The Great Game (Royal Sorceress)

by Nuttall, Christopher

  Sir Charles bent down to study the body. “Her neck’s been broken,” he said, grimly. “I saw something like it in India; the killer came up behind her, caught her neck and snapped it with one twist. She wouldn’t have had time to fight back.”

  Gwen winced. The girl – the maid, given how she was dressed – didn’t look Turkish; she had to be one of the country girls who came into London in hopes of finding a better life. Many of them had tried to tough it out with the young Gwen; it hadn’t been until years later that Gwen had realised that her maids had been among the lucky ones. Some others had faced worse than a bad-tempered girl who couldn’t or wouldn’t control her magic.

  She stepped into the next room and scowled. A man was sitting on a chair in front of a desk, half-hidden in the semi-darkness. Gwen created a second light and swore as it revealed blood on the floor. Up close, it was clear that someone had cut the man’s throat with a knife, probably before he even knew that he was under attack. The man – she guessed the dead body belonged to Hiram Pasha – seemed almost peaceful.

  Leaving the light globe in the room, Gwen walked back into the hallway and headed up the stairs. There were three bedrooms on the upper floor, one containing another dead body. She studied the corpse quickly, but found no obvious cause of death. Poison? Magic? Or maybe it was something physical. There was no way to know.

  She glanced into the other two bedrooms, trying to determine who had owned them. One – the larger one – probably belonged to Hiram Pasha. The next one, she suspected, belonged to the maid, unless there was another woman in the house. All the clothing was clearly feminine. And the third one... must have belonged to the second dead man, she decided. But who was he?

  There was a loud rapping at the door. “Police,” a voice barked. “Who are you?”

  Gwen blinked in surprise and headed back towards the stairwell. Someone must have seen them entering the house and sent a runner to the police, who’d responded with surprising speed for the area. The Bow Street Runners were normally more careful around the docklands, if only because drunken sailors thought it a hoot to attack policemen and steal their hats. Hiram Pasha must have definitely brought in the money.

  “Lady Gwen, Royal Sorceress,” she said, as she came down the stairs. One of the policemen was holding a truncheon, threateningly. Sir Charles looked about ready to go for his throat. “You need to inform Inspector Lestrade that our investigations might well have hit a dead end.”

  The policemen looked at her in disbelief. “You?” One of them asked. “You’re the Royal Sorceress?”

  Gwen scowled, reached out with her magic and lifted both policemen into the air. “Yes, I am,” she said, as tartly as she could. “Now, one of you can stand guard outside and the other can send for Inspector Lestrade. He is handling the police aspect of this case.”

  She put the two policemen down and watched with a certain amount of amusement as they scrambled to do her bidding. Sir Charles looked rather more amused as she stepped back into the study and looked down at Hiram Pasha’s body. At least he wasn’t scared of her...

  “You have to be careful not to touch the body,” Sir Charles said. “The police won’t thank you if you mess up the crime scene.”

  “I suppose not,” Gwen said. Apart from Mycroft’s brother, there were relatively few detectives who bothered to study the scene of the crime. Scotland Yard tended to prefer to grab the nearest suspect on the automatic assumption that he was guilty. “Can you tell how long it was since they were murdered?”

  “More than a few hours, less than three days,” Sir Charles said. He smiled as Gwen blinked at him. “We know that there was no response after Travis died, so he might well have died at the same time. Besides, the bodies haven’t really started to decompose.”

  “True,” Gwen agreed, impressed. They would have to ask around to discover when Hiram Pasha had last been seen alive, but that wouldn’t be difficult. “Do you think that the two deaths are connected?”

  “They must be,” Sir Charles said, quietly. “What are the odds on two people who knew each other coincidently being murdered on the same night?”

  “Don’t forget the others,” Gwen said, quietly. The man who’d killed Hiram Pasha had also killed his maid and the other man, whoever he had been. A son? A business associate? A bodyguard? “Did Polly only survive because she was locked up in her room?”

  She walked around the desk and started to study the papers Hiram had left out in the open. A freshly-bound Bradshaw, outlining every means of transport within Britain, from the newly-built railways to canal barges; a book examining the merits of different forms of sailing ship for transporting bulk goods across the Atlantic; a copy of the latest stocks and share prices from London... nothing seemed too out of place. The only oddity she found was a copy of a cheap novel about a woman who entered a Sultan’s harem; it was officially banned, but copies had been popping up everywhere for years.

  “I’ve seen harems,” Sir Charles commented, when she showed him the book. “It’s nothing like that.”

  Gwen smiled. “What were you doing in a harem?”

  “It was our escape route out of Bukhara,” Sir Charles said. “The guards just screeched to a halt when they realised we’d entered the forbidden room.”

  “Oh,” Gwen said, suspecting that she was being teased. “And what else did you do in the harem?”

  Inspector Lestrade arrived before Sir Charles could answer, flanked by a small army of policemen. “Dear me,” he announced to all and sundry. “This is quite a scene.”

  Gwen stepped backwards and allowed the policemen to start their work. Lestrade had shown the foresight to send a policemen to Hiram’s office to find someone who actually knew him, allowing the body to be identified quickly. The unknown man turned out to be the son of one of Hiram’s business associates in Turkey, who’d been staying with Hiram to learn how to act in Britain. Gwen felt a moment of pity for the poor man’s father as the policemen slowly carried the body out of the house. As a foreigner, the body would probably be shipped back to Turkey rather than cremated. God alone knew what would happen to Hiram; his legal status, she suspected, was rather indeterminate.

  “Hellfire,” Lestrade said, thirty minutes later. He had started to probe through the drawers that Gwen hadn’t been able to touch before they arrived. “Lady Gwen – look at these.”

  Gwen took the papers, glanced at them... and nearly jumped out of her skin. Sir Travis’s handwriting was distinctive – and the numbers on the top of the page matched the papers that were missing from the safe. Lestrade would crow over finding them before the Royal Sorceress, but it hardly mattered. The real question was how they’d come to be in Hiram Pasha’s house.

  “Those are Travis’s papers,” Sir Charles said, looking over her shoulder. He sounded badly shaken. “What... what are they doing here?”

  “Good question,” Lestrade said, briskly. “Did your friend and confidant tell you anything about this foreigner?”

  “Nothing,” Sir Charles said. “But I didn’t know everything he did.”

  “It seems that they had a bit of a relationship going,” Lestrade grunted. “The person who killed Sir Travis could easily have been the same person who killed the three victims here.”

  He might well be right, Gwen decided. If someone had managed to sneak up on a Sensitive, they wouldn’t have any trouble dealing with Hiram Pasha’s household. The maid would have been almost childishly easy to kill; the others might have been a little harder. But an assassin might not have had any real problems with them.

  “Find out when he was last seen alive,” Gwen ordered. She would bet half of her fortune that Hiram Pasha had last been seen on the same night Sir Travis died. “And then...”

  She scowled. Every time she thought she was putting the pieces together, something appeared to force her to reconsider.

  “I spoke to the manager of his shipping company,” Lestrade said. “He was last seen alive three days ago.”

  Gwen nod
ded. Hiram Pasha had died on the same night. That could not be a coincidence.

  Lestrade raised his voice as more policemen arrived. “I want this entire house searched thoroughly,” he ordered. “Full procedure; anything out of place should be brought to me at once, after it has been carefully logged. Anyone who makes a muck of it will be patrolling the docksides after dark for the next ten years.”

  “Tough guy,” Sir Charles muttered. He didn’t seem to like Lestrade. “But how well would he do on active service?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Gwen said, tightly. “He isn’t being judged on active service.”

  The policemen were very efficient – and thorough. Everything in the house, starting with the bedrooms, was carefully inspected and catalogued, then removed while the policemen felt around for secret compartments. The search was so thorough that they would probably have found Gwen’s hidden compartment at Crichton Hall, although they would probably not have been able to break in without a magician’s help. They even removed the maid’s clothes and inspected each of them, separately.

  “Come and look at this,” Lestrade said, ten minutes after the search began. “I think it’s magic.”

  The compartment had been hidden at the back of the kitchen table, an odd place for a secret of any kind. Inside, the policeman had found a pair of crystals, a handful of papers and a strange clockwork device that seemed to resemble an unsealed watch. Gwen touched one of the crystals and scowled as she recognised the magic infused into the rock. Hiram Pasha had been very paranoid – or he’d had something to hide.

  Lestrade scowled at them, as if he took their presence as a personal affront. “What are they?”

  “Privacy crystals,” Gwen said, slowly. “They prevent magicians from spying on you.”

  Seeing was one of the most unreliable talents, even though it was immensely useful when it worked properly. Magicians couldn’t see the future, but they could spy on someone – if they knew enough about the person or location to focus their minds properly. As far as Gwen knew, Hiram Pasha had never been spied on by Cavendish Hall, but there were no shortage of Seers who might decide to work for someone else. And it was quite possible that there were other Seers who might have remained completely unregistered. The talent could be very useful if no one knew that a particular person was a Seer.

  “He would have had something to hide,” Sir Charles said, when Gwen had finished explaining. “What did he have to hide?”

  “A very good question,” Lestrade said. He gave Gwen an unreadable look, then picked up the other crystal and studied it. “How common are these things?”

  “Too common,” Gwen said. An Infuser with enough talent to make them could earn enough to retire on within a few months. Everyone wanted a blocking crystal. “They don’t last indefinitely, but even an unskilled Infuser could recharge it once it was created.”

  She picked up the clockwork device. “What is this?”

  “Code wheel,” Lestrade said, after a moment of hesitation. “I’ve seen them before, once or twice. You spin the wheel, then use it to produce a simple substitution cipher. It can be difficult to break without knowing the key.”

  Gwen studied the device for a long moment, admiring the workmanship, and then put it down on the table. “What sort of person would own one?”

  Lestrade made a face. “Most shipping owners do write their orders in cipher,” he admitted. “It isn’t uncommon for their rivals to try to steal an advantage where they can. But this... combined with the papers we found, suggests that Hiram Pasha was a spy.”

  Sir Charles clenched his fists. “Are you suggesting that he spied on my friend?”

  “It is also possible that Sir Travis sold him the notes,” Lestrade said, his face darkening. “He had gambling debts to pay...”

  “I will not listen to such insinuations,” Sir Charles thundered. “Sir Travis risked his life for his country while you ran around London threatening to arrest innocent maids. Where were you when we were surrounded by a million holy warriors bent on cutting off our manhoods and then burning us to death? I demand that you retract your allegation at once!”

  Lestrade purpled. “It is my duty to consider all possible reasons for the crime,” he snapped back. “Sir Travis gambled! What else might he have done?”

  “He would never betray his country,” Sir Charles insisted. “Never! Do you know what he went through when we were caught...?”

  Gwen stared from one to the other, unsure of what to do. She couldn’t let them start throwing punches, or Lestrade would have to arrest Sir Charles... and God alone knew where that would end.

  “You arrested an innocent girl because you couldn’t be bothered to look for the real murderer,” Sir Charles snapped. “Lady Gwen does all of the investigation and you use what she finds to try to tarnish Sir Travis’s reputation!”

  Gwen hesitated, then generated a light ball between the two men, bright enough to make them stumble backwards and cover their eyes.

  “Enough,” she said. Both men stared at her, but relaxed. It dawned on her that neither of them had really wanted to start throwing punches, at least not in front of her. “There is nothing to suggest that Sir Travis willingly handed over his private papers to Hiram Pasha – or, for that matter, no conclusive proof that Hiram Pasha was a spy.”

  She stared at them both until they calmed down. “Now, this has clearly become political,” she added, with the private thought that the whole case had always been political. “I need to speak to Lord Mycroft to discuss where we go from here. I’ll take the rest of the papers from Sir Travis with me – the Inspector can see to it that I get a list of everything else in the house, particularly the paperwork.”

  “Yes, Milady,” Lestrade said.

  “I need you to arrange for Polly to be brought to Whitehall,” Gwen continued. There was no time to go to Mortimer Hall and question her about Hiram Pasha. “Mortimer Hall can remain under guard until we have completed the investigation; Polly... can go back there once I’ve finished asking her questions. But she isn’t a prisoner and you are not to treat her like one.”

  Lestrade scowled, but nodded.

  Gwen turned to Sir Charles. “I overlooked something,” she said, briskly. “I want you to go back to the Golden Turk. Don’t tell them about Hiram Pasha’s death; just ask Abdullah if Howell was backing any debts on the gaming tables. If so, find out who and when. I have a hunch.”

  And it will keep him busy, away from Lestrade, she added, silently.

  “Of course, Milady,” Sir Charles said.

  Gwen led the way outside, wondering if she’d ruined their budding relationship... if they had a budding relationship. Men were so hard to understand at times.

  He caught her arm as she started to walk towards Whitehall. “Take the carriage,” he said. “Jock will see you there safely – and it isn’t that far back to the Golden Turk. And” – he leaned forward to whisper in her ear – “will you come with me to the dance tomorrow night?”

  Gwen hesitated, then nodded. If nothing else, she would be making a point. She was not going to allow others to dictate the path of her life.

  And Talleyrand will be there too, she thought. Maybe I can ask him about Hiram Pasha and see how he reacts. Or would he bring Simone? That would be interesting to see.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Hiram Pasha being involved in this affair is... worrying,” Lord Mycroft admitted. “His death is even more so.”

  Gwen frowned, sipping the cup of tea Lord Mycroft’s assistant had brought her. “You knew him?”

  “I was aware of his existence,” Lord Mycroft said. “He was serving the Sultan of the Ottoman Empire as a spy.”

  “A spy,” Gwen repeated, shocked. “He was spying on us?”

  “Everyone spies on everyone else,” Lord Mycroft said, dispassionately. “The Turks might want us to be their allies, but they spy on us anyway – as we spy on them. You never know when some domestic policy issue will weaken the alliance without any formal
announcement that it is being terminated.”

  “It doesn’t seem cricket,” Gwen muttered, crossly.

  “The French and the Spanish don’t play cricket,” Lord Mycroft reminded her. “There are certain things we have to do, no matter how distasteful, to protect the British Empire. Spying and counter-spying are merely two of them.”

  He gave her a droll smile. “We became aware of Hiram Pasha shortly after his arrival in London; his cover story was just a shade too convenient for our tastes, so we kept an eye on him. Eventually, we realised that he was slipping information back to the Sultan, who seems to have a mania for intelligence gathering.”

  Gwen stared at him. “Why didn’t you arrest him?”

  “Better to have someone we know than someone we don’t know,” Lord Mycroft said. “This way, we get to feel out his spy network and prepare to round them all up if the situation changes. So far, he hasn’t sent much back to Turkey beyond some reports on the post-Swing political changes.”

  “That you know about,” Gwen said.

  “That we know about,” Lord Mycroft confirmed. “This game is always risky.”

  He pressed his fingertips together, contemplatively. “But this raises a worrying question,” he added. “How did Hiram Pasha obtain Sir Travis’s documents?”

  Gwen scowled. Sir Charles had been insistent that Sir Travis was no traitor, but the gambling debts suggested a strong motive for treason; Hiram Pasha’s backing of Sir Travis’s debts might be nothing more than a subtle way to pay him for his services. And yet, if that were the case, who had killed Hiram Pasha – and why? And why leave the documents there for the police to find?

  “There was no report of Sir Travis meeting with Hiram Pasha,” Lord Mycroft continued, “but that doesn’t prove anything. He was not obliged to report such a meeting – and we could only watch from a distance without arousing Hiram Pasha’s suspicions. A Sensitive would be hard to shadow in any case.”

  “So where does that leave us?” Gwen asked, bleakly. “Sir Travis a traitor?”

  “Worse than that,” Lord Mycroft said. “There are people who will argue that the Airship Treaty is too favourable to Turkey. Right now, they can argue that the Turks paid Sir Travis to write a treaty that will give them considerable advantages – without repaying us in equal coin. The Airship Treaty would be a dead letter.”