by P. N. Elrod
Her father’s cane.
She’d been too distracted on the bridge to recognize it, but the memory rushed back sharply. The stick had been a gift from some South American dignitary, made from a type of wood that was almost as hard as the iron ferrule. The handle and intricately wrought wide collar were silver, its detailed, one-of-a kind crafting by a master smith.
Only yesterday her father’s living hand had carried it.
Blinking, she pulled off her right glove and—
The imprint of him remained. She shut her eyes and felt his presence like a solid thing. He was next to her, warm, caring, proud, his love tinged with worry. It washed over her soul like a sun-warmed wave. Whatever his actions, wherever their travels had taken them, his love for Alex had been the force that kept him moving. If he hadn’t found help for her …
I might have become like Mother or turned drunkard like most of the other Fonteyns.
That had been the unspoken threat over much of her young life. He’d all but obsessed on it, looking for some way to save her.
Alex drew back, opening her eyes. How much of that was from the cane and how much dredged from her memory?
They were too closely blended. For all she knew it was wholly from memory and only wishful thinking made him alive again.
But he was gone, the door between shut. He was never to return, and she was truly an orphan. All that remained were echoes in her mind of his voice, glimpses of his face, a thousand memories of travels past, and nothing for the future but grief. Her limbo of waiting was ended, cruelly ended. No chance to say good-bye, he’d said that on a pier in Hong Kong a decade past. In London he could have walked just a few streets over and knocked on her door. Why hadn’t he done so? If he loved her that much, what could possibly be more important than seeing his only child?
Tears fled down her cheeks. She dropped the cane.
“Miss Pendlebury?”
“It was Father’s. He’s … something of him lingers.”
“And it is not enough.”
“No.…”
“I’m so sorry.”
Alex dug blindly through the reticule for a handkerchief. One should be there, she always had two or three.… Had she forgotten, how could she forget anything so fundamental as a bloody handkerchief—
Brook offered her one of his and she realized she’d been speaking aloud. She must sound like a lunatic, but he merely looked concerned.
Alex accepted his help and snuffled and dabbed her eyes.
He abruptly shifted from the bench opposite and sat next to her. More shockingly, he put an arm about her shoulders. He must not know that most Readers did not like to be touched, the flow of emotions …
Such as came to her now.
Brook’s concern was deep, sincere, mixed with compassion and sympathy. He’d known loss, understood what she was going through and what was needed. The touch from … well, if not a friend, then a caring stranger made it easier.
“I could say it will be all right, but I know it is not all right,” he murmured. “It’s perfectly awful.”
She stopped fighting and let the grief come. Alex could never have dropped her barriers with any family member, nor even with her few friends. She had a facade to preserve, but with this man, as with the matron, it was safe. He would not think less of her or treat her differently after.
Alex sobbed and wailed and Brook held her and said nothing more.
CHAPTER SIX
In Which Miss Pendlebury’s Christmas Luncheon Is Interrupted
She’d recovered by the time they left Victoria Street to negotiate between Westminster Hospital and Westminster Abbey. One would think the miserable cold would have discouraged revelers, but there was a fair amount of traffic.
“I am again obliged to you, Mr. Brook.” Her voice was rough and husky. Her bout with sorrow combined with nearly drowning left her barely able to breathe.
“Pleased to have been of assistance, Miss Pendlebury.” He was back on the opposite bench, none the worse for wear, proprieties restored.
No pretension from him, not at the moment, but even the most honest people eventually gave in. Lies were like vents on a boiler, preventing explosions during social interactions.
“I hope you will feel better,” he added.
“You’re very kind.” She did feel sharper than before, determined to square her shoulders and press forward. She found and pulled on her gloves, smoothing the fine leather to each finger before making a fist.
“If I may venture to ask … is it always like this in the Service?”
“No. Not at all. We do our work, same as anyone, it’s just things have changed. I don’t know what’s to happen with Lord Richard gone.”
“Do you think it will be disbanded?”
What? “I should hope not. That would be a terrible mistake. The queen herself called for it to be put together. She’d not allow it.”
“The idea disturbs you.”
“The Service is vital to criminal investigations. We’re instrumental in solving hundreds, if not thousands of crimes every year.”
“The general impression is that its contribution is a peripheral part of any inquiry. But last night they didn’t do anything until you arrived.”
She was glad he noticed. “We foster that impression. You won’t see much of what we do mentioned in the papers. People are uncomfortable with us yet. We’ve found it’s more tactful to give full credit to the police.”
“There is opposition to the employment of psychical talent, though.”
“Brought on by ignorance and superstition. Old fears run deep.”
“In these modern times? In England?”
“It’s no exaggeration, Mr. Brook. There are backward pockets of humanity all over the world who—well, I daresay you’ll get some history during your training. There are a number of books in our library that cover the topic, unpleasant as it is. Acquaint yourself with them. Whether you have a psychical talent or not, you will be subject to guilt by association. Don’t be shocked if someone spits on you or worse.”
“They’ll get paid back if they try.”
“You can’t. We’re servants to the greater good, whether they know it or not. I don’t wish to encourage a state of affairs of ourselves versus them; such divisions only lead to more distrust. You may find it better to impart to the curious that you simply work in the civil service. Conversely, the only thing worse than hostility brought on by baseless fear of the Service is unquestioning acceptance.”
“I did hear something of that. Such enthusiasm is preyed upon by spiritualist tricksters who-who—”
“Pretend to have a telegraph to the Almighty?”
He nodded.
“Beware of them as well, Mr. Brook. Misplaced adulation can too easily turn to loathing if they’re disappointed in some way. Many bear a perilously high regard toward those with psychical talent. It’s a shock to find we’re just as human and vulnerable as everyone else.”
Their coach passed through the short arched tunnel opening into the mews entrance of Her Majesty’s Psychic Service. It and the iron gates gave the building the look of a medieval fortress, though it had been constructed less than thirty years ago. She had expected to be delivered to the front door. Perhaps this was the first sign of change marking the end of the Desmond dynasty.
One of the porters closed and locked the gates, retiring to a tall, coffin-shaped guard’s box just within. His right coat pocket sagged from a heavy weight. A pistol of some sort, she thought with approval. With masked lunatics carrying strange air guns capable of multiple and nearly silent fire, it was only prudent to be prepared for another attack. Many of the staff were ex-army. How much did they know of events?
When Brook handed her out, she noticed an inordinate number of people around, more than on a normal working day. There was a worried tension in the air, but it lacked the heaviness of anger and grief as one might expect if they’d been informed of events.
There was also something
missing from the yard.
“Lord Richard’s coach is not here,” she whispered to Brook.
“Mrs. Woodwake was keen to keep things quiet. A conveyance full of bullet holes would demand attention and explanation. Easy enough to hide one, there’s plenty of mews about, but where would they take him?”
“Any number of places for a general postmortem, but there are fewer choices for an investigation conducted by the Service. We have staff for that, but news of that nature is impossible to keep secret for long. Too many perceptive people about.”
“She must have put the fear of God into them. It worked for me,” he admitted.
The Service’s austere facade was echoed within: plain walls and doors with numbers on the lintels as an aid to navigation. Some had printed signs stating the name of the department or the occupant, others were unadorned. It was either madly inefficient, or intended as a test to see how quickly a new member could memorize things.
The ground-floor walls were white, the first floor’s were pale green, then pale blue, and the color of the top floor Alex did not know; she’d never been that high. There were rumors of a palatial suite with hidden staircases leading to secret passages and tunnels, one going under Whitehall to 10 Downing Street, another to New Scotland Yard, and a third having a small train with tracks leading straight to Buckingham Palace. Completely absurd, of course, such things required maintenance and lots of it, and it was quite impossible to expect members of the staff to keep that great a secret. Still, the stories were amusing to impart to new recruits to test their credulity.
Alex made her way to the front reception room and asked for messages.
“Just the one,” said Mrs. George, who supervised a busy desk and had no sense of privacy, at least for others. “Woodwake wants you in her office. What did you do?”
“I invaded Egypt and they’re very annoyed about it.”
“Who is? Them upstairs or the Egyptians?”
“Both.”
Behind her, Alex heard Brook make an odd noise. It might have been a laugh, but if so, he turned it into a throat-clearing sound. Mrs. George looked him up and down, unimpressed. She was as hard on new recruits as any drill sergeant. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of Brook’s disheveled disguise and she started to speak.
“Mrs. George?” Alex headed her off. “I’m frightfully hungry, is there anyone who can do sandwiches for us?”
“There’s better than that in the dining hall, a proper Christmas dinner for those called in.”
“I haven’t the time. I’ll eat after I see Mrs. Woodwake.”
“You won’t have an appetite then. She’s in a state, I know the signs. Go have a bite now than later. Anyway, she’s down in the cellars with some botheration, has been for hours. Something’s brewing, but they won’t say what. There’s no harm if she gets the news of your arrival a quarter hour late. Go on, off with you.” She turned her back on Alex’s objection.
“That would be that,” said Brook, following Alex.
“She’s a bastion of common sense.”
“Does she have psychical talent?”
“Not that I know. Some people here have to be ordinary sorts.”
“Like me?”
She glanced at him. “You are not ordinary, Mr. Brook.”
Evidently possessing self-confidence, he did not invite her to elaborate on the compliment.
She liked that.
The dining hall was in the east wing. Halfway there, she smelled the food and her stomach rumbled joyful encouragement. Thankfully, there was enough ambient noise to make it unlikely so indelicate a sound had carried to Mr. Brook’s ears.
The hall was a quarter full of people lingering to talk over the remains of their luncheon. She knew the majority of her colleagues by name or by sight, but didn’t stop to give greeting, heading straight to a long table holding a surprisingly large amount of food. While normal etiquette demanded that Brook seat her and then fetch her a plate, this was a working situation, and she was pleased to pick what she liked.
Not trusting her voice to have lost its rasp, she pointed and the servers gave generous portions of a traditional Christmas feast. Aunt Honoria would have tsked, but Alex was ravenous. Apparently so was Brook, who carried two plates and saw to it the surfaces of both were layered high.
A waiter, well acquainted with Alex’s preferences, brought a pot of tea and cups to their table. “You’re looking most elegant today, Miss Pendlebury,” he remarked. “Everyone’s dressed up for the holiday. Makes a change, though it’s a shame to have to work.”
Brook shot the man a look. At a restaurant or private house the staff were silent and spoke only when addressed.
Alex hoped he would catch on that the Service was a great leveler and a certain amount of camaraderie was inevitable. “Thank you, Sutherland. It’s kind of you to notice. Do you know why everyone’s here?”
Sutherland poured tea that was almost as black as coffee. “Not a peep. I had to be here regardless, but word came to get the kitchen staff in and start cooking and keep cooking until Mrs. George says otherwise. They’re not happy, but they’re getting paid well for it, so that should be all right. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s got to be something big, and big things are not good things. Not for us, they’re not. There’s worry hanging in the air; you don’t have to be psychical to feel it. Cut it with a butter knife, more like.”
Alex offered agreement and attacked her food in a manner that would have horrified her aunt. Aunts of a certain type, she thought, should be horrified at regular intervals.
Brook, following her lead, ate like a soldier at mess. They didn’t talk. Alex was glad of the respite, though she noticed his interest in their surroundings. A trio at the next table were in deep discussion about metallurgical stresses, and the tallest of them, his back to her, was busy defacing the white table cloth with penciled calculations.
“Who’s that?” Brook asked, his voice low.
She matched his tone. “Mr. Alexander Humboldt Sexton, and why he’s been called in, I cannot imagine. He’s usually on the other side of town with Professor Crookes working on psychical sciences.”
“On what?”
“The department seeking to find out why some are gifted and others are not. One section is trying to develop the means of artificially reproducing the same gifts, though I don’t see how that could be accomplished by a machine. Another section has hope of being able to detect ghosts, though. Crookes is a physicist and has some interesting theories on residual imprintings.”
“And Mr. Sexton?”
“A metallurgist and engineer with a smattering of chemistry. I expect he’s there to design and build such machines, but he got involved with the Service because of his interest in magic.”
“Good heavens, he doesn’t think he’s a wizard, does he?”
She nearly choked. “I meant stage magic. The same illusions you see at a music hall are employed by mediums to hoodwink the gullible. Mr. Sexton is keen to discredit them and studied all their tricks. His favorite ploy is to attend a sitting and then introduce considerably more spiritual activity than the medium planned for. He’s been too successful. Most know him by now and forbid his entry, though he has gotten around it with disguises. He was doing that sort of thing on his own as a hobby, got noticed by one of our investigators, and invited to join to train recruits.”
“That’s jolly.”
“Indeed. He gives the most amusing lectures, you should attend one. What raises gooseflesh in a darkened room looks quite silly with the lights on.”
“When’s the next? Perhaps we could—” He stopped as a woman, moving fast, approached their table and came to a rocking halt. She dropped a thin pale hand on his shoulder, preventing him from rising.
“Stay,” she directed in a flat voice, as though speaking to a dog. Her whole focus was on Alex, who was too surprised to do more than gape up.
An abrupt silence enveloped the hall as everyone became aware of her presence.
/>
“Miss…?” began Brook, who seemed uncertain who to address, the woman or Alex.
At the next table, Mr. Sexton turned around and blanched. “Belt up,” he whispered urgently. “And don’t move.”
Alex had never seen her before but instantly recognized her from thirdhand descriptions. She tried not to shudder, but could not completely suppress the reaction. Her first instinct was to bolt from the room and keep running.
The woman’s uncommonly short hair was as pale as her skin, and stuck up in spiky clumps from her skull. Her intense eyes were black as soot with no boundary between pupil and iris. Unfortunate, as it made her look like a madwoman.
According to rumor, she was indeed mad, and had been so since girlhood, when her particular gift had manifested, wresting away any ordinary dreams of life she might have possessed. She gave a false impression of youth with her quick jerky movements, but her eyes were old.
They now narrowed as she shifted her hand from Brook’s shoulder to point at Alex. “I’m Sybil. You’re the traveler’s daughter,” she stated, her tone still flat, the words tumbling forth almost too fast to be understood.
Alex’s racing heart nearly stopped.
“The traveler’s journey ended. But I didn’t see until too late. I’m sorry.” She suddenly looked at Brook. “I could say it will be all right, but I know it is not all right. It’s perfectly awful.” Her voice deepened as she quoted him exactly, down to inflection and pauses.
His jaw sagged. “How did—”
“Not now,” said Sexton urgently. “Let her speak.”
Sybil spared him a glance, then focused on Alex. “Speak and be silent, see and be blind. Someone blinded me. They did, they did, they did theydidtheydid. The traveler almost saw, but one there and not there, stopped him. You will-will-will, I can’t see what you will. They block the forward, not the backward, they can’t take that from me. What’s done is done, but it’s useless, frozen in past time and-and-and-and forward flow goes into blankness. I cannot do what I must!”
As she spoke, Sexton made haste to write down her jumble of words.