by C. J. Archer
I couldn't quite hear Gillingham's grumbled response.
"The problem remains," Lady Harcourt said, "that we don't know where these people are now. Please tell us you had them followed, Lincoln. It would ease our minds greatly."
"They've been instructed to report their movements to me," he said.
"Good."
"Voluntarily?" Eastbrooke asked. Lincoln must have nodded, because he added, "Why would they do so?"
"You've put a lot of trust in them," Marchbank said.
"Most realize the dangers of their own powers," Lincoln told them. "They understand that a monitoring system is necessary and of long term benefit to the nation."
Someone made a scoffing sound. I'd wager it was Gillingham.
"Will you keep their whereabouts to yourself?" Marchbank asked.
"I will. I made them a promise that no one else would be told."
"That doesn't include us," Gillingham said.
"No one will be told. Is that clear?"
A pause then, "Are you implying you don't trust us?" Gillingham spluttered.
"I don't trust anyone."
A more weighty statement could not have fallen from Lincoln's lips. It was followed by complete silence, but it lasted mere seconds, before all four committee members voiced their opposition. It was difficult to distinguish one from the other, but the angry tones couldn't be clearer.
"He's mad," Gillingham said once the other voices ceased. "You've gone soft, Fitzroy. It's that necromancer girl's influence. First you send her away without telling us where, and now everyone else who poses a threat to London."
I sucked in a breath and pressed my ear firmly to the door, wishing I could hear Lincoln's reaction. But if he did react, it wasn't loud enough. The truth was, Lincoln had softened compared to when I'd first met him. Back in the summer, he wouldn't have warned the supernaturals. He would not have seen them as people to protect, but simply names in a file to be monitored. Had I softened him?
"Do be quiet, Gilly," Marchbank snapped. He sounded more irritated than I'd ever heard him. The man's feathers were rarely ruffled. Perhaps he simply didn't like being told he was untrustworthy. I wondered if Lincoln would tell him later that he was the only one not under suspicion, thanks to the fact he'd not been at Brooks's Club the day the murderer employed Rampling.
"You're letting him get away with this?" Gillingham cried. "My God, March, it's not on. Not on at all, I tell you. There's no place for autonomous behavior in the ministry. He is supposed to act under our direction, not outside it. We should have known he'd end up this way, raised as he was, alone in your household, General. He wasn't trained to consider others."
It was the most insightful thing to ever come out of Gillingham's mouth. Lincoln had indeed been brought up alone to be an unemotional leader. Although saying Lincoln had been trained to think that way, like a dog, was putting it coldly.
"Are you accusing me of raising him improperly?" Eastbrooke bellowed.
"Stop it!" Lady Harcourt's high-pitched command cut through me like broken glass. "Enough bickering. I cannot cope with this at the moment. It's trying my nerves."
"Your private life and its effect on your nerves is hardly our problem, Julia," Gillingham shot back. "Do not bring it into ministry meetings."
Lady Harcourt's response could not be heard.
"The fact remains, you think one of us is the murderer," the general challenged.
"I haven't formed any opinions," Lincoln said. "It may be one of you, or it may not be."
"Outrageous." Gillingham's mutter didn't sound too far from the door. I hoped Gus still stood there, ready to knock in warning if anyone wanted to leave. "I've never been so insulted."
He ought to hear the insults we hurled at him. They got quite colorful at times. I'm sure Seth and Gus were both biting their lips to stop their smiles.
"We can't force him to tell us," Eastbrooke said.
"No, but we can force him out of the ministry," Gillingham said. "He's only the leader because of us."
"Don't be absurd," Eastbrooke said. "The prophecy made him the leader. We can't break it."
"The prophecy said he became leader. It didn't mention for how long."
"I'm not leaving the ministry," Lincoln said. "And that is final. Is there anything else? I'm a busy man."
"You're walking on a thin edge, Fitzroy," Gillingham warned. "A very thin edge."
A quick, light tap sounded on the door. I spun round, only to trip on my torn hem. I scrambled to my feet, but tripped again. The door opened. I lay utterly exposed on the tiled floor.
I glanced back over my shoulder and swallowed my gasp. Lord Gillingham appeared in the widening gap of the open door, his head bowed. He had not seen me, thank God.
"Gillingham, a word before you leave," Lincoln said.
Gillingham turned. "What is it now?"
I half crawled, half slithered across the tiles to the large urn and sat behind it. I pulled my knees up and gathered my skirts around my feet just in time. Lady Harcourt strode out of the library ahead of Lord Marchbank and General Eastbrooke.
"A private matter," I heard Lincoln tell Gillingham. "Regarding your wife."
Lady Harcourt stopped and glanced back as Seth and Gus emerged from the library. "What's that about?" she asked as the library door closed.
"No idea," Eastbrooke said while Gus collected coats from the stand by the main door.
"Perhaps he's taken umbrage to the way Gilly treats his wife in public," Marchbank said with a disinterested air.
"How does he treat his wife?" Eastbrooke asked.
"With disrespect." Marchbank accepted his coat and gloves from Gus as Doyle joined us.
Eastbrooke grunted. "Gilly treats everyone that way. And anyway, why would Lincoln care?"
"Perhaps he feels sorry for her. Perhaps he likes her."
Lady Harcourt bristled. She snatched her gloves off Seth as he handed them to her. With his back to me, I couldn't see his expression. He helped her on with her fur coat then caught her arm so she couldn't leave. She glared at him, but didn't demand he unhand her.
"You two go on," she said to the general and Marchbank. "Gilly can take me home."
The two men bowed and left. Doyle shut the door behind them, then he and Gus passed me to go to the service area. Gus's jaw dropped when he saw me but his pace didn't slow. Doyle must have seen me hiding too, but he gave no indication. I kept myself as small and tight as possible.
"Julia, are you all right?" Seth's rich, warm tones sounded genuine. He must still care for her wellbeing or he wouldn't be asking.
The bitter taste of disappointment filled my mouth like bile. He knew what she was like, knew how she resented me and had orchestrated my kidnapping by Mrs. Drinkwater, yet here he was being kind to her. All over a little gossip, too.
Lady Harcourt glanced at the library door. It remained shut. "I'll manage."
He removed his hand, but she caught it. She stepped closer to him, pressing her considerable chest against his. She peered up at him, all fluttering lashes and pouting lips. I wanted to choke. "That's very sweet of you, Darling, thank you. I feel better already knowing you're in my corner."
I wished I could see Seth's reaction. He didn't move, and his unemotional question gave nothing away. "Do you know who spoke to the papers?"
She shook her head and dabbed the corner of her eye with her little finger. Seth handed her his handkerchief and she accepted it with a weak smile. "I'm so glad we're friends again, dearest Seth. Look at you." She lifted a hand to his face. "My poor Seth. Have you been fighting again?" She gasped. "Not with Lincoln, I hope?"
"No."
"Then who?"
"Husbands, Julia. Always the damned husbands."
She threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, Seth, thank you. I needed that." She stood on her toes and kissed him. I heard his intake of breath, and wondered if she'd made the cut on his lip sting or if he'd been taken aback. "My darling Seth. It was silly of us to fight, a
nd over such a small matter as… Well, she's gone now, and we should set our disagreement aside too. I miss you terribly." Her voice turned throaty. "Why not visit me tonight?"
He extracted himself from her grip and stepped back. "I must decline the offer. My mother is trying to find me a wife and it would be a blow to my prospects if I was caught sneaking out of an eligible widow's house in the early hours."
She blinked at him, her face a picture of dawning horror. It was the moment she realized Seth had no interest in reacquainting himself with her delights. "That sort of thing has never bothered you before," she said, voice harsh. "And you told me that marriage didn't interest you."
"It bothers me now. As to marriage, I am undecided. I'll assess each candidate on her merits, and make a decision in due course."
She pulled her fur cloak closed over her chest and looked away. "I see."
"I'm sure your other lovers will fill the void." He laughed at his crude innuendo. "I saw Andrew yesterday at Brooks's, by the by."
Lady Harcourt went rigid. "Stop it, Seth. Cruelty doesn't suit you."
The library door opened and Gillingham emerged. The sickly pall of his face was starkly white beneath his rust colored hair. With his walking stick under his arm, he snatched up his own hat, gloves and cloak and strode past Seth and Lady Harcourt to the front door.
"What did you say to affect him so?" she asked Lincoln.
"Ask him," he said, strolling out of the library.
"I dare not. I might get my head bitten off." She hurried after Gillingham without so much as a goodbye.
Seth closed the front door and blew out a breath. "Meeting?"
Lincoln nodded. "Fetch Gus."
I stood to reveal myself. Seth drew in a breath, but Lincoln's brow merely lifted.
"Bloody hell, Charlie!" Seth threw his hands in the air. "Can't a man have a private conversation around here without someone listening in?"
"If you wanted a private conversation, you should have gone somewhere private," I said, passing him. "So are you really going to give your mother's candidates serious consideration?"
"Are you mad?"
I laughed and followed Lincoln into the library. He collected half-empty teacups and placed them on the tray. I knelt by the fireplace and added more coal from the scuttle. The warmth and glow mesmerized me, and I stared at the coals until I heard footsteps approach. He sat on the armchair near me.
"Have you considered my gift?" he asked quietly.
I stared down at my hands on my lap. I nodded.
"And?"
The entry of Seth and Gus stopped me from answering, which was just as well since I didn't know how I wanted to answer. I had considered his gift, but I hadn't yet come to a conclusion. There was a rather important question that needed answering first—what strings came attached to it?
"Did you ask Gillingham about his wife?" Seth asked, sprawling in the large armchair on the other side of the fire.
Lincoln nodded. To me, he said, "I take it you don't need to be informed of what took place in the meeting?"
"I heard most of it," I said, sitting on the rug and tucking my feet beneath my spread skirts. "I expected Marchbank to be on your side, but he was just as angry with you for sending those people away."
"Marchbank may not be innocent."
Seth sat forward. "Why do you say that?"
"It's something Gillingham just told me."
"Interestin'," Gus said. "A guilty man throwin' suspicion onto someone else, maybe?"
"Perhaps," Lincoln said with a nod. "It requires further investigation before any conclusions are drawn."
"Well?" Seth urged. "What did Gilly say?"
"I told him I knew about his wife's ability to change her form. He was shocked that the secret was out."
"He certainly looked shocked," Seth said with a tilt of his lips. "He was white as a ghost, and his hands were shaking."
"Perhaps he was ashamed, too," I said. "Ashamed that you know who—rather, what—he's been…intimate with."
"She wasn't in that form during intimacy," Seth protested.
"How do you know?" Gus said with a wicked gleam in his eye.
"She wasn't," Lincoln answered for him. "She told me as much."
"Even so," I said, "Lord Gillingham strikes me as someone who wouldn't want others thinking him a lesser man because of his wife's other form. Other, more dominant, form."
"True." Seth nodded knowingly. "Go on, Fitzroy. What did he tell you?"
"I asked him if his distaste for his wife colored his perceptions of supernaturals in general. I suggested to him that he hated her animal form, and he took that hatred out on others who are different."
"You accused him of being the killer?" Gus blew out a breath. "That's bold."
Lincoln merely lifted one shoulder. "While I don't expect him to tell me outright if he is, I wanted to gauge his reaction."
He should have asked one of us to remain with him then. Lincoln wasn't very good at reading people's expressions. "How did he react?" I asked.
"He went pale, as you saw, and he stutters when he's anxious. He told me that he doesn't hate his wife, but she does disgust him, and he's not sure how to react to her anymore. As his wife, her place is beneath him, so he told me. He considered her the inferior half of their marriage."
"Good lord," I muttered. "His thinking is positively barbaric."
"And yet not unusual among men, in my experience," Lincoln said quietly. I looked up sharply to see him watching me, his dark gaze heating my skin.
"Don't look at me," Seth said, hands in the air. "I happily put women on a pedestal. All the better to—"
"Shut your hole," Gus said with a roll of his eyes. "No one was talkin' about you, anyway."
I cleared my throat. "Go on, Lincoln. What else did he say?"
"He made a very clear case for not being the killer," he said. We all sat forward. "He claimed that if he was going to kill a non-human, as he calls supernaturals, he would have started with his wife."
I pressed my hand to my chest. "I suppose."
"I don't necessarily agree with that logic," Lincoln went on. "He used to care for his wife. He has been intimate with her before he learned of her true form. The memory of that affection could stop him from hurting her. He has no such connection to the other supernaturals.
"I tend to agree," Seth said with a nod. "The heart plays odd tricks. While I don't doubt that her true form disgusts him, it takes quite a monster to kill a woman you've been intimate with. Not that I'm speaking from experience, mind. I adore all my previous lovers. Except for one or two," he added with a glance at the door.
"So we are none the wiser," I said on a sigh. "He's still a suspect."
"As is Marchbank."
"Ah, yes. What did you learn about him?"
"In his anxiety, Gillingham tried to throw suspicion onto others. He told me that Marchbank has very good reason to hate people with supernatural powers. One of them killed his father."
Chapter 9
"He wasn't killed by a supernatural," Seth said with smug certainty, as if he'd caught Gillingham out in a lie. "Marchbank's father tossed himself off a bridge one night, in front of witnesses. The river police fished the body out of the Thames the next day. The key here is the word witnesses, plural."
"According to Gillingham, Marchbank was hypnotized into killing himself," Lincoln said.
"Hypnotized!" Gus snorted. "Gillingham's a tosspot if he thinks we'll believe that. Mesmerizers are all quacks."
"I've never met a true hypnotist, but there is an account of mind control in the ministry records. It's vague and the mesmerist died before Marchbank so it couldn't have been him."
Seth rubbed his chin, no longer so cocky. "Are you telling us that Marchbank's father was talked into ending it all?"
"Hypnotized," Gus said with a roll of his eyes. "Not talked. It ain't the same."
"I thought you said they were all quacks."
"They are."
"Do y
ou think Gillingham was lying?" I asked Lincoln.
"I couldn't tell."
"No, I don't suppose you could. You're not very good at that sort of thing."
He arched his brows ever so slightly.
I'd gone this far, I saw no reason not to continue. "Empathy is not your strong suit. I believe Gillingham pointed that out to you earlier."
His brows rose even further. Gus and Seth studied the fireplace with intensity.
"Do stop looking so surprised, Lincoln. It's true and you know it. So, the question now is, how will we determine if Gillingham is speaking the truth?"
"I'll ask Marchbank," Lincoln said. "I need to know more about the hypnotist, whether he was involved in the death of Old Marchbank or not. He must be recorded in our files."
"I don't understand," I said. "If Gillingham knew about the hypnotist, and Marchbank too, presumably, why is the fellow not in our records already?"
"The hypnotist ordered Old Marchbank to erase his ministry file. The current Lord Marchbank only knew about him because he found references in his father's diary, but no name or description. Gillingham doesn't know how Marchbank the younger knew the hypnotist killed his father, however."
"Diabolical," Seth murmured.
Gus threw up his hands. "They ain't real. You're too gubbillil, Seth."
Seth pulled a face. "And you're an idiot if you think that's a word."
"Let's not dismiss the possibility that hypnotists exist," I said. "Real ones. But are we to believe the hypnotist had Marchbank kill himself all because he didn't want his name listed in our records?"
"There must be more to it," Lincoln said with a nod. "For now, the key question is, why wasn't I informed?"
"It's also important to know if this is enough for Lord Marchbank to be angry with all supernaturals. Enough to kill."
Doyle entered and collected the dishes. None of us spoke, not because we didn't want Doyle to hear our conversation, but because we were still digesting Gillingham's news. If he was right, then we had an entirely new and dangerous type of supernatural on our hands. One capable of doing great harm. If a past committee member had succumbed to a hypnotist's powers, even after knowing what he was capable of, then the general public could be in even greater danger.