“If you doubt my word,” Highet said stiffly, “you may ask Lord Ware’s manservant. When Mrs. Thursfield and I returned from the garden to my room because of the rain, we found him skulking about inside, tying his cravat. What the devil he was doing there I don’t know, but I could find nothing missing or disturbed. He had no business in my chamber. Ware should discharge him.”
Lord Ware’s manservant, George, was the young valet she had seen in the hallway with Lady Isolde’s maid. “I shall inquire immediately. Kit, will you send for Mrs. Thursfield’s maid and ask Lord Ware to summon his valet?”
Kit did as she asked, and Mr. Highet assisted Fanny into the hall, murmuring endearments to soothe her tears. When Kit returned, Lady Isolde Swansborough accompanied him.
Lady Isolde floated into the room as if borne on a mist. No man could hope to ignore such a golden-haired goddess, and Kit practically fell over himself showing her to a chair. Olivia raised a brow at his foolishness and turned to Isolde, all amusement fled at the grim prospect before her.
It could not be Isolde. Not her dearest friend.
“Isolde,” she began, “I hardly know how to explain . . .”
“I have heard,” Isolde said in her mellifluous voice. “Fen is dead. We are all suspects in his murder.” She glanced at Kit. “You wonder who had both means and motive. He was killed by some form of strangulation, but without the use of outwardly physical means. A Mentalist, such as myself, could induce a man to forget how to breathe.”
“And you can see what’s truly within a man’s soul,” Kit said.
“You are more right than you know.” Isolde laughed. “Yes, I saw what was in Fen’s soul. I have always known of his corruption, his hypocrisy, his dishonor—just as I knew his unique Talent was to present a glamour of perfection, warmth, and generosity that deceived all but a very few of those who met him. His true nature was quite the opposite, and I disliked him heartily.” She met Olivia’s gaze. “I have no alibi, Olivia. I was alone in the conservatory all afternoon. But I did not kill him.”
Olivia desperately wanted to believe her. There was a shining nobility in Isolde, the very essence of noblesse oblige that compelled her to take up causes of those less fortunate. If she had known of Bertram’s suicide or Fen’s treatment of Fanny, might she not be moved—
No. Any alternative was preferable. Olivia glanced at Kit. “I believe Lady Isolde. If we have eliminated the guests, then the murderer can only be a housebreaker or one of the servants. We dismissed those possibilities too quickly before.”
Kit must have heard the note of urgency in her voice. “Commoners might inherit Residual gifts from noble or landed relations, but no heir to family Talent would be a servant.”
Indeed—and certainly not one of her own! Yet even the rules of magic could be broken. One heard tales of hidden heirs, forbidden ceremonies, even male Talent passing to female heirs and vice versa in spite of the vast and often fatal risks involved.
While Kit waited for Lord Ware’s valet to appear—Olivia had more than one question for him—she commenced inquiries about the recent whereabouts of each of the servants, which consumed a good hour. None of them had any obvious motive for murder, since few had dealt directly with Fen. But her heart beat a little faster when she learned that two servants were not accounted for during the time of Fen’s death: George and Mrs. Thursfield’s maid, Mary.
They were the very two she had seen together in the hall. Quite possibly, they would provide each other’s alibi, just as Fanny and Jonathan Highet had done. But why had George been in Highet’s room, when Lord Ware’s chamber was two doors down?
She asked Mrs. Thursfield to send Mary to the library as soon as the girl had completed her immediate tasks. Lord Ware’s valet still had not appeared, and she was about to send for him again when Kit escorted George into the room—or more accurately herded him, much as a shepherd’s dog drove an unwilling sheep.
George was a very personable young man and quickly disguised any reluctance he might feel about being called before her. She could have sworn she caught a smirk about his lips in spite of his outwardly deferential manner.
“Where were you three hours ago?” she asked without preamble.
His eyes laughed at her. “I was with Mary, my lady, before Lord Ware called me to attend him.”
Naturally. “What did you know of Lord Featherstonehaugh?”
“Only that he won a great deal of money from Lord Ware.”
“Why were you in Mr. Highet’s chamber this afternoon?”
His confident air vanished. “I . . . my lady . . .” He squared his shoulders. “I meant to find something to steal, to help Lord Ware. Mr. Highet and Mrs. Thursfield came in while I was there.”
The explanation was so improbable yet simple that Olivia was taken aback. She glanced at Kit, who frowned. Kit was usually very good at detecting outright lies, but he was clearly stumped.
“Are you admitting to a crime for which you will, at the very least, be discharged?” she demanded.
“Yes, my lady.” He hung his head. “I am sorry.”
“And you claim you were with Mary before that, and Lord Ware afterward?”
“Yes. Lord Ware will say so, my lady.”
The door opened, and Mary stepped in. Her gaze flew with alarm from Olivia to Kit and to George.
“Don’t be afraid, Mary,” Olivia said. “I have only a few questions for you. Did you know Lord Featherstonehaugh?”
“No, milady,” she whispered. “Only as a guest.”
“Were you with George three hours ago?”
She stared at George with a kind of horrified fascination. “Yes, milady.”
“You must answer honestly, Mary. You will not be punished for dalliance, but the consequences of lying are considerable.”
Mary began to shake. “I . . . was . . . with George.”
Kit’s expression affirmed what Olivia knew: the maid was lying, and badly. “Has George threatened you if you did not lie for him, Mary?”
She appeared very close to a swoon. Olivia was just about to ask Kit to watch George while she spoke privately with Mary when the door opened yet again, and Jonathan Highet entered.
“Forgive me for disturbing you,” he said, “but I forgot to mention that I found—” He stared at George. “You!”
George’s face was a blank. Highet strode past him and held out his hand. Between his fingers was a gold signet ring etched with a family crest—a slender woman’s band.
Olivia took it gingerly. Even she could feel the magic in it. “I know this crest. Does it not belong to the Essex Belchams?”
Kit joined her and nodded. “The family of Fen’s wife, Jane.”
“But she died last October! Did you see Fen wearing this ring?”
“No.” He glanced at Highet. “Where did you find it?”
“On the floor beside the wall, where he”—he gestured at George—“was standing when I caught him.”
Olivia held the ring out to George. “Did you steal this from Lord Featherstonehaugh?”
“Wait,” Kit said, holding up a hand. “Which wall, Highet?”
“Which—?” Highet’s face cleared. “Why, the wall between my room and Fen’s.”
“Livvy,” Kit said, “wasn’t Lady Featherstonehaugh a passe-muraille?”
Passe-muraille—a wall-walker. One who could literally pass through solid objects, including walls. “But Lady Featherstonehaugh is dead,” she protested.
She and Kit stared at each other. George began to back toward the door, step by slow step. “Did you steal this ring?” Olivia asked the valet. “Or was it yours all along?”
George stopped. His gaze swept the room, and then he smiled coldly. “It was my mother’s.”
“And your mother,” Kit said, “was Lady Featherstonehaugh. Was Fen your father as well?”
“Are you saying that he walked through the wall adjoining my room with Fen’s?” Highet asked. “How is that possible?”
�
�As I understand it,” Kit said, “a wall-walker cannot bring anything with him when he travels through a solid object. You said he was tying his cravat when you found him, Highet? If he had to enter and exit Fen’s room discreetly—via your room, if he knew you were to be out—he would have to undress in your chamber and retrieve his clothing after the deed was done. The ring would not pass, either.”
“You are saying George murdered Fen?” Suddenly, she saw it. “If George is Lady Featherstonehaugh’s son—”
“Unacknowledged, or we would know of him.”
“—he could not have inherited her Talent. She is female, he is male.”
“Is it truly impossible, Livvy? Cross-gender transference has been done, though it is usually fatal for the donor.”
“And Lady Featherstonehaugh died in October.” She gasped. “She sacrificed her life . . . and passed her magic to her son.”
Kit dodged toward the door to block George’s path. He showed his teeth in a smile. “Her illegitimate son. A bastard.”
“No!” George gazed at them all in open defiance. “My father was Lord Featherstonehaugh, and he was the bastard.”
Silence fell like a shroud. “Lady Featherstonehaugh gave you the ring?” Kit asked.
“Just before she . . . before she died.” George stared at the band on Olivia’s palm. “My father beat and abused my mother from the day they were wed. She took comfort where she could. Featherstonehaugh believed I was the son of one of his grooms, and my mother could not prove otherwise. She sent me to live with a country family out of fear for my life, and hers. She convinced my father that I was dead. But she didn’t tell me that she was my real mother until . . . until just before she passed her Talent, and the ring, to me.”
Olivia closed her hand over the ring. “And you have kept this secret since she died—that you are of gentle birth and magical Talent? Why?”
“Because he wanted revenge,” Kit said. “And he might have gotten away with murder.”
“Yes,” George said. “My adoptive family saw that I got an education with the money Lady Featherstonehaugh sent to them. They had me trained to be a servant, a gentleman’s gentleman. When I learned the truth, I found work with a member of Featherstonehaugh’s circle. I knew my time would come.”
“And no one would suspect any danger in a mere servant,” Kit added. “We did not. And neither did Fen.” He looked at George. “You waited until the right moment—until you knew Fen was alone and Highet’s room was vacant, so that you had a safe and private place to prepare—and killed your father. But how?”
George made a fist of his hand. “I materialized this inside of his chest, and squeezed his throat and lungs until he strangled.”
“My God,” Highet whispered. “No outward marks—”
“And the false lead of the water in Fen’s mouth, and the female magic,” Kit said. “For his magic was female. It was the mingling of that with the male wielder I could not sort out.”
“And he got Mary to lie on his behalf, making sure he was seen with her afterward,” Olivia added. “Who can blame her for being frightened of what George could do if she did not agree!”
“You all know what he was,” George whispered. “He beat my mother and would have killed me. He lied and cheated and blackmailed. He deserved to die.”
George lunged at Olivia, snatched the ring with his right hand, and dove toward the nearest wall. His left arm passed through the painting hung there, disappearing up to the elbow, and the sleeves of his coat and shirt tore away in shreds.
Kit woofed. There was a puff of smoke, and a huge, shaggy black dog stood in the place where a man had been. It fixed its demonic red eyes upon the vanishing valet and leaped.
Cloth ripped. Kit’s jaws closed on George’s ankle. It hardly slowed the valet, whose clothes were heaped on the floor at the foot of the wall. But something else stopped him as Kit could not.
The ring. George’s right hand remained visible, clutching the memento that he could not take with him. He lingered, and delayed, until his hand began to shake with the effort of his magic.
He let the ring fall. His hand vanished, and at the same moment Kit charged out into the hall.
Olivia hastened after him, followed by Highet. She found the stunned assemblage of guests in the drawing room, all staring at the naked man halfway emerging from the wall and the huge black dog looking up at George’s expression of pain and horror.
A heartbeat passed, and then Kit was a man again, breathing fast. “George is dead,” he said heavily. “He spent too long in the wall, refusing to let go of the ring. I am sorry, Olivia.”
She felt a little faint, but Kit was there to support her. Lord Ware covered his eyes. The others found nothing to say.
“Look,” Kit said. “The magic is dispersing.”
Olivia raised her head from his shoulder. It was only a faint glow, a mist, a sigh that wreathed the air about George’s head for a few seconds, but even she could sense the sorrow of magic lost forever.
“He had no heir,” Kit murmured. “No one else will use Lady Featherstonehaugh’s Talent to kill.”
“I think it will be some time before I use this room again,” Olivia said, her voice unsteady.
“You must come stay with me,” Kit said close to her ear. “If you bring Lady Isolde, it will all be most proper.”
She met his gaze. “Everyone knows your secret now, Kit.”
“One of my secrets,” he said, “but not all.”
And he smiled in a way that made the world right again.
PART IV
Murder Fantastical
Dropping Hints
Lawrence Watt-Evans
Lawrence Watt-Evans began a career as a full-time writer in 1979. He is perhaps best known for his fantasy work, including the Ethshar series and the Obsidian Chronicles, but has also written horror and science fiction. He has written and sold over a hundred short stories, more than thirty novels, and hundreds of articles.
Watt-Evans has been reading and collecting comics since childhood and is part owner of a chain of comic-book shops. He served two years as president of the Horror Writers Association (1994–96). He married in 1977, has two children, and lives in the Maryland suburbs of Washington, D.C. His latest novel is Dragon Venom. The Misenchanted Page is at http://www.watt-evans.com.
The young duke glanced around uneasily as he waited for the wizard’s door to open; he was uncomfortably aware of how very little he knew about magic in general, and the wizard Rasec in particular. Magicians were notoriously eccentric, and it was obvious from the bizarre and haphazard architecture of Rasec’s home that he was no exception. Rasec had always been a cooperative neighbor and had never given previous dukes any real trouble—but Lord Croy was not any of the previous dukes. He was the last duke’s third son, acceding to the title only because of the recent plague that had taken his father and both his older brothers, as well as a good part of the local population.
As the new duke, it behooved Croy to pay a courtesy call on the wizard. It would not do to antagonize his realm’s only real magician—especially when that magician might be able to assist in preventing any further outbreaks of plague.
Croy hoped he had not erred in choosing the size of his escort; he did not want to threaten the wizard, but it would not do for the duke to travel alone. Back at the castle, a dozen had seemed about right, but here on the stony hilltop, at the door of the wizard’s home, the twelve guardsmen seemed like an entire mob.
The latch rattled, and Croy looked directly forward, composing his features. The door opened, and there was the wizard’s inhuman servant.
Croy suppressed a shudder. The creature standing in the doorway stood between four and five feet tall, with gleaming gray hairless skin, naked and sexless. Its face was narrow and triangular, its eyes golden, its ears large and pointed.
“Please come in, my lords,” it said, stepping aside. “My master awaits you in his chamber of art.”
“Thank you,” Croy
replied as he stepped across the threshold.
He hoped he had the protocols right; he had never been trained for any of this, had never accompanied his father here. His elder brothers had both been taught a duke’s duties and privileges, but no one had seen any reason to include a third son, and now he was forced to improvise.
He led the way into the house, his soldiers marching behind him, two abreast.
The servant directed them down a broad corridor, and another, identical servant waited at the far end, its hand on the handle of a great oaken door. Croy, startled, glanced from one servant to the other, looking for some distinguishing marks, some way to tell them apart.
He could see no difference at all; the two were so alike that he wondered whether Rasec might have found a way to have his servant in two places at once.
But then the second servant opened the oaken door, and Croy was struck dumb by the wonders of the wizard’s sanctum.
The circular chamber was vast but windowless, lit by a ring of crystal skylights; the bright midday sunlight gleamed and sparkled from a thousand strange devices arranged on shelves, mounted on iron rods, or suspended from the ceiling on wires. There were tangles of polished brass and gleaming ebony, layered constructions of silver and ivory, mummified beasts pierced by golden wires, and things that Croy could not even begin to identify.
And in the center of the room stood Rasec, dressed in flowing robes of red and yellow silk, holding a golden scepter. Behind him stood his servant.
A third servant, Croy realized, indistinguishable from the others.
Croy hesitated at the door for only a fraction of a second before striding into the great room. He walked directly toward the wizard, along a red carpet laid out for him, and stopped at a polite distance, perhaps seven feet away.
The wizard bowed deeply, and Croy felt an immense rush of relief; Rasec had acknowledged his authority.
“My lord Duke,” the enchanter said. “Welcome to my home; you honor us with your presence.”
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