What had Nick done with the book?
He’d obviously been able to access it—or at least some parts of it.
I called the house girls, the kitchen staff, and the rowankind together in the public room downstairs in the Compass. In the cool daylight the room looked sordid. It smelled of old tobacco and yesterday’s beer.
“I’m looking for a book,” I said. “It’s handwritten in some kind of code and may have been wrapped in an oilcloth to keep it dry. Captain Thompson would have set great store by it and would either have kept it with him or put it somewhere very safe. It’s not in his strongbox. Neither is it in his apartment or, as far as we know, on the Flamingo. There’s a reward for anyone who finds it or gives us information which leads to it being found.”
“How much of a reward?” one of the whores asked.
“Fifty guineas,” Corwen said.
A murmur went around the room.
“Come and see us if you have anything to say.” We left people talking.
We hadn’t been back in the upstairs apartment for long before Alfred, the rowankind butler, knocked at the door.
“The book,” he said.
“Do you know where it is?” I asked.
“I think so, but you’re not going to like it.”
The pit of my belly suddenly felt chilled. “Tell me.”
“A courier ship under Captain Lapenotière arrived from London at the beginning of May under a flag of parlez. Captain Thompson entertained a young gentleman, a passenger, not the captain. An ambassador of some kind, I thought. I don’t know what they spoke about, but I do know that for the next few days, Captain Thompson spent a lot of time alone. Whenever I brought food, I saw him copying from one book to another.”
That would be the notebook I’d burned. I thought I knew where this was leading. My scalp tingled, and I felt as if all the blood had drained from my face to my feet.
“And then what happened?”
“A week ago the captain concluded his business with the gentleman. I surmise he’d copied everything he needed. The next time I came in, there was a package wrapped in oilcloth on the table. Shortly after that the young gentleman left with the package. He went straight to his ship. If I’m not mistaken, though all her crew were in ordinary dress, it was a British Navy ship, a Bermuda sloop called the Pickle. I’m sure the captain recognized her for what she was, too, and he wouldn’t want to start an argument with the British. The book went down, and a box came back up under guard. The kind of box that often contains valuables.”
“And the sloop?”
“Sailed with the tide four days ago.”
Damn, damn, damn, damn, and damn. So near and yet so far.
Since the Treaty of Amiens, there had been time for Walsingham to impress upon someone from the Mysterium that the notebook was a priority. It didn’t sound as though he’d been on the courier vessel himself. I was pretty sure that he wouldn’t have risked coming anywhere near Old Nick after his treatment last time. But the young man in charge of the negotiations was either high up in the Mysterium or a Walsingham-in-waiting.
The Walsingham always had a number of young men around to do his bidding and learn from him. My own brother, Philip, had been one of them, in training to become the next Walsingham when the present one fell. It was the way with Walsinghams.
“Did you happen to catch the name of the young gentleman in charge of the negotiations?” I half expected Alfred to say Walsingham, but he didn’t.
“Sumner,” he said. “Mr. Philip Sumner.”
How could it be? My brother Philip was dead. I’d killed him myself to protect Corwen and David. My knees wouldn’t hold me. I dropped into a chair.
“Did he look anything like me?”
“Oh, no. He was a skinny fellow, light-boned, with straw-colored hair and pale blue eyes.”
I began to breathe again. It was simply someone using Philip’s name, quite probably to protect his own, but another sign Walsingham was behind the mission to ransom the book back from Old Nick.
“Thank you, Alfred. By rights you’ve earned yourself fifty guineas.”
“That won’t do me any good here on Auvienne. I need a favor instead.”
“Such as.”
“Your ship, the Heart of Oak, she’s got winterwood in her keel.”
“She has.”
“When you leave, please take us with you. We want to go home.”
“Across the sea? You might die from seasickness. A lot of rowankind do.”
“The three of us survived the crossing on a Portuguese barque. We’ve done it once. We can do it again if it means going home. A ship blessed with winterwood is our only chance.”
“We’ll be going all-out to catch the sloop. It’s not going to be a pleasant voyage.”
“We’ll take the risk. And if you’ll let us, we can help by providing a favorable wind.”
Well, that answered one question. These rowankind knew they had their magic back. I had to sleep sometime, but if the rowankind could call the wind while I slept, we might make the voyage in nine days. We might even catch up with, or overtake, the sloop.
I nodded. “At your own risk, Alfred.”
He smiled. “Understood, Cap’n.”
* * *
We said hasty good-byes to Jim, leaving him to clear up the mess and sort out any who might still fancy the idea of stepping into Old Nick’s shoes. I was confident Jim could do it. Each day that passed had seen him growing back into the man, the pirate, he used to be. If there had to be pirates in this world, I was convinced Captain James Mayo was better than a hundred Old Nicks. Pirating was a tough business, but someone had to keep the worst of them in order.
Jim came down to the dock with us. As we prepared to go aboard the Heart, he took both my hands and kissed my cheeks. “If you get tired of dry land, you know where to come.”
I smiled at him. “I do, but I won’t. Though don’t think me ungrateful for the offer. Do me a favor, though . . . ”
“Anything.”
“Ban all your ships from attacking the Butterfly. She’s trading in American waters, but she’s mine.”
“Of course. None of our ships will touch her.”
I didn’t tell him who the other co-owners were, or he might not have agreed so readily.
The three rowankind came hurrying along the quay, possessions in canvas sacks.
“And I see you’re stealing my butler and his family.”
“We’ll do our best to see they get home safely.”
“Please do. I confess I’m quite fond of them.”
“And they of you, but they need their own kind and their own place.”
Hookey shouted an impatient ahoy from the Heart’s deck.
“Hookey’s ready to cast off, Jim. Have a great life. Stay well and safe.”
“And you, my love.”
He squeezed my hands once and then let me go. I thought it might be the last time I ever saw him, and I was glad to leave him in such good fettle.
Corwen was waiting for me at the top of the gangplank. As I turned to wave to Jim, he said softly, “It would never have worked, you know.”
“What?”
“You and Gentleman James Mayo.”
“I know.”
“Good.” He put one arm around my waist as the Heart slipped away from the quay.
* * *
As I predicted, the three rowankind were horribly seasick. I could sympathize. It was a dreadful affliction to have, and they were looking forward to at least nine more days of the relentless roll and heave of the ocean.
“Are you sure you can manage this?” I asked Alfred as he wobbled up onto the deck on the evening of our first day.
“It will take my mind off puking into a bucket,” he said. “And the fresh air will do me good.”
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“Here, lean against the mainmast.” I showed him where to sit and how to call the wind and how to work the water. “Take care not to bring the wind on too strong. A few heady gusts into the tops’ls and you could pitchpole her, send her tumbling arse over head to the bottom of the ocean. If you’re in any doubt, come and wake me. I’d rather be woken then drowned.”
He chuckled, “I won’t let it come to that. You’ve been doing this all day. Get some sleep.”
I’d relented and taken up Hookey’s offer of using his cabin, and though the bunk was narrow, Corwen and I fitted into it well enough. He was lying in the bunk, waiting for me, as I arrived below.
“Tough day?”
“Relentless, but we’re making good time. I’ve left Alfred on deck filling the Heart’s sails. I feel mean when he’s been so seasick, but he says the distraction will do him good.”
“Quite right, too. A little distraction never hurt anyone.” He moved over and patted the empty space beside him.
“Ah, that looks good, though I’m not sure I can sleep.”
“Who said anything about sleep?”
I shrugged out of my shirt and breeches, the latter getting too tight around my developing belly, so I had left the top buttons unfastened and covered the gap with a sash.
Corwen made appreciative sounds as I snuggled down beside him naked. He cupped my breasts, first one and then the other.
“There’s more than there used to be,” he said.
“A gentleman wouldn’t draw attention to it.”
“I like it. I like this, too.” He slid his hand down to my belly. “Are our boys comfortable in there?”
“Our girls are very comfortable, thank you, and—oh! Was that you?”
“What?”
“I felt something flutter. It was so light I wasn’t sure. I felt it earlier but thought it was indigestion.”
“The boys are moving?”
“I think they are.”
I felt giddy. For the last few months they’d been silent partners in everything I’d done, but I hadn’t allowed myself the luxury of thinking of them as people. Now they were, moving of their own accord inside me.
Corwen raised himself up on one elbow and placed his hand, fingers spread, across my belly, holding still until—
“There!” I said. “Did you feel it?”
“I think I did.” I heard the smile in his voice. “Our little miracles.”
“Miracles. Yes, they are.”
I snuggled closer to Corwen. “I’ve been cautious about telling people. I didn’t even tell Jim, but I’m pretty sure he’s guessed.”
“Let’s plan a visit home as soon as we can and announce it officially. Mother would love to tell everyone, if she hasn’t already.”
The two of us might soon be four—a real family. Boys or girls, it didn’t matter as long as they were healthy. I fell asleep thinking about names.
I woke thinking about breakfast.
Corwen was already up and about. As I finished dressing, he shouldered the cabin door open and brought me a bowl of porridge sweetened with honey.
“I need to go on deck, Alfred must be tired and hungry.”
“I couldn’t do much about tired,” Corwen said, “but I took him porridge as well. He even managed to eat it without throwing up. Maybe using magic is helping with the seasickness.”
“I hope so. It’s a miserable condition.”
Between us, Alfred and I drove the Heart like a willing horse into her bridle and made the crossing in nine days. I hadn’t really expected to catch up with the Navy sloop, the Pickle. Even if we had, short of a miracle we couldn’t outgun her, but I hoped we might overtake her and thus be on the dockside when she made port. Of course, if she put into the naval dockyard at Chatham, we had no chance.
Hookey brought us into the Thames estuary and upriver to London where we moored close to Wapping Old Stairs. We scanned the river for signs of the Pickle, but we saw nothing. When we made enquiries among the stevedores and the Thames watermen, no one had seen the Pickle. Damn, she had to have made port in Chatham, and the notebook could, even now, be in a coach heading for London. We’d never find it in a city this size.
Dammit, we needed the goblins again.
37
Murder
THE GOBLINS WERE rapidly turning into an unofficial magical spy network, but while ever they traded favor for favor, I was always going to be in their debt. I needed a way to gain their cooperation without living in constant fear of owing them something I’d spend the rest of my life trying to repay. Magical debts were much worse than monetary ones. Since the business we were conducting would benefit all magicals, I thought it was about time to give them the rousing speech about cooperation between close cousins all working toward the same common goal.
“Do you think that will work?” Corwen asked as I outlined my ideas. We were rattling along in a hackney coach from Wapping to Whitechapel. I’d abandoned my breeches for a dress and redingote with a respectable bonnet.
“I hope so. The goblins want the same as we do, to be able to live free of persecution from the Mysterium. They keep saying they’re not sewer goblins anymore. I think that’s really important to them. They’re an underground race that wants a share of the sun, or as much sun as they might be able to get in smoggy London. Who knows, they might even aspire to an estate in the country.”
“We only know Tingle, Barnaby, and Twomax. What do other goblins aspire to?”
“A good question. Let’s find out.”
But when we arrived in Whitechapel, we found a great commotion at the entrance to George Yard.
“What’s going on?” Corwen asked a young constable standing guard to keep the curious at bay.
“An ’orrible murder, sir. Never seen anyfink like it. Blood up the walls. And rumors of strange sightings.”
“We have business with a tailor in the yard. When will we be able to get through?”
“Not ever, sir, I don’t fink. It’s outside the tailor’s premises, an ’orrible corpse what don’t even look ’uman.”
I felt myself go dizzy. Was it a goblin corpse? I found myself muttering, “Please don’t let it be Tingle,” under my breath, and then thought it might be Twomax, which was equally as bad, or Barnaby Tingle, Mr. Tingle’s grandson.
“We know the tailor and some of his associates,” Corwen said. “Do you need someone to identify the body?”
The constable looked interested for the first time and then took a whistle out of his pocket. The ear-splitting screech attracted the attention of a gentleman in a caped coat and bowler. He sent a young lad to ask what the constable needed. When he explained that we might be able to identify the corpse, the lad scurried off, spoke to the cape-coated man, and then ran back, panting an invitation.
“The Bow Street officer asks if you will kindly step this way, sir.”
Corwen and I passed the constable while he was still trying to tell us that only Corwen had been asked to come forward.
“John Ward, sir, Bow Street officer.” The man in the caped coat offered his hand, saw blood on it, and withdrew it quickly.
“Corwen Deverell, and this is my wife. My family has a mill in Yorkshire. We do business with Mr. Tingle.”
“You know him by sight, sir?”
“We both do, and we also know his grandson, Barnaby.”
“Then perhaps you wouldn’t mind . . . ” He nodded toward a shape covered by a large blanket. “Though it’s not a sight for a lady.”
I inclined my head and let Corwen step forward in front of me, but as Officer Ward raised the blanket from the corpse, I shuffled forward.
“That’s not Mr. Tingle,” Corwen said, as we both stared down into Tingle’s goblin face. His glamour must have faded in the instant of his death, but no one would recognize the pale-faced, slit-nostrilled gob
lin as the jolly, grandfatherly face Mr. Tingle presented to the world. Though we’d have liked to give a name to this corpse, identifying it as Tingle would expose goblins to the world.
“How did he die?” I asked.
Officer Ward obviously realized I’d not swooned at the sight of a corpse, so he twitched the blanket back a little farther. I gagged and stepped back. Tingle’s chest was a mass of ruined meat and bone. Red blood was streaked with the deep green of goblin heart-blood.
“It looks to me like a magical killing,” Ward said. “I’ve never seen this kind of thing before. His heart has exploded.”
“You’ve sent for the Mysterium, I hope,” Corwen said.
“Naturally, and I’ll be glad to hand the cadaver and the case over.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t help with the identification, Officer Ward.”
“Corwen, I think I’m going to pass out.” I tugged at his sleeve, only overacting by a small margin.
“Excuse us, please. Since we can’t help, I think I should take my wife home.”
“Certainly, sir. Thank you for trying.”
The constable let us out of the alley into the crowd where we found our coach still waiting. We climbed straight in as another coach arrived with the arms of the Mysterium emblazoned on its side.
“Wapping Old Stairs,” Corwen told the driver and then fell back onto the seat with me as the coach set off at a fair clip.
“Poor Tingle,” I said. “I wonder what happened?”
“How many people do you know who can kill like that?” Corwen answered my question with one of his own.
“Walsingham.”
“Or maybe those he’s trained.”
“The young man who collected the book from Auvienne?”
“There may be more than him.”
I glanced out of the coach window. “Hey, this isn’t the way to the river. What’s happening?”
* * *
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