“I’ll think about it,” Corwen said. “Do you suppose there would be room for a new constituency of the Okewood?”
He laughed at the notion, but I suddenly saw a whole new life for us. Corwen could either be the country squire in Yorkshire, or he could make a real difference to the magicals here in London. Dammit, if they’d let women into Parliament, I’d do it myself, but that was a struggle for another time.
“Before we settle the future, there’s one more matter we need to take care of,” I said. “Walsingham is still free. We don’t know whether he’s been reunited with his notebook, but it seems likely. As first minister, Mr. Pitt would have known about Walsingham. Maybe he can give us a lead as to where he is.”
“I’ll see if Grandfather can arrange an appointment.”
“Thank you.”
We collected our horses and the hired hack we’d left behind during the freeze and rode to Wapping where we settled Timpani and Dancer into the stables at the Red Lion and left strict instructions for their care with the young ostler, who seemed to have recovered from nearly freezing to death.
We called in at the Town of Ramsgate and reserved our old room for the next few days, then walked down the passage to Wapping Old Stairs and the river.
The Heart of Oak was at her mooring across from the steps. Hookey and Mr. Rafiq, with a couple of seamen at the oars, were closely inspecting the ship’s planking on the waterline. I hoped the ice hadn’t damaged her. I put my fingers to my mouth and gave a most unladylike whistle. Hookey turned, saw me, and waved.
“How has the Heart fared?” I asked as Corwen and I stepped off the stair into the ship’s boat.
“I feared she might be damaged,” Hookey said, “but she’s sound. I’ve been all over her, inside and out.”
“And Windward?”
“Took him a while to come round, but he’s chirpy now. I put him on light duties, which means he’s sitting on deck soaking up the sunshine.”
“I’m very pleased to hear it.”
“I’ve seen the notices,” Hookey said. “It seems you got what you wanted.”
“What the Fae wanted, Hookey.”
“Aye, I know what you did. Took what the Fae wanted and turned it to the benefit of all magicals. Seems like you should be in Parliament.”
“Only if they’d let me in wearing breeches, and I think they might suspect something was amiss when my belly bulged out of them.” I grinned. “Though Corwen’s had an offer.”
“Aye, well, maybe it’s about time there was someone in Parliament with honest intentions.”
Corwen said nothing. I could tell he was still thinking about it.
* * *
The following morning we got a note from George, delivered by a footman to the Town of Ramsgate. Mr. Pitt would spare us fifteen minutes at three o’clock that same afternoon at number ten Downing Street where, it seemed, he was in the process of moving in, having removed from there when he gave up the first ministry to Mr. Addington.
I was surprised to find that what looked like a normal London house from the outside opened to reveal a vast number of rooms on the inside, running sideways into numbers eleven and twelve, but also backward into a mansion with a terrace which had a view of the park.
We arrived to find the place in chaos. Mr. Addington’s servants were moving boxes out as Mr. Pitt’s servants were moving boxes in. The footman led us through several rooms and along a corridor to a small, comfortable library where Mr. Pitt had made an oasis of calm in the midst of chaos.
“Come in, my friends, come in,” he called, waving us into the room when the footman announced us. “My apologies for all the upset. This is a vast, awkward house, but I confess I have made it my home for so long that I found leaving a wrench and returning again a pleasure, even in this state of transition.”
He waved us to seats, addressing himself to Corwen. I understood that Mr. Pitt, though charming, was more comfortable in the company of men. “What can I do for you?” he asked. “Do you have more messages from our Fae friends?”
“No, nothing,” Corwen said. “I fancy that’s the last you’ll see of them for a while unless anything goes awry with the plans to remove the Mysterium.”
“Good. Good.” He left a gap for us to fill.
I filled it. “As first minister, you must have been conversant with the man known as Walsingham who reported directly to the Crown,” I said.
“Aware of the office of Walsingham, but not entirely aware of the man himself. He operated in secret, even from me most of the time. He brought us his results. He was, of course, charged with seeking out magic which might prove a danger to the Crown.”
“He was supposed to prevent the freeing of the rowankind.”
“He was. He . . . We . . . feared it would destabilize the economy and lead to riots if the rowankind turned against their former masters.”
“Which didn’t happen.”
“It did not.”
I didn’t elaborate. “Did you know that Walsingham’s methods included the use of very nasty blood magic, and he was not above torturing victims for information and killing them when he’d done with them?”
Mr. Pitt drew in a breath. “With hindsight, we should have looked deeper. We didn’t ask about his methods, merely authorized his requests for resources.”
“Such as the use of the Guillaume Tell.”
“I confess I authorized that, but it was for a new Walsingham after the old one failed to return from a mission. I agreed with his idea to make the new Walsingham responsible for the Mysterium, thinking it would make him more accountable. It didn’t work, unfortunately. We no sooner had the new Walsingham in place than the old one turned up, maimed and full of righteous anger. And then the new Walsingham was killed in a hideous manner.”
“By a wolf he’d tortured for weeks,” Corwen said.
“Not you, then.”
“No, not me and not my sister,” Corwen said.
“I had wondered.”
“That wolf is far from London, in the country, healing in mind and spirit and looked after by a good friend. He’s no danger to anyone now.”
Mr. Pitt nodded.
“It’s the old Walsingham we need to find,” I said, trying to keep on track. We only had fifteen minutes of Mr. Pitt’s time.
“As do we. He made contact briefly when he was released from a French prison ship. I can’t think how he ended up in French hands.”
I knew, but I wasn’t saying.
Mr. Pitt shrugged. “We’ve stopped his funds, and we will tell him the office of Walsingham is no more. We no longer need someone in that role. We’ll offer him a pension, of course.”
“Walsingham bears a deep grudge against me and mine. He’s a dangerous man. I will feel a lot better when he’s out of a job. Can I take it, now the new act is law, that anyone using magic to commit illegal acts can be stopped by the magical community?”
Mr. Pitt hesitated, but finally he nodded. “He no longer has the protection of his job.”
“Good.”
To be fair, I had murder in my heart, but I’d be willing to leave Walsingham alone if he was willing to leave me and mine alone. Somehow, though, if he’d gone to so much trouble to get his notebook back, I doubted he was finished with us. And now I had babies to protect, so I wouldn’t feel safe until we’d resolved this—sooner rather than later.
“Mr. Pitt,” Corwen said. “Do you have a list of the resources you’ve granted Walsingham in the past? Safe houses where he might stay? A place for his apprentices? Buildings where he might be isolated enough to perform his magic?”
“Walsingham’s finances always came out of a War Office fund used for private affairs.”
Ha! A spy fund, I fancied.
“Is there no record?” Corwen asked.
“There’s always a record, but it m
ay be buried deep. Give me a few days and I’ll send whatever I can find to George Pomeroy.”
We thanked the first minister, left him to his busy schedule, and returned to Wapping, still not sure where to start.
48
Heart Attack
THE FIRST I knew of the attack was a roaring sound outside our window in the middle of the night. I sprang from our bed in a panic, not knowing what was wrong, but knowing something was. I yanked back the curtain and saw a sheet of flame where the Heart used to be.
“Corwen!”
I needn’t have shouted; he was already out of bed and at my side.
He uttered some very succinct curses while I stood frozen with fear. I had nothing in my arsenal of spells that could combat this. A small ship moored downwind from the Heart had caught fire in three places from the sparks, and I could see her crew battling the blazes with buckets, while four of them struggled to get a pump set up.
I could see nothing of the Heart except fire.
Corwen was dressed now and turning the handle of the bedroom door.
“Wait for me,” I called.
“No. Wait here, unless the building catches fire. Keep our children safe. There’s nothing you can do.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Going to pull any survivors out of the river if I can.”
A crowd had gathered on the steps. The tide was low, and there was a small beach of river mud and shingle at their base, illuminated now by flames.
I dragged on my clothes, not wanting to tear my eyes away any more than I had to. If the Heart was burning—if my crew, my friends, were dying—then the very least I could do was bear witness.
I heard a sob. It was mine.
Hookey was more of a father to me than my own had ever been.
Mr. Rafiq had escaped a life of slavery to end up roasting to death on the Thames.
Windward, who’d so narrowly escaped death from cold, shouldn’t now die in an inferno.
The Greek, who said so little, but was always there when needed.
Lazy Billy, cook, doctor, picklock, friend.
I went through the whole crew by name, even the ones who were new since my time as captain. They were still my crew.
The other ships and boats on the crowded river were moving away as far as they could, tugged out of the danger zone by their own crews.
The twins were turning somersaults in my belly, reminding me why I was up here while Corwen was out there.
I touched the window glass; it was hot. Then, just as I was wondering whether this was the safest place to be, a splatter of water hit the glass and two of the panes cracked with a sharp ping. There was a pump down on the muddy beach operated by two men and aimed by a third. They were playing water over the back of the building to prevent the clapboard siding from catching a spark.
I couldn’t stay here any longer. I primed my pistol and ran down the steps to the bar.
A magical attack of this magnitude must have the attacker somewhere close. Walsingham. It had to be Walsingham. If he was close, I could kill him. I didn’t care that he was blind and maimed. I would shoot him at point blank range if I could. I’d be happy to turn his head to ruined meat.
The bar was full of gawkers, not stupid enough to stand right next to the back window, but standing halfway down the room, eerily silent, their speech sapped by the magnitude of the disaster unfolding before their eyes. A side door opened into the narrow passage that led from Wapping High Street to the river.
Walsingham would not be on the steps. Corwen would have seen him. A blind man with one arm wouldn’t be difficult to spot. I turned the other way. On the High Street, with a row of buildings between me and the river, I could see the sky in the east was lightening to that deep, ethereal blue which only shows itself at dawn, never at dusk. It must be close to four in the morning. It still didn’t give me enough light to see by. There were people moving about already, going to early morning jobs, or returning home from carousing. Any one of them could be Walsingham. He wouldn’t be on his own, though. He’d need someone to be his eyes. I wondered whether he still had Philip with him, masquerading as the unfortunate Diccon, whose spirit still resided in the brandy flask I had tucked away in my pocket.
A great cry went up from the riverside as the fire glow subsided. Did that mean the Heart was under water and the flames extinguished? I turned back to look. A hackney coach rolled past the end of the alleyway, surprising me by its speed. I looked up to see a face peering out of the window. I didn’t recognize it at first because I’d only ever seen it as an insubstantial ghost. Diccon!
Or, rather, Philip.
I ran back to Wapping High Street, but the coachman had sprung his horses and they were already disappearing into the darkness heading west.
I turned back to the river to see if any survivors had swum ashore. Please let some of them have survived. Please. I didn’t know whether I was praying or not.
On the river, in the deep blue of early dawn stood the Heart of Oak, untouched by fire.
I felt dizzy and leaned against the side wall of the alley, which was where Corwen found me, laughing and crying in equal measures.
“Thank you, Aunt Rosie.”
It was Aunt Rosie who saved the Heart, or rather her notebook from which I learned her protection spell.
* * *
I was shaking so much I could barely hold the glass of brandy Corwen pressed into my hands.
“Drink,” he said, sliding into the chair on the other side of the table.
The Town of Ramsgate had opened early and was doing great trade over the bar with most of the conversation tending toward the did-you-see variety, with the occasional what-caused-that and only one voice saying, “They shouldn’t have disbanded the Mysterium, that’s what!”
I sipped the brandy, feeling it score a sharp line down my gullet. This wasn’t Hookey’s good stuff. I coughed.
“Drink,” Corwen said again.
I wiped my eyes on the back of my hand and did as I was told. The twins had settled down in my belly.
A commotion in the alley spilled into the bar through the side door. Mr. Rafiq, impeccably dressed, pushed a wave of curious folk in front of him.
“Yes, we are all fine. No we don’t know what it was. Excuse me, a little privacy, gentleman and ladies.”
They let him leave them, and Mr. Rafiq came to sit at our table, placing his tricorn hat on the side and accepting a tankard of ale from a serving girl.
“Captain Garrity sends his regards. He’s still checking over the ship for damage but has so far found none. He wanted you to know that apart from Jeb Woodhead passing out in a dead faint and hitting his head on the deck, no one has sustained any kind of injury. It wasn’t even particularly warm. It was as if there was an invisible dome over us. The flames couldn’t penetrate.”
I reached out and took his hand. “Please tell Hookey I’m so sorry.”
“Do you have anything to be sorry for, Captain?”
“For not killing that bastard Walsingham when I had the chance, but I’ll remedy that, Mr. Rafiq. I promise.”
“It’s a promise from both of us,” Corwen said.
“I’ll come aboard later this morning and renew the protection spell,” I said. “Then I think the Heart would be safer at sea.”
“I’m sure Captain Garrity will want to stay and help if you are hunting Walsingham,” Mr. Rafiq said. “But I’ll give him your message.”
I renewed the protection spell on the Heart and placed one on the Town of Ramsgate. For good measure, I put one on the stable at the Red Lion when we went to collect Dancer and Timpani, and when we arrived at George and Lily’s house, I put one on that as well.
Mr. Pitt, as good as his word, had sent a list of potential places which Walsingham had used in the past. It wasn’t a long list, only eight ad
dresses, but they were all over London. This was a job for the goblins.
49
Narrowing Options
“I CAN TELL you where he isn’t,” Mr. Twomax said when we met him for the second time in two days, this time at a busy coaching inn on Fleet Street, where so many people passed through that no one would notice three people drinking coffee together.
Mr. Twomax was glamoured to further reduce the risk of being noticed. “We’ve eliminated all but two of the addresses.”
“What about the two you haven’t eliminated?” Corwen asked.
“Inconclusive, both of them. One is an old warehouse in Southwark, on Bankside. It’s been designated for demolition for a new bridge across the Thames, but there’s a cluster of ancient buildings, and it’s so deeply embedded in them that it’s almost impossible to be sure we’ve covered every access and egress point.”
“And the other?” I asked.
“Another riverside warehouse, this time on the Isle of Dogs.”
“We’ll have to try both,” Corwen said.
It made no sense to confront Walsingham unarmed. He would certainly have resources if he had his notebook and the help of my brother, Philip, returned from the dead.
“How are we going to do this?” I asked Corwen. “A magical duel doesn’t seem like a good idea.”
“I suppose sneaking in, killing him, and sneaking out again would be too easy.”
I shuddered. I never liked the idea of murder for its own sake, even if Walsingham had a lot more murders on his conscience—presuming he had a conscience. I should think of this more as an execution. When men had been hanged for the simple crime of theft, someone like Walsingham should have been justly done away with years ago, but it seemed that the bigger the crime, the more difficult it was to punish. The law couldn’t touch Walsingham. I doubted a prison could hold him. The new act said magical crimes could be policed by fellow magicals. We were about to put that to the test.
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