“Ah.” Stephen cursed internally. “You met him.”
“I did, yes. I can’t honestly say he inspired me with confidence in the matter of murder, although I’m sure that if I wanted a practitioner that I could take to all the best society parties and be sure of his many close acquaintances…”
Stephen shut his eyes. “Yes, he does, um, feel the importance of birth and breeding quite strongly.”
“Frankly, I thought he was an oleaginous prick. I assume he has hidden talents.”
“I’m sure he does,” Stephen said, without conviction.
Even after the miraculous letter had arrived, he had not wanted to do this. If Hector and Quentin Vaudrey had been murdered, they should have justice, but it could be at someone else’s hands. Then he had learned that the hands would be Fairley’s, a soft self-indulgent parlour magician whose only qualification was his social connection, and Stephen’s vow had stuck in his throat like a mouthful of brambles.
It had nothing to do with the mental image of Crane’s long-fingered hands and lean, muscular, tattooed body, or the laugh lines around those lazy, perceptive grey eyes. Those irritatingly persistent memories gave him the strongest possible reason to stay away. No, it was as simple as it always was: justice had to be done. And since he had no authority to select the practitioner to do it, he had to do the job himself or stay out of the whole business.
Crane was looking at him curiously. “So why did you send that obsequious twit in the first place?”
“I didn’t,” said Stephen, slightly too honestly. “He, ah, he proposed himself. Feeling an earl would require a practitioner of birth and breeding.” Stephen’s talents outstripped Fairley’s to an almost embarrassing degree, but he was the son of a provincial nobody who had died destitute; Fairley was the son of a baronet. Taking the job back had led to a heated exchange. He quoted, woodenly, “Nobility has a certain je ne sais quoi that demands the presence of a gentleman, not a hireling.”
The eighth Earl Crane lifted an aristocratic brow. “In my case, the je ne sais quoi includes four years as a smuggler, two death sentences, and a decade as a Shanghai Joe, a dockfront trader. I hope you feel suitably elevated.”
Stephen tried to confront all of this at once. “Two death sentences? Really? I mean, you look very well, considering.”
Crane grinned at him. “One was in absentia. One wasn’t, and I spent three days in a condemned cell. I can’t recommend the experience.”
“And—did you say a smuggler?”
“That was what the death sentences were for.”
“What did you smuggle?” Stephen demanded, then caught himself. “Sorry, it’s none of my business.”
“Not at all,” Crane said politely. “Silks and tea, mostly. Medicines, on occasion. And we ran the guns for an uprising against a particularly noxious tax farmer, but that was a favour to a friend, really.”
“That’s very…” Stephen couldn’t think what it was. It occurred to him that if the man didn’t wear such staggeringly expensive suits, the tanned, mocking face and tattoos would make him look exactly like someone’s overheated fantasy of a smuggler in the exotic East. “Did your father know?”
“No idea.” Crane didn’t sound concerned. “He put me on a boat to China when I was seventeen, expressing the hope I’d die out there, and that was the last I ever heard from him. We didn’t get on, you know.”
“Yes,” said Stephen. “I heard.”
Crane shrugged. “He always disliked me, and I gave him plenty to dislike. He sent me off with no post, no acquaintances, no Chinese and no money, and I would undoubtedly have been dead within a year without Merrick, but as it happened, nothing could have suited me so well as Shanghai. It was five thousand miles away from Hector. So to answer your question as far as possible, I lived under my own name in China, I didn’t do so with any subtlety, and while I never communicated with him again, someone else doubtless did. In all honesty, I stopped caring a very long time ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Stephen said involuntarily.
“What for?”
That your father was a swine. That my father’s dead. That you’re a Vaudrey. He grabbed for something that didn’t sound like pity. “I made the assumption you were like him. Them. That was unfair.”
“Understandable. A lot of people down in Lychdale make that assumption. Including, presumably, the jack’s maker.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Indeed. And I remain of the opinion that if this maker did remove my brother from the world, I’d rather shake his hand than press charges.”
“You might feel that,” Stephen said. “And if he had shot him, I might agree with you. But if it was the jack, your brother and father were tortured to death, slowly, over months. And that kind of cruelty tends to be…habit-forming.”
Crane’s eyebrows shot up. “You think the maker does this sort of thing regularly?”
Stephen chose his words carefully. “They did a very cruel thing very competently, which suggests that they may have done such things before, or that they may find it easy to do such things again. In any case, it is not acceptable to continue down this path unchecked.”
“I see. Well, you’re the expert. I’ll leave it to your judgement.”
Stephen gave a tired half smile. “Yes. People generally do.”
It was a slow train and a hot day, and Day fell asleep well before they reached Lychdale. Merrick returned to find his master contemplating the unconscious shaman.
He looked very young, sleep smoothing out the worry lines round his eyes. He also looked very small and very thin. He resembled a schoolboy, not a magician or a protector.
“That bloke needs a few square meals,” Merrick observed. “And a new suit. And about a week in bed.”
“I was thinking along those lines myself,” Crane said.
“I bet you were.”
“Shut up. I’ve no idea how he can be that poor. Twenty guineas for a night’s work, and another thirty for this excursion. But that suit’s threadbare.”
“Blood under his nails, as well, right in. Wasn’t just leaning on it.”
“Yes, I noticed that. What do you think?”
“Same as you, I reckon.”
“Ye-es. The question is, is he up to the job?”
Merrick made a face. “Don’t ask me. I got no idea what he can do, and no idea what the job is anyway. The last time I knew this much fuck all, we was on a boat to China.”
“And now we’re going back to Piper,” said Crane. “And on the whole, I’d rather be in Shanghai.”
Chapter Six
There was an extremely old carriage waiting for them at Lychdale station. It had a faded coat of arms on the side and half a dozen magpies perched on the roof. The coachman gave an unenthusiastic grunt as the three men emerged from the station and made a token effort to help with the bags before whipping up the horses.
Stephen grabbed the edge of the seat as the coach began to move. “Is this thing not sprung?”
“No. Absolutely nothing in this place is conducive to comfort,” said Crane. “The house is decaying, the furnishings are museum pieces, half the staff are consumed with loathing of me out of loyalty to my father, or because I remind them of my brother. In any case, they’re people who lived in the same house as Hector when there are perfectly good ditches to die in, which tells you as much as you need to know. Nobody within thirty miles of Piper can cook. And you can thank your lucky stars for the weather, I doubt we’ll need more than four or five fires to make the place tolerable of an evening.”
“Well, some cool would be a respite.” Stephen fiddled with the ancient catch in an attempt to pull down the window. “It’s very hot.”
“Piper will be damned cold,” said Crane. “If we find a witch, we should definitely burn her.”
It was a good half hour’s drive in the most uncomfortable carriage Stephen had ever encountered. Crane and Merrick both settled into a sort of traveller’s trance, eyes shut, mi
nds inactive, getting through an unpleasant journey by reducing mental engagement to a minimum.
Stephen was hot and jolted, wearisomely tired after his nap on the train but without a chance of sleeping, and his hands were increasingly uncomfortable. The train journey had been unpleasant, naturally, but that was the iron of the carriages surrounding him. This was ambient, in the ether; it was old and awkward and dry like a scab, and it was getting stronger as they drove.
When they reached Piper, Stephen began to see what it was.
He stood in front of the house and stared at it. Piper was a substantial Jacobean building in grey stone, with small panelled windows sitting in the thick walls like deep-set eyes. The front was hung thickly with ivy, and the woods encroached too closely on what had once been elegant gardens. The gravelled drive was pierced by weeds. Magpies screeched and cawed in the trees, and a trio of the birds strutted in front of the three men.
“Three for a funeral,” he muttered. “This is a mausoleum.”
Crane glanced at him but didn’t ask for an explanation. Stephen wouldn’t have given one anyway. The etheric flow round the house was an abnormal trickle, the woods pounded in his consciousness far more than he’d expected, and there was a dreadful sense of something pent up, bottled for years, brooding.
“Dormant,” he said, mostly to himself. “Or dead. Too long asleep to wake. Coma.”
“You’re being a little unnerving,” said Crane. “Are you going to tell me there’s a beautiful princess sleeping in the tower room?”
“That wouldn’t be my first guess.” Stephen pushed his hands through his too-short hair. “Have you seen the mummies at the British Museum?”
“The Egyptian ones? No, not yet. But they have a similar thing in China.”
“Did you ever imagine if they started moving? Withered hands reaching towards you and sunken eyes staring?”
“I didn’t, but now I know what I’ll be dreaming about tonight.”
“It’s how this house feels.” Stephen was compulsively flexing and pulling at his fingers. “I suppose we should go in,” he added without enthusiasm.
Crane led the way. An elderly bald man was standing at the thick wood door, his heavy jowls conveying weary disgust. “Your lordship,” he mumbled.
“Graham. This is Mr. Day, who is attending to some legal matters for me. I’ll expect you and your staff to answer all his questions as fully as possible.”
The butler looked Stephen up and down. He didn’t roll his eyes and turn away in contempt, but it was evidently a close-run thing.
“Yes, my lord.” Graham bowed them in. “Mr. Skewton has left a number of papers for your lordship on your lordship’s desk in your lordship’s study. And Sir James and Lady Thwaite have left cards for your lordship, your lordship.”
Crane looked at him expressionlessly. Graham stared back.
“Very good,” said Crane finally. “Mr. Merrick is of course responsible while I’m in residence. Do take the opportunity to rest your feet, Graham.”
The old man’s bald head flushed a dark red. “I don’t neglect my duty, your lordship. Lord Crane would never have suggested such a thing. The maids have put your guest in the Blue Room, your lordship, but I dare say Merrick will have something to say about that on your lordship’s behalf. The Peony Room, perhaps.”
He stalked off through the hall towards the servants’ quarters. Merrick followed, soft footed. A door down a corridor slammed, almost certainly in Merrick’s face.
“Loyal family retainer?” asked Stephen.
“That’s right.”
“Couldn’t you pension him off?”
“Too much effort. If I got a decent butler, I’d have to import an entire competent household to support him, and since I’m going to sell this damned barrack as soon as I’ve unpicked the legal situation and clarified the accounts, I can’t summon up the energy.”
“Oh, you’re selling the house?”
“Or setting fire to it,” said Crane. “I’m currently leaning that way.”
“It’s very cold,” Stephen agreed, looking around. Darkly panelled walls, heavy wooden furniture, old hangings and threadbare rugs… “Forgive my curiosity, but I thought your family was rich.”
“It is,” said Crane. “There are extensive landholdings round here and the land is good. Hector was expensive, and Griffin was stealing with both hands, but there’s plenty of money. But one of the ways the rich stay rich is by not spending anything.”
“I knew I was doing something wrong,” Stephen said. “What was the significance of that exchange about rooms?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Well,” said Stephen, rubbing his arms and feeling grateful for his jacket for the first time that day, “perhaps I could look round and familiarise myself with the place?” And see if I can work out what’s wrong with it, he added mentally.
“I’ll take you round,” said Crane. “Neither Skewton nor the Thwaites offer the charm of your company, and I’m saying that to a man who spent the night disembowelling cats.”
“I did not—”
“This is the drawing room. It probably wouldn’t be so bad without the panelling, or the chairs, and if it was in a different house.”
Stephen followed Crane round the chilling, ancient house, mentally mapping it without effort, half listening to Crane’s sardonic commentary as he tried to pinpoint the source of his discomfort.
Magpies everywhere. They were carved in wood and stone, perched over lintels, etched into metal, in paint and paper and embroidery. He made a protesting noise at a particularly ugly group in china, arrayed along a mantelpiece.
“Aren’t they just,” Crane agreed. “My great-aunt supplied them. She’d constantly warn us not to play with them, as though any boy in his right mind would.”
“Was she responsible for the tapestry-work magpies as well?”
“In the last room? No, I’ve no idea who that was. Some passing Bedlamite, perhaps. My grandfather organised the magpie-bearing silverware, as you will see at dinner if Graham hasn’t sold it all. From here we can go down to the library or up to the next floor, which is mostly under covers, except for the Long Gallery where we keep the family pictures, and which will make you think better of Great-Aunt Lucie’s porcelain birds.”
“Library last, please,” said Stephen. “Let’s try the gallery.”
“If you insist. You’re looking for something, aren’t you?” Crane led the way up stairs whose oak treads were deeply worn.
“I am, but I’m not sure what,” Stephen admitted. “There’s something very old and odd and quite unpleasant about this house.”
“Yes, it’s Graham.”
Stephen grinned and followed him into the long room.
It was very dusty and, again, very cold. There were a couple of chairs, swathed in holland covers. A few tall windows let in the sunshine, which seemed to lose all its heat on the way through the glass. Above, a long skylight was covered in dead leaves and dirt, so that the room was still somewhat murky. Pictures, framed in gilt and dark wood, hung all the way down.
Stephen stared up at the ceiling. “This could be a lovely room if that skylight was clean.” He jumped slightly as something landed on the glass with a thump.
“Bloody magpies,” said Crane. “If you cleaned it, they’d just foul it in minutes. Well, here, we are. My father and Hector.”
Stephen had never seen the previous Lord Crane. He had seen Hector Vaudrey on the terrible night when he had come to their house. He had been just twelve, and his mother had sent him to his room at once, but he remembered the red face, the smell of drink, the voices.
He made himself look at the full-length portrait. A bulky, grey-haired elderly man stood next to a large, well-built, golden-blond man in his thirties. Stephen remembered him from the vantage point of a terrified child, as a giant, and given the way the painted figure towered over his father, he guessed Hector must have been a similar height to his younger brother, perhaps three inches ove
r six feet, though much broader in the shoulders.
Hector was staring out of the portrait with a slight sneer on his finely shaped mouth, and a set to his jaw that suggested command, and not a kindly sort. Stephen detected cruelty in his face, nothing in the old lord’s neutral gaze. Behind them, two magpies perched on an apple tree.
Stephen glanced round. Crane was watching him. “Is this a good likeness?” he asked, for something to say.
“Probably. Hector got fat, I’m told. This one here is my father as a boy. He kept the magpie as a pet. The next one is him with my grandmother—”
“Is this in chronological order?”
“Yes, pretty much.”
“There’s not one of you, or your mother?”
“There was a family portrait from when I was a baby, but my father took it down. It’s in the attic.”
“Oh. Did she die?”
“No.” Crane started to stroll down the line of paintings. “She left my father when I was a year old. I’ve no idea what happened to her.”
Stephen stood still for a moment, so that he had to hurry after Crane. “Did you never see her again?”
“No, how should I? This is Great-Aunt Lucie. Fear her. My grandfather, just before his death.”
“Really?” The picture showed a mere youth, wearing a waistcoat embroidered with magpies.
“Yes, my father was posthumous.”
“They all keep up the magpie theme in the paintings,” Stephen observed.
“Tradition,” said Crane, without interest. “Although putting them on one’s waistcoat really is the outside of enough. This is the third earl, the second didn’t live long either. Here’s the first—this is the only good painting in the room if you ask me. Feel free to comment on what a handsome devil he is. Then the next—Mr. Day?”
Stephen was standing in front of the first Earl Crane, staring, the astonishment so powerful it held him completely still. The recognition was instant, and now he saw the picture, and compared it to the man next to him, he couldn’t believe it hadn’t struck him earlier.
The Magpie Lord Page 4