“A woman killed Hibbert?” Kate surmised. “A jealous quarrel? What about the werewolf?”
“The witness was drunk. His reliability is quite lacking.”
“What shall we do now?”
“Let’s go into the sitting room and discuss it.” Simon directed her into a sun-dappled room of very masculine style. The homey scent of leather and wood. Suitably disheveled. Books everywhere. Used dishes stacked in various spots. Small piles of burnt tobacco on corners of tables and desks where they were knocked from pipes and left.
“I apologize for the state of the house. I’ll bring coffee.” Simon stepped to the door of the parlor. “Nick! Coffee!”
A muffled rude word wafted from the back.
Simon began to tidy the room halfheartedly, taking small stacks of books and making large stacks of books, sweeping pipe ash from the desk onto the floor.
Kate parted the sheer curtains to peer out. She jumped when she saw a wiry orange cat sitting on the brick sill staring strangely back at her. “Mr. Archer, please. Cleaning seems pointless now. What is our next step?”
“Quite.” He dropped the stack of books he was carrying and brushed his hands on his trousers. “Something we should be aware of. It’s possible that the police may question us about Colonel Hibbert’s death.”
Kate whirled from the window. “Why? How do the police know we were there?”
“They don’t, or they shouldn’t. And I suspect they won’t spend much effort on a man such as he. However, if they manage to connect Hibbert to Imogen Anstruther, it would lead them to you.”
She nodded, vexed she hadn’t considered that possibility before now. “What will we tell them?”
“The truth, of course.”
“The truth?” She looked doubtful, her arms folded across her chest.
“Not the entire truth.” Simon laughed as he moved next to Kate. “The entire truth is rarely necessary, which is precisely why I smudged out the werewolf tracks at the death scene. No sense in giving the boys at Scotland Yard a more difficult riddle than they can solve. I will also want the shoes you were wearing last night so I can destroy them. Bloodstains and all.” He opened the window and the cat leapt inside. “Don’t worry, we’ll work out a logical story before we need it.”
“You don’t strike me as a cat fancier.” Kate watched the animal patter off down the hall.
“Well, he’s the former owner of this house,” Simon said cryptically. “And he refuses to leave.”
There was a rap at the front door and Simon started. “A visitor. That’s unusual. In fact, nearly impossible.”
“Is it the police?” Kate’s eyes widened. “You said the house was warded.”
Simon went to the hallway, where Nick appeared too. Both men seemed disturbingly unnerved. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“No. You?”
The two men walked slowly to the front door. Nick stood to one side and his hand began to sparkle with faint flickers of lightning. Simon pulled his walking stick from a wicker cobra basket and drew out the sword.
Kate heard a slight crack and realized it was her fists tightening.
Simon touched a panel on the door and it shimmered into transparency. He reared back in surprise. Nick noticed his reaction and leaned over to look out.
“Who the devil?” Nick asked.
“I can’t fathom how he found us.” Simon lowered the sword and triggered the door to swing open. “Good morning, Hogarth.”
“Sir.” The Anstruthers’ massive manservant stood calmly on the stoop, eyeing the narrow blade in Simon’s hand. “Is Miss Anstruther here?”
“Hogarth!” Kate raced forward before Simon could answer. “What is it? Have you heard from Imogen?” Her questions were desperate.
“Miss Imogen has been located, ma’am.”
Kate didn’t like the way he had phrased that response, nor his guarded tone. “Where is she?”
Across the Thames River from Westminster was Lambeth, where stood a rambling Georgian palace known as Bethlehem Hospital, often called Bethlem for short. It was perhaps the most well-known medical facility in the entire city, and the most feared. The polite citizens would cluck their tongues and pay proper homage to the progressive concept of Christian kindness and scientific treatment for the patients there. But more often than not, they suppressed a shudder of horror at the thought of the wild-eyed lunatics screaming in the cold shadowy dungeons of “Bedlam” asylum. And they prayed it would never be them.
Kate knew she was dreadfully pale as she followed a white-clad orderly through the spacious main hall. The comforting footsteps of Simon and Hogarth were close behind. Gratefully, no drooling, gibbering patients wandered about. The smell was a noxious blend of sweat and faint chemical. Attendants and doctors in their long coats, well dressed and serious, nodded sympathetically.
The orderly opened a door and stepped aside. “Dr. White will see you.”
They entered a vast front office and Kate saw an older man behind a distant desk. He was shrouded by bright light from a sweep of windows behind him. He rose quickly and came forward, buttoning his jacket politely. He was white-haired but moved with vigor. A man of great concentration, he focused on Kate as he used both massive hands to take hers.
“Miss Anstruther, thank you for coming so promptly.” His voice was deep and comforting.
“How is my sister?”
“Please, won’t you sit?” Dr. White directed her to a plush leather chair, one of several in the corner of his office.
“Thank you. Doctor, may I present my friend, Mr. Simon Archer.”
Dr. White shook Simon’s hand. “Mr. Archer, we’ve met briefly.”
“I recall. Three years ago at the Royal Society’s ball honoring the memory of Sir Joseph Banks.”
“You have a prodigious memory, sir. I believe you were favoring the recently widowed Lady Houseworth that night. Most kind of you to provide her with support in her time of grief.”
Kate glanced at Simon, and save for a tightness in his jaw, he offered no reaction to the comment.
Dr. White consulted the gold watch hanging on a sparkling chain from his waistcoat. He gathered a brown folder from his desk and sat down opposite Kate. “I know you’re anxious, Miss Anstruther. Most understandable. So let me tell you all I know.”
The doctor drew eyeglasses from his pocket and propped them on his nose. He opened the folder and consulted several sheets of closely written notes. “Let’s see. Your sister was seen wandering the streets in Westminster two nights ago in a state of extreme agitation and mental confusion. While that is not an unusual condition for some, it was clear to observers that your sister was a woman of status, not a tramp down in her cups. She was approached by a constable who determined that she was unable to make a satisfactory accounting of herself and displayed a paranoia that was aggressive and dangerous. As it didn’t appear to be the obvious result of alcohol or narcotic, the constable had her brought here.
“She was admitted and questioned by one of our doctors. During a brief moment of lucidity, she claimed to be the daughter of Sir Roland Anstruther. At which point, I was called to consult, having seen both of his daughters in the past at various functions, and I confirmed that she was Sir Roland’s youngest.” He put aside the papers. “I then sent a message to Hartley Hall, and here you are.”
“What is wrong with her?” Kate asked.
“I don’t know, to be frank. But let me caution you, the disorders of the mind are not so simple as mere physical maladies. That said, I haven’t had the opportunity to do more than make the briefest of observations. And she has been under enormous sedation to stifle her deranged behaviors.”
“Did she mention a man named Hibbert?” Kate said.
Dr. White consulted his notes for a few moments. “No. Is he someone of importance to her?”
“He was.”
The doctor’s gaze flicked uncomfortably to Simon. “May I speak quite frankly, Miss Anstruther?”
“Yes,” Kate replied. “You may say anything in front of anyone here.”
His voice lowered. “A physical examination of your sister gives me ample reason to believe she may have been ill-used by a man. I’m very sorry to tell you that.”
Kate gripped the arms of the chair, threatening to rip them off. “Could that violation explain her extreme condition?”
Dr. White removed his eyeglasses and held them thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Despite our desire to categorize all forms of life, the human mind resists the most cunning tactics of science. Every person is an individual with unique reactions to emotional disturbances. Miss Anstruther, would you characterize your sister as a sensible young woman normally?”
Kate looked down and back up with solid conviction. “Yes. Normally.”
“I see.” Dr. White paused to adjust his tie. “I am going to recommend that you take your sister home.”
Kate relaxed visibly. “Thank you, Doctor. So you think she will be fine once we bring her home?”
“I won’t tell you that, but I strongly suggest you keep her at home for the foreseeable future. The normality of that environment can do nothing but help her. And quite frankly, a woman of her stature and family shouldn’t be here. I’ve managed to keep the knowledge of her identity confined to a few here to decrease the possibility that the public will learn that the daughter of Sir Roland Anstruther was a resident, even for a short while. I wish to minimize the potential for scandal at all costs. I have pulled all the papers that were filled out at her admission. As of now, she was never here.”
“Thank you, Dr. White.”
“I will provide you with a strong tincture of opiates that will assist you in keeping her calm. I fear I cannot give you much hope for her future, but I do not wish to dissuade you from hoping.”
Kate exclaimed, “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”
“I understand your consternation, but remember, you haven’t seen her. I don’t know how she acted prior, but I can only assume she wasn’t in her current state.” He gave Kate a pointed stare. “You weren’t keeping her confined, were you?”
“No, of course not.”
Dr. White replaced his glasses and gave an odd, inappropriate smile. “Well, you will now.”
Chapter Thirteen
Hartley Hall seemed to erupt from the serene Surrey countryside. Originally it had been a modest Tudor-era country house, but Sir Roland Anstruther had enlarged it over his years of residence until that quaint old relic had long ago been subsumed by a sprawling grey stone structure partially hidden in scarlet-leafed ivy. It was a half-mad but magnificent structure inextricably mixed with the landscape by way of conservatories, loggias, pergolas, and large French windows. To some it might appear overwrought, but there was a chaotic charm to it. The large turrets gracing some of the corners made it appear as if it were a stalwart protector of its five-thousand-acre estate and could hold back any encroaching army.
Hogarth carefully took the insensible and lethargic Imogen in his thick, muscular arms and carried her inside without a word from his mistress. Kate ushered Simon and Nick in, where she spoke a few calming words to the butler and housekeeper, who stood with wide eyes, staring at Imogen being carried past. She dispatched the two servants to see to the guests and followed Hogarth upstairs.
Simon and Nick were invited into the library, where maids appeared with tea and coffee. The room was large enough to host a meeting of both Houses of Parliament. Drapes were pushed aside to let in the fading late sunlight and a fire was laid in the hearth. Afterward, the two servants who had met Kate at the door introduced themselves as Barnaby the butler and Mrs. Tolbert the housekeeper. He was quite rotund and had an emotionless face; she was aging and likely in her final years at the famous estate, with all the authority that a woman in her position had gathered in that time. Barnaby unlocked the liquor cabinet with a set of keys and offered drinks. Simon graciously declined, and when the servants realized he was not going to let slip any information about Imogen, they excused themselves.
Simon carried a cup and saucer as he strolled deeper into the library. Everywhere his eye lit, there was some sort of strange and wonderful object. Artifacts. Constructions. Relics. Maps. Books.
He encountered a huge portrait of Sir Roland that dominated the vast room. The man was handsome, with his hair pulled back in a queue. He was dressed in clothes from the reign of George III. He stood with his right hand on his hip and his left hand extended and open. An acorn rested in the palm of his hand. The background was a tropical sea scene with a British frigate in full sail. The expression of the man was odd, however, for a formal portrait. He had a slight smile on his face as if he found the prospect of fame amusing, as if the very act of sitting for a portrait, of being immortalized, was laughable.
“So young.” Simon eyed the ship in the painting. “HMS Resolution. This would have been around the age when he traveled with Cook to Hawaii. Seems like a pleasant fellow, given his later reputation as a stern taskmaster in his own expeditions.”
“Hawaii is where the natives beat Cook to death. A lot of Englishmen will end up that way in hot places around the globe if we keep pushing ourselves out there. Hello, have a look at this.”
Simon saw Nick hold up what appeared to be a chunk of rock about the size and shape of a fist. He had seen a similar object before in Paris, buried in a warded trunk beneath the tiles of Notre Dame. It was a gargoyle heart. He couldn’t help but be awed. Even Nick gave an impressed shake of his head and tossed the lump of stone organ back on a shelf.
There was a machine on a table that appeared to be manufactured of pure transparent crystal. It was only a foot square. The interior was clear and the inner workings were visible with intricate gears and levers apparently crafted from delicate crystal. Light sparkled against the facets and rainbowed across the room. It was an extraordinarily beautiful piece of work but had no obvious function.
Simon’s attention was immediately diverted by a large reptilian skull on another bookshelf. “What do you think of this beast, Nick? It’s appears to be an enormous crocodile but of a type I’ve never seen.”
The older man glanced briefly. “It’s a dragon.”
Simon tilted his head. “You say that rather matter-of-factly.”
“That’s because it is a matter of fact. It’s a dragon skull. I saw one in Persia.”
“Is it useful for anything?”
“Holding a dragon’s brain.”
Simon ran a finger along the spiked eye socket and suddenly realized he heard an odd noise. “Do you hear a buzzing sound?”
Simon and Nick looked at each other and started searching for the source of a metallic vibration. They noticed a small square hole in the wall high up near the ceiling. Something moved inside the dark space. Simon spoke a rune to life, feeling new strength. An object spurted out into the room and hovered in the air with a hum. It was about the size of a billiard ball with a weird blur around it.
Simon and Nick tensed, moving to the center of the library. The thing hovered over a lamp sconce on the wall. It settled onto the brass with nearly invisible, springlike legs and the blur stopped to reveal that it had wings like a bee. Then a narrow snout extended from the orb and dipped into the lamp. With a flick of a small flame, the lamp was lit. The wings began to vibrate again, and the ball rose into the air, drifting toward the next lamp. Once the lamps were lit, the weird little insect zipped up to the ceiling and crawled back into the wall on tiny legs, and was gone.
“What in the hell?” Nick muttered.
Simon went to the door and leaned out into the corridor. There was another of the metal bugs fluttering at a lamp in the hall. He then noted a number of the square holes high up in the wainscoting throughout the house.
A servant paused. “Sir? May I help you?”
“No, thank you. Just noting the, um, lamplighters.”
“Oh yes. The lampflies.” The young man looked around as if he no longer even noticed the little automata flying abo
ut. “They’ll all be back in their hives soon.”
“I hear hissing. Are those lamps gas?”
The servant continued to show politeness. “Of a sort, sir. Sir Roland again.”
“Amazing.” Simon returned to the library.
Nick stood by the French windows and threw them open. “Going for a walk to check out the grounds. I’ll be back in a while and we can start for London.”
“Be careful where you step and have a look for lycanthrope signs, will you.” If a werewolf had killed Hibbert, it wouldn’t be implausible that it might be stalking Imogen. Simon had never heard of the beasts being so methodical; still, it was better to err on the side of caution.
He heard footsteps approaching the door. Kate entered slowly, her body bearing the weight of the last couple of days. To Simon, she looked lovely and charged with determination despite her unruly hair and the dark shadows under her eyes.
“How is your sister?” Simon asked, pouring coffee for her.
“Confused.” Kate drank gratefully. “Seems to have no sense of what has occurred the last few days. Perhaps that is for the best. And she’s very anxious. Walking around the house. She went into father’s private study and started looking at everything as if she’d never seen it before.”
“That’s not surprising, I suppose.”
“I gave her the dose from Dr. White, and she is resting now.”
“It will ease the trauma of what happened to her in Hibbert’s company.” Simon shook his head sadly. “When did your sister’s odd gentleman caller begin courting her?”
“Late summer.”
Around the time the werewolf killings began in London,, thought Simon grimly.
Kate took a small cloth and laid it over the crystalline machine, dousing the fractured light that sparkled through the room. She noted Simon’s look of curiosity, and said, “Sometimes I can’t bear the reflections.”
“May I ask what that machine does?”
The Shadow Revolution Page 10