother, with her background, did that make them more likely to accept Joan? Servants could have higher standards for those they served than the noble family themselves.

  Yet this morning’s murderous attempt proved someone wanted to keep her away from Lotus Hall. Perhaps keep Gregor away as well.

  But why?

  They puttered down the street like a normal steam carriage at first. She noticed a strange shift lever between them that continued past the floorboards. That must have something to do with how it flew.

  Gregor smacked the unopened letter against his palm.

  “The sooner you open it, the sooner we know what we face,” she chided.

  “Or else it’ll only raise more questions.”

  The envelope was blank. He slid it open and drew forth the paper, also blank.

  “No message at all?” she asked.

  “Not quite.” He sighed. “Do me a favor and let loose a little of your magic at this.”

  Joan took a deep breath and let the mage energy flow from her fingers through her gloved hand to the letter. The paper sparkled.

  “That did it. My mother is being high-handed,” Gregor admitted.

  “At least you come by it honestly, then.” A pause. “Before you try to read it, I have to ask if this could be another magical trap.”

  “That would be unlikely, given Henry took it directly from the hands of my mother.”

  “My mother set a deadly magical trap, once.”

  “True.”

  ,Handwriting appeared on the envelope.

  “To my son, Gregor, and Miss Joan Krieger” was written with dark, bold flourishes. The letter soon was full of words in a delicate script.

  “Always with the flourishes, Mother,” Gregor muttered.

  “Magical correspondence,” Joan breathed. “Could you read this without my help?”

  “No,” he snapped. “All I could have done would have been to cancel the magic, as I did to the teapot. That might have made the writing disappear. Clearly, my mother knew we would be together.” Gregor held the letter between them. “Care to read along with me?”

&nb
sp; “It’s written in Hindi,” she said, contemplating the paper. “You’ll have to read it, Gregor. I can only get every third word, which you know.” Her Hindi was not yet fluent. Her mage studies and their cases had cut into the time for learning languages. A shame, as Gregor often told entertaining anecdotes about certain words.

  “All right.” Gregor pursed his lips and began reading. His eyes narrowed, and then his eyebrows rose in surprise, even bafflement.

  “Good God.” He grinned. “This is unexpected.”

  “Is it good news?”

  “It is. I’ll read it to you, since it was addressed to both of us.” He cleared his throat and straightened, his casual pose abandoned.

  My Dearest Son,

  I told you that my reason for returning to India was to discover what had become of my family. I let you assume that I meant my biological relatives, but that was a lie. I went to find what I could of the fate of your father’s last expedition.

  Gregor paused. “My father wanted to be the first Englishman to climb Mount Everest. It consumed him.”

  Joan nodded. She’d researched Gregor’s family after they had become, well, lovers. The late sixth Duke of Bennington had been a proficient explorer and adventurer, a personality bigger than life. But during his last expedition, he had been caught in an avalanche on the mountain, according to witnesses. No bodies had ever been found.

  Apparently, that had not satisfied Gregor’s mother.

  I never trusted some of the reports. It’s true Everest does not like to give up the dead, but I wanted to speak to the eyewitnesses. I knew someone closer to the matter, in Nepal, would have a fuller story. I hoped to find a complete account of his last days, at least. (I told him not to go, as it was folly, as you know. He had an idealized view of exploration. Sometimes I wonder if he went because I objected, befitting his contrary nature.)

  It took time, but I had the account of his last expedition and from an entirely unexpected source: Mr. Edward Dale, alive and living in a Sherpa community.