I glanced out of the window. Dark clouds gathered in the sky and cast their shadows on the cobbles. “Didn’t she tell you where she was going?”
“No. All I knew is that she asked to have a free night, and I had to reschedule her clients. If she left, she didn’t have to ask for my permission since she wasn’t working.” Violet stood up and closed the logbook in front of her. “May I ask why all this commotion about Charlotte?”
“Because she’s weak and sick, and she’s missing.” A hysterical note crept in my voice.
“Charlotte is a grownup woman who knows how to take care of herself.” Violet pressed her lips firmly.
“I’m worried. The brougham that took her chased me last night close to Jasmine House and—”
“What were you doing close to Jasmine House? And if the brougham was the one that Charlotte took, why didn’t you ask the driver where she was?”
Her remarks sounded logic, but in the cold and the darkness of that alley with the driver taunting me with that horrible song, my only thought had been to flee. “I realised it was the same brougham afterwards.” The excuse rang lame to my own ears.
“Listen, I’ll ask the girls and spread the word with the other madams. I’m sure Charlotte will be here soon.”
My shoulders slumped under the crushing weight of having failed my best friend.
Violet rounded the desk and put a hand on my arm. “Take a hot bath and eat something. Things will be brighter afterwards.”
I seriously doubted it.
Eight
AFTER A NAP and a lot of coffee, my head was back to normal and my stomach managed to hold a sandwich. Violet had finally contacted the police, but their reply had been a shrug and a “We’ll see what we can do.”
I paced in my room, trying to shake off the numbness due to the sherry. Mr Blond’s card was on my nightstand. I’d forgotten about the blasted card.
He was the only link I had to Charlotte, and instead of staying in the house doing nothing but worrying, I could go out to search for this R. O. B.
The sun had decided that it was time to shine again, and Londoners squinted at the bright light inundating the streets. I hurried along the pavement as much as the melting snow allowed.
London was a monster that swallowed unprotected people—especially women— like a starving beast. Charlotte could be anywhere, including the bottom of the Thames. If someone found her body in a dark alley, they might decide that notifying the police for a whore wasn’t worth the trouble.
Tears stung my eyes, and the effort to stop the sob growing in my chest left my throat sore. If Mr Blond knew something about Charlotte’s client, I wanted to know.
The card lay in my reticule and seemed to weigh more the closer I walked to Eton Place. A landau rattled past, jolting me. I jumped when a hawker yelled about the latest issue of The London Daily. He shouted about a woman found dead close to Jasmine House, and I stopped in my tracks.
“One copy, please.” My fingers trembled when I rummaged in my reticule for a few coins.
“Here, missus.” The boy handed me the folded newspaper and resumed yelling.
I withdrew to a quiet corner where I could read the paper undisturbed by the crowd. Irish protesting . . . The queen commemorating her late husband . . . Scottish anarchists . . . Latest quarrel between the Tories and the Liberals . . . There. Dead woman in Edan Court. I skimmed the article. It didn’t say much, as Katy had said. The woman was about forty. She worked at Jasmine House and had disappeared for a couple of days before being found ‘savagely mutilated’ in a dark corner. No relations of the woman were known. No suspect either. No names.
Lord, the woman had disappeared just like Charlotte. I folded the paper and left it on a bench.
My pulse beat in my temple by the time I arrived at Eton Place.
The melted snow had been brushed from the pavement and heaped in the corners.
Elegant ladies promenaded, showing off their fur-trimmed cloaks and velvet hats. I tugged my brown coat tighter. It was thick and a bit frayed at the edges, but it kept me warm.
The smell of freshly baked bagels teased my stomach when I walked past a baker. Diamonds sparkled in the window shop of number ten under the mesmerised stares of the ladies. I slowed my pace, studying the shops. A modiste, a barber, and a florist. This quarter was a retailing area and didn’t have any governmental buildings, only shops. All the government offices were in the parliament district. If the R. O. B was part of the government, this location didn’t make sense.
And number twelve was a tailor shop. King’s Clothing and Tailoring, the swinging sign read. Great.
I checked the street name. Eton Place, no doubt, and this was number twelve.
Yet, fine men’s suits and lovely gowns were on display in the window.
My shoulders drooped. Jean-Pierre had tricked me to have a free-of-charge fumble. Bloody Frog. Why did I listen to him? I bet he’d blathered the first address that had sprung in his mind.
I pulled out the card and stared at it, almost expecting it to produce a different address or to point me in the right direction. It was the only lead I had to find Charlotte. If she was still alive.
A young man stepped out of the tailor shop and cleaned the glass of the window with a mop, wiping a few stains of mud. I moved aside to let him pass and gazed around, not sure about what to do. The chase was at a dead end. Without an office where I could enquire about Mr Blond, I didn’t have anything to do here.
The man straightened and stopped wiping the glass. “I’m sorry, Miss. I didn’t realise . . .” He shot a glance at a passing man and brushed a brown lock from his face. “Why didn’t you enter? I would’ve helped you immediately. Miss?”
“Excuse me?” I said, not sure he was talking to me.
He tugged at his brown waistcoat. His large green eyes were the same shade of Mr Blond’s and his associate. All of a sudden, I was meeting a lot of green-eyed men.
“Please, forgive me,” the man said. “I’m new, but I recognised the card.”
“Did you now?” I twirled the card between my fingers. “Well, I—”
“Let’s go inside.” He smiled and held the door of the shop open for me.
“Of course.” My legs weakened as I crossed the threshold.
A bell chimed, but when the door shut behind me, the noise of the traffic and the chatter of the crowd died down.
My muddy boots sank into a soft, thick carpet that wouldn’t be out of place in the queen’s sitting room. Shelves of polished wood gleamed in the light of the gas lamps, and the scent of citrus filled the air. The place screamed money louder than the House of Lords.
Beaming, the man walked over to the counter and gestured me closer.
I trudged onwards, surrounded by rolls of velvet and silk.
He stretched out a hand, palm up. “The card please.”
My hand grew clammy. The store could simply be a tailor shop, and maybe the card meant that Mr Blond—or his maid—was supposed to collect his new tuxedo. Or the shop could be a cover for a department of spies, in which case, the moment the man realised I’d stolen the card, he’d raise the alarm, and I’d be thrown in prison—or worse, killed and dumped in the river. But if I left now and refused to give him the card, I’d be shooting myself in the foot. He’d raise the alarm anyway.
As the nun who reared me always said, a coward never gained anything.
With trembling fingers, I handed him the card, ready to bolt out of the door if he just twitched his brow.
“Thank you.” He placed the card inside a metallic box with the top made of glass and put it under an electric light. “I did it only a couple of times. Please be patient.”
“Don’t worry.” My voice shook a bit.
A violet glow shone from the box, but it lasted a moment.
The man nodded. “I see. You’re here to meet Lynch.”
Oh, dash it. Was Lynch Mr Blond, or was Lynch the person Mr Blon
d was supposed to meet?
“Yes,” I said. What else could I do?
“And your name is . . .” He took a logbook from a shelf and skimmed the pages. Brow furrowed, he peeped at me. “I don’t see a woman’s name in Mr Lynch’s list for today.”
Damn. “I received my card only last night.” The first true thing I was saying to the man. “Maybe he didn’t have the time to bring up to date the list.”
“Possible, after what happened last night.”
I itched to ask what had happened, but that would give me away.
“Your name is?” he asked.
“Alina Marshall.” I had no idea where the name came from. Years of stealing and lying to clients helped me, I guessed.
He wrote the name down. “Unfortunately, Miss Marshall, Mr Lynch is not here yet. Let me accompany you to the waiting room.”
Blazes. From the frying pan into the fire. Or maybe it was better staying in the waiting room. If it had a window, I could escape through it and leave this deuced strange place before Mr Lynch came and realised I wasn’t the person he should meet with.
I took a dip. “Thank you.”
“Follow me.” He unlocked a door behind the counter.
My boots left a thin trail of dirt behind me when I inched towards the door. A short corridor stretched in front of me. Light gleamed from the scones and reflected on the dark wooden walls. In the first room on my left stood a mannequin with a half-sewed dress, and boxes of fabric and pins crammed the floor. The place seemed to be a tailor shop for all intents and purposes.
“Excuse me.” The man sidestepped me and opened the second door to my right.
I peered into an oval dressing room decorated with luscious velvet settees, a wall mirror, and golden hangers, but no windows.
“Should I wait here?” I asked.
“Oh, no.” He gave a nervous laugh, hooking his thumbs to the pockets of his waistcoat. “Didn’t Mr Lynch explain what to do?”
“He skipped that part.”
“Just go through the mirror.” He winked and gestured towards the general direction of the room.
I couldn’t have heard that right. “I’m sorry?”
The bell of the shop rang, and he turned his attention to the other side of the corridor. “I have to go. Please, go on. As I said, use the mirror. You’ll find everything you need on the other side.”
The chap was deuced mad.
“But—”
Wasted breath. With two long strides, he disappeared from view and left me alone in the corridor. Bloody hell. I checked the other room, the one with the mannequin. Sewing machines took up all the space on the tables. Threads hung from the needles, and scraps of fabric littered the floor. But there was no seamstress working. Well, good for me. I could explore the room undisturbed.
On my tiptoes, I reached the window and pulled the latch. It didn’t budge. I tried again. The frame and the glass didn’t even rattled. A groan of frustration rumbled out of me.
I returned to the dressing room. No other door, no opening, no nothing.
Fantastic. I was stuck in a dressing room with no way out while a secret agent was on his way here.
Go through the mirror. Ridiculous. Maybe it was a spy code for ‘there’s a secret door in the room.’
I paced around, trailing a hand over the soft velvet of the couches, and stopped in front of the mirror. My reflection frowned back at me. I patted my dark curls and rubbed the creased spot on my forehead. The mirror was polished to star-brightness. My skin seemed more radiant and healthier than it looked in my room’s mirror. It had to be made with a special type of paint to be so shimmering.
After removing a glove, I pressed a fingertip on a corner of the mirror and held my breath, half-expecting it to suck me inside . . . whatever was on the other side.
Nothing happened. I pressed harder. Nothing again. I was still in the dressing room and the mirror was still a mirror. I touched around, searching for a secret lever or button.
Nothing moved.
How silly of me. The only way out was through the shop’s entrance. I could tell the man I’d changed my mind or that I’d forgotten about another appointment. If I hired a cab once out of the shop, I could make it to De Luna House without being questioned. But what about Charlotte? No one was searching for her.
I pressed my forehead against the cool, smooth surface of the mirror and exhaled, exhaustion crushing me. My breath fogged the mirror. Then a warm gust caressed my face. I jerked back. Where there was a gust of air, there was a gap and maybe an opening.
I explored around but found nothing. I leaned against the mirror and waited. There was the gust again. I pushed harder. The mirror swung inwards, silent and quick. I lost my balance and fell forward.
My gritted teeth trapped the gasps that threatened to escape my mouth. I waved about and gripped a metal post that a rotating engine made spin. Dim blue lights shimmered on a flight of stairs that led down. The bottom was hidden by darkness. The post I was hugging for dear life rotated, emitting a soft hiss. I jumped back and gasped in horror. The mirror-door shut behind me.
“No!” I flung myself at the door and slammed my fists on it.
The mirror was smoky from this side, and through it, I could see the dressing room, all dull and blurry.
“Dammit.” I smacked the heel of my boot against the door. It didn’t move, no matter how much I pushed or cursed. Trapped again.
Fists clenched tightly enough to hurt my palms, I faced the stairs. Perhaps I would find an exit somewhere. Except that I didn’t even know where somewhere was, and I didn’t like the idea of going down, but I didn’t have any other option.
The sound of my footfalls echoed in the domed ceiling of the stairwell. Black brick walls formed a tunnel that sneaked deep into London’s belly, maybe deeper than the underground train. The tunnel seemed to go on forever. I wiped a drop of sweat on my neck and kept descending. I wouldn’t be surprised if I emerged in the Colonies.
A glimmer flashed, and I rushed towards it only to be bitten in the arse by disappointment. A metallic double door closed the passage. On its top, a plaque with the words Royal Occult Bureau shone.
R. O. B.
At least I discovered what the letters stood for. Not that I was any closer to find an exit.
“Royal Occult Bureau,” I whispered. What did it mean?
Definitely a spy department, and definitely occult.
Again, I didn’t have much choices. The door at the top of the stairs was locked, or rather, I didn’t know how to open it, and the door in front of me had a handle. I tried it.
The door inched inward. I tilted my head to the side to catch any sound, ignoring the knot of dread tightening my stomach. Voices and footsteps sounded, and I loitered. It couldn’t be a street. I was well below the ground level. Maybe it was an underground station.
Cursing my stupidity, I slid through the opening and froze.
I found myself in a street, an actual street, but for pedestrians only. The sleek black pavement was crammed with people hurrying about just like during London’s rush hour, and it was wide enough to allow a dozen people to walk abreast.
Men in dark suits and women in grey shirts walked along the pavement in both directions. A few chatted and laughed in small groups, just like on the surface. If it weren’t for the fact that doors lined the road and that there weren’t any horses and carriages, the place could be any other London’s street.
Clenching my reticule, I chanced a step forward. The double door from where I came out was just one of the countless others opening to the street. On my left in the middle of the street stood a reception area like that of a hotel. Clerks worked behind the circular desk under the soft yellow light of a chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
If this was the reception hall of the Royal Occult Bureau, maybe I could ask for an exit. I doubted that all these people had arrived here through the tailor shop.
“Madam?
Are you lost?” A tall man approached me. His bowler hat covered slick black hair, but the moss-green eyes were similar to Mr Blond’s. Green eyes had to be one of the qualifications for gaining a job here.
“Actually, I was searching for the exit.” I gazed around and swallowed past the lump in my throat. “I’m afraid I’m lost.”
“Which is your exit?”
Hellfire. I released the grip on my poor reticule, pretending the question didn’t tie my insides in a knot. “Hyde Park.”
It was a logical answer. The underground trains had a station at Hyde Park. It was a too popular location to don’t have an exit of the Royal Occult Bureau, right?
His brows knitted together. “Your card?”
Finally, a question I could answer. “A young man at King’s clothing and tailoring took it.”
“Have you met the agent you came to see?”
Curse him. I nodded.
That frown deepened. “But he didn’t escort you out.”
Well, obviously he didn’t, I wanted to snap. “He was called.”
“What’s the name of the agent?”
I wanted to cry and hit him with my reticule. “Lynch,” I whispered.
Wouldn’t it be funny if this chap turned out to be Lynch?
I must’ve given him a satisfying answer because his scowl relaxed a fraction.
He gave a half bow. “Please, follow me.”
This Mr Lynch must be a respected man.
With his broad build, he easily made his way through the crowd. Two men were carrying an unconscious person on a stretcher. The blanket covering the body was stained with blood. My heart leapt to my throat. Another man pressed a cloth red with blood against his eye. Doors opened, people streamed out of them, and hurried footsteps ricocheted off the walls. I peeked inside a few doors and caught a glimpse of more stairs, more bleeding persons, and more desks.
I sank my teeth to not gasp, lest the man guessed I didn’t belong here.
He cast a glance at me and took a corridor to the right, only to stop in front of yet another metallic door. “Follow the stairs and you’ll arrive at Burton & Cormac.”
The Royal Occult Bureau Page 8