The Serpent's Shadow em-2

by Mercedes Lackey

  Maya put her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. "I'm glad I wasn't, Bill. I doubt I could have kept a straight face, and then where would we be? I take it he was sent away with a flea in his ear?"

  Bill wheezed with laughter. "More loik a burr up 'is bum!" he chortled. "An' th' on'y one in trouble is 'isself. Big Man toP 'im t' get shut uv the 'orspital, and never show 'is face 'ere agin!"

  Maya heaved a deep sigh of relief. Paul Jenner was safe, and no one had gotten into trouble over his escape. She gave Bill a perfunctory examination, more for the benefit of the head nurse than for his own well-being, and continued on her rounds.

  But as she was halfway through them, another thought occurred to her; what if this Simon Parkening had other ways of tracing his former secretary—ways that didn't involve detectives and spies—

  Or rather, one that involves spies that aren't of this world—

  She checked the watch she kept hung around her neck. If she hurried, she could just make the morning mail. She scribbled a hasty note to Peter Scott, sealed it, and dropped it in the tray with the rest of the hospital missives. Feeling that caution was the order of the day, she didn't mention Paul Jenner either by name or by implication.

  Something interesting has come up that I'd like to discuss with you, she had written. Can we meet at the Reading Room in the British Museum after tea?

  Innocuous enough, and the Reading Room was a sufficiently neutral place to meet a casual male acquaintance in. Beneath the eyes of the librarians, with all of the weight of centuries of scholastic propriety behind them, no one would even consider so much as a mild flirtation. I don't want him to have any—ideas, she told herself. But to be absolutely honest, it was her own feelings that she didn't trust. She would be able to put the firm hands of control on the reins of her emotions in the staid surroundings of the British Museum.

  An even briefer note than hers was waiting on her desk at home when she returned from her morning rounds, a short acceptance and an exact time. She tried not to be disappointed that it was so very short, and busied herself with afternoon patients.

  At the appointed hour, she closed up her office and walked the few blocks to the point where she could catch a 'bus to the museum—this time, one of the new motorized 'buses, which wheezed and clattered its way through the traffic, bouncing on the uneven cobblestones in a way quite unlike the horse-drawn 'buses. Maya didn't much like the things, not the way they smelled, nor the noise they made. It doesn't matter, though, she thought, gazing at the back of the passenger in front of her. It's less expensive to keep one of these than to keep horses in the city. They're pushing out the horses; it's only a matter of time.

  The 'bus arrived at the museum and disgorged its passengers, Maya among them. She hurried up the steps with the rest, but passed by the enticing galleries, heading straight for the Reading Room.

  She had been here before, but the sight never failed to awe and thrill her; where other children might have dreamed of toys, she had dreamed of the Reading Room and the implied treasures of the hundreds of thousands of books in it. Of course, as a child, her imagination had populated the walls with all of the most amazing story books in the world, but the reality, now that she had come to it as an adult, was just as dazzling. What wonders were here! The ceiling rose high above, like a cathedral in its proportions, and on all four walls were the books, the wonderful, wonderful books, ranged neatly on their shelves—some shelves open, others closed in with wooden doors. From floor to ceiling those shelves stood, taking the place of paintings or carvings of saints in this cathedral of knowledge. Beneath the books stood the catalogs and the carrels, the desks at which men studied (or pretended to) under the eyes of the librarians. The very air held an incense of book, a scent of old paper, parchment, vellum and ink, of leather and dust.

  Maya entered and stood, just to one side of the door and out of the flow of traffic, and breathed in that beloved scent, her eyes closed. Here, if nowhere else in London, she felt completely at home. . . .

  Then a hand closed on her elbow, and she stifled a yelp as her eyes flew open. A nearby librarian turned to level a glare at her.

  "Much as I appreciate this place," Peter Scott breathed in her ear, "I don't think this is the best spot for a discussion. May I invite you to a late tea?"

  Mutely, she nodded, and he let go of her. With a nod of his head, he indicated the way back out, and with a sigh of regret, she followed him back out, past the galleries, and into the clattering streets again.

  PETER Scott did not venture to take her arm again, and Maya wasn't certain if she was pleased or disappointed by this. Such an action would have been improper in anyone but a relative or a suitor—

  Yes, but just how "proper" is my position?

  Young men in spectacles with rumpled suits, older men walking with careful dignity, and a loud American couple with their adolescent children passed them as they exited the building next to the left-hand lion. It was quite six o'clock, perhaps later; the museum remained open late on some nights, and this was one of them. Amateur scientists of all walks of life haunted the building in every possible hour that it was open, and many of them had livings to make. It was for the convenience of those who had to earn their bread that the museum kept later hours. Shops stayed open until eight or nine in the evening, men often worked that late in their offices, and dinner at six was something no one even considered except in the country. Londoners prided themselves on being cosmopolitan and modern; the gas and electric lights meant that no one was a slave to the sun going down anymore.

  Which, for the working poor, only means longer and harder hours—but no one ever consults them. If a shop stayed open until eight, the poor little shopgirl didn't see her home until ten. If the museum stayed open until nine, the charwoman couldn't start her work until the last visitor left, which meant she worked all night. Must it always be that great advances are made at the expense of the poor? Maya thought bleakly, then shook off her rnood. She was doing what she could for others; the best she could do would be to continue doing that, and hope that her example would inspire more to do likewise. She had to be certain of that, or fall into despair.

  She took a few deep breaths of relatively sweet air to raise her spirits. The museum stood in a neighborhood that was patrolled religiously by street sweepers, and until winter came, there would be no dense smoke from coal fires lingering in the air. Peter looked about for a moment, then turned back to her. "Would you mind terribly if I took you to my club for dinner?" he asked diffidently, as she stood on the sidewalk at the base of the lion statue and waited for him to indicate a direction. "I know I asked you to come here later than teatime, and I shouldn't like you to starve on my account."

  "Your club?" she said with surprise. "I thought that men's clubs were havens away from the company of mere females." An older gentleman passing by overheard her response, and smiled briefly into her eyes before continuing on into the museum.

  Peter chuckled. "They often are, but this one happens to have a room where one can bring lady guests for a meal without disturbing the meditations of the members—largely, I suspect, because the female relatives of our members have insisted on it."

  "In that case—" She thought for a moment. She had told Gupta not to expect her for dinner, expecting to make a meal of whatever she found in the kitchen when she returned home. "I suppose it is a place where we won't be overheard? If so, I accept your kind invitation—if not, perhaps we ought to, oh, take a walk in Hyde Park instead?" She tilted her head to the side, quizzically. "I've no objection to a walk instead of a meal."

  "Better to say that it's a place where it won't matter if we're overheard." With that mysterious statement, he hailed a passing cab—a hansom—and handed her into it.

  With the cabby right overhead, they kept their conversation to commonplaces—he, inquiring if she intended to take a holiday anywhere this summer and commiserating when she admitted that neither her duties nor her schedule would permit it. "I'm afraid I'm
in the situation where I cannot leave my business, and London in the summer can be stifling," he said with a grimace. "Especially in August. Usually the worst weather doesn't last long, but it can be very uncomfortable, even with doors and windows wide to catch whatever breeze there might be."

  "You say this to someone who lived through summers in Delhi?" she laughed. "Pray complain about 'hot' weather to someone else! If the worst comes, I'll serve gin-and-tonics, then install a punkah fan in the conservatory and hire one of the neighborhood urchins to swing it!"

  The cab stopped outside a staid old Georgian building of some pale-colored stone. Peter handed her out and paid the cabby, then offered his hand to help her up the steps to where a uniformed doorman waited. This worthy was a stiff-backed, stone-faced gentleman of military bearing, whose mustache fairly bristled disapproval as he looked at her.

  "Good evening, Mr. Scott," he said unsmilingly, holding the door open immediately.

  "And a good evening to you, Cedric," Peter Scott replied cheerfully. "Is Almsley in the club today?"

  "I don't believe so, sir. Shall I tell him that you and your guest are here and would like to see him if he arrives?" Although the doorman's face held no expression at all, his eyes were narrowed in speculation.

  "Please do." That was all Scott had time for before the door shut behind them. He didn't seem the least disturbed at the doorman's disapproval, though perhaps that was only because he had already known what the old fellow would think.

  And what is he thinking, I wonder? That I'm fast for coming here unaccompanied by a relative? Or is it that he recognizes my mixed parentage?

  She dismissed the thought and held her head high. No doorman was going to intimidate her. After all, she was a professional, a physician, and an adult, and had every right to go anywhere she pleased, with anyone she pleased. If it was her Indian heritage that the doorman disapproved of, well, that was his problem and not hers unless she chose to make it so. He could disapprove all he liked, since he was not in a position to bar her from entry.

  They stood in a foyer that had probably been decorated in the first years of Victoria's reign or the last years of her father's, and hadn't been touched since. It featured the neoclassical motifs that had been popular then; the furniture was not burdened with draperies and flounces to hide its "limbs," although the colors were more in keeping with the Victorians' love of dark shades—the room had been papered in brocade of deep green, the Oriental carpet featured the same color, and the upholstery was a faded burgundy. There was a faint hint of old tobacco smoke in the air, and a great deal of dust. Peter Scott led Maya in through a door immediately to the right before she had much more time to look around.

  This room had something of an air of disuse, but was furnished to more recent taste—the medievalism of the Pre-Raphaelite movement. The blue wallpaper, figured with peacocks and sinuous acanthus, supported a pair of Morris tapestries; the furnishings, upholstered in dark blue brocade, romantic in style and evocative of the great hall of an ancient castle, could only have come from the same workshop as the tapestries. The quaintly figured carpet, also blue, had a pattern of twining green vines. There was even a painting over the fireplace that Maya was willing to swear was by Millais. A massive sideboard stood beneath the tapestries. There were couches beneath the two windows overlooking the street, two chairs with curvaceous side tables, one on either side of the fireplace, and four dinner tables with four chairs each, none of which were occupied. Peter made a motion to Maya to indicate that she could take her seat anywhere, and reached for a tapestry bell pull beside the doorway, giving it a firm yank.

  By the time they were both seated—which was no time at all—a uniformed waiter had appeared at the door, bearing a tray that held two glasses, a bottle of whiskey, a siphon of soda, and a second bottle of something straw-colored.

  "Would you or your guest like to see a menu, Mr. Scott?" the waiter asked, deftly pouring Peter a whiskey and soda and setting it down in front of him. Maya held up her hand to prevent him from pouring her a glass of ratafia, since her nose identified the contents of the decanter as he unstoppered it.

  "I should prefer a whiskey and soda myself, please," she said firmly. "But I don't believe that I need a menu. If you have a roast or a curry, I shall have that, with steamed vegetables and rice."

  The waiter raised an eyebrow; Peter's lips twitched, but something of a smile escaped him. The waiter poured her whiskey and soda, and murmured, with more respect, "It's lamb curry tonight, mum. Will that suit?"

  "Admirably, thank you." She granted him a smile, and he vanished, leaving the door half open, and prudently leaving the bottle and soda siphon behind.

  "I think you frightened him," Peter said, as she took her first sip and allowed the whiskey to burn its way down her throat. His eyes twinkled with suppressed amusement.

  "What, because of this?" She raised her glass. "I rarely indulge, actually, but it has been a long day, and I am not going to be poured a glass of ratafia as if I were your maiden aunt!"

  "Still, whiskey? And before dinner? I fear you have convinced him I've brought in a suffragette, and next you will be pulling out a cigar to smoke!" Peter was having a hard time concealing his mirth. "You will have quite shattered my reputation with the staff by the time dinner is over!"

  She gazed at him penetratingly, then shrugged. "I am a suffragette, though I may not march in parades and carry banners. Or smoke cigars. I fear you may have mistaken me if you think differently. I am not the sort of woman of whom Marie Corelli would approve."

  "I shouldn't care to be seen in the company of the sort of woman of whom Marie Corelli would approve," said a strange voice at the door. A tall, thin, bare-headed blond with the face of a merry aesthete and a nervous manner leaned against the doorframe. Maya would have ventured to guess that he was quite ten years younger than Peter Scott, and perhaps more than that, but he saluted her companion with the further words, "Well, Twin, I understand you were looking for me?"

  Peter sprang up, his expression one of open pleasure. "Almsley! Yes, I was! This is the young doctor I spoke to you about—Doctor Maya Witherspoon, may I introduce to you my friend Lord Peter Almsley?"

  Lord Peter came forward, his hand extended; Maya swiveled in her chair and accepted it. She half expected him to kiss it in the Continental manner, but he just gave it a firm shake, with a mock suggestion of clicking his heels together.

  "Might one ask what you meant by slighting Miss Corelli?" she asked, as he dropped into one of the armchairs. She had the impression of a high-strung greyhound pausing only long enough to see if it was truly wanted. "Not that I'm any great admirer of her work."

  "Only that Miss Corelli has damned dull ideas of what women should do with their lives—which makes for damned dull women," Lord Peter said cheerfully. "Shall I join you, or would you twain prefer to condemn me to the outer hells of the member's dining room to eat my crust in woeful solitude?"

  "Join us, by all means!" Peter Scott exclaimed, when Maya nodded her agreement. Maya had been disposed to like this man before she had ever met him. Scott had told her something of this young lord-ling, the most important fact of which was that he was another Water Master. Now that she'd seen him, she decided that he was worth knowing, and worth counting as a friend. And it occurred to her if she was going to have to lock horns in combat with Simon Parkening, it would be no bad thing to have someone with Lord Peter's money, title, and influence behind her.

  Peter Scott rang for the waiter a second time; the man appeared, left a third whiskey glass, took Almsley's order, and vanished again.

  "I assume it isn't pleasure that urges you to seek the company of my Twin, here," Almsley said, taking over the conversation with a natural arrogance that was both slightly irritating and very charming. "Not," he added, "that the company of a woman who was likely to incur the frowns of Marie Corelli isn't exactly what he needs in his life, but your expression leads me to think that this is not a mere social call."

 
Peter Scott actually blushed; Maya refused to allow this enchanting young rascal to get any kind of a rise in temper out of her. She had the notion that he was inclined to prick people at first in order to see what they were made of. "Actually, that is correct, it is not precisely a social call," she replied. "Though if it had not been for certain inferences on the part of my patient, I wouldn't have thought of consulting him—but I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me explain."

  She began the short tale of Simon Parkening and Paul Jenner, pausing only when the waiter entered with their meals, and taking it up again as soon as he left. She made her story as detailed as possible, so that she only just finished as the meal did. The waiter came and cleared away the remains, lighting the lamps and the gas fire, and set up liqueurs on the sideboard before he left. Peter poured himself a brandy and Maya accepted a liqueur in lieu of dessert, but Almsley retired to the sofa under the open window, lounging there with a cigarette, while Maya and Peter sat by the fire in the armchairs. By this time, the sun had set, and the street noises outside had subsided. Almsley's cigarette smoke drifted out the open window into the blue dusk.