“What or who is Langholm?” he asked over his shoulder.
“It’s a pub a few roads over.” She waved in a westerly direction with her handkerchief.
“I shall make enquiries there about your husband and see if I can run him to ground.” Wycliff tapped the paper against his palm.
She steeled her spine and met his gaze. “Thank you, milord. You send him running home and I’m going to give him a good talking-to for worrying me like this.”
“I will need to know what he looks like, to aid in finding him.” He pulled out the little notebook and jotted a brief description of the man as his wife spoke.
Wycliff left the terrace and rode in the direction of the Langholm. He found the pub three roads over and sitting on a corner. A squat building, it looked to have Tudor origins in its whitewashed walls and dark timber framing, though its name was Norse. He entered and wrinkled his nose as the stale odour of spilled beer and smoke assaulted his senses.
“Can I help you, sir?” a sturdy man behind the counter asked.
“I’m looking for William Peters. His wife said he was last seen here.” Wycliff kept his hands to himself, not wanting to touch the sticky surface of the bar. An aroma of stale sweat circulated in the low-ceilinged room and he clenched his nostrils against it.
The man screwed up his face and stared at the lantern on the bar. “Don’t think I’ve seen Bill these last few days.”
Movement from one corner drew his eye, as the tall, broad Bow Street Runner joined him. “Lord Wycliff. Is there anything I can assist you with?”
Wycliff nodded at Taylor. “Yes. I’m trying to find a man called William Peters. He came here three days ago to meet someone and hasn’t been seen since.”
“I can ask around for you. He’s not one of those Unnaturals, is he?” A worry line crossed the man’s brow.
“Not that I know of. I need to talk to him about a matter related to his employment at Unwin and Alder.” At least Wycliff could hand off one task. The Runner would have a better network with which to track the man down. Wycliff gave him the scant information he had about the missing man and his appearance.
“I’ll put the word out on the street, milord. We’ll find him for you.” Taylor touched the brim of his bowler with a mitten-clad hand and set off out the door.
Wycliff returned to the stableyard at Westbourne Green, to be greeted by Hannah flying down the back steps toward him. A smile came unbidden to his face at the sight of her.
“Oh! Wycliff! I have such news,” she exclaimed, her dark eyes sparkling like diamonds.
“Good. My day was particularly fruitless, and Lord Albright was as gleeful as you can imagine on hearing that his former wife had departed this earth.” He placed a quick kiss on her lips, the small contact spreading warmth through his chilled body.
Her good mood deflated, and sadness dropped into her gaze. “I am not surprised to hear he couldn’t even marshal sufficient common decency to mourn her final passing.”
Wycliff handed his mare to Frank, and tucked Hannah’s hand into the crook of his elbow. He leaned his head toward hers. “Tell me your news, I did not mean to ruin your excitement.”
Her eyes brightened once more. “Mother had a trunk full of old books delivered today that fellow mages sourced in Europe and the ancient lands. Inside it, we found a scroll depicting the weighing of a heart in the underworld. And do you know what we found in the background?”
He took a guess. “A devilishly handsome hellhound?” He was only jesting a tiny bit.
“No. Well, yes. But the hound is standing beside Anubis. The scroll depicts a mage, called a shadow mage, who serves Anubis and her name is Kemsit. Mother thinks there is a chance it is the same mage who now slumbers in Mireworth’s tower.” She scanned his face, waiting for his reaction.
“Having found a resident of Mireworth who has been there longer than Mrs Rossett, I am glad we can give her a name,” he said.
They walked through the doors to the vestibule, where Wycliff stripped off his hat and gloves. Then he shrugged out of his greatcoat, which Mary took. He didn’t know what magic Lady Miles had wrought, but the house maintained a most pleasant temperature no matter what happened outside its solid walls.
“There is one other small detail.” Hannah wrung her hands together.
“What is that?” A tiny warning prickled over his skin.
“Kemsit might be dead. I mean undead, like Mother. Although without further research, we are not entirely sure.” Hannah worried at her bottom lip.
“Do you think that might be the secret my family has kept all these years—that they have imprisoned some sort of undead mage in our tower? I would suggest that we immediately free her, but would she be grateful to her liberators or exact pent-up revenge upon us?” Wycliff conjured a scenario wherein Lady Miles was trapped for hundreds of years. No, he would not want to be the one to take the lid off the sarcophagus. Nor did he ever want to do it, if the angry mage were to call down a fireball to flatten Mireworth.
11
Over the next few days, a growing sense of unrest pervaded London in general, and Hannah’s home in particular. Even Barnes prowled the curtain rails and leapt to the light fittings as though he were trying to escape on some pirate adventure. In London, people gathered in the streets and whispered about the Afflicted, and how unfair it was that the toffs protected one another.
That morning, Wycliff gave a muffled exclamation from across the table and handed the newspaper over to Hannah.
“‘Has your husband lost his mind?’” she read aloud. “‘Bereaved widow Mrs Downing was horrified to discover her husband’s mind had wandered as he lay in repose before the funeral.’” She scanned ahead, and the circumstances sounded similar to those of Mrs Sennett. During the wake, the coffin had been jostled and the top of Mr Downing’s head had fallen to one side, revealing an empty skull. A scan of the byline revealed that Mr Nash had penned the article. The same man who had written the earlier salacious piece.
Hannah caught Wycliff’s gaze. “One might be accidental, but surely two is deliberate? Have you found Mr Peters?”
“No. The man left for a meeting and didn’t return. I have Taylor—a Bow Street Runner—keeping an eye open for him.” He held his coffee cup but didn’t drink. He appeared to be searching for answers in its depths.
“Someone works in the dark to bring attention to what the Afflicted need to sustain ourselves,” Seraphina murmured.
Sir Hugh also stared into his coffee cup. “We’ve seen more people crammed into the seats during lectures at the hospital. I field many questions about the Afflicted as I conduct my rounds. One woman stopped me on the street, and asked how she would know if some monster had removed her brain.”
Wycliff snorted at that one, and even Hannah stifled a laugh. It was uncharitable to make fun of those who didn’t have the same medical knowledge that they possessed. “How did you respond, Papa?”
Sir Hugh winked at her. “I told her to run her hands through her hair. If her scalp was free of stitches, she still retained her mind. That reassured her, although she tore the cap from her son’s head and checked his hair before doing her own.”
“We cannot blame people for being afraid. It does not sit easy with them, which is why Mother has worked so hard to wipe away any rumours.” Hannah had quite lost her appetite and now regretted chopping the top off her boiled egg. She placed her spoon on the plate, unable to scoop out the yolk.
“I am sure it is a mage working against me. No aftermage would have the level of skill required to unpick my work.” Seraphina took up the paper to read the article. “I have requested a meeting with the mage council, but they dither over their decision, as though I am an unwanted suitor who has asked them to dance and they do not wish to offend by saying no.”
“Do you think they will assist?” Wycliff stared from under dark brows.
Seraphina heaved a pantomime sigh. “For some reason, I make them uncomfortable. I have no ally on th
at council, but I thought a few of those men more open-minded than others.”
“Wycliff, if you have time today, I thought I would call on Mrs Sennett’s brother, James Kelly, to see what I can learn.” Hannah outlined her plans to her husband.
“Yes, I shall accompany you. Then we should talk to Sir Manly and learn what is happening at the higher levels of government. I had asked for them to consider a special category of crime to account for attacks against Unnaturals.” He pushed his half-consumed coffee to one side.
Later that morning, while Frank manoeuvred the carriage through the London traffic, Hannah pressed her nose to the window. A group gathered on one corner, waving placards and shouting that an Englishman had the right to keep his brain in his skull.
“Unrest grows,” Wycliff murmured by her side. “Do you think you and your mother should retreat to Mireworth in case the situation grows worse?”
Hannah placed her hand in his. “No. I do not think there is any threat to us yet. People are only expressing their concerns.”
“Very well. I will do what I must to protect you both.” His hand tightened on hers.
A little of her worry lifted. She would not run to Mireworth, no matter how much she wanted to escape to pursue the mystery of the mage in the tower. A voice whispered through her veins, urging her to follow this investigation to an inky path and beyond. Whatever lay in the darkness ahead, she knew Wycliff would be at her side.
Frank drove the carriage to an address not too far removed from Mr Sennett’s home. Hannah knocked on the door while Wycliff lingered on the footpath. Curtains twitched at the sight of the carriage in the street and the well-dressed couple on the doorstep.
A woman somewhere in her forties with greying hair opened the door. A clean white apron covered her dress, and she narrowed her eyes at Hannah. She didn’t immediately speak, but glanced over Hannah’s shoulder to stare at Wycliff. “Can I help you?” She clung to the edge of the door as though it were a shield.
Hannah stole a backward look. Oh, dear. Wycliff was scowling at a cluster of nosy neighbours who gathered outside the house opposite to chat.
“I am Lady Wycliff and I should like to speak to Mr Kelly. Is he in?” Hannah plastered a smile on her face and tried to appear friendly. There was little she could do about Wycliff, whose features were pulled in a disdainful direction at those with nothing better to do but gossip.
“He’s in the parlour, milady.” The woman gestured for them to come in, standing well clear as Wycliff crossed the threshold. She waved her apron at the women across the street, as though to shoo them back inside, before slamming the door.
Hannah found Mr Kelly dozing in the parlour, his large body slumped on a settee and beefy hands crossed over his stomach. She cleared her throat and only elicited a vague snore from the man.
Wycliff’s shoulders heaved in a sigh. He tapped the man’s boots with his foot as he walked past and selected a chair.
“What is it, woman?” Mr Kelly sat up, glared at Hannah, then realised his wife had not awakened him. “Who—?”
“Lord and Lady Wycliff. We are here about the events surrounding the funeral of your sister, Mrs Sennett.” Hannah adopted a brisk tone, and swept her skirt to one side as she seated herself on a chair next to Wycliff.
Mr Kelly jumped to his feet, bowed, and scratched both hands over his scalp. Then he descended more slowly to the settee, confusion written on his features. “Did you know her?”
“No. We are making enquiries about a more delicate matter.” Hannah tapped one gloved finger against the side of her head and raised one eyebrow at the man.
The man’s gaze darted around the room. He nodded and wet his lips. “Not much to tell, milady. It was all there in the newspaper.”
Hannah smiled and hoped Wycliff would behave. He bristled beside her as though he had caught a whiff of something unpleasant. She carried on. “It wasn’t entirely all in the newspaper, now, was it? For example, what made you stumble that day?”
Mr Kelly shrugged, and again a hand went through his thinning hair. “I can’t remember now. Must have been a stone on the path.”
“Really? When I spoke to Mr Sennett, he said you appeared to trip over nothing.” Hannah tilted her head as she observed Mr Kelly.
He clasped and unclasped his hands and didn’t appear able to sit still. The silence grew uncomfortable and the longer it stretched, the more he squirmed, rather as though he sat upon a secret that didn’t want to stay put.
“Was it such a big bump that when you stumbled, you insisted the coffin be opened so you could ensure your sister remained undisturbed?” she asked.
The man’s gaze shot around the room, alighting on a painting on the wall, then the door, then the fireplace. Anywhere except the people waiting for his answer. “It must have been. Yes. Yes, I think it was. There was a loud thump and then we all heard something pop. I was worried about her, you see.”
Wycliff leaned forward and rested his forearms on his thighs. He waited until his prey glanced at him, then he held the other man’s gaze. “How much were you paid to make sure they opened the coffin?”
Mr Kelly’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened and closed. “How dare you!”
“You are not in any trouble, Mr Kelly.” Hannah sought to reassure the man. “Nor will you have to repay the money. We simply want to understand the truth of the matter, and how events were set in motion.” There were times in their past investigations where Wycliff’s blunt approach extracted the information they required. Other times it made a mess of things that Hannah had to tidy away. Today he knew the exact question to ask and in a brisk enough manner. Hannah would have danced around the idea of payment for another half hour at least.
“Who paid you?” Wycliff leaned back in his chair as he took control of the interview.
Mr Kelly swallowed several times, then his body slumped as though his spine had stopped being made of bone and turned to pudding. “It was that scandal-sheet man—Mr Nash. He approached me and said he was investigating a story that some people were interfering with the dead, and he heard a rumour Kate might have been affected. She’s my sister—of course I was worried about what might have been done to her. Her husband insisted on a closed coffin and wouldn’t let us see her to say goodbye. That just made me more suspicious that he was hiding something.”
Hannah chewed over the worrying revelation of a reporter following his own investigation about Unwin and Alder. No doubt his source told him which bodies to pay close attention to. Which meant the business had a talkative employee who was putting everything in jeopardy. When they were alone, she would discuss with Wycliff whether he thought the missing employee was responsible. “That is why the reporter happened to be in the cemetery as you opened Mrs Sennett’s coffin.”
“They took her…brain,” Mr Kelly whispered the word and glanced over his shoulder. “What sort of horrid monster takes a woman’s mind?”
“As I explained to Mr Sennett, there is a scientific group conducting a wide-ranging phrenology study. That’s examining the lumps and bumps on our skulls,” she added when he gave a blank stare.
“He knew then, the bugger? Pardon my language, milady, but that ain’t right.” Mr Kelly’s hand curled into a fist.
“He most likely did not know they had removed her brain. Next of kin are asked to consent to an examination of the skull. He had no way of knowing any more than that.” Wycliff smoothed over the more disturbing details. For once, and to Hannah’s relief, he didn’t state the horrible truth.
Hannah rose, since they had what they needed. Their next quarry was Mr Nash, the man who had penned the article. She suspected that interview would require Wycliff’s talents to shake free the individual who had provided him with the name of the donor to Unwin and Alder. “Thank you for your time, Mr Kelly, you have been most helpful.”
Wycliff gave Frank instructions to take them to the newspaper offices. Once underway, he clenched his hand into a fist on his knee. “Damned reporter
s.”
“I am assuming the source of information for the reporter is the Unwin and Alder employee, Mr Peters?” Hannah hoped the business didn’t have more than one gossiping employee.
Wycliff tapped his fist against his leg. “Most likely, and we still need to find him.”
“The longer he is missing, the more concerned I grow about his safety.” Hannah watched people hurrying about their lives on the street. Perhaps it was her imagination, but some women had their bonnets tied on with extra ribbons, as though they sought to protect their minds.
“Given that he betrayed his employer and has made enemies in the higher reaches of society, I wonder if they have paid him to disappear,” Wycliff said.
Frank stopped the carriage in a busy road close to where the newspaper operated. Wycliff helped Hannah down, then kept her close as people flowed past them.
“Whatever is going on?” People tugged at her and for one horrible moment, she thought she struggled in the ocean against the clutches of the water. Only the solid presence of Wycliff stopped the panic from rising in her chest.
“They are gathering for some reason.” Wycliff used his greater height to peer over the tops of heads and to stare down the street. Then he sheltered her with his body and ploughed across the pavement to the portico of the building.
A dull roar came from the end of the road, and Hannah wondered what entertainment drew the eager pedestrians.
“We can investigate that later, Hannah. Let us find Mr Nash first.” Wycliff tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and escorted her into the building.
A different sort of roar filled the room where the daily news was collated. Men yelled back and forth. Machines clacked and rattled. Chairs scraped against the wooden floors.
Wycliff stopped a lad rushing past with a clutch of papers in his hand. “Where do I find Nash?”
Hessians and Hellhounds Page 10