Ashes To Ashes: A Ministry of Curiosities Novella (The Ministry of Curiosities Book 5)

by C. J. Archer

  "Almost, but not quite. How fortunate that you came up with an arrangement to satisfy her and keep her quiet." That arrangement being the kidnapping of Charlie and Gus so that Charlie could raise Mrs. Drinkwater's dead supernatural husband. Those dark hours when Lincoln hadn't known where Charlie was still ate at him. He had never known real fear until the moment when he learned that she'd been taken, perhaps killed. He never wanted to experience it again. It was after he'd learned of Julia's involvement that he'd begun to see her for the selfish woman she truly was. It had taken every ounce of his control not to kill her. The irony wasn't lost on him that he wouldn't have had that self-control if it weren't for Charlie believing he had it in him.

  "Please, Lincoln." She placed her palms on his chest, tilted her chin and blinked watery eyes at him. "Please speak with Golightly and get his assurance that nothing like that will happen again."

  He plucked off her hands then let them go. "That is your affair, not mine. Speak to Golightly yourself."

  "But I'll be seen!"

  "Then write him a letter."

  "So he or that horrid Redding woman can keep it and use it against me?" She bit her wobbling lip, and this time he believed that her tears were real. "She never did like me, the jealous minx. Not once Andrew and I…not after he began paying me attention."

  He passed her his handkerchief. "Speaking of Buchanan, do you know about your stepson's latest interest?"

  She paused, perhaps needing a moment to adjust to the change in topic. "Interest?"

  "Her name is Ela."

  She swallowed. "Oh. That sort of interest. No, I didn't know about her." She lifted her chin, stretching her throat above the high lace ruffle of her collar. "Who is she?"

  "A dancer with the circus."

  Her bark of laughter held no humor. "Of course she is."

  "You haven't seen her at Harcourt House?"

  "God, no! No gentleman brings home his mistress for the world, and the servants, to see. That's obscene."

  She should know, having been a gentleman's mistress prior to her marriage. Lincoln wasn't sure how she'd convinced Lord Harcourt, Andrew's father, to marry her, and he didn't want to know. The agreement struck up with Golightly had probably helped her cause considerably. Harcourt had been a respected, conservative nobleman—he wouldn't want the world thinking he'd fallen for a dancer. The fact that Julia was a headmaster's daughter had been enough of a scandal at the time.

  "They must have hired a room somewhere for the purpose." She strode away, her deep plum skirts swishing around her ankles. She trailed her fingers along the back of the sofa then turned to face him, her back to the fire. Her eyes seemed to glisten, but whether from unshed tears or something else, he couldn't be sure. "Did you mention this Ela woman merely to see my reaction, Lincoln? Are you curious to know if I'm jealous of her?"

  Lincoln knew that Julia and Andrew had a dalliance before she met Andrew's father. He wasn't as sure whether their affair had continued after Lord Harcourt's death, although it wouldn't surprise him if they had an arrangement. It would be easy enough, since they lived in the same house and both had passionate natures that neither seemed fully able to control. But there was a tension between them with a sharp, cruel edge to it. Lincoln didn't know the source of the tension, nor did he understand why they stayed together in the same house if they didn't like one another. Their relationship, like many, was a mystery to him.

  He blamed his lack of understanding on a deficiency in his education. He'd been taught a broad range of subjects, but his lack of interaction with other people meant he felt like he was always observing through a window, unable to hear the conversation on the other side.

  Charlie had been good at understanding people. Years of living with gangs on the street had honed senses Lincoln doubted he even possessed. She could quickly identify subtle changes in the mood of others and the meaning behind facial expressions and tone of voice. She knew how to express her feelings, and how to coax the best out of people. And sometimes the worst.

  "Lincoln? Are you listening to me?'

  He snapped his gaze back to Julia. "Buchanan is your stepson," he said. "Why would you be jealous of his latest paramour?" It wasn't the cleverest thing he'd said all day, and the stiffening of her spine cued him into her opinion of it.

  She sniffed. "Paramour is not quite the appropriate word, in this case. I prefer to use whore."

  "She was also O'Neill's lover," he told her.

  "Ah. That explains your questions. And here I thought it was to goad me."

  "I don't goad."

  Her lips flattened. "I'm sure the dancer is merely a passing infatuation for Andrew, but please, ask him yourself. I'm sure he would love to answer your questions."

  Unlikely.

  "Do you know how long the circus is in London?" she asked.

  "Until February, I believe."

  "That long?" She turned her back to him and held her hands out to the fire. A few deep breaths later, she turned once again and plastered a smile on her face. "I'm holding a Christmas ball soon. I'd like you to come."

  "I'm too busy."

  "I haven't told you which night. Besides, everyone will be there."

  She'd said something similar when she wanted him to attend another ball three months prior. In that instance, she'd used the carrot of the Prince or Wales's presence. Lincoln had gone only to see the man who'd fathered him. It was the first time he had been in the same room as the prince, and it would hopefully be the last. He wanted nothing more to do with him.

  Julia approached and took his hands in hers. "I'll send you an invitation. Now, what does a woman need to do to get an invitation to dinner at Lichfield?"

  "I rarely dine at an appropriate hour for company."

  "You're home now. We could pass the time in here or…elsewhere until the gong."

  "I have work to do."

  She pouted. "Don't be difficult, Lincoln." She stroked his jaw, and once again he had to catch her hand.

  "Good day, Julia." He tugged the bell pull beside the door. Doyle must have been hovering nearby, because he appeared mere seconds later. "See Lady Harcourt out," Lincoln said.

  Julia swept past him. He didn't need anyone to interpret her facial expression for him this time. The set of her jaw and diamond-hard stare gave him enough clues. That and her silence.

  Patrick O'Neill must have been a valued member of Barnum and Bailey's troupe to get his own private room in Mrs. Mather's lodging house. Other bedrooms housed two, three or four lodgers, sometimes sharing the same bed. Lincoln had peered into each room to ascertain the layout of the house before returning to O'Neill's to begin his search.

  Although he hadn't been inside the house the day before, he had been close enough to overhear the detective inspector speaking with Mrs. Mather, and he had seen their faces as they both gazed up at the third window from the right on the second story. It had been easy to use window ledges and shutter corners to scale the wall, but he would have found another way in if the relevant window had been closed. Fortunately it was open, most likely to let fresh air into a room where the scent of death still lingered beneath the equally pungent smell of carbolic soap.

  The room itself was little wider than the bed. A small table had been wedged between the bed and wall, a candle burned almost to a stub on the surface. There were no lamps or other lighting. Not that Lincoln would use them if they were available. The moonlight filtering through the window was enough. That and instinct.

  The mattress had been removed, along with the linen, but dark patches of what he supposed were bloodstains could still be seen splattered over the floral wallpaper behind the bed.

  Lincoln worked quickly, first checking the two drawers in the dressing table. They held O'Neill's personal items—comb and hair oil, beard trimmer, a bible, rosary, ink, pen, blotter and paper. Four letters written on thin paper were tucked into the corner, all dated after the troupe's arrival in London, and all from family members still living in Ireland. Lincoln re
cognized their names from the ministry archives. He skimmed the contents as best as he could, given the poor light, and skimmed his fingertips over the blank papers, feeling for indentations made from the pen on the sheet that had been above it. Nothing of use. He flipped through the pages of the bible, but nothing fell out.

  He moved to the traveling trunk stored at the foot of the bed. The lock had been forced open, most likely by the police looking for clues. Moonlight glinted off the gold paint of a wide belt attached to a costume that would have covered very little of O'Neill's body. The idea was probably to show off the man's musculature, and perhaps to titillate the female audience. There were other costumes too, one Arabic in nature with pantaloons, and a loincloth made of animal hide. The trunk also contained a shirt, heavy woolen coat, a pair of trousers and old boots. His best suit and shoes must be with the body for burial. If he'd been wearing a nightshirt at the time of death, it had probably found its way to the scrap heap. Aside from a book of Irish ballads, the trunk was empty.

  Lincoln searched through pockets. He flipped through the pages of the book. He searched everywhere and found exactly what he expected to find—nothing. No evidence of an argument or an enemy, gambling debts, jealous lover or grudges held. It appeared as if O'Neill's death had been a random attack.

  Someone in the next room—Ira Irwin, most likely—snored. Lincoln had time to go through everything again. He searched the walls and floorboards, stepping on a creaking one near the door. He silently cursed himself for the foolish mistake then listened. All seemed quiet. Too quiet. Irwin had stopped snoring.

  Lincoln hurriedly re-checked the letters, books and papers, then moved back to the clothing. Outside in the corridor, a light footstep made him pause. Someone was there. He should leave.

  But he also needed to be sure he hadn't missed anything. He quickly searched through the pockets again, but they were indeed empty, and the linings contained nothing sewn into them.

  He glanced at the door as another footstep sounded, so light that he questioned whether he'd heard it or imagined it. A wise man would escape now. Lincoln was in no mood to be wise tonight, or any of these last few nights. Besides, there were only O'Neill's boots remaining. He needed mere seconds.

  He loosened the bootlaces and thrust his hand inside, stretching his fingers down into the toes of one boot, then the other.

  Paper crinkled. He pulled it out, stood and dove for the open window, just as the door crashed back on its hinges.

  "I can't see!" someone shouted.

  "A figure! There! Climbing through the window!" That was Irwin. "Head him off downstairs."

  Lincoln held onto the window ledge and swung to his left. He caught the ledge of Irwin's window and pulled himself up. He'd had more time to find footholds on his earlier ascent to O'Neill's room, but fortunately the layout of the building was the same here and he didn't have to think too much. As he reached the fourth level, the ceiling height was lower, the roofline sloped, and it was easy to reach the eaves.

  Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough.

  "He's gone up!" Irwin shouted.

  Lincoln gripped the eaves and swung, hand over hand, to the next building. Its roof was lower and Lincoln climbed onto the tiles as quietly as he could. He crossed the gully to the back of the house but the wall was too sheer to climb down. He ran up the steep, slippery pitch and glanced back toward the lodging house.

  Someone had the courage to pursue him. Someone fast and unafraid of heights. An aerialist, perhaps.

  Lincoln ran on. He jumped from roof to roof, leaping over narrow lanes where necessary. But he couldn't continue forever. The roofs would come to an end soon, and the aerialist hadn't given up. Lincoln could overpower him if necessary, but he didn't want to harm an innocent man.

  He reached the last roof and balanced on the sloping tiles. He peered over the edge. No shutters, and the window ledges were too far apart. He ran to the back of the house and spotted a sluice pipe running down the wall. There was no time to test its strength. He swung his legs over the eaves and grabbed on with his knees.

  His descent was so fast that he reached the cobbled yard before the aerialist peered over the edge of the roof. He dodged through an archway to the lane beyond, and ran to his right. Instead of running straight along it, he scaled another wall into another yard, through a gate and into a yard, then a wider lane.

  He knew these streets like he knew the patterns of lines on Charlie's palm. The aerialist did not. There were no sounds of pursuit; no hue and cry had been raised. He was very much alone on the frosty, sooty London evening. He slowed to a brisk walk and headed back toward Highgate. He'd not brought a horse or carriage with him, and the walk was a long one.

  So he ran. Instead of allowing his mind to wander at will, he forced himself to stay alert, to listen and focus on the task at hand. He'd almost missed the piece of paper in the boot, now tucked into his pocket. That was sloppy. He'd also almost been caught. That was unfortunate. On the other hand, it was also exhilarating. He'd not had a good chase across rooftops in an age.

  Lichfield Towers was in darkness when he arrived. Nobody waited up for him. He hadn't asked them to, and yet he almost wished he had.

  He shook off those thoughts and poured himself a brandy in the library. By the light of the candles, he dug the note out of his pocket and read it. It was an address. One he knew well.

  Harcourt House, Mayfair. Julia's home, and Andrew Buchanan's.

  Chapter 4

  Lincoln was a coward. It wasn't a word he liked to associate with himself, but on this occasion, he could admit it. He hunched into his coat on the street opposite Harcourt House, his hood pulled low, and waited for Julia to leave. More than an hour later, his patience was rewarded as the front door opened and Millard the butler handed her an umbrella. She descended the steps and strolled up the street. Once she was gone from sight, Lincoln approached the house.

  Millard answered his knock. "Lady Harcourt is not at home, sir."

  "I wish to see Mr. Buchanan," Lincoln said.

  "He's not available to callers."

  Meaning he was probably still in bed. Lincoln checked his pocket watch. It was almost midday. "Inform Mr. Buchanan that he will make himself available to discuss Ela. If he's not down within fifteen minutes, I'll come up to his room and drag him out of bed by the ankles."

  Millard didn't blink an eye. He merely stepped aside to allow Lincoln in. "May I take your coat, sir?"

  Fifteen minutes later, Buchanan ambled into the drawing room. He looked as if someone had dragged him out of bed by the ankles. His fair hair was flat on one side and stuck out from his head on the other. He rubbed bloodshot eyes and stifled a yawn.

  "Bloody early, ain't it, Fitzroy?"

  "No."

  Buchanan crossed to the window and looked out. He winced and rubbed his eyes again, even though the day wasn't bright. "You're right. Not too early for a drink at all." He poured a snifter of brandy and offered it to Lincoln.

  Lincoln shook his head and Buchanan sipped from the glass. "I believe you know Ela, one of Barnum and Bailey's dancers," Lincoln said.

  Buchanan smirked. "I know her. Speaking of girls, where's your fiancée? She's not with you today?"

  Julia hadn't told him? "Charlie no longer lives with me."

  Buchanan lowered the glass and blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream. "You don't say. Interesting."

  "Why?"

  Buchanan swirled the liquid around the snifter. "Does this mean you're no longer engaged?"

  Blood surged along Lincoln's veins. He forced himself to remain still, and to think. A suitable answer came to him after several thumping heartbeats. "Charlie is too young to get married."

  "Hardly. Girls younger than her have been hitched, or promised." Buchanan's smirk reappeared, more twisted than before. "Besides, she's hardly innocent, given her background. Probably has more experience than me. I wouldn't mind finding out what the little vixen—"

  Lincoln grabbed the turd
's throat, cutting off the flow of verbal vomit spewing from his mouth. Buchanan choked out something inaudible, and his face turned a satisfying shade of red.

  "If you disparage her again," Lincoln snarled in Buchanan's ear, "I will castrate you and serve your balls to you on a platter. Do you understand?"

  The purple veins on Buchanan's temple stood out in bas-relief. He attempted a nod.

  Lincoln let him go and watched as Buchanan fell to his knees, one hand at his throat, the other holding the snifter steady so that none of the liquid spilled.

  A movement by the door caught Lincoln's attention. Millard stood there, his steady gaze on his master. How much had he seen? After a moment, he merely said, "Is there anything you require, sir?"

  "No," Lincoln said, not caring if Millard had addressed him or Buchanan. "Get up," he ordered Buchanan when Millard backed out of the drawing room and shut the doors, despite not being asked to. "I have questions about Ela."

  "If you want me to talk, you shouldn't've tried to bloody kill me," Buchanan rasped.

  "If I wanted to kill you, you would be dead." Lincoln waited while Buchanan got to his feet, drank the rest of his drink, and poured himself another.

  By the time he sat in the armchair, his color had returned to its usual washed-out pallor, although his throat remained red. "What about Ela?"

  "You know her intimately."

  Buchanan held his glass up in salute. "And?"

  "And did you know that she was also intimate with another circus performer by the name of Patrick O'Neill?"

  "A mick?" He snorted then winced and rubbed his throat. After a long sip, he said, "Thought she had better taste than that. He's not one of those freaks, is he?"

  "He was the strong man."

  Buchanan paused, the glass near his lips. "Was?"

  "He died two nights ago."

  Buchanan nodded thoughtfully then took another sip. "Then she'll be more available now. Twice a week isn't enough."