Odette Speex: Time Traitors Book 1

by Lively, Padgett

  No other sound interrupted the night as Odette lifted her skirts and ran for the door. Gabriel was before her.

  “Take the horses round to the mews!” he threw over his shoulder to the coachman. “And tread carefully, man. We have no idea what we will meet.”

  The first thing they met was Graves, the butler, lying in a pool of blood. Only dim moonlight illuminated the foyer from the open door so Odette had to kneel and bend over the stricken man. She drew back in horror at the gaping wound across his neck.

  “Gabe!” his name came out in a strangled choke as she tried to hold back the rising bile. “His throat has been cut!”

  She looked at Gabriel as he knelt across from her on the other side of Grave’s body. He wasn’t looking at her or the dead man. He was surveying the foyer. His eyes moved up the grand staircase and down the darkened hallways.

  “How many servants?” he murmured almost to himself. “Graves, Mrs. Crawford, Cook, the coachman.”

  “Aamod,” she added.

  “Of course, Aamod,” he agreed and stood. “Five, plus Caroline. No footmen or scullery maids? No others?”

  Odette stood as well. “None that I can recall. It seemed as if Graves and Mrs. Crawford did everything.”

  They both started violently as pounding footsteps sounded from inside the wall on the far side of the foyer. A discreetly recessed door burst open, and the coachman ran into the great hall only to stop hastily at the sight of the dead butler.

  “My God! My God!” he gasped and brought his hand up to cover his mouth. His terrified eyes met theirs. “Cook’s dead too! She… she…” he stammered. “Her head’s been mostly cut off.” He turned around and was sick all over the polished parquet floor.

  “That leaves only Caroline, Aamod and Mrs. Crawford.” Gabriel looked again at the coachman, who kept his eyes carefully averted from the butler’s dead form. “Did you see anyone out back? Anything suspicious?”

  “No.” He shook his head, then stopped and looked intently back at them. “’Cepen, it’s all quiet. Unnatural-like. There should be lots of comins’ and goins’.” He looked out the open door. “Where is everybody? Why hasn’t anyone come? That scream could’a woke the dead.”

  “We need to find Caroline and Aamod,” Gabriel declared and turned to firmly grasp Odette’s hand. “You should go—”

  “No! I’m coming with you.”

  He didn’t waste time arguing with her. “What’s your name?” he asked the coachman.

  “Tom, sir.”

  He was young, younger than Odette had at first surmised. He looked to be no more than nineteen or twenty.

  “Well, Tom. Grab anything that looks like a weapon,” Gabriel instructed, himself picking up a heavy silver candlestick. “I think I know where to begin our search.”

  Tom unhesitantly pulled an ornate iron rod from its decorative perch on the wall and turned to follow them down the wide corridor.

  “Where are we going?” Odette whispered.

  “To the library,” Gabriel responded in a low voice. “There’s a kind of hidden room where… where I think Caroline and Aamod practice their religion.”

  “I know it,” Tom added in a hoarse whisper. “There’s a golden statue in there. Crawford, she don’t like it much. Says it’s idollory or som’em like that.”

  “Idolatry,” Odette corrected automatically.

  “Yeah, that’s it.” Tom’s voice was steadier, but he still swallowed reflexively as if trying to keep the contents of his stomach in place.

  “Where is Mrs. Crawford?” Gabriel asked, swiveling his head from side to side as if trying to keep at least a 180 degree field of vision.

  “She’s gone to Norfolk to visit her sister.”

  “Did she know Miss Odette was dining with Lady Caroline tonight?”

  “I don’t see how she could of. Her Ladyship only just told Cook this morning.”

  They stopped in front of a large oaken door, swung inward and broken on its hinges. They walked to a corner of the library that housed an inordinate amount of potted plants. A dim light filtered out from behind the leafy jungle. It looked as if the plants were set against the wall. Closer inspection revealed a narrow corridor which opened into a fair-sized room. There were no windows. Light glowed from several candlesticks.

  Elegantly carved and covered in places with rich tapestries, Odette barely registered the fragrant sandalwood paneling. She didn’t see the golden statue, inlaid with rare gems and draped in garlands of colorful marigolds. Her eyes were glued to the center of the room where Aamod had been stripped naked and disemboweled. His long black hair spread out beneath him in a tangle of blood and vomit.

  The smell of blood was so thick, she could almost taste it. She felt her head swim and reached out, finding the support of Gabriel’s broad chest. She brought her hands up and clutched at his waistcoat. Her forehead came to rest just below his chin. She heard retching and knew that Tom had, once again, lost the battle with his stomach. This time he deposited its contents into the potted palm tree.

  Odette took a deep breath and looked up into Gabriel’s face. It was white to his lips, and she wondered if it was a reflection of her own.

  A low moan brought them both around sharply. Almost hidden among the plush cushions at the opposite end of the room sat Lady Caroline, or rather, she squatted. Her hair was loose down her back and her arms dangled between her knees. The heavy silken robe that was her only garment slipped down over one breast and was luridly splattered with blood. She looked right past them. Her eyes were wide and glassy.

  They ran to her. Kneeling down, Gabriel grabbed her by both shoulders. “Caroline! Caroline!” he cried, almost shaking her in desperation.

  Odette leaned close and squinted in the dim light. She reached out to touch gently a large lump on Caroline’s forehead. Even this slight touch caused her to whimper and cower back into the cushions. The light caught a glint of metal. Odette looked down and saw clutched in Caroline’s hand a large, blood-stained butcher’s knife.

  “My God! Gabe! Look!” She pointed to the knife, and they both started back in horror.

  “That’s a lie!” Tom’s indignant voice brought them to their senses. “She wouldn’t do no such a thing!” he declared angrily. He stepped in between them and knelt down to gently remove the knife from her listless hand. “You see, she can’t even lift it. She’s not herself. She don’t know what’s happenin’.”

  “You’re right, Tom,” Gabriel agreed. “Someone else has done this, and left Caroline to take the blame.”

  “Gabriel, we have to get her out of here!” Odette exclaimed urgently. It was all coming together in her mind. The deserted street, the missing housekeeper, a scene of murder and mayhem so ghastly no one would come to the defense of a woman merely tolerated by most of polite society.

  Gabriel was already gathering an unresisting Caroline into his arms. “Tom, is the carriage still harnessed?”

  “Yes, sir. I left it out back.”

  Gabriel turned to leave but stopped and looked back as Tom hesitated. “What is it?”

  Tom walked grimly over to Aamod and knelt down. His gaze never left the dead man’s face. “It ain’t right to leave him like this.” He reached out and closed the lifeless eyes then stood up and tore one of the heavy tapestries from the wall. His cheeks were wet with tears as he covered the mutilated body. “He may have been a Hindoo. But he was a good ’un, Mister Aamod. He was a good ’un.”

  *

  Doctor Tannen stood with shirt sleeves rolled up and wiped his hands on a clean linen cloth. “Where did you say you found him?”

  “I didn’t,” Hershel responded tersely.

  The doctor looked from under his eyebrows at the Bow Street runner and said in his most medically detached tone, “You do know he’s been violated.”

  “It was rather obvious.” Hershel mimicked the doctor in tone but felt anything but detachment.

  He had been cursing his incompetence continuously for the last e
ight hours. He wished he’d been less cryptic with Cara, less circumspect in his reasoning and investigation. Clearly things were happening beyond his comprehension, and he didn’t like it one bit.

  Hershel was by nature a cautious man. Not to be confused with cowardice. He was actually exceedingly brave. His upright moral code was a source of fun for his fellow runners—hence, his nickname. But none questioned his courage. In fact he had confronted on many occasions the rampant corruption that ran through the nascent London police force, and not just the lowly beadles. He reported corruption wherever he found it, even once not so subtly suggesting a prominent magistrate guilty of bribing a witness.

  He was fortunate to have in his corner the staunch support of the powerful Sir John Fielding, magistrate of Bow Street. But even Sir John had warned him many time to moderate his zeal lest he find himself with no employment and several powerful enemies.

  Hershel walked over to the south-facing window and looked out into the doctor’s small garden. It was dark, and his reflection stared back at him from the scrupulously clean glass. Sir John was a man Hershel admired with single-minded devotion. He knew him to be honest and compassionate. So his dismissal of Hershel’s concerns regarding the attacks on the group at Exeter Street was troubling. Hershel had never known Sir John to treat so serious an offense lightly. In fact, Sir John reveled in debate and discussion. He often mulled over evidence and matters of law to the point of obsession. But, in this case, he avoided any discussion of the crimes, and ordered Hershel to investigate them as simple robberies gone wrong. Whenever Hershel tried to bring the subject up, the typically mild and patient Sir John grew tense and snappish.

  So Hershel did the only thing he knew how to do. He followed his instincts. And those put him on the trail of one Ethan Graham. Ethan’s involvement with Odette and Cara was highly suspicious. He knew Graham by reputation. While it wasn’t exactly common knowledge that Graham was a spy, it was certainly a well-respected rumor. His association with Sir Archibald Brandon should have been confirmation enough. But Hershel found a large portion of polite society chose to pretend the identity of the King’s spymaster a mystery. Being inquisitive and observant himself, it would have shocked him to know that this ignorance was not pretense but disinterest.

  He turned back to the room and said, “I found him in Whitechapel. In the back alley of an establishment by the name of Princess Persephone’s.”

  Doctor Tannen’s expression remained impassive. “That would, of course, explain the tearing around the rectum and bruising along the buttocks.”

  They both turned to look at the injured man lying on the narrow cot. His face was badly battered. His torso tightly bound in cotton stripes in an attempt to stabilize several broken ribs. He groaned weakly and licked his swollen lips but did not wake.

  Hershel had a strong sense of moral certainty regarding his profession. Nevertheless, he had the ability to suspend judgment in search of answers. He believed that there was always an objective truth the facts would reveal if one looked hard enough. He prided himself on a level of professional impartiality that allowed him insight where others were blinded by prejudice and preconceptions. So he was disturbed by his reaction to Ethan Graham, his inability to feel sympathy for the man.

  Hershel had been following Ethan for the better part of the day when toward evening he saw him enter White’s accompanied by Lord Winter. He had settled in to loiter inconspicuously among the cabbies and general bustle of the street when, not ten minutes later, Ethan reemerged. This time he was accompanied by two large gentlemen, one on either side of him. The darkened street made it difficult for Hershel to see their faces, but they were both fashionably dressed with hats pulled low over their brows. All three entered a hackney which turned toward Piccadilly.

  Hershel’s knowledge of London streets was unparalleled. While he was not a London native, his incessant nighttime rambles had introduced him to many of its secret byways and shortcuts, as well as several close calls with the metropolis’ rougher elements. He used this knowledge to keep track of the carriage and get a read on its general direction.

  By the time it turned onto Long Acre, he knew it was heading north and hailed a hackney. Fortunately traffic was heavy, and it wasn’t difficult to maintain an inconspicuous tail. A promised extra few farthings assured the driver’s interest in keeping it that way.

  The ride stretched on, and Hershel set his face along grim lines as they entered Whitechapel. The street itself was not particularly sordid. Nor were the primarily working class residents of this district more prone to crime than many others. However, Hershel could not say the same of the gentlemen who frequented the squalid streets and back alleys extending like rabbit warrens off the broad thoroughfare. He knew they were not there to visit the breweries, tanneries, and foundries which were the mercantile heart of Whitechapel.

  He watched the carriage slow and could tell it was preparing to turn down one of the narrow side streets. He ordered his driver to stop and jumped out to continue his surveillance on foot. It was then that a large brewers’ dray swerved violently across the street sending several of its barrels crashing onto the busy walkways. People scattered like confused sheep. Hershel among them, as he frantically dodged the flying barrels, frightened horses, and panicked people.

  By the time he had successfully avoided being knocked to the ground and splattered with beer, the carriage was nowhere in sight. Even now he wasn’t given to cursing. He pressed his lips tightly together and quickly calculated the number of side streets that the carriage had sufficient time to turn onto.

  The next two hours were spent systematically investigating each one. Even though he was cautious, his actions still drew the unwanted attentions of an aged prostitute and bedraggled urchin. The prostitute finally gave up on the promise of commerce, but the urchin continued to follow him begging for a handout.

  “What ’cha looking for Mister?” the boy finally asked. “I knows these streets like they was me own home.” He grinned ghoulishly, showing missing teeth and a starved, pinched little face.

  Hershel stopped to look at him knowing full well that the streets were indeed his home.

  The boy stood back and gave him a measuring up and down look. “I know what you’re looking for. You’re respectable-like. That’s why you haven’t asked no one where it is.”

  “What am I looking for?” Hershel asked.

  He shook his head and held out a grubby hand. “A man’s gotta make a livin’.”

  Hershel smiled sadly and dropped several small coins into his grubby hand. The boy couldn’t be more than seven.

  “Princess Persephone’s. It’s just off Lyon on Buckle.”

  “Princess Persephone’s?”

  The boy cocked his head to one side with a knowing look. “You don’t have to pretend, mister. Lots of respectable ’uns like you go there.”

  Hershel nodded his head and thanked the boy. He wasn’t as well-acquainted with Whitechapel as Covent Garden. But he knew that Red Lyon Street was only a few blocks down. The coach could easily have reached it during the time he was dodging flying beer barrels.

  Once on Red Lyon Street, it was a short two blocks to Buckle. Fortunately for Hershel, this street was only three blocks long, bounded on one end by a field and on the other by a small alleyway.

  The tiny neighborhood coffeehouse would have gone unnoticed by most casual visitors. To Hershel’s practiced eye, the likelihood of such a small establishment making ends meet by just serving coffee was doubtful. He entered the dimly lit premises and was surprised to see several respectable-looking matrons seated at some of the tables along with the men. Women were unusual patrons of coffeehouses, and their presence here made it unlikely that this one was a front for a brothel.

  He was feeling uncertain of his suspicions but walked to the counter and addressed the man busily stacking dirty crockery. “I am wishing to speak with Princess Persephone,” he said in a low yet confident tone, hoping to convince the proprietor that h
e was privy to the actual function of the establishment.

  The man didn’t look up from his work. All Hershel could see was a bit of reddish scalp through lank, thinning hair. “And what would you be wanting with her?” the man mumbled.

  “I need to ask her about a man.”

  “Don’t everybody.”

  “Three men, actually.”

  The man looked up at Hershel with watery blue eyes and smirked. “You planning a busy night, mister?”

  Hershel stilled. Warning bells clanged loudly in his brain, and he turned as nonchalantly as possible to survey the room once again. The lighting was practically non-existence, but that was no excuse for his lack of perception. He berated himself for not immediately noticing the rather large stature of the women, and the inexpert execution of their toilette. Princess Persephone’s was a molly house, and he was a fool for being caught unawares.

  He turned back to the proprietor with what he hoped was an appropriately licentious leer. “Indeed. They asked me to meet them here. Two large men and one of medium height—all fine gentlemen.”

  The man was wiping the crockery with a dirty rag, once again looking down at his work. “They came in over an hour ago. The smaller one… he looked a bit peaked.” He jerked his head in the direction of a door at the rear of the coffeehouse. “They’re in a room. Third door down on the right.”

  Hershel nodded his thanks and headed for the door. His heart was beating heavily against his chest, and his mouth was dry. He wasn’t sure what to do next. He was in no position to confront them openly. But, if at all possible, he wanted to identify the two larger men. It wasn’t often that knowledge like this came his way.

  Buggery was a capital offense. That a spy in the employ of the Crown was a sodomite left him open to blackmail and treason. It also gave Hershel some leverage in dealing with Ethan Graham. He certainly wouldn’t want this information getting back to Sir Brandon.

  When Hershel reached the back room, the door was ajar and the room unoccupied. He cautiously pushed the door open and walked into the windowless room. It was sparsely furnished with a large canopied bed and wooden dresser. The bed had clearly been used. The sheets were in violent disarray with blankets pulled off and lying partially on the floor. Closer inspection showed a quantity of blood splattered over the bed linen.