The Bartered Brides (Elemental Masters)

by Mercedes Lackey

  There in the file was exactly what he needed; the name of the grocer the Watsons used.

  He noted the name and address and set the file aside to be replaced later. For now, he had done all that he could.

  * * *

  Once his basket had dried, around three the next morning, he turned his attention to the contents of his basket.

  He left a small pot of beeswax melting over a candle, and looked over his selections of fresh fruit critically. Selecting the juiciest of pears, plums and grapes, he filled a syringe full of arsenic solution, a syringe with the finest needle he had been able to procure.

  One by one, he injected the fruits with a lethal dose, then covered the injection hole with a dot of wax, carefully polishing the surface with a soft cloth so neither the wax nor the holes were obvious.

  Now time was of the essence. From the file, he knew that Mary Watson habitually placed orders every day with the grocer in the summer, to ensure nothing spoiled. He’d ordered Geoff the Elf to bring a hansom around by five; by six, he was at the grocer’s.

  He waited while the grocer made up boxes of food for the day’s deliveries; steady customers had their very own boxes labeled with their names. Sure enough, there was one saying “Watson.” Having assured himself that the Watsons had placed an order for the day, he entered the store, getting the proprietor’s prompt attention.

  Very prompt attention. . . .

  Once he caught the man’s eyes, he had him; the grocer stared helplessly into his gaze as he softly issued orders.

  “The Watsons ordered these fruits,” he said, placing the basket on the counter between them. “You will put them in the order box now.”

  Dumbly the grocer took the basket and placed it on top of the rest of the order, still entrapped by Spencer’s gaze.

  “You will not remember me. You will not remember that I gave you these fruits. You will remember only that the fruits were on the order for today,” he said. “You will stand quietly until I am completely out of the shop and looking idly in the window. When you see me looking at the plums, you will awaken, and call to your delivery boy to make the delivery to the Watsons. Do you understand?”

  “Yessir,” the grocer mumbled.

  Satisfied, Spencer left the shop and spent a minute looking at the contents of the boxes displayed on the pavement, keeping watch on the grocer out of the corner of his eye. When he looked up at the plums, which were at the top of the display, he saw the grocer shake himself as if awakening from a trance, then sharply call to his delivery boy and thrust the Watsons’ box into his hands.

  Then the grocer hurried outside. “Is there anythin’ I can get for you, sir?” the man asked.

  “Yes,” Spencer replied casually. “Those are uncommonly fine plums.”

  “Best in London,” said the grocer automatically.

  “I will have two pounds.” He waited while the grocer weighed out the required amount, paid him, and made his leisurely way to Geoff’s hansom, paper bag cradled in the crook of his arm.

  “Do you like plums, Geoff?” he asked, as he climbed inside.

  “Oi’m partial to ’em,” the thug said, then laughed. “Long as yew ain’t been meddlin’ wi’ ’em that is.”

  “Oh, you caught on to that, did you?” Spencer laughed, and handed up the bag. “Here you go. Fresh from the hands of the grocer. Should be safe enough. Home, please.”

  He relaxed back against the seat of the cab, pondering his plan, and on the whole, pleased with it. He didn’t think much of Mary Watson’s abilities, no matter that she had been rated as a Master. It was his experience that women didn’t have the strength of will to impose their control on Elementals, and thus bargained with them rather than controlling them. She would never be able to resist or break his spell of coercion. The moment her hand touched the basket, she was doomed.

  And that would be all that he—and Moriarty—needed. Watson would be broken, shattered, by the death of his wife. He’d be utterly useless to Holmes, and even more important, be utterly worthless to Alderscroft. Watson was too sentimental, too soft, to look for revenge until it was far, far too late for him to do anything about the matters Spencer had in hand.

  And if Watson also fell prey to the coercion? All the better. They would both be dead, Alderscroft would be out his chief investigator, and by the time he organized another, Moriarty would be in his new body, and Spencer would be—where?

  Somewhere quiet, and cool. Scotland, perhaps. Although living conditions in Scotland left a great deal to be desired. Northern France?

  No, Germany. Germany was up-to-date, efficient. First-class hotels. First-class food. First-class drink. He preferred German wines to French, and German beer to English. A nice holiday in Germany was in order, he thought, and chuckled to himself at the idea of taking a side excursion to the site of Moriarty’s death at the Reichenbach Falls. That would be highly amusing, actually.

  Even more amusing if he could, by some wild chance, manage to acquire a bit of Moriarty’s body. A fragment of bone, perhaps, or a tooth.

  He’d have the means to completely control the mastermind in his own two hands if that happened.

  He was so engrossed in these musings that the horse pulled right up to his house without him noticing until Geoff knocked on the roof of the cab. “We’re ’ere, guv!” the man called out, and Spencer climbed out.

  On impulse, he turned to the man rather than going back in the house. “Geoff, if you could go anywhere on earth for a holiday, where would you go?”

  “Blackpool, guv,” the man replied without hesitation. “They got music ’all’s there wi’ gels wut dance th’ can-can wi’out bloomers. Aye, Blackpool. And nivver let Mother know where I was goin’.”

  Spencer blinked. It had never occurred to him that Geoff had a parent. He seemed to have sprung forth fully grown, possibly spontaneously generated from a heap of rags in the back of a betting parlour in the East End. “I didn’t know you lived with your mother,” he said.

  “Mother’s me missus,” Geoff said, and frowned. “Ol’ ball-an-chain she is, too. If I ’ad me a ’oliday, it’d be far away from ’er.”

  Astonished by the revelation that Geoff the Elf was married to anyone, Spencer passed over a handful of coins without bothering to count how many there were. Probably too much; Geoff grinned fit to split his face in half and pocketed the lot.

  And with that, he went back into his house, to sleep the sleep of the well satisfied, certain that when he woke, the papers would be full of the news of the Watsons’ deaths.

  13

  The grocer’s boy tapped on the door to the flat above John’s surgery, and Mary Watson let him in. They had decided to move to the flat temporarily, to let Mrs. Hudson and the two girls she had hired for a few weeks give it a good clean. It was too hot . . . and there were lingering smells that Mary wanted to be rid of.

  Being here was a little like being on holiday, and it was so much cooler that she could scarcely believe it. And if she was doing the cooking herself for a change, instead of Mrs. Hudson, well, the “cooking” consisted largely of things she associated with being on holiday. Meals from the pub two doors down. Fish and chips from the shop on the corner. Sandwiches. All the sweets were from the bakery. In fact the only “cooking” she was doing was to light the stove to heat water for tea.

  She was expecting Nan and Sarah and the birds shortly. They needed to have a serious discussion about the attack on John, and what it meant.

  If they hadn’t all been so anxious and keyed up about the necromancer, and the attack on John, living here would have been lovely. Or at least, as lovely as things could be in the middle of London in the heat of summer. She knew in a week or two she would start to miss things that were back at Baker Street, and not having them would be infuriating, but for right now the making-do was amusing.

  She heard the boy put the box on the kitchen table in the flat’s relatively small kitchen and leave, and she went to make sure everything she had ordered was
in there. That was when she noticed the basket of fruit she hadn’t ordered, right on the top of the box.

  That’s odd. She frowned. Not that she’d mind fruit; she could make a lovely fruit soup or salad or a nice trifle out of it—but she definitely hadn’t ordered it. It was in an unusually nice basket too, not the usual wood-chip thing, but something that had been lacquered. The silky finish made her reach out, wanting to touch it.

  She put out her hand, and the moment her fingertips contacted the basket, she was seized with an uncontrollable desire to fill her hands with plums and pears and devour them like a starving animal. It was like a fire in her—she had to have them, now, this very instant!

  Mental alarms were going off in her head, but she ignored them. The fruit . . . it was beautiful, so lovely it made her mouth water just to look at it. She wanted to taste it—to devour every scrap. Her mouth was dry as sand, and only that beautiful fruit would slake her thirst.

  And a dozen screaming sylphs flew up into her face, driving her away from the table. They attacked her hysterically, screeching at the tops of their tiny lungs, pummeling her with their little fists, scratching her with miniscule nails. “No!” they screamed. “No! Danger! Bad!”

  She tried to brush them aside to get at the fruit, the luscious, tempting fruit, but more of them intercepted her, blinding her with their wings. “Let me alone!” she ordered, but they wouldn’t obey. Instead they closed around her, hemming her into a corner, and she was afraid to strike at them for fear of hurting them.

  Behind her, she heard John running through the sitting room, into the kitchen—and then he, too, was swarmed. The room seemed full of butterfly-winged sylphs, all of them trying to keep her, and now John, away from the fruit.

  Finally she lost her temper. She gathered her magic and shouted at them, “Begone!” putting all of the force of her will behind the command. The sylphs wailed and vanished—

  But before she could move, Neville flew through the kitchen window and straight at her, hooking his claws in her bodice, and flapping his wings in her face. A moment later, the raven was followed by the parrot, and beside her, John fought a similar battle with Grey—

  * * *

  The girls had taken the ’bus as far as the street where John’s surgery lay. The birds flew free today, since there was no good reason to confine them to their carriers, and every good reason to keep them out where they could watch for danger. They were about halfway down the block when the birds both gave alarm calls and shot like a pair of bullets for the open windows of the flat.

  At the same time, a cloud of frantic sylphs boiled up out of nowhere and assailed the two of them, tugging on their clothing, flying in dizzying circles around their heads, shrilling something about . . . fruit?

  It didn’t matter what they were saying, it was clear that Mary, and perhaps John too, were in danger; Nan picked up her skirts and ran with Sarah right behind her, bursting in through the door of the surgery, pelting up the stairs at the rear to the flat, flying in through the open door. That was where they heard the struggle going on in the kitchen—Neville shouting “No! No! No!” and Grey screaming “Bad fruit! Bad fruit!”

  Nan shoved her way into the tiny kitchen and took in everything in a glance. Neville attached to the front of Mary’s bodice like a brooch from hell, flapping his wings in her face as she flailed at him. Grey dancing on the table between John and a basket of fruit, snapping at his fingers as he tried to reach for it.

  Dear god—his eyes!

  John’s eyes were wide and maddened, and he paid absolutely no attention to the fact that his wife was locked in a struggle with a large and dangerous bird. Clearly all he wanted was the basket Grey was keeping him from. Sarah interposed herself between John and her parrot, shouting at him, grabbing his lapels in both hands and shaking him.

  Nan didn’t even think. She pushed past him, snatched up the basket, and threw it in the stove, ignoring John’s wail of anguish. Someone had lit it already, and there was a merry little fire going. She looked around, saw a pan that still had some bacon grease in it, and poured it over the fruit, basket and all, then slammed the firebox door shut as it all went merrily up in flames.

  * * *

  They had all moved to the sitting room, sparsely furnished in white wicker with cushions of blue chintz. Mary reclined on a lounge, while Nan carefully applied witch hazel to the scratches on Mary’s face and hands, as Neville sat on her shoulder, occasionally muttering “Sorry.”

  “I don’t think you’re going to have a black eye,” Nan said, finally. “Which is a wonder, given how he was buffeting you with his wings.”

  “He saved my life, and Grey saved John’s,” Mary Watson replied. “A few scratches and a black eye would be a small price to pay. I don’t even mind that he made rags out of my shirtwaist.” Nan winced a little. Neville had destroyed the front of her shirtwaist past mending; for modesty’s sake she’d gone and put on a new one before she let Nan tend her injuries.

  “Sorry,” Neville croaked, his head down, and his neck feathers ruffled.

  Mary put up a hand to caress his head. “Don’t be, Master Mischief,” she said. “You did what you had to do to save us.”

  “Do you suppose you can tell us now just what was going on?” Sarah demanded, looking from Mary to John and back again.

  “I’d like to know that myself,” John added. “Mary’s sylphs came boiling up at me as I was cleaning some instruments in the surgery, yelling something about danger. I ran for the stairs and into the kitchen. Mary was beset with sylphs and there was something on the kitchen table she was trying to get to. And then . . . I stopped thinking entirely. All I remember is being overcome with an irresistible compulsion to cram fruit into my mouth, while Mary’s sylphs tried to keep me away from it. Then she banished the sylphs, and just as I was about to get my heart’s desire, Grey drove me away from it.”

  “That was exactly what happened to me!” Mary exclaimed. “The grocer’s boy delivered what I had ordered, and I came in here to make sure it was all there. And there was that basket of fruit that I knew I hadn’t ordered—I touched it, and all I could think about was eating it—”

  “Sounds like the ‘Goblin Market’ poem,” Nan said, dubiously.

  Sarah’s head came up. “Or Snow White!” she exclaimed.

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” John replied, frowning fiercely. “There was a compulsion on that basket, and I will wager the fruit in it was poisoned. Why else would there be a compulsion on it?”

  “But why didn’t it affect me?” Nan demanded, corking the witch hazel.

  “It had to be specific to John and me.” Mary put her hand to her forehead, as if her head suddenly pained her. “This isn’t Elemental Magic. It’s—”

  “Old-fashioned black witchcraft,” John said, angrily. “Curse it, we are being attacked on all sides, we have no idea who is doing the attacking, and they are actually able to come at us in our own home!” His fist came down on the arm of the chair so hard Nan heard the wood crack. “They nearly murdered my wife!” he cried brokenly.

  Mary instantly left her lounge and went to him, gathering him in her arms, murmuring to him soothingly. Nan looked away, feeling very uncomfortable at witnessing such a moment of personal weakness on John Watson’s part.

  “I’ve half a mind to tell Alderscroft he can find someone else to hunt his necromancer,” John murmured, his face against Mary’s shoulder.

  “That’s exactly what the necromancer wants you to do,” Mary replied, absently. “He must have discovered that we are hunting him. I can’t think of anyone else who would have the sheer ability to put such a powerful compulsion on an object.”

  Nan snapped her fingers. “Mary, you’re right. That is exactly what he wants you to do, John. And maybe if you do just that, he’ll become overconfident, or at the least drop his guard, and make a mistake.”

  John raised his head. “I—I can’t think,” he said thickly.

  “I’ve already g
ot an idea, and most of a plan,” Nan replied. “And if nothing else, it will buy you some peace. It starts with us faking Mary’s death.”

  “I’ll send a telegraph to Alderscroft, telling him to come here, that it’s an emergency.” Sarah snatched up her purse, and ran out the door.

  “And I’ll go downstairs and lock up the surgery,” Nan said. “Thank goodness this happened here. You’ll be able to move back into 221C without the necromancer even knowing you are there. Hopefully Mrs. Hudson has finished her cleaning.”

  The next couple of hours were a whirlwind of activity. Alderscroft arrived, was given the explanation of what had happened, and for the first time, Nan saw the man in a towering rage.

  Alderscroft’s eyes literally blazed. There was a fire in the bottom of them, and he seemed a good foot taller. His jaw tightened, and his hands clenched at his side, the knuckles white.

  It terrified her. It was like being in the same room as an erupting volcano. For a moment she was afraid to breathe.

  When he had calmed himself, he proceeded to move mountains. An ambulance was summoned, and Mary taken off under a shroud. John rode in the ambulance with her, in case anyone was watching.

  Meanwhile Alderscroft summoned Scotland Yard, who proceeded as if this had been a murder scene. They collected the half-burnt fruits from the stove (without asking why they had been flung in there in the first place). They questioned Nan and Sarah, who, following the story Nan had concocted, told them that they had arrived to find John cradling his wife’s body, a half-eaten pear in one of her hands. They took notes, they took measurements, they went down to the surgery and presumably took more notes and measurements. They then went to question the grocer, and presumably the grocer’s boy. Alderscroft saw to the locking up of the surgery and sent Nan and Sarah to Baker Street.

  Meanwhile according to Nan’s plan as enhanced and enlarged by His Lordship, the coroner was given most of the real story by Alderscroft, John, and Mary at the hospital. “Most” of the real story, because he was not told about the compulsion to devour the fruits, only that the fruit had arrived without being ordered, slipped in with the rest of the order, and that Mary had gotten suspicious. He agreed to create a false death certificate at the behest of Alderscroft, and once the results of testing on the fruit was complete, would fake autopsy results that would corroborate the tests.