The Obsidian Dagger (Horatio Lyle)

by Webb, Catherine

  Thomas saw his expression. ‘Is something the matter, sir?’

  ‘I think I know this house.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Lyle shook his head. ‘Let’s get there and see if I’m right before we start worrying, shall we?’

  They got there.

  Lyle was right.

  The mansion was part of a new terrace of grand white houses, each one no longer than London Bridge and no higher than All Saints’ Church. Lights flooded out of each high window, leading on to a green area of pond-dotted grass, separated only from the mansions by the sparkling new cobbled street, as white and polished and grand as the new mansions themselves and the doors ...

  ‘We been here before, ain’t we, Mister Lyle?’ said Tess, a note of trepidation entering her voice. They surveyed the carriages moving outside the pillared monster. Lyle was quiet and tense. Thomas had turned pale, recognizing each stone and step, and fearing it more than he dared say.

  ‘Mister Lyle?’

  ‘Yes we have, Teresa.’ Lyle’s voice was reassuring, though his face was pale. Almost to himself, he muttered, ‘It’s at times like these that a decent sceptic begins to question his lot. They raise all kinds of interesting questions about probability against unpredictable malign forces.’

  ‘It’s Moncorvo’s mansion.’ Thomas shuffled uncomfortably, memories rising in a sickening tide, things he’d managed to forget or tune down, irrationalities he’d managed to rationalize, coming back to haunt him. He remembered bright green eyes, he remembered running, he remembered seeing the storm and the figure fall from the dome of the cathedral and ...

  ‘This ain’t the right address, is it?’ said Tess edgily.

  ‘It is. It makes sense in a way: a fine address on the borders of Hampstead Heath, the previous owner mysteriously carted away, property up for sale . . .’ Lyle’s voice had the nervous edge of someone trying to convince himself and failing.

  ‘But . . . the bigwig . . . what was evil an’ did all the things with the stone thing what weren’t proper stone but was all evil an’ ... an’ he lived here!’

  ‘Probably a coincidence,’ said Lyle, smiling reassuringly, but speaking just a bit too loudly. Thomas glanced at him, and for a second, just a second, saw the lie behind Lyle’s eyes, and the sidling fear that sometimes - rarely - raised its head from behind Lyle’s determined scientific objectivity.

  ‘Let’s find out, shall we?’

  CHAPTER 12

  Mansion

  A brief view of a house, back to front, eight p.m., winter.

  Back, carriages being driven out of the rain, horses neighing, hooves stamping on cobbles, servants bustling, this bag there, that coach here, who’s seen Ellen, why’s Ellen never where she ought to be, snow thick on cobbles and disturbed by footsteps, baskets of fruit and food frozen in the cold, back door open, blast of hot air to pass inside, corridor, long, gloomy, kitchen white with suspended flour drifting through the air, stoves black and belching with their labours, chimney newly cleaned (the boy didn’t fall this time), washing area, buckets from the pump: best to boil the water first, don’t want madam’s white silk to come out Thames brown; stairs up, doors opening, doors closing, thick carpet, huge paintings of heroic figures across wind-swept landscapes (no relation, came with the house), bustling noise, darling, welcome, welcome, do tell me all, was the dance really that ghastly? Candles everywhere, although, darling, I hear that there’s this wonderful little man researching something called a bulb, fuelled by electricity, white gloves on white hand, turn up the lamp James, do you smell gas, let the servants sort it out, up again, lay the table for dinner, silver and glass, see how it gleams and sparkles, snow piles up against the glass outside, trying to get in, a thousand cold, delicate crystal moths drawn to a hundred burning flames, race down the corridor, ever a-ringing, come to her ladyship’s dance, and pull back the giant double doors and bow and straighten politely and prepare to take the coat and ...

  ‘Welcome, my lord, to her . . . Oh. Good evening, sir. May we help you?’

  Thomas swept in. ‘Well, you may take my coat, naturally; careful, don’t crease it, and my hat, oh - and do ensure that you keep it separate from the other hats. I don’t want it picking up dust. Has my family arrived yet? I was told that dinner tonight was to be rather swimming.’

  ‘Are you here for her ladyship’s gathering, or is it a private visit, sir?’

  ‘How dare you address me in that impertinent manner? Don’t you know who I am?’

  ‘Forgive me, sir.’

  ‘I am Thomas Edward Elwick, son and heir of Lord Thomas Henry Elwick, Order of the Magpie, Cross of the Sallow Oak, Knight of the Daffodil, and I am here to partake of her ladyship’s most humble hospitality. Now do you know me?’

  ‘Why, yes, sir. Forgive me, I had no idea that . . .’

  ‘Well, then, announce me. Oh, and show my man where to put my belongings.’

  A man, much taller than Thomas, standing behind him, touches his forelock respectfully. He’s holding a single, small bag that looks like no kind of lordly belongings that the butler has seen before and contains more lumps and bulges than can be comfortably conceived. As the butler watches, one of the bulges moves. He looks up in slow horror to the grey eyes of the servant man, who grins a bright, nervous grin.

  The butler opens his mouth to speak, and ...

  ‘Well, are you made of stone? My God, if my father were here he’d have lost his patience already; the army, you know, trains a man how to appreciate the good and the bad among the lower orders, distinguish between those who work to become more than they were and those who are, frankly, sir, idlers!’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Well, then? What are you waiting for?’

  Thomas’s highly bred rudeness was too practised to be ignored. The unfortunate butler’s heels practically snapped together as he stood to attention and said in a rapid monotone passed on from perfectly nice butler if only you get to know him to the next perfectly nice butler, generation after generation, ‘Yes, my lord. Please, follow me.’

  Thomas radiated well-bred insufferability as he swept down the hall of the house of Lady Diane Lumire, and into a party.

  As the butler’s distant voice rang out with the promptness of someone who knows he’s just met power and money and is never going to have any of it, ‘His lordship, Thomas Edward Elwick . . .’ Lyle moved away, walking the walk of someone who has every right to be where he is, and tried not to smile.

  And somewhere near by, more floors up than would please the vertigo-struck but not quite high enough to escape the enveloping fog, in a darkened room something very quietly goes click.

  Silence. A shadow flashes across a large four-paned window, but there is so little light from outside that the shadow isn’t so much a darkening across the floor as a mere bending of the blackness that is already there; sensed, rather than seen.

  There is a slow, gentle whumph. The window, which was shut, now opens, almost as if of its own accord. Fog hungrily trickles in, keen to explore this new and exciting place where a tiny tendril of warmth yet clings. Something slips in with it, landing soundlessly on the carpet below the window, and quickly closes the window again, sliding the catch back with another gentle click.

  Out in the corridor, footsteps quickly pass and fade, along with a little hummed tune, sung without any particular melody or reason. ‘“Oranges and lemons,” say the bells of St Clement’s . . .’

  The shadow drifts across the floor, past the foot of a neatly made but empty bed, turns a brass door-handle and peers cautiously out into the corridor one way, then the other. The singer disappears down the stairs at the end of the hall, and stillness settles. The door is very cautiously opened, and Tess slides out into the gloom, face tight with concentration, utterly silent. She passes down the corridor, trying each door-handle, until she finds one which doesn’t open. Peering at the lock, she feels in her pockets.

  There is a faint sound at the end of the corridor. ‘Well, si
nce I don’t do the linen cycle I hardly see how you can blame . . .’

  Tess finds a slim pair of lock picks and slides them into the lock.

  The voices drift nearer, and now there are footsteps shuffling along the carpet. ‘. . . after all, I do all the locking and all the candles every night, it’s Mildred who has to make sure that the beds are . . .’

  The lock gives a faint, very faint, click, and Tess wiggles the lock picks with more urgency.

  ‘. . . although I suppose that since her ladyship isn’t that picky about her room it’s not too much to put . . .’

  Tess jiggles the picks, glancing round now from side to side in trepidation, the dim orange gaslight across her face competing in her field of view with the blacker shadows.

  The servant rounds the corner, and looks down the corridor.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  The voice was rich, imperious, deep and immediately made Lyle want to throw himself on to the floor and beg for mercy. He’d been drifting through the servants’ quarters, peering through open doors and listening to chit-chat. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but was hoping something interesting would slip into his path. What had slipped into his path, almost inexorably, had been the basement kitchens, and, moreover, their formidable mistress. He managed to stiffen his knees before they jellified, stood up a little straighter, cleared his throat and said, wishing he was quite as good as Thomas at radiating pomposity, ‘Lord Elwick’s man, ma’am.’

  The woman who’d spoken was about Lyle’s age, though somehow he felt immediately humbled before her. She wore a flour-covered apron, had white sleeves rolled up almost to the armpits, and carried a rolling pin upright in one hand in the casual manner of someone who spends most of their days hitting squidgy things with hard objects. She looked Lyle over with suspicious grey eyes. ‘You don’t look like a servant from a family as well renowned as the Elwicks.’

  Lyle looked down at his snow-dusted coat and single travel bag. ‘I’m ... neglected?’ he hazarded.

  ‘What’s your master’s name again?’

  Lyle felt ready for this. ‘Thomas Edward Elwick, ma’am, only son of Thomas Henry Elwick.’

  ‘And Lord Elwick . . . what’s he like?’

  Lyle felt a suspicion of his own creep in. ‘You’ve . . . worked for his lordship, have you?’

  ‘Might’ve,’ the cook snapped back.

  ‘Well, then, ma’am . . . Lord Elwick is an intellectual buffoon with no sense of curiosity or wonder in any bone in his body. If only the world followed the pattern laid down by certain Eastern mythologies, he would be reincarnated in his next life as a particularly stupid broom handle, but is far more likely to be reborn as one of his stupid hounds. And his son, may I add, is thoroughly neglected, bordering on emotionally stunted, and it’s an incredibly noble and hardy achievement of any man to look after him, despite his obvious, if untrained, scientific potential and a certain confused power of perception.’

  Lyle realized that not only the formidable cook, but also half the kitchen were staring at him. He smiled nervously. ‘That’s just my humble opinion on the matter.’

  The cook turned to one of her juniors and barked, ‘Ellen? Does any of that sound true?’

  The woman called Ellen shrugged. ‘Bit long-winded, but he sounds like he’s met the old toff sure enough.’

  Lyle beamed. ‘Ladies,’ he said expansively, ‘you know my story now; please, share yours.’

  And, aware that he was playing his trump card, Lyle put his bag on the kitchen table, opened it, and with a flourish revealed its contents.

  As all eyes settled on the mass that had been compressed into the worn travel bag, twenty pairs of hands went to twenty mouths, and twenty tongues gave rise to a single note. ‘Awwww!’

  And Tate, sticking his head up from the bag, ears drooping over the edge, looked round the gloomy, crowded and sweaty kitchen, the air in the corners wavering from the heat, and his eyes fell on bread and fish and meat and potatoes and vegetables and caramels and chocolates and coffees, and his already substantial eyes widened, and he started to feel a lot happier about his part in the bigger picture after all.

  Thomas was not at all happy about his part in the bigger picture.

  True, from the first moment when he was able to squeak, in his toddler’s dress, ‘Weather!’ he had been bred in the art of polite small-talk. But in recent months his interests had changed, and he kept having to fight an urge to steer the conversation towards topics such as the fascinating properties of a gas diffusing through a potential difference at low temperatures or maybe even . . . even . . . the derivation of Newton’s Gravitational Constant and its application between two point masses ‘M’ and ‘m’ with a radius square of ‘r’ and . . .

  Instead he heard himself saying, and marvelled at how different his voice sounded in this company than when talking to Tess and Lyle, ‘Oh gracious, no, I haven’t met her ladyship yet, but I’m told she’s terribly influential in Suffolk.’ A lie, but one that he hoped would give immediate rise to a passionate argument about the benefits of shooting in Suffolk over shooting in Norfolk, and thus give him a little breather to rearrange his thoughts.

  However, today fortune did not favour Thomas.

  ‘Really? How fascinating. I heard her money was from . . . well, I hardly dare say it . . . manufacturing.’

  ‘No, that’s not what I heard at all. She’s a great European beauty, they say, a widow; certainly I don’t see how she could have made all that money herself, although I suppose they do things rather differently over there . . .’

  ‘I wonder how many will go after her fortune tonight?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Several pairs of eyes turned on him, and he could see them matching his face with so many acres and so much a year. Interest started to rise among them proportional to their estimations of his income. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said again, ‘but when did Lady Lumire arrive in this place?’

  ‘This place?’ echoed someone, amused by Thomas’s choice of words.

  ‘As in . . . London. This mansion was Lord Moncorvo’s, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, what a ghastly business!’

  ‘Such a charming man! And such a charming collection of friends! I can remember nothing but good about them.’

  ‘More than good! They were the essence of goodness and grace.’

  ‘Such a tragedy to hear about the accident . . .’

  ‘Oh, I rather heard he’d been appointed to India . . .’

  ‘No, no, Lord Lincoln definitely reassured me that Moncorvo had decided to follow in the footsteps of his father and join the army . . .’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Their eyes turned again to Thomas. ‘Yes?’ Impatience tainted the edge of the answer.

  ‘When did Lady Lumire arrive in London?’

  ‘Oh . . . almost immediately after dear Moncorvo left. She’s some kind of distant relative, I believe. I think Moncorvo might have left her the house in his will . . . or was it a gift of . . . well, it’s all terribly mysterious, if you ask me.’

  Thomas remembered a storm, and the green eyes, and felt sick. He wondered if he could go and search for Lyle, to warn him of the terrible truth; but then a creeping doubt settled in his mind. He found himself looking round the high room, all marble floors and serpentine pillars, and noticed the metal buttons, candlesticks, clocks, effigies and frames that seemed everywhere, and remembered how the people with the green eyes, the Tseiqin who had thrown Lyle from the dome of St Paul’s and chased Thomas beyond the edge of his mind, had flinched from iron, and he wondered.

  ‘You aren’t as old as the rest of them.’

  Thomas started, stared around for the source of the voice, and eventually looked down to where a small child, dressed immaculately in a suit far too brown for a creature with a face that round or pink, was tugging at his jacket, trying to get his attention.

  ‘Erm, no?’ he hazarded.

  The child blew a fat raspberry
. ‘You . . . you . . .’ It paused, looked Thomas up and down cautiously, with an almost calculating glare, daring him to be anything but what the child said he was. ‘You like the weather?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Thomas found little reason to argue with a statement so accurately and profoundly rendered.

  The child put its thumb on its nose and said, ‘I’m Arthur.’

  Since etiquette had no guidelines for this kind of situation, and since the adults of the room had spontaneously and mysteriously all found something better to look at than the child, who’d clearly spent the evening endearing himself, Thomas mumbled, ‘I’m Thomas,’ and dreamt of inverse square laws and radial fields.

  The interrogation wasn’t over. ‘You tell stories?’

  ‘Well, no, not really.’

  ‘What you do?’

  ‘Well, if you must know I’m . . .’ For a moment Thomas hesitated, thinking of all the possible things to say, such as, ‘I’m Thomas Edward Elwick, I’m to inherit my parents’ estate, I recite Greek verbs, I . . .’ and replied, ‘I’m a detective.’

  The child’s face split into a delighted grin. ‘A detec . . . detect . . . one of them! What sort of . . . thing?’

  ‘I’m a . . . scientific detective.’ The fatal words rolled out. Thomas stood up straighter, stuck his shoulders back and his chest out and repeated, louder, ‘Yes! I am a scientific detective!’

  ‘What ’s ’at mean?’

  This nearly stopped Thomas short, but he recovered quickly and declared, ‘I use science to detect things!’

  The child flapped its arms impatiently, stamped its foot and announced, ‘I wanna . . . I wanna . . .’ then hung its head and mumbled, ‘I dunno what I wanna, but I wanna now!’

  ‘Science is very good at detecting things,’ went on Thomas, feeling his face start to turn purple now with the effort of keeping up this cheerful line of conversation. ‘It can detect whether blood has been spilt, even if you clean it up after! Or if it’s human blood, or whether there’s arsenic in something or if you drowned before or after being shot or if a gun’s been fired or . . .’