by Selina Kray
“Ready?” Callie asked.
“For this brand of madness? Always.”
Callie crawled on her hands and knees over to the infirmary window, a sizeable rock in hand. A glance back assured Miss Kala waddled behind her, twitching as their feathered friend clawed at her arms. Once they were in place, Callie leaned back, aimed, and smashed the rock through the glass.
They heard its thump on the wood floor. No one stirred; no one shrieked. Miss Kala popped up, tossed the rooster in. A flap of wings, the click of its talons on the glass.
Silence.
“Damn.” Callie pressed a knuckle to her brow.
“Drugged, I wager.” Miss Kala dodged a piece of falling glass. “The nurse hasn’t come neither. Do we shuffle on?”
“I can’t see—”
An eardrum-gashing crow threatened to wake the dead.
“That’ll do it,” Miss Kala said as the screaming started.
The hard slam of a door heralded a blaze of light from above. Callie had a leg through the nursery window when the chorus of babes began wailing their little hearts out. They rammed their way into Sister Zanna’s office, Miss Kala monitoring the scene outside through a crack in the door while Callie bludgeoned the lock on the lone filing cabinet with the butt of her revolver. It fell, clanking on the toe of her slipper; she bit back a groan. She ripped open the first drawer... only to find it empty.
“Blast.”
Three more drawers, nothing of consequence. She turned to the desk. Her file bisected a pile of what had to be current patients, likely those yelping and screeching in the next room. Not a scrap of paper on the children or anyone else.
“Hurry. The others have arrived.”
“Have they caught him?” Callie searched every speck of the pristine office, hands quaking with desperation.
“Can’t see through walls, can I? The novices have quieted.”
“And the babes?”
“You gone deaf or something?” Miss Kala seized her arm. “Come on, or they’ll catch us!”
Callie stilled, all five senses alight, nerves brimming with energy. In defiance of defeat.
“Perhaps they should.”
Miss Kala grunted in disbelief. “You have gone barmy. Should have scarpered when I had the chance.”
“Go now, if you want. It might be your only chance.”
“And face Mr. Han when I return without you? I’ll take my chances with these lunatics.”
Callie covered the hand on her arm, squeezed it.
“You have more important things to consider. Go. If I don’t signal by morning next, tell them to come for me.”
The sound of cooing from the nursery frozen them to the spot.
“Tell them yourself. We’re cooked.”
The door flew open. Sister Nora stood in the frame, a glower contorting her heart-shaped face. A heavy ring of keys tinkled at the waist of her skirts.
The house on Dodger’s Way had little enough to recommend it at night. By day the sunlight that filtered through the gray cloud cover exposed its drab, crumbling exterior. The tattered mulch of the lawn, the chipped brickwork, and the listing cant of the front steps all conspired to warn off any respectable callers. They would, however, attract a criminal element, which made Tim wonder why Sir Hugh kept the house in such a state. But then perhaps it had been better cared for when the late Mrs. Winterbourne was alive.
As he waited for the candle, Tim struggled to direct his scattered thoughts toward his current objective. But they returned again and again to Hiero. He did not think he imagined the feeling in his black-star eyes at the height of their passion. A feeling that—for Tim, but he believed for Hiero too—transcended the physical. Of understanding. Of belonging.
His fingers itched as he remembered how Hiero stiffened when Tim touched his scar, and then later, when he all but fled from Tim’s bed. Every time they talked anything of substance, Hiero’s resolve turned to sand and slipped from Tim’s grasp. Was there never to be more between them than insinuation? Was he following a trail of crumbs that led not to a woodland cottage, but off a hidden cliff?
Tim had been overjoyed to see Hiero there in his apartment, among his things. Thought their evening the beginning of a new stage in their strange relationship. After their bed play, he’d wanted to make a gesture. To paint for Hiero a portrait of the man he knew. A kind man. A giving man. To share with him some of Tim’s complexities. Perhaps he had revealed too much? Perhaps he wasn’t the only one enchanted by mystery?
Curled up on the divan that still smelled of leather and strong coffee, of Hiero’s maddening musk, Tim had fretted over his next move in this tangled dance of theirs. His ambition did not lie in learning all the steps, only to be led by his cunning paramour. Tim would have to grow more adept at reading his signals. He must make a study of his silences. He simply had to convince Hiero he did not lack devotion. And pray it was enough to bridge the chasm between them.
None of which prepared him for the very serious meeting to which Tim had been summoned. When that disembodied hand slid the candle into the window, Tim straightened his posture and shook off his romantic preoccupations, prepared to play harbinger of doom. He inwardly enumerated his points of argument as he entered the house and retraced his steps to the vacant parlor.
Vacant except for the same two chairs, the bottle of Scotch and tumblers on the small table, and Sir Hugh by the hearth, his stern look tempered by the glow of the firelight. That he’d lit a fire to warm up the room spoke of its state of decrepitude. Despite the gothic atmosphere, this was no assignation. Tim marched forward and stood at attention until acknowledged, ready to make his report. Dispiriting as it was.
“Good day to you, Sir Hugh.”
“DI Stoker.” Sir Hugh gazed into the flames as if willing them to dispel the black cloud that hung around him. “What news of your investigation? What have you learned about these Daughters of Eden?”
“That they’ve piss-poor organizational skills and a talent for obfuscation.” Tim had hoped that would earn him a chuckle, but Sir Hugh looked as somber as the grave. “Hardly a surprise given they are a charity. Impossible to accuse them of doing away with something there’s no record of.”
“‘Doing away’?”
Finally Sir Hugh glanced his way. And Tim discovered he would have preferred to remain ignored. His eloquent brown eyes betrayed the depths of his worry. Underscored by a blur of purple and maroon, their whites boiled pink by insomnia—or worse, anguish—they bore into Tim with an intensity well beyond the necessities of command.
Confronted by those eyes, Tim almost couldn’t get the words out. Didn’t want to be the cause of their widening or their welling. His news would drown the last glimmer of light in them, and for that, he was dearly sorry. But duty, as ever, called.
“There’s been a turn of events.”
Sir Hugh regarded him for a pregnant moment. Then, shaking back into himself, he strode over to the small table and poured them a glass. Once fortified with a long draught of the Scotch, he sat. A horse ready to bolt.
“Make your report.”
Tim cleared his throat, took the seat opposite.
“Secrecy is the Daughters’ trade. The prophecies of their founder and spiritual leader, the protection of the fallen women they harbor, the discretion with which they barter with their benefactors. At first I learned everything I could about them, and then I sought to infiltrate them. I posed as a wealthy patron seeking to adopt from them. This disguise proved effective at first. I gained access to their current leader, Juliet Tattersale, in the hopes of learning what becomes of the babes born to them. They pretend most are adopted out, but in fact they are remanded to the local orphan asylum, whose records I’ve obtained. I mean to match them to the Daughters’, but securing these has become a five-act farce. They keep records of the mothers, but not their children, you see.”
“But that’s absurd.”
“And, I’m certain, a falsehood. I’ve seen several of the
babes in their keeping. They each wear a coded tag.” A half truth, but Tim wanted to ground Sir Hugh before he shocked him. He unfolded the paper wing from a handkerchief in his pocket, carefully displayed it for the commissioner. “But the ledger linking this code to their birth mother—and any potential benefactor—I’ve yet to uncover.”
A tender expression softened Sir Hugh’s face as he examined the tiny wing.
“With good reason, though it creates a challenge for us. I’m almost relieved it requires such effort to prove any association.”
“If nothing else, your identity is well-protected.”
“Quite.” Sir Hugh settled back in his chair, not entirely relaxed, but less rigid. Tim knew his next words would change that. “Your disguise. You said it proved effective at first. What changed?”
“The aim of my investigation.” Tim sucked in a deep breath, forced himself to meet the commissioner’s stare. “During my interview with Juliet Tattersale, an incident occurred. A body was discovered half-buried under a tree in their garden. A babe.” Tim watched as Sir Hugh fought to maintain his composure. “A boy.”
“My... my son?”
A nervous twitch seized the left side of his face; Sir Hugh forced it still.
“As yet there is no evidence indicating it is your child,” Tim explained. “I have found no way of connecting the boy to any parent, mother or father. He may not even be the issue of one of the fallen women the Daughters keep. He wore a tag—this tag—but that could be a feint. My objective now is to identify him and, by doing so, discover a motive for his murder.”
Sir Hugh’s head, which had dropped, pricked up at that. “Murder?”
“The boy had been strangled.”
Sir Hugh shut his eyes, his chest rising and falling with locomotive force.
“Was there...?”
Tim could barely get his mouth to form the words, knowing the images they would conjure.
“Starvation? Yes. We searched for evidence of baby farming but have found none. Given that some of the mothers choose to keep their children with them or house them elsewhere, it could be a form of vengeance or accusation from someone who had been in their care. Or rejected by them and forced into desperate circumstances. Until I identify the boy, I cannot discount any possibility.”
By this time Sir Hugh had diverted his eyes back into the fire, white-knuckling his fists around the arms of his chair. He struggled to still the tremble in his bottom lip. Sorrow and fury appeared to war within him, and both against the instincts of a career officer.
“Where is he?”
Tim stammered, surprised. “He is safe.”
“Where?”
“I was forced to reveal myself to the Daughters in order to secure the scene and perform an examination. We removed him to a secure location.”
“Damn you, Stoker, where?!” Sir Hugh seemed as startled as Tim by his outburst. He downed the last of his scotch, slammed the tumbler on the table. “Swear to me he is not with...”
“Sir Hugh, I have not broken my vow to you.”
A scoff. “You put a murdered child in his keeping?”
“There is a cold room at his townhouse. I could not bring the body to the Yard without alerting suspicion. I could not trust the Daughters not to disappear the body.”
“You could have brought him here!”
“No, I could not.” Tim fixed his gaze on the empty space above the mantle, counted back from fifty. Prayed that was time enough for Sir Hugh’s reason to return. “The task before me is not impossible, but it is large. A five-acre compound. A four-story house. Thirty active members of the Daughters of Eden at my best guess, to say nothing of the women in their care. I required the help of trusted allies. I have not spoken your name. They do not know my true purpose. Only that we chase a child murderer—a cause that needed no further explanation to enlist them.”
Silence fell. Sir Hugh had sunken so far inward Tim couldn’t tell if he had heard a word or was even aware anyone else remained in the room. Tim waited out his inner machinations, anxious, fidgety. No matter what Sir Hugh decreed, Tim could not abandon this case. For all his confusion, he knew only they—the team he’d finally learned to value—had a chance at solving it.
“Take me to him.”
Sir Hugh’s words were so unexpected Tim almost asked him to repeat himself.
“Sir, that would be—”
“Unwise? How well I know it.”
Tim corralled every rational argument he could think of to dissuade him, abandoned each one in turn the minute they entered his mind. It would have been easier to fight off a snake with a spoon.
“Sir Hugh,” Tim implored, “you know as well as I there are evils in this world that, once seen, cannot be unseen. As officers of the law, we think ourselves immune. But we are not. When it comes to those closest to us, we are not.”
Sir Hugh drew in a long, shaky breath, then stood, resolute.
“I will see him, Stoker. Take me to him, or this is the end of our association. All of our associations.”
Chapter 15
Hiero observed Han observing the box with well-honed nonchalance. His vision swayed to and fro—the combination of sleeplessness and day drinking making him tipsier than usual—such that Han appeared to waltz around the desk in his study. He swished the amber liquid in his glass in counterpoint to his dancing friend, giggled. A thirsty sip, and finally the weight of his heart began to lessen, buoyed by the half bottle he’d consumed since the lunch he hadn’t had.
Upon his return in the wee hours of the morning, he’d ordered a bath. Hiero disliked inconveniencing his staff, but he was desperate to scrub off every last speck of that place, every trace of Father Coscarelli. Aldridge, always such a gentle soul, washed his hair and buffed his nails. Held the mirror as Hiero trimmed and curled his mustache. Worked the useless but rich-smelling salve into the grooves of his back. All the while Hiero wished a thicker, softer set of hands could soothe him back into himself. But he’d foregone that privilege in the name of... what? Pride? Vanity? Fear of betrayal?
The memory of Kip’s wounded eyes pressed hard upon his chest. He poured himself another glass.
“He’ll have your hide for this,” Han declared, concluding his examination by thumping the lid of the box. Or what Hiero assumed was the lid of the seamless hunk of metal.
“Hardly the first time.”
“That you’ve been had, or that he’s had you?”
Hiero scowled, fingers itching for a cigarette with ash to flick in his face. But his case had been too far away earlier, and he too unsteady to fetch it.
“Don’t be vulgar. Or, rather, do be vulgar, but about your business.”
“Your well-being isn’t my business? Then what have I been doing, following you around for the past thirteen years?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. But as I’ve no complaints, do continue.”
That almost earned him a smile.
“He’ll be twice as tetchy when he sees the state of you.”
Hiero set down his drink, attempted to stand, escape. Failed.
“I fear we won’t be seeing much of dear Kip once this affair is ended.”
Han looked like he wanted to chuck Mother Rebecca’s box at Hiero’s head. Hiero, for once, would welcome the pain.
“What have you done now?”
Hiero scoffed. “A panther doesn’t change its stripes, no matter who comes stalking down the veldt.”
“A panther doesn’t have stripes.”
“Precisely.”
“Or spots.”
“No matter.”
“They live in the mountains or the jungle.”
“Don’t be a pedant.”
“They’re not social creatures. They don’t crave an audience. Or someone, a special someone, to call their own. Perhaps even to keep them.”
Hiero exhaled a blustery breath that threatened to turn into a raspberry. He lowered his gaze into his glass, wanting to lob it at the wall. Knowing he would mi
ss and take out some objet d’art.
“He thinks I’m a good man.”
Silence. Then a laugh. “He’s a better judge of character than I would credit.”
Han, standing over him, stole away his bottle and glass. After ringing for coffee, he resumed his scrutiny of the box, leaving Hiero to marinate in his missteps. Which he did for some time until a tall, ornamented carriage out the window caught his eye. It rolled to a halt before the front steps, but no one emerged.
“Who’s that?”
Though not sober by any means, the coffee had stilled some of his wobblier aspects. Han joined him in peeking around the edge of the curtain.
“I can’t place the coat of arms,” Han said. “It’s none of the noble houses.”
“And no politician would dare be seen at our door. Curious.”
“Should we prepare?”
“For whom? The Mother’s return? The female messiah? We’ve said our prayers and lit our candles and sent our wards to be conscripted.” Which gave him an idea. “You don’t think Sister Juliet has sicced a benefactor on us?”
Before Han could reply, the driver hopped down to open the carriage door. His very own Kip emerged, face sallow and brow furrowed, followed by an exceedingly handsome man Hiero sought to murder with his eyes. A stunning Byronic beauty Kip somehow had the gall to escort up the front steps. The knock at the door set his teeth on edge.
“Handle them,” Hiero ordered, sauntering over to the drinks tray at the far end of his study.
“I’ve never known you to be a coward. Or a fool.”
Stung, he deflected. “You clearly haven’t been paying attention.”
“Clearly.”
He felt Han wait until they heard voices in the entranceway, then slip out into the corridor. Perusing all the shiny bottles of jewel-toned liquids, Hiero considered which one to drown himself in. But the distant twitter of Kip’s voice, a sunrise bird who wouldn’t let him laze about till noon, pecked at his ear, interrupting his poison selection. Kip had come to him despite their contretemps the night before, for reasons Hiero couldn’t believe to be anything other than the case. So who was his companion, and why had they turned up on Hiero’s doorstep?