by Geonn Cannon
“No, that part makes you feel alive. What infuriates you is when I’m proven right.”
He grumbled and pushed his hat down over his eyes, pouting as Dorothy chuckled beside him.
#
Leola wasn’t as practiced behind the wheel as Adeline, so Trafalgar found herself jostled about the backseat as they raced through town to warn Dubourne about the potential threat he faced. She braced her hand against the ceiling and said nothing. She knew Leola was doing her best at an unfamiliar task while grieving her friend. Leola and Adeline had been acquaintances by necessity rather than choice, but they got on well enough. They occasionally spent their nights off together, visiting the theater or keeping one another company while shopping.
“We will find the men responsible for her death,” Trafalgar said as they followed the curve of the road deeper into Covent Gardens.
“The man responsible for her death was in the butcher’s shop,” Leola said without emotion. “You found him, and you killed him without a second thought.”
Trafalgar started to nod before she understood what Leola was saying. “And in doing so, I prevented you from taking your own vengeance. I’m sorry.”
“Make it up to me by finding the man who put the shooter in that window and we’ll call it even.”
“Deal.”
The neighborhood was a red-light district normally only active after dark. In the daylight its denizens retreated to their rat holes and their home was exposed for the tawdry and rundown place it truly was. The parking lot Leola found outside of Dubourne and Associates was partially filled with rubble and debris from various air raids. She parked and settled in to wait; if something went awry upstairs she would be needed for a rescue. Trafalgar examined the street as she climbed from the car. There were attempts underway to revitalize the area, to bring it out of the ashes like a phoenix, but at the moment Trafalgar found those rumors to be spurious at best.
Dubourne’s office was above a burlesque house. Despite the early hour music seeped from the blacked-out windows and through the paper-thin walls of the staircase as she went up to the second floor. She paused on the top step when she saw the office door was ajar. The smell of smoke was strong in the air, wrinkling her nose as she dropped the emei piercers back into her hand. She advanced carefully until she was positioned in front of the door, then she stepped forward and kicked the door open wide. Something had burned in the middle of the office, and the source of the flames still smoldered on the carpet. A twisting white column of smoke rose from the device and accumulated in a thin sheet across the ceiling.
Trafalgar stepped over the threshold and glanced to her right. She saw the body of a man, judging by his clothes, lying on the ground as if he had been thrown. His head resembled nothing more than a prune, red and blackened with tufts of hair stuck to the fringes where it hadn’t burnt away. The smell was abominable. She ignored it as best she could and scanned the rest of the room. The wallpaper was pockmarked with small dimples that were surrounded by char marks. There had been an explosion in the room, and its shrapnel had been incendiary as well. A nasty combination.
Behind the desk she found Dubourne’s secretary. The woman hadn’t been as mutilated as her employer, but the damage was done. Trafalgar knelt and touched the woman’s throat just to be certain she was beyond help. The flesh was cold, and there was no pulse. Trafalgar closed the woman’s eyes and stood up with a weary sigh. Dubourne was a mercenary for hire, the sort of man who could push through borders and get behind unfriendly lines no matter how dangerous the situation was. During the war he had been an invaluable ally to her efforts. She remembered hiring him to escort her into France to explore the basement of a church. He was expensive but he earned every dime.
It appeared as if Lady Boone’s theory was correct. Someone was targeting people in their field and, if this was any indication, the plots were already in play. She and Boone would have to move quickly. Some would have Boone’s ingenuity and avoid the traps, but those survivors might then become weapons of their persecutor. A red herring or a scapegoat would be named, and the erstwhile victim would set out for justice against their persecutor.
Trafalgar moved to the fuming device and gingerly turned it over to see the exterior of the package. It had purportedly come from the offices of Abraham Strode, a name Trafalgar recognized but a man she didn’t know personally. She tore off the identifying piece of the envelope and placed it into her pocket. She hated the idea of destroying evidence but they didn’t need the Metropolitan Police stumbling over it and getting the wrong idea. The situation was hazardous enough without a well-meaning officer threatening potential victims.
She checked the inner office to make sure no one else was involved before she went back downstairs. The dance hall music was still boisterous as ever, almost sickeningly sweet after the scene she left behind her. She gathered her coat in one hand as she slid into the car.
“Dubourne and his secretary are dead. It appears as if it was another trap set by our saboteur.”
“Lady Boone is correct.”
Trafalgar nodded. “So it would seem. Abraham Strode...” She removed the strip of paper and read off the return address. “We should get there at once to warn him, if it is not already too late.”
Leola started the car again. “Hold tight, ma’am. I won’t go as carefully this time.”
“Until now you’ve been careful? God help us all.” Trafalgar braced herself but was still flung hard against the door as Leola backed out of the parking lot and returned to the street. Strode’s offices were two miles away, and Trafalgar had the feeling she would be pinned to the seat for the duration of the trip.
#
Leonard and Agnes Keeping lived on Montpelier Place, not far from the majesty of Harrods. Dorothy allowed herself to be distracted by the store as they passed. It had been a good long while since she had a shopping spree, and several of her outfits had been ruined beyond repair by travel and misadventure. Perhaps once they had settled their current troubles she could celebrate by spending a few hours getting lost amid the racks.
Beatrice parked in front of a terraced house with a red door, the windows of the upper floor shaded with bright blue curtains. Dorothy led the charge up the steps, followed closely by Desmond and Beatrice. She didn’t know the Keepings very well but they’d shared polite conversation at a handful of events. Desmond was more acquainted with them and she hoped their relationship was strong enough that they would take him at his word. She paused when she reached the door, the jamb of which revealed a poor attempt to disguise a recent and violent splintering.
“This door has been kicked in.” Dorothy drew her gun and noted that Desmond did the same. Beatrice remained unarmed but Dorothy knew she could do just as much damage with her bare hands as anyone else could with a club. Once they were prepared Dorothy tested the latch and pushed the door open. An end table lay on its side, the vase it had once held shattered on the tile.
Desmond cursed quietly under his breath as he followed her inside. The parlor doors were slightly ajar but she could hear nothing from within. Beatrice moved past them and walked deeper into the house. Dorothy pressed her back against the wall, waited for Desmond to take position on the opposite side, and she reached out to push the door open wide enough for them to pass through. She stepped into the parlor and stopped short as the keen edge of a sword appeared against her throat.
“Crumbs...”
“Lady Boone. I must say I’m disheartened to see you are involved in this.”
Something crashed behind her, and then Desmond was tossed into the parlor. He hit the floor on his hands and knees, lifting one arm to protect himself from the brute that had obviously been the thrower.
The pressure of the blade lessened. “Desmond? Good lord, have you gone mad? I know you’re engaged to this woman, but that doesn’t mean you have to follow her into a life of crime.”
Dorothy looked at the swordsman from the corner of her eye. “Mr. Keeping? How wonderful
to see you are alive and well.”
Something heavy fell to the floor upstairs, followed by a feminine grunt and the sound of punches landing on soft flesh.
“I’m sure you’re surprised to see my wife and I survived your associates, Lady Boone.”
“Leonard, please,” Desmond said, “this is all a misunderstanding.”
“There was no misunderstanding, Professor! This morning we were called upon by someone claiming he had an artifact for us to authenticate. We arranged the meeting and everything seemed routine until our guest asked for a glass of water. Agnes went to retrieve it and, once we were separated, the brute overpowered me. I was rendered helpless by some gadget he placed on the back of my neck. The same was done to Agnes. We would have been slaughtered if Mr. Elmer hadn’t chosen that moment to come by.” He nodded to the behemoth who had tossed Desmond into the room like a rag doll.
Dorothy said, “And these men claimed I sent them?”
“They placed the blame on Nigel Mummery. But now here you are with the rest of your lackeys. Here to raid our home for its treasures, ay? If Nigel is too craven to do his own dirty work, we shall have to take the fight to him.” Something shattered upstairs. Leonard rolled his eyes and shouted, “Damn it, Agnes, just deal with the blasted girl already!”
“Easier said than done, I’m afraid,” Dorothy said. “Beatrice is skilled in several disciplines of self-defense. And I assure you this is defense rather than an attack. There is no reason to fight us. We came here to warn you. I was also the target of an attack this morning, as was Trafalgar of Abyssinia. We saw evidence of forced entry on your door, and the damage in the hallway led us to assume the worst.”
Desmond said, “She’s telling the truth, Leonard. Honestly, do you believe we would arrange for your murder and then ransack your home before the bodies would even have gotten cold? We came here to save your life, man.”
After a moment of consideration the blade was removed from Dorothy’s throat. She took a calming breath and glared at the man. He was taller than her, gray at the temples and bald on top, with a drooping gray mustache that concealed his lips. His right eye was red and swollen, and there was a bruise on his left cheek that would grow more colorful with the passage of time. Despite that, she had little doubt the man could and would have cut off her head if she had revealed herself to be a threat. There was another crash from above them.
“If you could please call off the battle royale taking place upstairs?”
“Agnes!” he shouted. “We have agreed to a temporary halt to the hostilities.”
A shrill voice shouted back from the second floor landing. “Tell that to this insane woman!”
Dorothy couldn’t resist a smile. “Lay down your arms, Trix. We’ve decided to be civil.”
The sounds of conflict ceased, and a moment later Beatrice came downstairs with an older, stern woman whose hair had come loose in a wild tangle around her face. Beatrice had loosened her necktie and the top button of her blouse but looked otherwise shipshape. Dorothy winked at her and Beatrice twisted the corner of her mouth upward in a small smile as she joined everyone else in the parlor. Leonard put away his sword as Agnes joined him.
“It would appear we were not the only targets today,” he said. “Lady Boone says she, as well as Miss Trafalgar, were also nearly victims.”
Dorothy said, “We believe everyone who shares our profession has reason to fear. Trafalgar was sent to speak with Dubourne.”
Agnes said, “We know Wallace. We could call him to see if everything is all right.”
“Trafalgar would have reached him by now. He is either warned or it is too late. If I were you, I would worry about contacting Nigel Mummery. Trafalgar was blamed for the assault on my life, and I was named as the architect of her assassination attempt.” Agnes went to the telephone to make the call. “Whoever is truly behind this has covered his tracks well and ensured that we as a group will be at each other’s throats. The question is why.”
“He obviously wants us out of the way,” Leonard said. “He’s trying to rid London of our particular breed so he can take over.”
Desmond nodded. “Even if he is only partially successful, our numbers may be greatly reduced. Then he will be free to usurp our funding and our beneficiaries.”
Leonard raised his eyebrows. “Any theories on who it might be?”
“I would say present company excluded,” Dorothy said. “As well as Mr. Dubourne and those who work with him. And if Mummery was named in your attack we can eliminate him with a certain degree of certainty. We’ve all been active long enough that we don’t have to take such drastic measures to ensure our employment.”
Leonard said, “Being caught up in this insanity is hardly a reason to discount anyone as a suspect. It’s the easiest thing in the world to foil an assassination attempt you set up for yourself. All you would have to do is pretend you foiled the attempt.”
“Like you, Mr. Keeping?” She raised an eyebrow in a show of good-natured joshing.
“Or you, Lady Boone?” He narrowed his gaze at her.
She smirked at him as Agnes returned. She had adjusted her hair and clothes, but her face was now pale and drawn. “There was no response at Mummery’s home or offices. Who else do you believe has been targeted?”
Dorothy said, “Anyone who has led or taken part in an expedition, anyone with any connection to seeking out or recovering ancient artifacts.”
“That could be dozens of people in London alone.”
“And we’ve covered only a fraction of them,” Dorothy said. “Agnes, I believe you and your husband should check on Mummery. I’m not entirely hopeful for his chances, but he may simply be distracted. Be very careful. If he has fallen victim, check the house for clues. It may lead you to the next victim. In the meantime, Des and I shall continue down our list.”
Leonard said, “Who is on it already?”
She took a piece of paper from the cuff of her blouse and handed it over. “If there is a name on there you are familiar with, I’d be happy to let you take it. This news is more likely to be believed if it comes from someone trustworthy.” She touched her throat. “For obvious purposes.”
“Sorry about that.”
“You were on edge,” she said, unaware of the pun until she’d spoken it. “No apologies are necessary. For now we must make haste. It seems these traps have been set for a certain timeframe. If so we could already be too late to warn anybody. But perhaps we can be there in time to save a few of them.” She held out her hand for the list and Abraham handed it over. “Next on our list is Abraham Strode. Good luck, Mr. and Mrs. Keeping.”
“And to you, Lady Boone.”
The Keepings escorted their guests out, then hurried to their car. Desmond knew that another person on the list, Arthur Whitmore, kept an office nearby. He could make it faster on foot than if Beatrice drove out of her way, so he wished them luck and headed off. Once they were on the road Dorothy examined Beatrice as best she could from the backseat.
“I hope you weren’t brutalized too horribly by that awful woman.”
Beatrice grinned. “Nah, it was good. Got my blood pumping, which is always nice. You?”
“Bastard put a sword at my throat.” She touched the skin once more to make sure there was no damage. “Haven’t had that in a while. At least a year.”
“It must be nice to know you haven’t lost your touch.”
Dorothy chuckled and nodded, but the smile faded as they continued on to their next stop. She had little hope of finding Abe Strode alive and well when they got to his home. Whoever sent the killers and the devices planned their implementation very carefully, down to the last detail. All over London her colleagues were receiving packages or answering the door to find hired killers. Those who weren’t killed in the first assault would be given orders of their own. It was diabolical; the madman was taking his failures and turning them into tools of his success.
“Beatrice,” she said.
“Yes, m
a’am?”
“When we find this blackguard, I do trust you will save a few blows for me.”
Beatrice chuckled. “I’ll do my best to control myself.”
Dorothy nodded. “Fantastic.”
She braced herself for what they would find in Strode’s home. Their profession was small to begin with, and the thought of even a fraction of these booby-traps being successful would severely diminish their numbers. She had a sinking sensation that even with all their countermeasures and all the running around she was doing with Trafalgar, Des, and the Keepings, that it was all for naught. There was a chance that whoever was behind the frame jobs and the assassins had already won.
Chapter Six
Dorothy recognized Trafalgar’s car parked outside of Abraham Strode’s office and directed Beatrice to park behind her. The office door was standing open when they arrived, causing her to believe the worst. She entered the house and examined the foyer, but nothing seemed amiss. There were a few smudges of mud smeared on the tile, but it had rained the day before. She assumed someone had simply left their muddy shoes next to the door so they could dry out.
She advanced carefully and found Strode and Trafalgar in the lounge, both completely unharmed. Strode was a tall, slender man with an ash-blonde Vandyck and his hair swept back in a pompadour. He stood behind his desk where a silver tray held a large porcelain bowl, a tall glass, and a pair of seasoning shakers. The room was spotless, a portrait of having a place for everything and everything in its place.
Strode was in the middle of some diatribe when Dorothy entered the room, and her sudden appearance caused him to stop midsentence. “Lady Boone. I suppose it’s too much to expect you to knock.”
“Your door was open.”
He rolled his eyes and removed his tinted glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Of course it was. I hope you left it open to ease your retreat.”
“I came here to warn you.”
He offered a patronizing smile. “Yes, I am aware. As I was telling your associate--”