by William Ray
That made her smile, and she rose to help him into his coat, brushing at his suit a little to make sure he looked his best before handing him his hat. “I’ll ask around as well,” she said, “Maybe I could get a little more detail out of the witnesses.”
“Don’t bother. The police and the papers will have gotten all that from their own interviews already,” he said. She gave him a smirk that told him she thought he was wrong and would do it no matter what he had to say on the matter. “Anything they saw is probably a false trail anyway. I’ll follow up about the mistress; in cases like this, it’s always about either women or money.”
Gus dashed down the last of the tea, immediately regretted doing so, and handed the cup back to Emily. He nodded his farewell and made his way out of the office once more.
Approaching the stand, he scanned the line of waiting cabs for Louis. Not spotting him, he supposed Louis was apparently already engaged and hailed the first cab in line instead. Climbing inside, he directed the driver to take him to the Hotel Harrison.
No longer needing stealth, he had the driver pull right up to the entrance. Given the part of town they came from, the cabbie seemed only marginally disappointed in the lack of tip, but the stewards looked more crestfallen when a decidedly unfashionable passenger emerged with no luggage whatsoever.
Projecting all the bluster he could conjure up, Gus strode purposefully past them and to the front desk and was relieved when the manager who stepped forward to greet him was a different man than the concierge who had chased him off a few days prior. Nodding dismissively at the usual recitation of greetings welcoming him to the hotel, Gus said, “I’m here to meet Miss Aliyah Gale. Could you ring her room and let her know to come down?”
The manager looked a bit stricken at his request, and in a voice of meek apology he said, “I’m afraid she left earlier than expected, sir. She settled her bill yesterday and took the first train out this morning.”
Well, that was inconvenient. Putting on a scowl as if terribly affronted by the news, Gus replied, “What? But we were to meet here this morning! Did she say where she was headed?”
Sounding genuinely sympathetic, the manager said, “I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I believe she said she had to return home right away, so she caught the 8:30.” The man’s eyes lit up a little, apparently seeing an opportunity to make money, and he coyly added, “We do, however, have our own wire service if you’d care to send a message ahead to her.”
Unfortunately, Gus had no idea what sort of message to send her, much less where to send it, and he worried a telegraph form would give his ignorance away to the manager. “I should probably just go after her. Do you happen to have a copy of Martin’s?”
Of course they did. Eager to be of service, the manager quickly produced their well-thumbed railway guide with a ribbon tucked away to mark the day’s schedule of departures from nearby Imperial Hub. Gus flipped the book open as if looking for the next train out, but scanned backwards to find what had left at 8:30—points east, including Aelfua. Flipping through the book, he found a list of stops along that route, and sure enough the particular train she took passed over the mountains to the southeast through Khanom.
Deciding to test his hunch, he glanced through the schedule again and then groused, “Looks like the next direct to Khanom isn’t until the overnight.”
The manager nodded sympathetically and said, “I’m terribly sorry about your meeting, sir. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to cable ahead and let her know you’re coming?” He looked sincere enough, so Gus felt the hunch confirmed. Khanom was a long way to go for a slim lead, however, even if it did look like she might be fleeing the scene.
Maybe Phand staged his own kidnapping, so he could run off with his mistress? A splashy kidnapping would make the papers in Khanom, complicating that sort of marital escape plan if any of Phand’s business associates there saw him. And why dress like Wardens, which was sure to attract even more widespread attention?
“No thanks,” he said, disappointing the manager’s ambitions for making a few pennies off of him with the wire service. “I still haven’t decided whether it’s worth following her out or not.” He grinned amiably at the man, tipped his hat, and then stepped back outside the hotel.
The liveried stewards all stiffened and made ready to attend their clientele, but then slumped back to their resting positions once they saw who emerged. Stewards, he had found, had a remarkable memory of who were the best tippers. Pausing by the door, Gus looked over at them and said, “I don’t suppose any of you helped Miss Aliyah Gale to the station yesterday?”
They grinned at each other, chuckling a little at some mutual recollection, but one stepped forward and said, “I won the toss on that, sir. Helped her into the hotel’s coach and back out again.”
Knowing a handful of pennies wouldn’t impress here, Gus fished around in his pocket for a few full peis instead. Gus pulled out a couple of the coins, letting the man catch a glimpse of the silver in his hand as he asked, “Did you take her luggage all the way to the platform?” When the man nodded, Gus followed up with, “Did she meet up with anyone for the trip? Maybe a hefty older gentleman?”
Another hack rolled up, and the steward’s colleagues darted off in search of tips. The one talking to Gus shook his head in answer, but his eyes anxiously strayed to the new patrons disembarking as he said, “No, sir. Didn’t seem right, a woman like that traveling alone, but she was in a palace car and had the whole bit to herself, so I reckon she was safe enough.”
Gus nodded seriously as if the idea of a personal palace car was entirely the sort of thing one expected. With murmured thanks, Gus slipped the steward some dosh, which was quickly pocketed as the man rushed away to join in the aid of the hotel’s new guest.
Gus strolled along the street for a time, pondering the situation. If Phand kidnapped himself, and they didn’t meet on the train, chances were they traveled separately. If he was smart enough to think of that, he probably traveled under a pseudonym as well—all of which assumed he had the forethought to hide his tracks so well, which seemed a bit beyond the usual criminal education of an upper-class engineer of fancy bridges. Certainly no such skill had been on display when Gus had tailed him a few days ago.
He meandered towards the site of the kidnapping and recalled the steward’s comment about Miss Aliyah Gale’s travel arrangements. A palace car to herself on a busy line like that? A cabin was one thing, but the manager had said she left earlier than expected, and to buy out the entire car without a reservation must have cost a fortune. If she was a lover after Phand’s bridge money, somehow she was already spending it.
Other than His Majesty, Gus wasn’t sure who would have the sort of cash on hand to casually roll about buying up entire palace cars and suspected if Phand even had that sort of capital, he would live in a far nicer house. Whoever she was, it meant she probably had far more money than Edward Phand, which made her part in this even murkier.
He supposed it was possible that things might be turned around, and Phand might want to run off with her to get her money. Phand was older, not particularly handsome, and the paper had mentioned no titled relations affected by the scandalous kidnapping, so if Miss Aliyah Gale were wealthier to boot, then surely she would have better prospects.
She was from Khanom, in Aelfua, the former home of the Elves—perhaps that could account for the kidnappers’ tasteless choice of disguise. Chasing her to Khanom to find out would cost money, however, and he was not yet willing to invest that much on so insubstantial a lead; other possibilities for finding Phand existed in town.
Phand was a hardworking man of business, which meant he probably spent nearly as much time with his employees as his wife. An interview with them could turn up something useful. His course of action decided, Gus whistled an old marching song to himself as he waved his hand to a passing cab.
~
“Lord Mayor’s Ball”
The ball given last week b
y the Lord Mayor of Gemmen and the Lady Mayoress at Courthill in Palace was a very successful affair. The interior of that interesting old building, with the adjoining Courthill Library, was skillfully and tastefully decorated for this festive occasion by the Lord Ellis, and Francis A. Casey, a prominent member of the RFTB. The covered entrances of Courthill were adorned with banners and shields bearing armorial devices, and the front was draped in azure. Promenades and refreshment rooms were established in all the corridors and official apartments, in the Greatchamber, and in the Crypt beneath.
– Gemmen Standard, 8 Tal. 389
~
- CHAPTER 6 -
The Earl of Wending stood upon a landing between the stairs that descended into his elegant manor’s marble-tiled foyer. Judging by the stiff and artless smile he greeted her with as he stood upon the stair, she suspected he was well aware of her current employment.
There was a thin and oft-crossed line between inquiry agent and blackmailer, and in her usual financial straits, she could hardly blame him for the nagging doubt that she might be ready to cross it. The clothes and jewelry he had once bought for her were all sold long ago, save the dress she wore for this visit, and she wondered if he remembered buying it.
It was reddish-brown trimmed in lace, and with a few decorative combs in her hair, she looked like a well-to-do woman from out of town rather than someone from the wrong side of it. She had dressed herself up for the visit much as she once had, although she no longer felt the need to cinch her corset beneath it quite as tightly.
The Earl of Wending had been a regular customer of hers, back when he was merely Mister Roderick Sloe and she still indulging in another profession altogether. Emily had always thought of him as a handsome man, but it seemed his appearance had finally begun to journey from distinguished into simply old.
In their previous transactions, he had always been courteous and had paid well enough to secure careful discretion. Further, anything she knew of politics had first been learned from that association, and she was just patriotic enough to worry over what havoc the loss of his influence might cause the nation.
Roderick had even bid a touchingly apologetic farewell upon hearing of his elevation, which made the risk of scandal too great for their association to continue. At the time, Emily had not really considered their relationship anything beyond a simple transaction and found the entire display a bit overwrought. She was surprised to feel a twinge of sadness upon seeing his look of relief when the footman led her through the foyer and into the drawing room beyond to meet with the Lady Wending.
Their drawing room was daubed in white, which caught sunlight from their large windows, bathing the room in an unflattering brightness. Despite that brightness, the gas lamps had been lit, banishing whatever few shadows might remain and gradually staining the walls behind them a dull yellow that the Lady Wending no doubt tasked someone to routinely whitewash over.
Paintings of Earls past hung along the walls in elaborately carved gilt frames, but the white and gold of the walls was starkly contrasted by the dark brown woods and deeply red plush velvets. A few flowers were arranged in various styles of vases on little side tables in a wide enough variety of flora to obviously be expensive purchases rather than the results of the Earl’s own gardens. It was ostentatious to the point of tackiness, but in a way, that was the point.
Long before she was Lady Wending, Missus Sloe was a notorious gossip, and the room was decorated to facilitate the impression that she was both important and reliably tactless. That reputation was one she had worked hard to cultivate, and it had paid handsome dividends—for ladies of the upper classes, she was a critical hub of social information. Emily had always detested the woman, but fortunately that bit of gossip had eluded Missus Sloe.
Now known as the Lady Wending, she sat in a high-backed chair at the center of the room with two other ladies sitting at one of the facing couches to her left. The visitors wore dresses that billowed everywhere but at the tight-fitting waists, one in yellow, one in light-blue, and both edged in white lace. Lady Wending wore much the same in a dark blue, although her own dress billowed more and carried far more elaborate flourishes of lace.
Both guests were around Emily’s age, younger than Lady Wending by a decade or more. When they had first met, Emily had envied Missus Sloe’s lustrous black curls, but over the years they had faded to steel grey. Now she just envied the woman’s money.
Seeing Emily, the Lady raised a hand to her guests, instantly silencing their conversation. She rose to her feet and crossed over with an enthusiastic smile, touching her shoulders and leaning in to kiss at her cheek. The other ladies were compelled to their feet as well, and Emily suspected the display of affection was mostly to toy with the other guests.
Although not formally divided, women of Lady Wending’s class kept themselves decidedly apart from anyone not in service. Aside from their husbands, even the men of their class were only met in formal situations. Their resulting social sphere was small, tightly entwined, and bitterly petty. Emily hated mixing with them, but in the past, they had proven a valuable resource to Gus’s inquiries, and he could hardly meet with them himself.
Lady Wending smiled at Emily, saying, “Oh, it’s so lovely to see you again, dear! Ladies, this is Miss Emily Vonnut, my husband’s cousin. She’s third from the Earl!” That was a clever bit of extemporization on Roderick’s part when Missus Sloe and Emily had first met, many years ago now. If she had learned or even suspected otherwise, Missus Sloe, now the Lady Wending, had never given any indication.
“Emily, this is Missus Graishe,” said Lady Wending, looking to the woman in yellow. “I’m sure you must know her already. And this is her lovely friend Missus Casey. Her husband is some sort of successful financier.” The last part was offered in an apologetic tone, since in Lady Wending’s circles, winning enormous wealth through a shuffling of papers was barely a step above shoveling coal.
Emily sat at Lady Wending’s right, seated across from Missus Graishe. There was a teapot and a tray of tiny biscuits, and the Lady Wending poured and offered Emily a share. Missus Graishe complimented Emily’s dress, but Missus Casey echoed the sentiment with far more sincerity.
Normally with a visiting relative, the Lady Wending might inquire about the Earl’s various relations, of whom Emily knew absolutely nothing. On the few occasions she had visited, Emily had always managed to catch the Lady’s attention with some other subject before the Earl’s old lie could be exposed. This time, she came armed with a specific one in mind. Looking to Lady Wending, she asked, “Did you hear about poor Doctor Phand?”
A wolfish grin came to the Lady’s lips, and she glanced at Missus Graishe before answering, “We were just discussing that very thing!”
If Emily had any doubt that was the case, she would never have come, but with a fantastic crime like that happening in Palace District, she felt sure Lady Wending was doing all in her power to have something interesting to say about it to her visitors.
Missus Graishe nodded and said, “My dear friend Missus Casey was there! She and her husband were outside the very theater as it happened!”
She spoke as if her ‘dear friend’ was not sitting immediately beside her, and Missus Casey looked like she might blush at Missus Graishe’s excitement in delivering that news. It was a bold attempt to claim some of the social credit for bringing Missus Casey’s story into their social circles, but Emily doubted it would result in anything other than mild resentment from the Lady Wending.
Emily had expected Lady Wending would be making calls all night to find a witness suitable for her drawing room, but she was still impressed the Lady had managed to snag one so early in the day. No doubt as the word spread, there would soon be a number of callers to hear the tale; this late in the winter season, it was undoubtedly a triumphant convergence of events for Lady Wending.
Looking to Missus Casey, Emily felt a pang of sympathy—neither of them really belonged in Lady Wending’s
company, but at least Emily knew she was an impostor. She opened with the question Missus Casey would no doubt hear many more times before the day was out, “Were they really Wardens?”
Missus Casey nodded, her eyes wide as she repeated her story, “Oh, yes. We had just come outside and were waiting for our cab when it happened! A black coach sped down the lane, and three jumped out, all dressed in the same green robes, waving the same wicked heathen knives. It was terrible!”
With a grave nod, Lady Wending said, “You ladies are too young to remember them, but when I was a little girl, they were a constant menace. A gang of them brazenly rode down my very street, carrying powder to the central hub!”
She seemed horrified by the recollection, and Missus Graishe laid a comforting hand on the Lady’s shoulder. Lady Wending would have been quite young at the time of that famous attempt to destroy the city’s largest rail hub.
Emily knew from that morning’s article on the kidnapping that the last major effort of the Wardens in Gemmen had been before the end of the war and was carried out by a lone radical operating under cover of darkness. She gave a sympathetic nod to acknowledge Lady Wending’s own traumatic, if somewhat imaginary, experience and then asked, “The same green? So their robes all matched?”
Missus Casey nodded again and said, “Certainly—no motley leftovers or cheap costumes, they were quite real. All the exact same green as,” she paused, looking around the room and then pointing to a flower in a vase on the side table, “that third leaf down, each just like the other, like proper Warden uniforms. Their knives were curled and everything.”
“Curled?”
Missus Casey traced the shape of the curved blade in the air with her finger and then said, “They weren’t gold though. I told my husband to tell that to the police, but he never did.”