The Perils of Presumption (The Conclave Series Book 1)

by Sarah Sokol

  The only logical explanation was that all the murders happening, that man trying to steal the list, it was all tied back to Avery. Which meant Ben had lied when he had said the Conclave was closing the investigation.

  Why lie to her about that? She remembered the conversation now, wincing at her own sharp words. Perhaps he hadn't deserved her censure after all. Perhaps something more was at play.

  Margaret. Focus on Margaret. Charlotte glanced out the window and was surprised to find that at their swift pace, even through the driving rain, they were making excellent progress. The muddy road continued ahead only a little longer before Henry's estate rose from the darkness. Its windows were lit, as was the row of lamps meant to guide carriages up the drive. The estate itself was well structured, but the lawns were too long, the gardens untended, and overall it was shaggy. Like the man himself, it all only needed a bit of a polish to be quite handsome indeed.

  When the carriage finally rattled to a stop before Henry's door, Charlotte dashed out into the rain, pulling her cloak tightly around her shoulders. She clutched her satchel to her chest and held onto her bonnet, squinting up at Duncan.

  "Take the carriage around to the stables, then come back inside," she shouted. "I may need you."

  To fetch a priest, she thought, but the words remained unspoken between them. Duncan nodded and tugged at his rain-sodden cap, then cracked the reins across Arkle's rump. Charlotte ran up the stairs and rapped on the front door.

  It was answered by the only servant Charlotte ever saw around the estate; the matronly cook, housekeeper, and overall caretaker, Mrs. Anna Spencer. Her gaunt form was clad in a white ruffled cap and apron and a black house dress, and her greying hair was pulled into a tight bun. She looked surprised to see Charlotte.

  "Anna, hello, I am here. My apologies for the delay." Charlotte scurried in out of the rain, removing her bonnet and shaking the water from it as well as she could.

  "Delay, milady?" Anna helped Charlotte off with her cloak and hung up the wet things to finish dripping. "We hadn't thought you were coming today. And now it's so late, and the storm?"

  "Well, I was not planning to, but after the note, I knew I must. Shall we go to Margaret's room?"

  Still looking puzzled, Anna bobbed a courtesy. "Of course, milady. This way."

  The maid led the way up the familiar carpeted stairs and towards the closed door at the end of the hall. Margaret had been given the largest bedroom in the place, since she had to stay confined in it so much of the time.

  Anna knocked lightly on the door, then pushed it open and bobbed a courtesy. "Ring if you need me," she murmured, then ducked past Charlotte again to leave them be.

  Charlotte hastened forward through the door and paused to take in the scene. There on the bed was Margaret, blonde hair tangled over the pillow and long lashes resting on rosy cheeks, as she drew breaths in and out.

  At the side of the bed Henry reclined, eyes fixed on the girl. His face was bedecked in a full beard now, though his hair was neatly trimmed, and he looked tired, but brightened as he turned to face Charlotte.

  "Hello," he whispered, and surged to his feet to greet Charlotte. He bent to kiss her cheek and she shrank back, surprised at the bright smile on his face. "What is it? Am I so monstrous as all that?" He chuckled and ran his hand over his beard.

  "What? No, you're not monstrous." Charlotte was so astonished she forgot to keep her voice at a whisper, and the girl on the bed began to stir.

  Her eyes fluttered open and a toothy grin spread over her features. She rubbed her eyes and pulled herself into a sitting position. "Lady Charlotte! You came!"

  "Of course, I did," Charlotte stammered. "It's so wonderful to see you." Stepping forward, she clasped the child's hands in her own and squeezed, taking an assessing glance within. There was still the same growing darkness, the one that would not be touched by Charlotte's gifts, shrinking away from her vines of power when she tried to reach for it. But there was no significant change from the last time.

  "About that note," Henry muttered, looking sheepish.

  "Margaret, please excuse us. I am so glad to see you, I am. I just need to speak with your father briefly." Charlotte gave the girl's hands one last little squeeze, then rose from the bedside and followed Henry out.

  He closed the door behind him, then took a few steps into the hallway. Running his hands through his hair, he looked away. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for panicking you, for making you come all this way. I know I'm an idiot. She looked so pale, and she wouldn't wake when I shook her, so I sent that note, and then she woke up and seemed just as fine as ever, but it was too late to call the note back. I tried sending another, but you wouldn't have gotten it..."

  He trailed off, and Charlotte took a deep breath. "It's all right," she said, pushing aside her feelings of impatience. He didn't deserve her temper; he was a worried father, that was all. "I understand. It is no great journey, after all, only a few hours. I am glad I came, even if all is well. It is better than the alternative."

  "I'm sorry," he repeated one more time. "Still, it is good to see you. And surely it must be nice for you to get out of London. At least here you can breathe again, eh?"

  "Oh, but London has been delightful," Charlotte replied, forcing a smile to her lips. Exhaustion pulled at her limbs, and now that she knew Margaret was all right, hunger ravaged her stomach, as well. She was not in a social mood. "It has been wonderful spending time with Sophie, and meeting so many new people."

  "Meeting new people, eh?" Henry gave an odd, strangled laugh. "Like what sorts of people have you been meeting? High lords and all that?"

  "Well, yes, I suppose so," Charlotte said. "Why are you asking?"

  "Just tell me. Tell me the truth. Why now? Why to London, why so long?" Henry burst out. His eyes flared as he gazed down at her. "Margaret was so confused when I told her you weren't coming. You owe us the truth."

  Charlotte frowned, but perhaps this was for the best. She could discourage Henry and continue perpetuating her lie at the same time. "Why, I'm there for the same reason every other lady goes to London. To have a season."

  "Find a husband, you mean," Henry said bitterly. "What is it you find so hideous about me, so awful, that you would run away from me into a stranger's arms? A stranger who likely only wants you for your name or your wealth."

  Charlotte drew herself up. If he wanted confrontation, then he would get it. "Henry, in all the times you have proposed to me, never once you have said you love me. Never once have you said you wish to care for me or build a life with me. You only speak of helping your daughter, of being closer to her. Of healing your headaches and neck pains. Perhaps the strangers in London only want my pocketbook, but you only want my gift! How are you different?"

  Henry laughed at that, his voice rising nearly to a shout. "I do love you, you're a fool if you can't see that. I need you. I want you." He stopped himself short, drawing in the passion, trying to contain it within his frame. "I would do anything for you. Please, Charlotte. Say yes. Let me do all those things. Take care of you. Build a life together. That's what I want too, I just didn't want to scare you away. Just... please."

  By the end of his speech, his voice shrank back to a whisper.

  Charlotte stopped still, frozen. She stared at Henry, advancing towards her with tears streaking down his face into his beard. His hands trembling as he reached towards her, cupping her cheek and stroking her skin tenderly. His face approaching nearer, looming large above her.

  Before she could think, properly formulate a response, her hand found its way up, pressing against his lips, and pushing him back.

  The answer fell from her without thought, pure instinct, as her whisper cracked the silence.

  "No."

  Then, seeing no other recourse, she turned tail and ran.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Threesome

  It was going to storm tonight.

  Ben leaned back on his stone garden bench and yawned. He had been in here
studying his notes from the investigation since the sun slipped below the horizon and the clouds gathered over the stars. Now he could see the rain running in rivulets down the clear glass roof and walls, hear its rhythmic pattering and the occasional low roll of thunder. Hypnotized, he stared too long at the silky slide of water against glass and his head began to spin. Shaking his head, he looked back down to take comfort in the warm lamplight and the expanse of greenery, colourful tropical flowers and experimental fruits that filled his favourite place on earth.

  He loved sitting in the greenhouse on stormy nights. The atmosphere stayed balmy, rich and humid even in the chilly weather. The glass that surrounded him was reinforced by protective glyphs, so even if the rain turned to hail the size of billiard balls, he and his plants would still be safe. On the eastern side of the building was his workspace, piled with mounds of different types of soil with varying acidity levels, and lined with experimental glyphs he had been sketching. He was currently trying to design an apple tree that grew different flavoured fruits. It was finicky work, combining the arcane arts with grafting, and so far, he had not even come close.

  And of course, in the very centre of the building, surrounded by warming lamps, was the Amorphophallus titanum. Its ripe stench filled the area around it in close proximity to attract beetles and other insects. From this far back, it was only a faint lingering odour, bearable at least. Ben didn't know what he had expected from something labelled a 'corpse flower,' but he hadn't anticipated the stink being quite so insurmountable.

  However, from his studies of the rare plant, the bloom would be gone in another day or two at the most. He was glad he'd had time to come in and admire it tonight. It curved up at least half a meter taller than Ben himself, with frilled green fading to purple around the edges, and the central spadix thrusting up in an obscene display. It was like nothing he'd ever seen.

  Ben had known, when he had inherited this post from Avery's untimely death, that it would not be everything he had always dreamed. When he was a boy, he'd assumed the Conclave would be a safe space for him to practice his craft, grow and learn, invent amazing new spells and magical items that could make the world a better place.

  Instead it was constant politics, getting embroiled in schemes, trusting no one, hunting the scum of the earth. He'd even been forced by the queen to reach out and contact the American Conclave of Practitioners, based out of New York City. She wanted Ben to consider sending a few of his best Conclave members to go study the Americans and see if they were inventing anything useful. Ben was putting off that particular assignment as he didn't wish to subject any of his loyal men to the Americans and their brash manners.

  Ben heaved a sigh and glanced back down over his notebook, the scattered pages and crate of old documents he'd been combing through. He wished he could put off this assignment too, but it was too important. He had been diving deep, trying to find more information on the names he'd managed to scribble down. He and Oliver had learned nothing new from their meeting with the earl. Just Hastings confirming which of the murder victims were on his list and saying things to irritate Ben like 'that Whitcomb chit has a bit of the devil in her, but I'm damned if I don't like it.'

  At first, Ben's clenched fist disguised the burning pain of a message spell, until it grew too intense to ignore. He opened his hand and watched the charcoal appear, then coalesce into a scroll.

  B,

  The Devil's Acre has need of your services, oh wise one. Meet me at Old Pye Street at your convenience, but immediately. Seems our bird has dropped another feather, and the fancy lad found it first.

  -O

  Ben frowned as he puzzled over the words. The bird dropped another feather? Was the bird a woman? And who the bloody hell was the fancy lad?

  "Damn it all, Oliver," he grumbled under his breath. "I know you learned the English language, use it properly for once."

  He tucked the parchment into the back of his notebook and closed it, taking a last look around at his greenhouse haven. He was tired, yes, but he had trouble sleeping in that big mausoleum of a house anyway. Besides, he could fill Oliver in on his discoveries, meagre though they might be.

  There was no need to wake the groom or the Prices at this hour. He simply packed up his things, stepped out into the rain and closed the door behind him. He turned up his collar against the wind as he faced the brightly lit beacon of his greenhouse.

  "Praesidio," he murmured, tapping his cane on the ground. The bright golden glyphs flared to life, inscribed on the earth beneath the greenhouse itself, and flashing up and down the glass walls and roof. The curling intricate symbols pulsed thrice, then blinked out, and the whole building went dark.

  Turning away, Ben ducked his head and forged his way through the growing puddles to the stables. The exterior was plain, but the interior was warm and inviting, with a small lamp placed safely up on a barrel to provide a gentle glow down the row of stalls. The other horses whuffled quietly, remaining asleep, but Merlin was alert as always, one dark eye fixed on Ben's approach. Ben spared a few moments to stroke the animal's glossy black mane before leading him out and saddling him.

  The ride from Windy Oaks to the heart of London's slums was not new to Ben. He was familiar enough with the side streets and back alleys, and Merlin charged through the puddles and over broken cobblestones so quickly, it felt like barely a ride at all by the time Ben arrived at the corner of Old Pye.

  As usual in this area of town, at this time of night, it was crowded with women turning cheap tricks, drunkards and thieves. Constables from Scotland Yard could be seen here, too, some arresting rowdy customers, and some partaking in the delights of the Devil's Alley.

  Ben spotted the shine of his cousin's blonde hair outside a little bakery, the windows full of loaves of bread on display, and a sheaf of wheat painted on the glass in dark blue. Oliver stood with his hands behind his back, staring out over the rain-soaked streets. At his side was a short constable in uniform, sporting a neat moustache and heavy sideburns.

  "Hallo!" Oliver saluted cheerily but stayed underneath the overhanging roof in front of the bakery. "Nice night for a murder, eh? Fresh one, too."

  "Keep your voice down," the young constable muttered, then quailed beneath Ben's stony stare.

  "Who's this?" Ben asked, sliding out of Merlin's saddle and landing with both boots deep in a patch of mud.

  "Jimmy something," Oliver said as he stepped forward. "I fetched him to look after our horses while we do the real investigating."

  "It's James Bowditch," the officer replied, sticking his hand out towards Ben to shake. "And I wasn't fetched. I'm here with the team."

  "The team?" Ben lifted his brows, but before he could inquire further Oliver grabbed his elbow.

  "Yes, the team, come along and I shall explain." He guided Ben past Bowditch, into the small front room of the bakery.

  It smelled faintly of baked goods, but the stronger odour was that of blood and death emanating from the doorway behind the front counter. There were murmured voices emerging from that doorway as well and Oliver started towards it, but Ben pulled him to a stop.

  "Hang on. I want to fill you in on what I found." He pulled his notebook and flipped to the correct notes. "I thought it might help with motivations and all that."

  Oliver seemed distracted but straightened his jacket and peered obediently down at the page. "All right. But keep your voice down and make it quick."

  "This John H. Turner fellow. It turns out I did hear that name before. He was the fellow that kept making appointments under different names in order to get into my office, and then once he got in, complained about the same issue over and over again. Apparently, someone was sending him threatening letters, denouncing him as a black magic user. John insisted he wasn't involved in magic at all, so I just told him it was a matter for the police. He said the letters stopped after a few weeks, and soon after, John stopped turning up too, so I put the matter out of my mind, but now it seems relevant."

  O
liver's eyes widened. "Relevant is a mild word for it. When did this all happen?"

  "It was just over a year ago."

  Oliver shoved his hands in his pockets, rocking backwards. "Do you think this John H. Turner could be our first victim?"

  "Not sure. That's why I'm mentioning it now," Ben said. "To get your thoughts. But even if it is related and John was killed, his body was never found, so we can't confirm anything. And anyway, if it is related, it still doesn't explain Avery. Avery wasn't a black magic practitioner."

  Oliver was quiet for a moment, pondering. "Perhaps Avery found out about the first murder, and the killer decided to take him out, in an attempt to keep it quiet."

  "There was nothing in Avery's notes about a new investigation of that sort," Ben protested.

  Oliver shrugged. "Perhaps we will never know, then. For now, I think we should operate under the assumption that whoever is doing this hates black magic practitioners. They must be attempting some sort of eradication."

  "But why now, why these commoners? The Conclave has already eradicated all the major practitioners of black magic in England and established a regime of arcane magic that has lasted decades. We are under no threat."

  "I don't know," Oliver murmured, pacing back and forth. "Perhaps some sort of madness, a mental snap. It's possible the killer thinks they are doing the right thing."

  "The right thing leads to seven murders? Nine, if you count-"

  "Ten, actually," Oliver cut him off. "Didn't you read the note?"

  "Yes, I read it, it doesn't follow that I know what the devil it means." Ben crossed his arms. "What's the bird and feather bit? And who's the fancy lad?"