by Ed Greenwood
Standish nodded sadly, turned, and told the beagles who’d been standing guard to, “Secure that door, so it’ll take men with tools some time and a lot of noise to get it open again.” Then he said to three of the six beagles who’d come with them from Tower Street, “Back to your regularly assigned duties, lads. Street patrol, yes? By all means stop for a pint on your ways back to your beats.”
The beagles nodded and clattered back down the stairs. Wilkins and Summers were young and new to Tower Street, so they didn’t think it unusual that the third man, Oldtree, turned left when they were out in the street outside, rather than turning right and walking with them. Not that there was much leisure for thought amid the noise and confusion of the waiting beagle carriage steam cleaning the stretch of cobbles it was standing on and a second and more conventional fast-piston beagle houndcar screeching to a halt behind it and disgorging Sergeant Blunt, who rushed past them and entered the building they’d just left in haste.
“Blunt!” Standish greeted him on the stairs, as the remainder of the group who’d come from Tower Street descended. “What news?”
Blunt peered at Lord Tempest and Mister Hardcastle for only a doubtful instant before reporting, “The man Miles Whipsnade was seen by one of us on duty outside Pitt’s last night to have been driving Lord Winter’s carriage—in which he took Lord Winter and Lady Hailsham away.”
Standish frowned. “So you’ve detained him for questioning?”
“No, sir. That I did not. He has a guest in his rooms, sir, and they’ve been drinking.”
“So?”
“The guest is Sir Fulton Birtwhistle.”
“The magistrate?”
“The magistrate. Sir.”
Standish uttered something unprintable, then snapped, “We’ll go and question him anyway. With all due civility, of course. Get a houndcar.”
“One brought me, sir.” And so it was that in short order Tempest, Hardcastle, Standish, and Blunt rushed off to Whipsnade’s lodgings, while the other beagles took the experimental carriage more sedately back to Tower Street.
* * *
Lady Rose Harminster stood watching from a doorway, bemused. It seemed Lil and one of the new arrivals, Bess, were very close friends.
She’d gone to their rooms to make her examination of the two new arrivals in accordance with the role she was playing—only to find herself watching Lil and Bess, now clad in spectacular clockwork gowns of burnished copper, embracing and kissing.
And then, rather more than embracing.
As they gasped and moaned, lips locked together, the cogs on the bodices of their gowns meshed, whirring together and causing clamps to close on their nipples, then tug rhythmically to stretch those points of flesh for mutual pleasure, as their fingers grew busy below …
“Good heavens!” Rose whispered to herself, blinking.
“Oh, I doubt goodness has all that much to do with it, ma’am,” Malmerston murmured in her ear, sounding amused, as he glided past her into the room, to set down two large goblets of strong drink handy on a table beside the amorous pair.
* * *
“We’re looking into the disappearance of the Lady Iolanthe Hailsham,” Chief Inspector Standish explained gravely, “and it seems that you, sir, were among the last persons seen in her presence last night.”
“Seen by whom, Inspector?” Sir Fulton Birtwhistle snapped.
“By a member of the Queen’s High Constabulary, on duty,” Standish said calmly, as if continuing his query to Whipsnade rather than answering the eminent magistrate. “So I was hoping you could confirm for us in what capacity you were in the company of Lady Hailsham and the circumstances—and precise whereabouts—in which you saw her last.”
“Disappeared, has she?” Whipsnade asked. “Do the beagles really keep this close a watch over all nobles? One slips out to a bed not their own overnight, and the beagles come around asking after them before the sun is fully up?”
“Mister Whipsnade is commenting in an abstract, hypothetical sense,” Birtwhistle interjected smoothly, “rather than making any specific inference as to Lady Hailsham’s behavior, last night or in general.”
“Is he, now?” Sergeant Blunt asked, looking up from his notebook.
“Is this a formal interrogation?” Birtwhistle snapped. “I haven’t heard you caution my—” He stopped, abruptly, and shut his mouth like a trap.
“Was ‘client’ the word you were heading for?” Standish asked mildly. “It seems only right, if we’re being so careful about the niceties, Sir Birtwhistle, for you to tell us if you and Mister Whipsnade have discussed Lady Hailsham between, say, yesterday morning, last night, and right now? Or Mister Whipsnade’s whereabouts and doings last night?”
“I resent the inference of any conspiracy between my friend and myself,” Birtwhistle snapped, “or that I have any involvement at all in…”
He stopped himself again.
“In what, sir?” Standish asked quietly. “You were going to say?”
Whipsnade grinned, cast a swift look at Birtwhistle—and then recoiled at something across the room. Standish and Hardcastle both looked to see what Whipsnade had shied away from and was now firmly averting his gaze from.
Lord Tempest was standing as still as a statue, ignoring everyone in the room but Whipsnade. His face was calm and at rest, but his eyes were riveted on Whipsnade, and despite his silence fairly shouted cold malice.
“I-in whatever you’re investigating,” Sir Fulton Birtwhistle said hastily.
“Your concern is noted,” Blunt told him, with the thinnest hint of contempt. Just enough to be unmistakable, but not enough to be seized upon and complained about; Blunt was a veteran of the force.
“So, Mister Whipsnade?” Standish pressed.
“What?”
“I am still hoping you can confirm for us in what capacity you were in the company of Lady Hailsham and tell us all about where you saw her last and what you were doing at that time and what you observed her to be doing.”
Whipsnade drained his glass, turned his back on the Inspector, and strolled away—not to his decanter, but in the vague direction of the nearest window. He did not speak.
“If the surroundings and company are distracting you, we could take your statement down at the Yard,” Standish murmured. “In a nice, quiet room.”
“Chief Inspector Standish,” the magistrate snapped, “you would do well to remember that the Queen’s High Constabulary are charged—in the very act that created the organization, and gives it the authority it enjoys—to treat innocent citizens as innocent citizens, and politely, too!”
“I was unaware that I had been anything less than polite. I believe this lord and this gentleman with me, and the written record the sergeant is maintaining, will attest to the courtesy with which I have treated Mister Whipsnade thus far. I was merely making a helpful suggestion as to how he could most easily assist us in our inquiries, and so more swiftly return to his own doings, unhampered by our presence and interest.”
With that, Standish strolled past Birtwhistle, to where Whipsnade would have to face him when he turned around. “Mister Whipsnade?”
“As you are no doubt already aware,” Whipsnade told the window, not turning, “I am employed as coachman to Lord Winter. In that capacity, I called on Lady Hailsham and took her to Pitt’s, to dine with my employer, and after their meal—which was not a hurried affair, and was concluded late at night, or rather early this morning—I drove her and Lord Winter, in Lord Winter’s carriage, back to her London home. She was, if I may venture a boldness, rather sleepy at that time, possibly thanks to the rich food and her enjoyment of my lord’s selection of wine, but seemed in perfect health and control of herself when I opened her gate for her, and she passed through it and onwards. Polite good nights were exchanged—without any physical contact between us, I might add—and I closed the gate again and took my lord home. He can confirm all of this, as no doubt Lady Hailsham will do when she reappears from wherever she’s gone and y
ou have the opportunity to question her.”
He turned around and managed a smile—but everyone in the room noticed he did not look directly at the motionless and silent Lord Tempest.
“So how late, or early, was it, when you closed Lady Hailsham’s gate? What was the weather, at that time?”
“Dark,” Whipsnade replied. “It’s a condition frequently associated with nighttime.”
“Not the best of time for a jest,” Blunt told his notebook. Birtwhistle stirred, as if to make complaint at that, but caught the eye of Standish and lapsed back into silence.
Standish took another slow and deliberate step forward, and Whipsnade gave way a half step and added hastily, “As to the precise time, I really can’t say, Inspector. When you’re standing in the damp and cold, with the horses, and others are inside in the warm and you can hear laughter and see lamplight and know the toffs are having a good time, it seems forever. The meal was longish, but as to how long exactly, I really can’t say.” He fell silent, then added, “I do hope you find her.”
“Thank you, Mister Whipsnade,” Standish told him gravely. “It seems likely we’ll have further questions for you in future, as we confirm details from others. For now, good day.”
He turned, gave Tempest a “come now, and no trouble” look, and made for the door. Blunt closed his book, Birtwhistle relaxed visibly, Hardcastle started to follow Standish—and Tempest stood like a stone.
A glaring stone.
Birtwhistle noticed and stirred again, but Hardcastle gave him a warning look, put a firm arm around his friend, and led him out.
* * *
Though the sky was clear but for some wisps of cloud in the distance and the airship above their gondola was scudding gently over green fields, leafy woodlots, and the occasional church spire of the English countryside, the breeze whistling past was flirting with icy.
The three lords facing each other across a hamper of champagne and chilled lobster were masked for this meeting for other reasons than the cold. Lady Roodcannon had good reason to believe the beagles—and others—were training spyglasses on her vessel during daylight flits in these latter months.
“Do not make the mistake of underestimating the Lord Chamberlain,” she told her two guests sharply. “I, for one, regret the death of Hawkingbrooke. He was a formidable foe, yes, but this mild-mannered, mutton-chopped, fat and blinking seeming buffoon is anything but. Bertram Buckingham is far more capable than the Old Hawk ever was. He watches over the Prince Royal like a hawk indeed—and if we don’t arrange an accident for him soon, he’ll be well on his way to forever balancing the reputation, safety, and schooling of the heir against the need to keep the ailing Queen supreme in authority and the public’s regard and her rule safe from the malcontents who want her gone.”
“Your estimation of Buckingham I don’t dispute,” one lord replied. “Yet I doubt just now is the best time to eliminate him. If we move so heavily and so soon after Hawkingbrooke’s demise, we give the Prince Royal the excuse he needs to unleash all his hounds. He’ll come for us, evidence be damned, and they’ll have instructions to shoot as many of us in the fighting as they can—as traitors trying to escape justice. No, we must be rather more subtle in our timing.”
“Really, Uncle!” laughed the other lord. “The beagles? You’re frightened of the beagles? Most of whom can’t hit a stable door at ten paces?”
“They’re fodder,” Uncle replied curtly. “Brave beef, and for the most part plodding, I’ll admit. Yet I wasn’t referring to them. I meant the other hounds the Prince Royal commands.”
“The Sworn Swords?”
“The Sworn Swords. Few and eccentric they may be, but—”
“But nothing. Buckingham’s so desperate he just named a young noblewoman to their ranks. Bringing them to a fighting strength of—what? Eight?”
“Dismissing foes too lightly has long been the besetting weakness of the Empire,” Lady Roodcannon said quietly. “It saddens me to see the same weakness within our circle. My lords, I thought we were better than that.”
“We are,” Uncle said dryly, lifting a lid and wielding silver tongs. “Lobster tails, anyone?”
* * *
Hardcastle assisted Tempest out of the houndcar and kept hold of his friend’s arm, steadying him with one hand as he closed the steam carriage’s door with the other.
The driver heard the thud and let the conveyance start to move again. Standish watched Blunt peering out the window back at the two men they’d just dropped. When they were out of view and Blunt turned back to him, Standish remarked quietly, “Someone has no doubt at all as to Whipsnade’s guilt.”
“Five someones, I’d say,” Blunt grunted. “You and me, sir, Birtwhistle and Whipsnade himself, and, yes, Lord Tempest.”
“Without more evidence, we’ve no case against Whipsnade at all.”
“We need evidence, but I doubt Tempest will wait long for it.”
Standish smiled mirthlessly. “So we’re agreed?”
“That Tempest will get him? That we are, sir. That we are.”
* * *
“No need for men at all,” Lil informed Lady Rose proudly. “Not for pleasure, at least. Now, I like a man to talk over the shining future of the Empire, if he knows what’s what, or across the board from me for a good game of chess, or—”
“You play chess?” Rose interrupted, too surprised and delighted to mind full courtesy.
Lil grinned, displaying bad teeth. “Enough to be feared in Macammon’s and banned in the Ivory Rooms. After I beat all the masters there one afternoon that lasted the evening long. One after another, every last one. They made me a member on the spot—so they could throw me out.”
Lady Rose didn’t try to hide her openmouthed astonishment. The foremost chess masters in the Empire frequented the Ivory Rooms.
“Fancy a match?” she asked, when she could find the words.
Lil smiled like a lazily hungry cat.
“Of course. I know what I want if I win,” she purred, looking Rose up and down, “but what do you want? If, perchance, you should best me?”
Rose smiled. “To borrow something for a short time. Just to use here, in Foxden. Set up your board.”
“I’ll fetch a good Rhenish, some Red Leicester and the blue Cheshire,” Malmerston murmured, from the middle distance. “Will you want cigars, ladies?”
* * *
“It’s very late, my lord,” Whipsnade commented, bringing the decanter to refill his lordship’s glass.
“So it is, Whipsnade, and yet for all the long hours of this evening, you’ve neglected to tell me about the visitors you entertained in your lodgings this morning.”
“I judged it not worth bothering you about.” The wine gurgled into the depths of the glass, poured in a hand as steady as always. “You sent around Birtwhistle, his presence made all the difference, I delivered the agreed-upon tale and said nothing more, and the beagles left warning me they’d be back for more. All as you anticipated.”
Uncle smiled. “You neglected to mention the presence of Lord Tempest and his toady Hardcastle.”
“Ah. Yes, that is an oversight on my part—and I want to assure you, Lord, that I do not make a habit of neglecting to tell you things.”
“Well?”
“Tempest knows. He gave me the eyes of death all the time they were there. Said not a word, did nothing but stare at me. I’ve seen that look in men’s eyes before. He’ll be coming, right enough; we must be ready.”
Uncle nodded. “Of course.” He raised his glass. “My thanks, Whipsnade. This will be the last of my needs tonight, as it happens.”
Whipsnade bowed and withdrew. Headed for the kitchens and the good roast beef dinner that was waiting for him. A routine Uncle had established long ago so that when he at last had need to silence his most useful of servants, the vehicle for the poison would be ready, waiting, and hopefully beyond suspicion.
Alone at last, the man who preferred “Uncle” to his name or ti
tle sipped his wine and regarded the dying fire.
He realized he wasn’t afraid in the slightest at the prospect of Tempest coming for him.
Rather, he was excited.
OCTEMBER 10
Another bright morning, and another ride in the phaeton out to Foxden. Hardcastle quite enjoyed the trips, with the birds calling and flitting and the grime and steam-driven noise of London falling away in their wake, though admittedly thus far he’d not had to make the journey in the driving rain. Beside him, Lord Tempest seemed in better spirits than he’d been since Lady Hailsham’s death.
It was high time to inform Lady Harminster of what they’d learned and to tell her they’d consulted with the Lord Chamberlain yestereve and now, in light of Tempest’s injuries, needed her to take a more active role.
The guards tensed at first sight of the exoskeleton, but Straker shook his head and rather ruefully waved them away.
They went in, leaving the phaeton for the guards, and hastened to the rooms Hardcastle and Lady Rose had been given.
Rose’s bedchamber door was closed.
Tempest strode straight to it.
“Lady Harminster?” Hardcastle called hastily.
His friend shot him a withering look over one shoulder, flung the door wide, and strode in.
Hardcastle took two swift strides after him and came to an abrupt halt, aghast.
“Good God!”
Tempest hadn’t stopped but had slowed, once inside the room, to circle the Lady Harminster. An approving smile was rising onto his face.
She was facing away from them but turned unashamedly to greet them. Hardcastle frankly stared.
She wore an extraordinary thing. A gown of copper mail covered with elaborate clockwork, the hips and front overlaid with an intricate labyrinth of interlaced gears, push rods, and mounts that framed an open bodice, where a mere wisp of lace entirely failed to conceal rouged curves. Hardcastle hastily looked elsewhere and saw that gaudily heavy makeup covered her face, too.
Rose’s eyes were twinkling with dark challenge.
She turned, one hand on a shapely hip. “Yes, sirs? Is there something?”