Secrets to Reveal

by Tilly Wallace

  As she struck out for the river, she remembered her early days with Sir John and the games they devised. Coded messages to tell her if there was danger, and then another to tell her all was safe and she could return to the office. They even made a day of it; he’d called it a ‘grand adventure’. They had planned the route she should take, and Sir John took great pains to select an appropriate tavern where she could take a room. The establishment was not so working-class as to endanger her person, but not so well-to-do that she would be conspicuous or would have to spend too many precious coins.

  Once she had a room, she had only to read the next day’s newspaper for the line he would place. As she walked along the road, her stomach roiled, and at times a shiver wracked her body that wouldn’t stop. Over and over she saw the man’s gaze assessing her as she stood by the bookcase, and then felt the dark presence of the one who trailed her to the soldiers’ mess. Should she have stayed and stood her ground? But what could a lone woman do? She had no skill with pistol, dagger, or magic.

  Hamish. His name flew to the front of her mind. She should seek his help. But what if he were involved? If Sir John’s clandestine work had been exposed, what guarantee did she have that Hamish wasn’t responsible? If he were a French agent, by going to him she would play right into his hands. She already knew he kept secrets, like being some type of Unnatural. He and all his men.

  Another sob rose in her throat, and the bag banged against her side, reminding her of the book hidden within. She didn’t know what to do but with so much at stake, what difference did it make to wait a day or two and see how matters resolved themselves?

  At the river she approached two elderly fishermen in a worn but tidy boat. They agreed to ferry her up river for a small fee. Coins passed hands, and they helped her down and to a seat at the bow. She refused their offer to sit inside the little cabin. She needed the fresh breeze on her face with the bite of stale fish. She clutched the bag on her knees as they raised the sail and began their windward tack upstream to the bustle and noise of London.

  They nudged against the shore just by Tower Hill, and Aster thanked them for their assistance while her gaze travelled over the other boats and ships plying the river. Did any of them harbour one of the men, watching her and waiting for a quiet moment to grab her? No, she told herself sternly. Preposterous. No one had followed her to the boarding house, and she had gazed downriver the whole way.

  She skirted around Tower Hill and lost herself amongst the people on Bishopsgate Street. For once the press of people didn’t overwhelm, but offered her comfort. The sea of bodies provided anonymity. On the outside chance one of the men had followed, he would have difficulty keeping track as she dodged amongst the pedestrians that seethed through the streets of the city. It didn’t take her long to reach the tavern, wedged between the buildings on either side. Its old Tudor façade had somehow survived the Great Fire. The wood was darkened and aged, but the white-washed walls were cleaned regularly of the soot that coated everything in winter. A minor act of maintenance that Sir John said spoke of the care and attention of the owner. It was small, but still busy without being overrun.

  She took a breath and stepped into the dim interior. Candles hung from iron candelabra and cast their light on those below. Shadows moved and danced against the walls, turning the patrons into players in a puppet show. Laughter and conversation filled the low-ceilinged room.

  “Can I help you, love?” At the bar, a woman with a cheerful face dried tankards with a cloth. Her curls were tucked up under a cap, and she wore a spotless apron over her dress.

  Aster sighed. Cleanliness and order soothed her troubled mind. The freshly laundered apron did more to reassure her that she wouldn’t be murdered in her bed than her perusal of the lower middle-class clientele.

  “I need a room for the night, please.” She pitched her voice low, not keen on broadcasting her business, even if the others showed no interest at all.

  “Of course. New to London?” The woman turned to a row of hooks behind the counter. From some hung large iron keys, and she selected one and pulled it free.

  She smiled as the woman handed over a key with the number ‘3’ etched in the side. “Just passing through on my way to visit my aunt.”

  The owner rummaged under the counter and then handed over a candle in a dented holder. “Upstairs and the one at the end of the corridor on your left. Nice view overlooking the street. Come down when you want dinner, it’s included in the price. My name is Betsy, and just holler if you need anything.”

  Aster murmured her thanks and handed over the few coins necessary. With the candle in one hand and her bag in the other, she ascended the narrow staircase. At another time she might wonder how many feet had trodden its steps and what stories they could tell, since the tavern must be nearly three hundred years old. Upstairs, light spilled from a window at the end of the hall. There weren’t many rooms: only six, three to each side. Aster found hers and pushed inside.

  The interior was spartan, but spotlessly clean. A tiny table sat under the window, commanding a view of the street below. She could sit and watch the comings and goings of London if she wished. She set the candle by the bed and dropped the bag on the floor. Then she locked the door and, as an added precaution, took the single chair in the room and wedged it under the handle. It was possibly a futile gesture if a strong man banged on the door, but it could afford her valuable seconds.

  Time yawned before her, as it was still too early for dinner. She took off her bonnet and spencer and laid them on the table. Then she drew the book from her bag and climbed onto the bed, scooting over the top of the quilt until she could press her spine to the wall. She clutched the Iliad in her hands, and with one finger she traced the figure on the cover. Sir John had made sure she had the book. Take it to Major Wilkes. A message hid in the simple instruction. Major Wilkes was Sir John’s grandfather, and quite the explorer. He’d spared little thought for his family, left behind in England, while he roamed the far corners of the earth and hacked his way through dense jungles and forest. Sometimes he had encountered unknown tribes that he drew in a diary he kept tucked in his jacket. By telling her to seek him out, Sir John was telling her to go far away.

  Could the next clue be the book itself? Sir John had never mentioned it, but he kept many facts hidden away in his labyrinthine mind. The epic poem was about Troy, a city destroyed by invaders who infiltrated the gates by disguising themselves. It certainly sounded like another clue. Her employment was wrapped in games and puzzles and doused in subterfuge. At times the layers were infuriating, a system Sir John devised to protect his work, and to protect her.

  She opened the book and turned page after page. Minutes turned into hours as she examined each page, seeking clues she knew must be littered throughout the text. She just needed to discern them. Every now and then a word was underlined or there was a pencilled notation in the margin, but none of it made any sense.

  Her neck ached from being bent over the book, and her stomach rumbled to remind her of dinner. Perhaps food would also serve to refresh her mind. She buried the book at the bottom of her bag and pushed it under the bed. She pulled the chair free, but made sure to lock the door before she headed downstairs.

  “There you are, love,” Betsy said on seeing her at the bottom step. “I have a quiet spot for you in the corner.” She gestured to one side, where lacework partitions partially screened off the people seated at the tables. “Get yourself settled and I’ll fetch you something to eat.”

  Aster slipped through the crowd. Now that the work day had ended and night fell outside, patrons crammed inside for a few drinks before heading home. Some men called out a greeting; others followed her with their eyes before returning to their conversation. This was idle curiosity, and none emitted the same menace as the men who had crowded into the Records Office that morning.

  Aster sat on the wooden bench seat and slid along to the middle. Betsy appeared carrying a tray and deposited a tankard of beer an
d a delicious-smelling plate with beef, potatoes, and a slab of bread. “That should stick to your ribs,” she said, and winked.

  The food smelt divine, and Aster picked up her fork. In that moment, memory overwhelmed her and she remembered the last tavern meal she’d eaten, with Hamish. Pain speared through her chest. She hadn’t realised how ingrained he had become in her thoughts, that she missed his company at odd times. To share a tankard of ale, or listen to his rumbling laughter, which rippled through her body and warmed her from the inside out.

  “Time, Aster,” she whispered to herself. She pulled the chain around her neck until the button fell into her fingers, and rubbed the small animal head. “Only a little bit of time and all will go back as it was.” She stabbed a piece of beef and chewed while she watched the lives of others play out around her.

  She passed a pleasant hour in the main room of the tavern, and could almost convince herself she was passing through on the way to visit a relative. Almost. After a while the book began to call her name, and Aster returned upstairs, locked the door, and put the chair back under the handle. The tavern was clean and seemed above skulduggery, but she wasn’t taking the risk.

  She lit the candle and moved it to the bedside to cast its pale circle while she retrieved the book. I need to start again, from the beginning. She made herself comfortable and opened to the first page. No. The very beginning. She opened to the patterned frontispiece, the brightly coloured double page that glued the hard cover to the bound pages. Here, this is where our story starts. She ran her palm over the front page. What secrets do you hold, little book?

  The pads of her fingers picked up the unevenness first. One side felt minutely thicker than the other. She peered closer and held it at an angle to the flickering light. Amongst the pattern, hidden from the casual view, lay another edge of paper. She scraped against it with a fingernail, and a tiny portion lifted, enough for her to grasp and give a gentle tug. It peeled back to reveal a wafer-thin piece of paper, covered in strange hieroglyphics. Her fingers tingled as she held the paper, a sign it had been ensorcelled, or freed of an enchantment. It looked like a list, in a neat little column.

  How would you tackle a list, Aster? Sir John had asked her.

  It would depend on what it was. You would first need to know a context, she had replied.

  Names, he said. How would you decipher a list of names?

  Tears sprang to her eyes, and a wet droplet landed on her hand. This was no game or test to see if she could follow the rules. Sir John has entrusted her with the secret list and told her to run.

  There were seven entries on the page and from the arrangement and pattern of the letters, they appeared to be names. But whose, and what secret did the seven share? Her best guess was they were people who sought to undermine England. Perhaps these were the individuals who could change the course of the war and deliver victory to Napoleon. Spies would do anything to lay their hands on such a list.

  “Hamish,” she whispered. “I need help.”

  But where could she turn, and whom could she trust? There was one combination on the list with the correct number of symbols to spell out ‘Hamish Logan’. He might not be a vampyre but could he still be a French agent? He could have manufactured his reason for being at the Arsenal to get close to Sir John and then attempted to seduce her to learn what she knew. Except a part of her baulked at the very notion. The Highland Wolves were isolated in Edinburgh—they couldn’t be French spies, surely?

  She touched her lips, and remembrance tingled along her flesh. Dear God. If he were, then his plan had nearly worked. She fumbled around her neck and drew out the silver chain. Then she wrapped her hand around the button, curled upon herself, and cried.

  14

  Hamish

  * * *

  Once the road opened up in front of Hamish, he put his spur to the gelding. He pushed the mount without a care for its welfare, and the horse was blowing hard by the time he reached Woolwich and the Royal Arsenal. A group of soldiers in their bright red jackets, muskets at their shoulders, marched back and forth in regimented lines, while others milled around as though waiting for an order to be given. More worryingly, many of them gathered outside the building housing the Records Office, the one place on the base that was usually deserted. These men chatted, but at the same time cast glances at the low wooden structure.

  Hamish jumped from his horse and draped the reins over a rail before striding toward the closest group of men. He glanced around, trying to find Alick amongst the milling soldiers.

  “What’s happening?” Hamish asked a man with a cigarette dangling between his lips.

  The soldier’s gaze flicked from Hamish to the men behind him. He drew on the cigarette and then pulled it free of his mouth. “Who wants to know?”

  He ground his jaw for a moment, then realised he was not in uniform. “Captain Logan of the Highland Wolves. I have business with Sir John.”

  The soldier offered a half-hearted salute that would never have been acceptable if Hamish were in uniform. “Sorry, Captain. Two men were discovered dead in Sir John’s office, and the man himself is unaccounted for—”

  Hamish’s vision went red as the wolf sought to break through his skin. The rest of the man’s explanation fell on empty space. Hamish was already trotting toward the building, shouldering men out of his way. The snarl on his face was enough to keep any man out of his path as the beast took control of his features. He hoped the rest of his men were not far behind, and that he would find Alick within. The door to the office stood wide open, and four men stared at the floor—or where the floor would be, if one could see it.

  Chaos papered the office. Books were pulled from the shelves and tossed to the floor. The tiny catalogue drawers hung in various stages of removal from shut, to half-open, to thrown on the heap below. The rectangular cream cards were strewn like autumn leaves. In places they were piled high like drifts, and then kicked aside by large feet. The tall ladder that had engineered his first meeting with Aster was wrenched off its tracks and thrown to the ground like a felled tree.

  “Aster?” He whispered her name. God, don’t let her be hurt. His nostrils flared as he picked up a familiar odour—sulphur. A shot had been fired. A metallic tang was overlaid with the shot residue, the smell of blood. He cast around the room but saw only soldiers—then, finally, a figure he recognised, a fellow captain he had served with in Ireland. He pushed through papers with the toe of his boot, as though expecting something to jump out at him.

  “Captain Fielding,” Hamish called out.

  The other man looked up and frowned before recognition lit his face. “Captain Logan.”

  Hamish nodded and held out a hand. “What is going on? Where are Sir John and his secretary?” He stopped his brain from saying her name again. If Harry died keeping Aster’s secret, then he too would hold his tongue.

  The other captain shook his head. “No sign of them, but I have two dead soldiers in the next office. I’ve just sent for stretchers so they can be moved to the hospital’s dead room. Was Sir John expecting you today?”

  “Yes. We were to approve the final version of the Wolves’ new buttons. What has happened?” He waved at the destruction and tried to rein in his impatience, the part of him that demanded to know if Aster was safe. The beast howled its frustration within him, clawing to be released. He needed to shift and run before the pressure drove him mad or tore him apart.

  He also needed to find Alick. His man had still not appeared, and he had been charged with keeping watch on the building. He prayed his cousin wasn’t one of the men in the next office.

  He followed Captain Fielding through the mess to John’s office where two men lay on the floor in the middle of the room, arms and legs spread at awkward angles. Their muskets were discarded at their sides. He sighed that neither was his large cousin. One man lay on his stomach, face buried in the rug. The other lay on his back, open eyes staring at the ceiling but seeing nothing of events around them. Their bright r
ed jackets were now overlaid with a darker stain that spread over both chests and pooled under their bodies.

  “Throats have been cut,” Fielding said from behind him.

  Just like Harry and his butler, except these ones had bled out. Was their vampyre too bloated to drain these men, or was he pressed for time? Cutting throats was an effective method of silencing someone if someone didn’t want musket fire to draw attention. Although, with the artillery range beyond, a shot or two would have gone unnoticed. These men had been overpowered before they could alert the rest of their fellow soldiers just outside the window.

  “When did it happen?” Hamish asked as his gaze roamed the room, trying to find some clue to whatever had unfolded. This room was ransacked, items pulled from the shelves, and even the shelves themselves torn from the wall. Someone had even slashed at the wallpaper with a knife, as though those responsible suspected something was hidden behind it.

  “Mid-morning. The two men didn’t report for duty when they were due at midday. Someone remembered them heading in here and came over to look for them. It just doesn’t make sense. Who would do this to the Records Office, and then kill two men? What were they looking for, the name of the army’s tailor?”

  Hamish fell silent. Logistics was a ruse for the British military’s top cryptographers. Sir John did on English soil what his peer, George Scovell, did out in the field. Whoever did this was looking for the list. It would be impossible to try and storm the mages’ quarters while they worked on stabilising the cypher. The mages’ tower was protected by a multitude of different spells. The assassin must have known to seek out first Harry and then Sir John. An icy touch swept down Hamish’s spine as one face sprang to his mind.