The Square & the Circle Elizabeth Hunter-Payne Steampunk Adventures 6 Mikala Ash

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Table of Contents The Square & The Circle Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Epilogue Mikala Ash

The Square & The Circle

Elizabeth Hunter-Payne Steampunk Adventures 6 Mikala Ash

A murder at a séance. In an age of rationalism and science, spiritualism has taken hold of the popular imagination. At the home of Lord and Lady Summerhayes, a séance ends in a horrific climax -- a man is drowned in ectoplasm! Impossible! But there’s nothing Elizabeth Hunter-Payne and her Investigation Bureau like better than to investigate an impossible mystery.

Victor Drake was at the table and tried to save the hapless victim. His smoldering good looks and irresistible allure take Elizabeth’s fancy, and her carnal desires are reciprocated. Together, can they solve the mystery? Another thrilling adventure set in a steampunk world of airships, steampowered aircraft, and swords disguised as lavender umbrellas.

Chapter One Lavender Umbrellas and Death at a Séance Tuesday, January 10, 1860

“A murder at a séance,” I repeated incredulously. “A séance? You mean ghosts and such?” Lord Arthur Summerhayes was an elegantly dressed white-haired man in his early seventies. A military background I surmised, as he wore enormous and immaculately clipped side whiskers, made popular by troops returning from the Crimea. In his youth, and clean-shaven, I believe he would have been a handsome man. “Indeed I do, Mrs. Hunter-Payne. I’m talking spiritualism, mediums, apparitions, spirit controls from beyond the veil, and communicating with the beloved dead. The whole battalion, if you have my meaning.” I was taken aback by the notion, and I struggled for a response. I knew spiritualism had become a popular pastime lately despite this being the age of rationalism, and surrounded as we were by very real advances in science and engineering. Airships droning away above the city and steam-powered aircraft patrolling the clouds were common sights now, as were Cumberland cabs steaming along every street and thoroughfare. Submarines skulked beneath the waves, and automatons had even entered domestic service. The list of technological marvels was endless. Gone for the most part was the age of horse and carriage in which I had been born. I’d read in The Times that after the war in the Crimea, and the more recent mutiny in India, both of which incurred such great loss of life, there had arisen an ever growing desire of the bereaved to their lost loved ones. Spiritualists, those purporting to be able to the spirits of the dead, had conveniently materialised to meet the demand. Séances, as I understood them, were ritualised gatherings of people in a darkened room sitting in silence around a table, holding hands, awaiting a spirit

to them through the auspices of a medium. For some it was an amusement; merely a parlour game. For others it was an earnest and sorrowfuelled desire to lost loved ones. Newspapers made light of the pastime, ridiculing believers and taking particular glee in exposing frauds and charlatans. The church proclaimed it sacrilegious, no doubt believing the practice subverted their monopoly over the afterlife. That was the extent of my knowledge and my interest. I understood quite intimately the emotional need of the bereaved to have some form of with their loved ones. My thoughts rested always with my late husband Jonathan who had been killed in the Crimean War. I had given the possibility of actually ing him scant regard, thinking it slightly foolish whenever the thought arose. Though I would give anything to see him again, and know for certain he was at peace, I it to being highly sceptical of the notion of mediums being able to accomplish the task. Jonathan lived in my mind, and in my dreams; an ever-present reminder of the deepest love and consuming ion I could ever hope to experience. I glanced at his portrait, and my longing for his company struck me like a blow to the chest. “I need your help,” Lord Summerhayes said urgently. His face was creased in anxiety, his faded blue eyes pleading. “Or my wife and I shall be ruined. Not that I care for myself. I am old, ready for whatever is next. It is for my wife that I fear.” “I’ve not any experience in spiritualism,” I said carefully, in case Lord Summerhayes was a believer. “Devil of a thing. Absolute nonsense, of course,” he said. “But murder nonetheless. Man drowned by ectoplasm.” Just in time I stopped myself from appearing particularly obtuse by repeating the unfamiliar word. I was aware, however, of my mouth hanging open and thought that I must appear quite vacuous. His lordship continued. “In my own drawing room, would you believe. Terrible slimy stuff. Ruined the carpet. Dashed inconvenient.” Until that astounding announcement my morning had progressed prosaically enough, though it did bring with it a touch of novelty. Marianne, my trusted maid turned factotum as the general once observed, had entered my bedroom

following her young cousin Florence, who carried my breakfast tray. I put down The Times where I had been reading about the latest military threats from the continent. We were surrounded by jackals it seemed, protected only by our mastery of the sea and air. It was all very depressing. However, Marianne brightened up my morning considerably by bringing two lavender umbrellas which she brandished high in the air for me to see. “Look at these,” she said excitedly. Florence put the tray carefully over my lap and stepped back with a beaming smile and twinkling eyes. “Thank you, Florence,” I said to her. “How are you today?” “Very well, madam.” She curtsied, gave me an embarrassed smile, and fled from the room. “Am I that forbidding?” Marianne put one umbrella on the bed beside me. “She’s still rough about the edges, madam, but she wants to learn.” “She’ll do well under your tutelage, I’m certain.” I picked up the prettily coloured rain catcher, and weighed it in my hand, surprised that it didn’t feel any heavier than a normal umbrella. For a few moments Marianne played with the handle of the one she held until she’d been rewarded by a quiet mechanical click. With a flourish she extracted an eighteen-inch blade, which she proudly swished through the air. Last year Miss Clayton, a fellow Agent of the Queen who used my home as a dosshouse, had gifted me a swordstick while I convalesced from an injured leg. While a walking stick would be useful for when I was disguised as a man, Marianne and I had thought concealing a sword in an umbrella would be useful when not in disguise. I’d used the blade to wound the Russian agent, Vladimir, during a confrontation on the quayside at the London Docks. The stick had done its job, piercing that pernicious spy in the chest before being lost to the dark waters of Father Thames.

The memory of Vladimir immediately poisoned my thoughts. While physically recovered from my injuries, my nights were plagued by disturbing dreams and nightmares. I never imagined my new career as an investigator, and now as an Agent of the Queen, would involve so many physical confrontations. It seemed every experience added a new horror to inhabit the dark hours. In the previous night’s dream Vladimir repeated his vile calumnies about my late husband while we faced each other; me holding a swordstick, and he a gun. I’d told no one about what he’d said, for to do so would sully my darling Jonathan’s name in the minds of his friends. I was absolutely sure of the untruthfulness of the Russian’s words, yet his lies filled my nights, and I wondered if Vladimir had succeeded in mesmerising me in those moments on the quayside before I lunged at his chest with the pointy blade, and he had shot me in the head. I used to have erotic dreams, and as unsettling as they could be sometimes -with me being fucked by mechanical automatons, or by my two human lovers, Baudry and Felix, watched by Bisby and Oxley, my footmen, and occasionally even Miss Clayton playing a role -- those nocturnal adventures were immensely preferable to the nightmares I currently endured. Thinking about Baudry and Felix saddened me. During my incapacity Felix had become intimately connected with Nurse Bramble, a vivacious young woman, and Baudry had become unably distant. If I could not have them in the flesh, I would settle for my dreams, but my tortured brain would not cooperate no matter the salacious thoughts I would purposefully entertain before I dropped off to sleep. The fiend Vladimir would always win over and terrorise me with his taunting words and his little gun. I’d spent the three weeks after my violent adventure on the London docks getting over a serious illness. My unintended swim in the Thames, where I swallowed more than I should of the polluted water, had resulted in an infection of the lungs causing intermittent fevers which I had only overcome a fortnight before. That wasn’t my only problem. My swollen nose, broken for the second time by Vladimir as we struggled in the water, had not recovered its former shape despite the attempts at realignment by my family physician. It was flatter, and no longer quite as straight as before as my looking glass reminded me every morning. The damage to my ear, shot off by Vladimir as I pricked his chest with the sword, can only be described as an ugly mess. It was easily covered by my hair, but the days of drop earrings were over. It was lucky that so far in all my

physical altercations with sundry killers and ruffians, my teeth had escaped untouched, a blessed miracle when I thought about it. Once the fevers had ed, and I was able to get out of bed, I had resumed my exercises to rehabilitate my leg, which had earlier been stabbed by the murderer Wragge during a mortal struggle over a purloined Indian gemstone. Though the stitches had been removed, leaving small but unattractive scars, the muscles still hurt when I walked. Despite the minor discomfort I was at the stage now of walking without a noticeable limp, though stairs were sometimes a challenge. I stood carefully, picked up the umbrella, fiddled with the catch until I perceived the method of its action, and extracted the shiny blade. “En garde,” I said playfully in a poorly executed French accent and adopted an equally inexpert stance ready to fence. Marianne laughed, and our blades met with a satisfying clash of steel. “Oooh! We better not damage them, madam,” Marianne said, withdrawing. I studied the blade and could not discern any nicks in the fine steel. “Hardly a useful weapon if a little sparring damages them,” I said. “That’s true,” she agreed as she advanced, and with an elegant flick of the wrist sent her blade clashing against mine. Her moves appeared stylish and wellcoordinated. “Stop,” I said, quite breathless after only a couple of hits. “Archie’s been teaching you, hasn’t he?” “He has, madam,” she itted. “We’ve been at it using broomsticks out in the yard.” Archie, bless him, was, in all important aspects, my adopted son. He’d been my late husband’s batman during the war in Crimea and had been dreadfully wounded in the action that had taken Jonathan from me. He had livid scars on his face as permanent reminders of his steadfast bravery. On his return to England, his condition had been precarious, and Marianne and I had nursed him back to health. I was so pleased he had developed into a very suitable young man, and I had made him the main beneficiary in my will. Marianne was besotted with him, and over the last six months or so he had begun to return her affections and had become obsessively concerned with her safety. He was yet to

ask her for her hand in marriage, and his reticence was most vexing, not only to Marianne, but to the whole household who could see their obvious affection for each other. Our playful duel was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Bisby, one of two agents appointed by the general, my Jonathan’s military mentor, to pose as footmen and oversee the security of my household and assist me whenever I required them on the Queen’s business. “Madam, a Lord Summerhayes has called wishing to speak with you. He apologises for not requesting an interview more formally, but he has only just learned that you may be able to assist him.” He hesitated. “And?” I prompted. “He says he is friend of the general.” My heart jumped. To evoke the general was to command attention and portended something serious. “Settle him in the drawing room and tell him I’ll be there directly.” Marianne dressed me quickly in my favourite cornflower blue housedress and I rushed, as well as I was able, downstairs. My hair was not as I’d wished as I was self-conscious of how it fell over my damaged ear. That, however, was insufficient to quell my excitement over the possibility of another case. At my entrance Lord Summerhayes rose from the chair before the fire. He had once been a tall well-built man, but now he was stooped, and by his slow and careful movements, arthritic. Despite his infirmity he bowed deep and kissed my hand. “I apologise for calling on you at this ungodly hour. Unforgivable.” I gave him a welcoming smile. “Not at all, my lord. Please, be seated.” He waited for me to take the seat opposite him. He sat uncomfortably, his pale blue eyes twinkling with uncertainty. His gaze flicked to Bisby. I suggested tea. “Oh, yes. Thank you.” I turned to Bisby. “Tea, Bisby.”

“Madam.” Bisby bowed and left us. Lord Summerhayes relaxed only a little. His expression wasa mixture of acute embarrassment, apprehension, and expectation. He was eager to speak, but good breeding prevented him. “You know the general, I believe.” His face relaxed. “We’ve known each other for years. Fine man. The army, you see. After the Crimea I retired from active duty, though politics can be a dashed battlefield sometimes. We belong to the same club now, the general and I. He first made me aware of you when he told me you were instrumental in the return of Arabella’s Japanese Spaniel, Chin.” I smiled. Arabella was the general’s wife. “My very first case.” “Caused quite a flap, going missing like that. My wife and I also are fanciers of the breed. Arabella and Phaedra intend mating Chin with our own Jan.” He coughed in embarrassment realising he’d wandered into irrelevant domestic matters. “Of course I’ve read of your exploits in The Times since.” “What can I do for you, my lord? Jan hasn’t gone missing as well, has she?” “No. Safe and sound. Phaedra keeps a close eye on the little bi…” He stopped himself with an embarrassed cough. “What brings me here is a matter of murder, Mrs. Hunter-Payne. Murder,” he repeated. “At a séance.” Once I’d gotten past my astonishment and collected myself, explaining I had little knowledge of the subject, he continued. “Absolutely no idea how it could have happened. No one saw or heard a thing. Phaedra is terrified, thinks a spirit murdered the fellow.” “Lord Summerhayes. I don’t know what to say.” “A lot of rot, is what I say.” I decided to take Miss Clayton’s advice on interrogation techniques, and let my interlocutor fill in the gap in the conversation. The silence was punctuated by the ticking of the gold carriage clock on the mantel.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well. I better begin at the beginning. Three nights ago there was a séance held at my townhouse in Berkeley Square.” “I see.” “My second son was killed in the Crimea,” he explained, a momentary cloud ing over his face. “Phaedra, my second wife, is having a hard time of it. Timothy was her favourite, being her own. Can’t accept he’s gone, you see.” “I’m sorry to hear that.” He looked to his shoes. “Do my best, but women are different, you see.” He was quiet for a few moments. “She and a couple of friends started a damned spiritualist group. The Square & The Circle, they call themselves. She organises meetings, invites disreputable people. Charlatans, damned charlatans the lot of ’em. Should be horsewhipped for treating people like fools. Damned impertinence.” A horrified expression crossed his face. “Oh, forgive me, madam. I forgot myself. Unforgiveable language.” I waved his apology away. “I understand your feelings.” “Damned spiritualist, fellow by the name of Paladin, Gerard Paladin. Pompous name. Made up probably. She heard about him from someone in her group. The blackguard has his hooks in her.” “Please, tell me what happened.” “Phaedra went with her group to a séance of this Paladin fellow at his home. She said the fellow had been taken over by a control spirit or some such nonsense. Said he roused the dead relatives of some of the other guests, spoke in different voices, spewed out glowing ectoplasm. She was completely taken in. It’s my fault really. Should have forbidden her when she first got the idea in her pretty head. But I cannot deny her anything, nothing at all.” He looked up suddenly, realising he’d said more than he intended. “He promised her Timothy might be able to speak with her directly. She went a second time, and according to her, he damned well did. That was too much for me. I wanted to tell her it was a damned trick, but she said he knew things that only Timothy would know. She wanted more, of course, so she insisted he do a private séance in our own home.” “I see.”

“Well, he showed up. We all held hands. When the lights came on, some fellow called Henry Gregson was dead. That awful slime all over his face. They tell me he drowned in it. We heard nothing. Nothing at all. Damned peculiar.” “That surprises me,” I said. “A man drowning in a drawing room chair.” “Completely impossible,” Lord Summerhayes agreed. “Yet, that’s what happened.” “Everyone was holding hands?” He nodded emphatically. “How many people were there that night?” “Seven. Myself and my wife, and Paladin of course, the medium. We were sitting at one end of the table. Opposite us was Gregson, and either side of him were our friends Lord Kellog and his wife.” “Was Mr. Gregson a friend of yours?” “We only met him that evening. He was a guest of Paladin.” “There were seven in the room?” I prompted. “Oh, yes. Sorry. There was another. Drake was his name, I believe. I can’t… Victor, that’s it. Victor Drake. He was another guest of Paladin, or perhaps he was a friend of Gregson. I can’t recall which. He sat between Gregson and Lady Kellog. Oh, and Mrs. Paladin was in the kitchen.” “I’m sorry?” “The medium has delicate health, sits in a wheeled chair. War wounds, he says, and his wife accompanies him everywhere. She doesn’t participate. She told us she prefers not to be involved, appears not to believe in it. Sensible woman, but she stands by her husband, and so she was having tea with the kitchen staff. She only returned to the parlour after the alarm was raised when we found Gregson dead.” “And the Kellogs did not know Gregson either?”

“Complete strangers, apart from Eloise, that’s Lady Kellog, attending a previous séance.” “It was completely dark during the whole séance?” “Absolutely. Paladin insisted there not be a skerrick of light.” “That’s suggestive,” I said. “Who turned out the lights?” “I did. And I relit them after it ended.” “And you heard nothing from Gregson that would suggest he was in trouble?” “Not a thing.” “Did he speak at all?” “During the séance? No, he did not.” I pictured the scene in my mind, seven people sitting around a table, holding hands, awaiting the medium to go into a trance, one destined to die. I shivered involuntarily. “How long did the séance go for?” “Oh, we started at seven precisely and concluded at ten past eight or so when Paladin announced his trance was over, and that he needed a drink of water.” “Over an hour,” I mused. “That’s a lot of time to be paying attention while sitting in the dark. If it was me, I’d have fallen asleep.” “Oh, it was very entertaining. Kept us alert, let me tell you.” “In what way?” “Oh, loud rapping on the table, strange voices coming from out of the darkness, all hokum, but certainly diverting. Then there was the cloud of ectoplasm that issued from Paladin’s mouth. It hovered over us for about twenty minutes, dancing about in tune to his speaking.” “Speaking?”

“Oh yes, all sorts of voices pretending to be other people. A stage ventriloquist, I imagine he was in the past. Able to throw his voice about.” “These were supposed to be voices of the dead?” “Poor Timothy didn’t sound at all like he did in life. Paladin explained beforehand that death changes people, and so their spirit voices are not exactly like their earthly voices. Damned convenient that, what?” I applauded his lordship’s scepticism. “Can’t say it wasn’t moving. Phaedra was profoundly affected by what Timothy said to her.” “Oh?” “He mentioned his favourite dress-up costume -- a sailor suit of all things. Always wanted to be in the navy he did, even from a young age. Would sail his boats in the park, don’t you know.” He paused awkwardly. “I wish to God he had ed the navy in the end, instead of…” “And he mentioned that specifically during the séance?” “He did. Damned convincing.” “Did Paladin know Timothy at all?” “I wondered that myself, but he wasn’t from our circle, you see.” He cleared his throat and held out his hands imploringly. “I desperately need your help. That dunce Dundas, the police inspector, is convinced I and my wife and the medium are in cahoots. I believe it is only because of my standing with the government that I am not currently in a cell.” So, Inspector Dundas was on the case. He was no fool, not by any means. Despite his bombastic and authoritarian nature, and his propensity to jump at the obvious, and slowness to consider alternatives that didn’t fit his prejudices, he was a sound detective with a solid record of cases solved. “Looking at it from his point of view,” I said. “The supernatural is not a possibility. The murderer was a living person. That means at least two people are

lying. The murderer, obviously, and if he was sitting next to the victim, the person on his or her other side knows he broke hand for a minute or two while he killed Gregson. Either Victor Drake is the murderer and Lady Kellog knows it, or Lord Kellog is the murderer, and your wife knows it.” “Impossible! Not the Kellogs. I can vouch for them absolutely.” “If they are above suspicion, that means either you or your wife are lying, because the murderer would have let go of two people’s hands, stand up, go to Gregson and smother him with ectoplasm, and then return to his chair.” His face blanched. “Oh, I see what you mean.” I listened to the ticking of the clock for a few moments. What exactly was ectoplasm? It was a word I was unfamiliar with. I asked his lordship. “Oh, some nonsense the spiritualists go on about in their newsletters. Phaedra explained it to me. They say it is the spiritual energy made manifest in our world, leaking out as it were. Misty, smoky stuff that floats in the air.” “But earlier you said it was slimy and ruined your carpet.” His mouth fell open. “Now, that is damned strange.” “Where does it come from?” “The medium’s mouth. Impossible as that sounds. Saw it myself, though.” “Did you see the glowing material cover the dead man’s face, or enter his mouth?” His lordship ed surprise. “Well. No. I say, that is odd, isn’t it?” Apart from the impossibility of ectoplasm, how could a man be drowned while sitting in a parlour holding hands with two people? Surely they felt something, heard something. How could the Kellogs do it and expect to get away with it? It occurred to me that someone else was holding a Kellog hand as well. That fellow Victor Drake. Was everyone in the room involved, I wondered. I’d have to sort out exactly where everyone was sitting. I needed to be on the spot.

“My lord, I need to see the room where the séance was held.” “Of course. Police have been all over it. Taking samples and what not. The stuff made a damned mess of the carpet. Phaedra will be furious when she sees it.” “May I visit this afternoon?” “Sooner, if you wish. You see the inquest is to be held in my home. I requested that it not take place in the local public house as is the norm. That would be intolerable to my wife. The very thought of our name under public scrutiny in such a place. Barbaric!” “What time will it be held?” He glanced at the clock on the mantel. “At ten.” “Then I must hurry. Will your wife be well enough to give evidence, do you think?” He puffed out his cheeks. “Dashed hard to say. She’s confined herself to her room, completely distraught. I told Dundas she was not well enough, and I gained a doctor’s note to that effect.” Guilty or innocent, it was natural for a husband to want to shield his wife from public embarrassment and the attention of the authorities. I rose. “Then I’ll be at your house at ten.” He slapped his knees decisively. “Capital. I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of this carriwitchet if anyone can. The general has utmost confidence in you.” “I can’t guarantee anything, my lord, but I will try.” His face brightened considerably. “Capital. Capital. I cannot thank you enough.” As I hurried up the stairs to my bedroom, alternative lines of inquiry flashed through my mind. A kaleidoscope of possibilities, with seven spokes radiating out to a brightly pulsating circle. When I turned the door handle another spoke ed the image from outside, piercing the ring and turning it blood red.

Chapter Two An Encounter at the Inquest

Murder! Killed by the dead! Scandal at Lord Summerhayes’ Séance So read the column headline of the article on page five of The Times. Had I reached that far this morning Lord Summerhayes’ announcement would not have been so surprising to me. I was curious how the story hadn’t been on page one, and suspected that Lord Summerhayes had exerted pressure if not to kill the story completely, then at least to bury it amongst the trivia of the city. I read the closely, but it held little detail; simply that a bizarre murder had occurred in Lord Summerhayes’ home and that his wife belonged to some shadowy spiritualist group, a “sect” the journalist called it. The reporter opined that because of Lord Summerhayes’ political connections, the scandal would have a destructive effect on the government which, much to the columnist’s delight, may fall. “The inspector won’t be happy,” I said to Marianne. “He doesn’t like political interference or publicity.” She was busy at the wardrobe pulling out dresses, clicking her tongue after a moment’s consideration and replacing them until one met with her approval. “I think this would be most suitable for the inquest,” she suggested. She held up one of my mourning costumes. Not one of the jet-black velvets I’d worn like a shroud during my deepest days of grief, but the dark grey one that signalled my coming out, albeit long after what was typical. I despaired of wearing such a thing again. It brought back unpleasant memories of desolation and emptiness, emotions reawakened every time I ed a similarly dressed woman in the street.

“A hat and a veil,” she suggested. “So you won’t be easily recognised.” I nodded in agreement. That was the last thing the inspector would want or allow. “Your new lavender umbrella won’t do either,” she said, clearly disappointed. “I hope not to be party to an affray at an inquest,” I mumbled. Marianne laughed. “You never know. I’ll put a --” “Half-brick in my reticule,” I finished off for her. We both dissolved into laughter. “Hurry now, we have little time.” My urging was not required. Over the last several months Marianne and I had become very adept at dressing very quickly. It was a bitterly cold January morning. The drizzling rain had driven down the morning’s sooty fog, and yesterday’s snow had turned into a tarry slush. As I stepped through my front gate I was glad Marianne had insisted on sturdy waterproof overshoes as well as a full length fur-lined woollen coat. In the distance the grey outline of a great enger airship hove into view on its final approach to the terminal on Hampstead Heath. Around it swarmed some smaller craft, the steam-powered aircraft that were becoming a more common sight in the skies. The taciturn Bisby escorted me to Berkeley Square in a smart Cumberland cab which seemed always to be available outside my house. As we steamed along I wondered how the general explained the expense of two agents and a cab. Though I very much appreciated his fatherly concern following my encounters with Vladimir, I hardly warranted the security measures he imposed. The drive to Berkeley Square took longer than anticipated. The streets were in an abysmal state. At one point we were forced to take a detour. The cause, I was shocked to see, was a tremendous amount of bricks and mortar littering the street, resulting from the crash of one of those aircraft I had noticed earlier. “I hope no one in the house was injured,” I said.

Bisby said there seemed to be ample rescuers moving fallen masonry in their search for survivors. He then indicated a shroud of white material draped indecorously over the iron fence farther down the street. “The pilot parachuted to safety,” he said. A parachute. I had read about such things only yesterday in The Times. They were like an umbrella the pilot wore on his back and released if he needed to abandon his aircraft while in the air. It opens out and slows his descent, much like a dandelion seed that floats in the air for ages. Eventually we arrived at the Summerhayes’ townhouse. It was an impressive four stories with the ubiquitous wrought-iron picket fence separating it from the stone footpath. Outside the house, filling the street and square, was a large throng of people, probably a combination of journalists and gawkers, creating a sea of black umbrellas which moved back and forth like the crest of waves battering the base of a cliff. Due to the crowd and their attendant conveyances our cab needed to stop well down the brick-paved street. I picked up my skirts and carefully followed Bisby through the slush now turned to an unpleasant oily mud. He selflessly held a discreet black umbrella over my head. A formidable constable, in distinctive “peeler” blue uniform of high collar and swallowtail coat with top hat, was standing at the bottom of the steps to the house. He was keeping a mob of journalists at bay with a deep voice and a truncheon held in readiness. Bisby shouldered his way through the morass of thick overcoats and spiky umbrellas, and I followed closely behind. He presented me to the constable, who, with a jaundiced eye, looked me up and down. “You have no business here,” he said belligerently. “Move along.” “Stand aside, constable,” I said in a firm voice. “I have been invited to the inquest by Lord Summerhayes.” As he considered the voracity of my claim a voice from the throng of journalists, outraged by my barging through their ranks, sang out from the back. “It’s that Hunter-Payne woman.” Damn and blast! So much for my hat and veil. Suddenly there was a crowd closing in around me with a dozen newspapermen hurling impertinent questions. Bisby set about separating me from them with the liberal use of his fists. Suddenly a booming voice brought the jostling mass to an annoyed silence.

“What’s this, then?” I recognised the voice immediately as belonging to Inspector Dundas. “This woman says she was invited by his lordship,” the constable explained. I turned away from the mob and faced him. I lifted my veil. The inspector’s expression was worthy of a Perseus meeting Medusa without the aid of a mirror. “Mrs. Hunter-Payne,” he said through gritted teeth while giving me a cursory bow. We had first met when I had survived an attack by the Collector, the creature of Vladimir who had been murdering and mutilating people in the Whitechapel district. When I eventually killed the Collector the newspapers had drenched the detective force at Scotland Yard with no small measure of ridicule. My involvement in the Royston case, which also caused him some embarrassment, had only increased his dislike of me. “Inspector,” I began, and gave him what I intended was a warm and innocent smile. “Lord Summerhayes has requested my assistance.” He closed his eyes tight as if he had a piercing headache. He waved the constable aside and when I ed him on the top step he bent to whisper in my ear. “I’ll allow it under one condition.” “And that is?” “Do not hinder my investigation.” I held up my right hand. “I swear.” He gazed at me for a long moment. “If only I could believe it. In you go. Your man can wait outside.” “You may return home, Bisby. The good inspector will protect me.” “As you wish, ma’am.” He turned and, like a magician’s assistant, disappeared into the crowd. I knew, contrary to my orders, he would linger to ensure my safety as his instructions

were to protect me, regardless of any wish I may have. An imposing home when viewed from the street, the abode of his lordship was even more elegant on the inside with its beeswaxed parquet floor, life-sized marble statues of Greek origin lining the walls, and huge paintings depicting historic battles, in some of which I suspect Lord Summerhayes had been a participant. A butler, an aged military man by his bearing, was standing stiffly to attention beside the two constables who stood guard at the base of the staircase. He stepped toward me with military precision. “Mrs. Hunter-Payne?” “I am.” “His lordship is expecting you. May I take your coat and gloves?” I smiled at him. “This morning must be a great imposition on the household,” I said. “I hate to trouble you further, but may I go somewhere to take off my overshoes? The streets are in a terrible state, and I’d hate to do your upstairs carpets any more outrage than necessary.” He had the good breeding not to look down to my shoes, or the trail of black mud I’d left on the beautiful floor. “Of course, madam. I thank you. This way.” He showed me to one of the small sitting rooms adjacent to the front door. “I shall summon a chambermaid to assist you,” he said. From behind the butler, Dundas gave me a baleful glare. “That won’t be necessary,” I replied. “It’s no trouble. I can do for myself. Your people have enough to do without me adding to the burden.” He nodded and left me, closing the door discreetly behind him. I sat down and carefully removed my overshoes which were in a very disreputable state and put them down in front of the fireplace. The butler was waiting for me outside, with the impatient inspector who had his watch in hand. A young girl, no more than fourteen was busily mopping the tiles. Poor thing, I thought. She was the tweeny, or between maid, and at her age was the lowest in the rank of this large household’s servants, along with the scullery maid. I’d say cleaning the entrance hall had been her primary duty since the first guests had

arrived. I wondered how our Florence would cope in these circumstances. “Thank you,” I said to the butler. “I’ll have them cleaned and dried for you, madam,” he said gravely. “That would be most appreciated…” “Musket, madam.” “Thank you, Musket. You have been most kind.” “We’re about to start,” the inspector said irritably, and hastened me toward the staircase. I struggled to keep pace with him until he stopped abruptly at the firstfloor landing to straighten his coat and cuffs. He then led me at a more measured pace to yet another constable who opened the door to a large room filled with twenty or more people. The room, no doubt used for small balls, was divided in two by a red velvet rope. To the right, set before the fireplace was a circular table with seven chairs, at which sat Lord Summerhayes and three other men who I surmised to be the medium, Gerard Paladin, Lord Kellog, and Victor Drake. They sat at intervals, separated by empty chairs. This must be the séance table. Lord Kellog’s identity I guessed by his erect, imperious bearing and immaculate clothes; silk cravat, velvet waistcoat with gold buttons and embroidery, as well as a gold rimmed monocle in his scrunched up left eye. He was another military man with enormous side whiskers, and a thick thatch of steel grey hair. Paladin, I assumed by his wheeled chair, was a small, frail-looking figure, hunched over and enveloped by his clothes like a boy in his older brother’s coat. By contrast there was Victor Drake, a giant of a man, who dwarfed the company with his powerful and commanding physique. He also possessed an impressive countenance; tanned skin, well-defined jawline culminating in a square jaw and a deeply cleft chin. His nose was straight, and his striking pale blue eyes seemed to shine with their own inner light. He had noticed my entrance and his expression was one of open appraisal. I felt my face flush, and I looked away. The chairs between the men were empty, the unfilled places signifying where the absent Ladies Kellog and Summerhayes would have sat that fateful night, and of course, the hapless victim. That chair farthest from Paladin was pulled back away from the table, and was surrounded by twisted velvet ropes like a priceless

exhibit in a museum. On the left of the dividing rope there was a large desk at which sat the coroner, I presumed, and his clerk. The coroner was a painfully thin man with unruly grey hair and the most prodigious eyebrows I’ve ever seen, which together with his muttonchops gave him the appearance of an unkempt garden shrub. At a temporary trestle table blocking a doorway into an ading room sat twelve jurors. They were a mixture of well-dressed men of the city and several shopkeepers. At the far end of the room, in front of the large double-glass doors which led to a balcony, were several rows of chairs at which sat a half dozen men and one woman, a relative of the victim I presumed, potential witnesses as well as of the respectable press who sat with pencils poised over notebooks. I took one of the vacant chairs next to the woman, a petite lady dressed simply in mourning black, with a small hat and veil. Musket took a seat behind me. The huge and ornate ormolu mantel clock struck ten, and the coroner rapped his gavel. The room fell into an expectant silence. Inquests are solemn and tense affairs, with the bereaved family and friends of the deceased eager to get to the bottom of the unexpected death, and others keen to not have blame shifted in their direction. I was glad Lord Summerhayes had arranged it to take place here, in his home, where at least some decorum could be maintained. My appearance in the Collector inquest held at The Holy Well, a public house, had been an intimidating and raucous affair. Today I was most pleased with the fact that I was looking at the scene of the murder, and at the conclusion of the official proceedings I hoped to gain an even closer look. I could only imagine the objections the inspector would have made, a crowd of people interfering with his crime scene. It was a reasonable objection I agreed with. I recalled reading in the Police Gazette that juries in the past were taken to view the scene of a crime, and I could imagine the indiscriminate trampling of latent clues. That being said, I was keen to take advantage of the opportunity. Besides, Dundas had had three days to find any evidence. I glanced in his direction. He was studying the men seated at the séance table, trying no doubt to discern evidence of a guilty conscience in any of them. Perhaps that was why he agreed to holding it here, hoping proximity to the crime would elicit some incriminating sign. His keen gaze, as best I could tell, was focussed on Lord Kellog, who returned the stare with a baleful glare, made ridiculous by the

monocle. Since beginning my career as an investigator, and despite my direct involvement in a number of violent deaths, I had attended only a single inquest. That was regarding the Collector, the savage Whitechapel murderer who I had set alight during a life and death struggle, and the incident had led to some notoriety in the press. That I killed an evil killer made me the heroine of the newspapers rather than some uppity woman sticking her nose in matters that did not concern her. My role in the proceedings had been short; a brief of my investigation and the ultimate result. I was exonerated of any wrongdoing as I’d killed the monster in self-defence. I had spent a scant fifteen minutes in the witness box, but even that short time had left an impression on me. I already had a particular nasty recurring nightmare of being held in a witness box as my sins were itemised in graphic detail. I’d rather face a deadly killer than be placed in that situation again. Even being in the right does not remove the inquisitorial tone of the proceedings. During an officious preamble where the purpose of the inquest was explained to the jury, the coroner thanked Lord Summerhayes for the use of his house and apologised for the disruption to his household. He first called Inspector Dundas, who methodically detailed what he found when he arrived upon the scene; the layout of the room, the table arrangement, the attendees of the séance, the conduct of the séance in pitch darkness, and the locked doors. He described the search of the room which revealed an ornate Chinese vase which resided in the corner of the room by the balcony doors, in which a traces of the jelly-like material was found, suggesting it had been stored there in preparation for the murder. Nothing else of a suspicious nature was found. “Inspector,” the coroner began. “You conclude, do you not, that no one could have entered the room as the door to the corridor, the balcony doors, and the door to the ading music room were locked?” “It appears so.” “Could someone have entered if they possessed a key?” “Possibly, but no one reported hearing a door being unlocked, or relocked, or the presence of light or draught entering the room from outside due to an open door.”

The inspector concluded his evidence by saying samples of the substance found in the victim’s mouth had been sent to the pathologist for study. “No conclusions have yet been drawn,” he added. Almost as an afterthought the inspector informed the coroner, “We have yet been unable to confirm Mr. Gregson’s identity. The victim is unknown at the address he gave Mrs. Paladin. I suspect he may have been using an alias.” “Very curious,” the coroner muttered. The pathologist was the next witness and confirmed that the victim had a great quantity of the gelatinous substance in his lungs and throat and had died by asphyxiation akin to drowning. He stated the vase did contain traces of the substance but could not say if it had been stored there or had been placed there after the murder. He also reported that the deceased had consumed laudanum shortly before his death, and that an almost empty hip flask found in his coat had contained laudanum. “He consumed an amount that would have caused unconsciousness?” “I believe so.” “So much to prevent struggling for his life?” “It is possible.” Lord Summerhayes was called next. After swearing his oath, the coroner apologised once more for the inconvenience being caused. The first question regarded the seating arrangements. His lordship confirmed that Paladin was sitting at the head of the table nearest the door. Proceeding anti-clockwise was his lordship, next to him was an empty chair representing Lady Kellog. Drake was next. He, I noted, was scanning the audience with an intelligent gaze. His eyes rested on mine again for a long moment. Despite the safety of my veil, I felt that frisson of excitement once more. The next chair was vacant. “That is where the victim, Mr. Gregson was seated?” “Correct.”

“And in the next was Lord Kellog? Then Lady Summerhayes?” “Correct.” Lord Summerhayes was asked to describe the course of the séance. The coroner had him repeat the sequence of events, the lighting of the candle, turning out the gaslight, his re-ing the table, the touching of fingers, the thumping noise which made him break , and the relighting of the gas lights, and finally the discovery that Gregson was dead. He did not appear interested in the actual spiritual aspects of the evening, perhaps to deprive the journalists’ sensational claims to the supernatural. The coroner had Lord Summerhayes confirm that all the doors, including those to the balcony were locked. He agreed. “Who has keys to the doors?” “Myself, my butler, Musket, and Laird, the first footman.” “Are the keys stored anywhere in the house where others can obtain them?” “I believe Laird leaves them on a hook in my butler’s rooms when he is finished locking up for the night.” Musket was called. He confirmed the activities of the night in crisp, no-nonsense detail; setting up the room, welcoming the guests, serving drinks with the aid of the footman, Laird, locking the doors and retiring to the kitchen. He confirmed the extra set of keys were hanging on the peg, having been put there by Laird. Musket resumed his seat in the row behind where I was sitting. The coroner called for Laird. Inspector Dundas quickly got to his feet and hurried to the coroner’s chair. He whispered something to the coroner. “Missing, you say?” The inspector nodded. “When did you discover this?” “Just now. He’s been missing since yesterday evening apparently.” Inspector

Dundas resumed his seat. “This a most unsatisfactory development. I trust you will find him quickly.” I glanced over my shoulder to see Musket’s reaction. Laird’s non-attendance reflected on him and his ability to manage the household’s staff. His face was inscrutable, but I could imagine the anger and embarrassment controlling his thoughts. I’d hate to be in Laird’s shoes when he turned up. His absence today would probably cost him his job without a reference. Another thought, far more chilling than that, crossed my mind. Next the coroner called Lord Kellog. He was a thoroughly dislikeable fellow in my opinion. In a gruff, officious, and condescending tone he reiterated the course of events. He ended by emphatically stating his disapproval of the whole charade, as he called it. The séance was an insult to his beliefs, and he only suffered the occasion to placate his wife, who, he emphasized at some length, was of a delicate disposition. She was, he added dramatically, at that very moment upstairs comforting a distraught Lady Summerhayes. The coroner, no doubt glad to finish hearing from such an odious man, thanked his lordship for his evidence and apologised for the inconvenience. He next called the medium, Mr. Gerard Paladin. As Lord Summerhayes had intimated, Paladin had suffered horrific injuries. Whether or not they were gained in the Crimea was another matter. He was perhaps thirty years of age, with a gaunt, sunken face. His grey hair was closely cropped on his skull which showed scars and deep indentations where the hair did not grow, giving his scalp a tortoise-shell appearance. Deep scars crisscrossed his forehead reaching his eyes. He wore large thick-lensed spectacles, and his left eye showed through bright white, like a boiled egg. His remaining eye was by comparison as dark as pitch. His gaze was furtive, darting about like a nervous sparrow. His right arm, the one Lord Summerhayes would have held, lay unnaturally on the table, and I suspected it too was damaged in some way. “Mr. Paladin,” the coroner began, his tone showing his contempt for the witness. “Did you know the victim?” “He attended two of my séances, the first several years ago, and the second on the night of his death. I did not know him outside of these.”

“What do you know of the victim?” “Very little. He first attended to gain some knowledge of his sister who died in a boating mishap in the channel five years ago.” “Were you successful in giving him that knowledge?” “I was not. My spirit control had no knowledge of her.” “Yet Mr. Gregson attended again?” “He did. His need for reassurance was high. He blamed himself for her presence on the boat. He had insisted on her travelling to meet him and wanted her forgiveness. He told me other mediums had not been able to help him either, and in desperation had returned to me. He was in a sad state. I felt badly that I was unable to help him the first time.” “Can you explain his death?” “I cannot.” “What is” -- the coroner looked at his notes -- “Ectoplasm?” “I do not know, sir. There are many theories, most of which suggest it is a manifestation of psychic energy emitted by the spirit world as the barrier between our relative planes of existence are broken. When a spirit speaks to us, or makes objects move, it takes a great deal of effort, and that effort leaks into our world, manifesting itself as ectoplasm.” The coroner hesitated, perhaps embarrassed that he was actually asking the next question. “It is not an earthly substance, is that what you are saying?” “I have not been able to study it. It does not remain after a séance. It evaporates into nothingness.” “Then what was taken from Mr. Gregson’s throat, that gelatinous substance, is in your opinion not ectoplasm?” “I do not believe so. I have never seen the like.”

“Describe how you came to be present in this house on that night.” “I was invited by Lady Summerhayes and Lady Kellog. The latter is the secretary of The Square & The Circle society of spiritualists. Lady Summerhayes attended a previous séance wishing to her son, Timothy, who had been killed at the Battle of the Alma. I was unsuccessful on my first attempt, which is usually the case. Spirits have their own existence, and do not wait about in the hope of being summoned by the living. I am more likely to make on a subsequent séance as my spirit control has time to them and solicit their attendance. I was successful on the second attempt.” The coroner cleared his throat in a clearly sceptical manner. “Where do you usually carry out your séances?” “I usually conduct them at my home at 69 Swinton Street. Lady Summerhayes thought it may be more conducive to Timothy from her son’s own home, a place that has been a significant part of their lives. It is a logical assumption, and I agreed on that basis.” “And did Lady Summerhayes’ son make on this occasion?” “I believe he did. You must understand when my spirit control takes over, I fall into a trance, and have no knowledge of what happens until I am released. Our discussion when the lights returned suggested that he did indeed speak to her, but I did not learn further as it was noticed by Mr. Drake, that Mr. Gregson was in trouble.” “You were wounded in the Crimea?” “I was. I am confined to this chair. I have my medical discharge documents here for your consideration.” “Thank you. That will be all. Mr. Drake, will you take the oath, please?” Victor Drake climbed to his feet to swear his oath. Standing, he was even more physically impressive; well over six feet, wide-shouldered, and narrow-waisted. He was dressed well, indeed as well as Lord Kellog, in a dark coat and vest of quality material, and a flamboyant silk cravat. His thick crop of unruly black hair topped a clean-shaven face. Deep set eyes shone brightly from hooded brows. His otherwise handsome face was marred by a long deep scar that ran from his

left eye down past his mouth to meet a deep cleft in his square chin. He wore a tired, cynical expression, one I’ve seen on many a military man, as if he had seen much of the world, and wished he hadn’t. I guessed him to be around five and twenty years of age. His effortless and graceful movements suggested he was completely at ease with his impressive physique. Erotic images filled my mind. The room suddenly became warm, and I was glad I was wearing a veil to disguise my blushing cheeks. Though his countenance was attractive in a roguish sort of way, he was, I sensed, a dangerous man. I could not deny I was drawn to him in a most inappropriate manner. I had experienced the same physical impact when I first met Felix and Baudry, and I had ended up in their arms. I resolved that would not occur again. If I wished to retain any semblance of professionalism, if not any moral integrity, I could not let that happen. Yet, torrid visons of me wrapped up in those strong arms invaded my thoughts. I shook my head to clear my mind and listen to his testimony. “State your name.” “Victor Drake.” “Your occupation?” “That is hard to define.” A collective chuckle cascaded through the journalists in the audience. “Indulge us.” “I am of independent means having recently returned from India. At present I am engaged by The Square & The Circle, a spiritualist group, to investigate Mr. Paladin.” The woman beside me gasped and put her gloved hand to her mouth. “My remit is to determine if he is what he claimed, that is, a medium able to the spirits of the dead.” “What did you find?” the judge asked with a tinge of irritation.

“Nothing to say one way or the other. It was the first séance that I had attended of his, and I have had no opportunity to prove he is a charlatan. I have several theories to explain how he accomplishes what he does, the things described accurately by previous witnesses; table rapping, the appearance of so-called ectoplasm, the different voices, but nothing pertinent to the murder.” “You attended the victim?” “I did. After the lights were returned there began an animated discussion between the two ladies about what we’d seen and heard. I noted that Mr. Gregson was silent. I looked to him and immediately realised something was amiss. He was leaning back in his chair, with his head thrown back, his mouth and eyes wide open. I rushed to his side to find his face covered in a slimy transparent substance. Fearing he would suffocate I scooped the material away from his face. His mouth was open, and I reached in with my fingers to remove as much as I could. Only when I applied any pressure it broke up into clumps and turned to water, filling his mouth. Lord Kellog told me that the man had no pulse. In other words, he was dead.” “Thank you for your clear and succinct .” “It is in the written report I submitted to Inspector Dundas.” “You were holding the left hand of Gregson with your right, and Lady Kellog’s with your left. Is that correct?” “Specifically only the little finger of our respective hands were touching.” “After touching fingers, at any time during the period of darkness did any of you break ?” “We did. During the early part of the séance, when the ectoplasm appeared, Mr. Gregson’s finger left mine. It was restored a few moments later.” “Was it restored by your action, or his? In other words did you go in search of it, or did he?” “He searched mine out.” “After that you did not, at any time feel Mr. Gregson’s finger leave yours?”

“I did not.” “Do you find that extraordinary?” “Very much so. It suggests to me that the murderer replaced his hand on mine so as to prevent me from searching for it, or speaking to Gregson, and so discovering his murder prematurely.” “Yes, quite. What of Lady Kellog’s finger?” “As happened with Lord Summerhayes, when the display of ectoplasm ceased and there was a particularly hard thump on the table, Lady Kellog’s hand briefly broke , but was restored by me in a matter of seconds.” “Have you anything pertinent to add to your report?” “I do not.” “That will be all, thank you.” I was impressed with his concise and emotionless testimony. He could well have been a policeman. As if by some preternatural signal he turned his head and scanned the audience again until his gaze fixed upon me. His face was imive for a moment, and then a smile took over his face, revealing perfectly straight teeth. His bright eyes seemed to peer through my veil. It was as if he could see me. I experienced again that tremor of energy, like an electric spark one feels when reaching for a metal doorknob. He held my gaze for a moment before he was distracted by the coroner, who had called on Lord Kellog to answer some additional questions. “Lord Kellog. You had with the victim’s finger, did you not?” “I did.” “Was broken at any time?” “It was, now that I recall. Mr. Drake’s testimony brought it back to mind. At about the same time, that is soon after the ectoplasm appeared, was

broken for a few moments, I can’t say exactly how long, but Gregson found my finger again. I certainly wasn’t going to search around in the dark for his, damned nonsense.” The corner dismissed him, and then asked the jury if they had any questions of the witnesses. They had none. He gave them instructions and asked them to deliberate. They did so quickly, retiring to the music room next door, and as the coroner had directed, the foreman announced a verdict of “murder by person or persons unknown.” The coroner slammed the gavel onto his desk, and after some istrative comments to Inspector Dundas regarding the footman, Laird, declared the inquest concluded. The woman sitting beside me rushed to Mr. Paladin’s side, adjusting a rug that was covering his legs. I waited until the room had virtually cleared and I made my way to the front. Mr. Paladin appeared wan and tired. Sweat glistened on his forehead. He appeared small and inconsequential, an unlikely conduit to the spirit world. Close up, the injuries to his skull were even more extensive and unsightly. I introduced myself. “This must be a terrible ordeal for you.” “I understand it is necessary, though,” he said in a weak voice. “It is important that the killer is identified and brought to justice.” “You think it possible?” “I do not know.” “Will your spirit control not tell you?” The deep commanding voice came from close by. I didn’t have to guess its owner. I looked up to see Drake towering over me. I felt overshadowed by his closeness and could not help but imagine what it would be like enfolded within his arms. He gave me a warm smile and a slight nod, then looked to Paladin. “I have no control over the spirit world,” the medium replied. “They will tell us what they wish.” “Mr. Paladin. Now that you know who I really am, will you allow me to attend your next séance?”

Paladin gazed up at Drake for a moment. “I hold no rancour toward you, Mr. Drake. Of course you may attend. I welcome your scrutiny, and if what I hope occurs, and the murderer is exposed, then you will be an infallible witness. I will advise you when it is to be held.” Drake reached into a waistcoat pocket and gave Paladin a card. “Then I look forward to it.” He tipped his hat, brought his gaze to mine, and gave me a roguish smile. “Victor Drake, at your service, ma’am.” “Elizabeth Hunter-Payne,” I replied, offering my hand. His expression froze for a moment in recognition. He took my hand and kissed it, his lips warm against my hand. “It is a very great pleasure.” He extracted another card from his pocket and handed it to me. I was taken aback by his forwardness, and before I could respond he tipped his hat once again and departed. I watched his strong legs propel him effortlessly to the door, and again ired his broad shoulders and trim waist. “Mr. Paladin,” I said after coming to my senses. “May I call on you this evening? I wish to consult you.” “Of course.” Mrs. Paladin put a hand on her husband’s shoulder. “My darling, I wish you would rest.” “Inaction does me little good,” he replied. “I tire whether I rest or not.” He looked back to me. “Would this afternoon at four be convenient?” “It would. I thank you,” I said. Lord Summerhayes caught my eye. After the Kellogs and Paladins had left, he led me along a age and into a very masculine appointed billiards room with mounted heads and gun cabinets on the walls. He closed the door behind us. “My lord?”

“Something grave has occurred.”

Chapter Three Sacrifice Of Honour

“Pray tell me.” Lord Summerhayes reached into his pocket and extracted an envelope which he handed to me. “This was on my desk, hidden under some papers. It is by chance I noticed it at all. My eyesight is deficient, you know.” He cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Doctor insists on spectacles.” He shrugged helplessly. “An old man has his vanity.” I opened the envelope and found inside a creased, soot-covered piece of paper that had obviously been crumpled up. I read the short, damning note. My lord, It pains me to reveal that your lady wife is entertaining your footman in her boudoir. I have proof. I will speak with you after the séance tomorrow night regarding any remuneration which you may consider bestowing on me for my silence. Yours Henry Gregson His lordship was all seriousness now. “I considered burning it,” he said, shame and dishonour suffocating his voice. “Actually threw it into the fire. Had I not had second thoughts it would no longer exist.” I studied his face. There was a solidity of character there that I hadn’t noticed before. I had done him a disservice when first we met. I’d underestimated him. “Why didn’t you destroy it?” “I’ve done many things in my life that I am not proud of. Things that I regret. Nonetheless I am a man of honour. I strive to make amends wherever possible. My estate s the families of my men who were killed or wounded in action

and cannot work.” He took a deep breath. “That’s by the by. It would have been cowardly to destroy this note.” He tapped the paper. “This is not right. I never received this note, nor read it until now.” “I see.” This certainly presented a problem. “It suggests that Gregson was a blackmailer and therefore I had a strong motive to kill him.” I was silent as several other possibilities went through my mind. “But if you feel it necessary, I will hand it over to the police.” “Withholding evidence was not a thing lightly done,” I said. I thought quickly, turning over all sorts of possibilities in my mind. “Who has access to your desk?” “My wife, Musket, of course. Other servants who enter my study.” “The footmen? Laird?” He nodded. “He is first footman and relieves for Musket.” “I see.” By showing me the blackmail note from Gregson, and the manner in which he did it, his lordship had satisfied me of his innocence. I could see no reason for him to show it to me otherwise. Of course he could be trying to emphasise his innocence by having the finger pointed at him, but I did not believe it likely. The intent of the blackmail note was obvious. To implicate him by giving him a motive. If Dundas knew of it he would focus all of his attention on Summerhayes, which would allow the real killer to escape attention. Unless I could dissuade him. “I have sworn to Dundas that I would not hinder his investigation. We must show him the note.” His crestfallen expression almost made me reconsider. “Tell him you only found it a minute or two ago, and in rage threw it in the fire. You saw that this was an important piece of evidence of someone trying, in a clumsy manner, to implicate you. You recovered it, showed it to me, and now you are turning it over to him.”

He took a deep uncertain breath. I put my hand on his arm. “I will explain to him, my lord, that your honesty points to your innocence.” “I hope he believes me. This could be a sham, enacted by me. That’s what he’ll think.” “Trust me.” I squeezed his arm firmly. “I’m sorry that you are going through this,” I said. He glanced up at me. “You’re wondering if it is true. About my wife. I want you to know something before I answer.” “There’s no need,” I said hurriedly, wishing to spare him any embarrassment. “I have no doubt you can discover the truth in time. I love Phaedra, and I am certain she loves me. How can I know?” He looked away and cleared his throat. “I am an old man. The fires of youth are expended. I have offered Phaedra her freedom many times, and she has refused to leave me. You see, we get on. We share interests, confidences. We are friends, if that makes sense?” I took his hand. It was shaking. “It does,” I said. “I would be an empty husk without her, and she knows that. Perhaps she stays out of pity.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Who is to say that isn’t a kind of love?” He took a deep breath. “In any case, she tells me she is happy. She is a beautiful and vibrant woman. She’s only five and forty, for God’s sake!” “My lord…” He talked over me. “She has needs. Just as I had at that age, when we were in ionate love with each other. I permit her, without guilt, without shame, to satisfy those needs. This is no doubt a great shock to you, Mrs. Hunter-Payne, but I feel you must understand the situation. Phaedra is completely innocent of any charges of deceit, or betrayal.” “I understand. How long has she and Laird been…” “Over a year.” He must have read my expression. “You are wondering how could I keep him in my employ? They are discreet, and I’m sure Phaedra made it a condition that he maintains the respect of the household.”

Lady Summerhayes was risking a lot. The peace and the stability of the household, her marriage, her position in society -- all for a bed partner. I understood that need, for I had risked the very same with my relationships with Felix and Baudry. Questions arose. They must have had a place. “Where did they conduct their liaisons?” “I do not know. Is it important?” “Laird has probably fled there. We cannot withhold that from the inspector.” “Yes, I see.” His face blanched. “I’m certain Phaedra has no knowledge of Laird’s departure.” A detail troubled me. “Had your wife received a blackmail note?” “I’ve just asked her. She said no.” I hesitated to ask if he believed her. “I showed her the note. She was shocked and is afraid that I will be accused.” “I understand.” I took his hand again. “Go to your wife. Explain to her that if the inspector finds Laird at their place, he will jump to conclusions. If you give the inspector the address it will clear you both of suspicion.” He left and I returned to the séance room. A constable was on duty. Musket was supervising the clearing away of the trestle tables and chairs. I asked him to open the balcony door for me. He did so and I looked out over the back garden. It was still raining. A gardener was wheeling a barrow full of fallen branches knocked down during last night’s heavy rain. Lying along the ground by the garden wall was a tall ladder. Before I risked getting wet Musket appeared by my side and offered me an umbrella. “My master told me you are assisting him,” he said gravely. “I am.” “He is a good man.” “I believe it.”

“He told me to speak freely with you.” “Then tell me about Laird.” His face reddened. “I don’t know where he is. I’ll terminate his services if he doesn’t have a good reason for absconding without a word.” His mouth set firm. “Would earn him a flogging if he was in the army.” “What type of fellow is he? I mean, is he a lady’s man for example?” “Footmen tend to be, in my experience, but he knows I won’t tolerate inappropriate behaviour. He commits himself to his duties, has no time off. That’s why he’s lasted. I don’t abide shirkers.” “Forgive me for being indelicate, but was there any… funny business between Laird and the female servants?” “None. I’d skin him alive if he touched one of our girls.” “What about female visitors? I take it like many footmen he’s a tall lad. Handsome, I shouldn’t wonder?” “He is that, and visitors do flirt with him, but he knew I’d dismiss him had there been a whiff of scandal. I’ll not have it.” “Anyone in particular who would flirt?” He took a deep breath. “As you are in the service of my master I will say this, which I would not divulge to anyone else.” “Very good.” “There is one visitor who takes liberties.” “And who would that be?” “Lady Kellog.” “I see. In what way?” “She speaks to him.”

It would be enough to attract Musket’s attention and displeasure. It was highly irregular for people to speak to the servants beyond issuing orders or requests. “Is that all?” “As far as I saw.” He hesitated. “I cannot see beyond these walls. Laird escorts my lady to those spiritualist meetings.” The implication was clear. At those meetings Lady Kellog could compromise the first footman. “And where are they held?” “Lord Kellog’s house.” “Anywhere else?” “A house on Upper Brook Street, I believe.” “Have you told Inspector Dundas that yet?” “He’s asked to see me before he leaves. He is searching Laird’s room as we speak.” “Then I believe it is important that you tell him of The Square & The Circle meetings at Upper Brook Street.” “As you wish, madam. As long as it will not hurt my master.” He returned to supervising the removal of furniture. With umbrella in hand I went out into the elements. A chill wind was blowing, and the rain had intensified during the few minutes I’d been talking to Musket. Looking over the low balcony railing I noticed a sturdy leafless vine crept its way up from the ground. Someone could climb up and, if they had a key could enter the séance room. Surely there would be some fragments of dirt on the carpet if someone had done so. I looked over the edge and moved some of the twigs out of the way. There were some smear marks on the brickwork. They were probably not significant and could have been made anytime, I supposed. My eyes flicked back to the ladder. It was certainly tall enough. The ground, twenty feet or so below, had turned to slush following the last few days of rain, destroying any footprints, if they existed.

I inspected the door latch. If it wasn’t locked as it was supposed to be, it could be opened from the outside. That made it clear to me that the murderer may have entered from outside. The problem with the outsider theory was, as Dundas suggested, no one noticed any draught, and the weather had been inclement. I walked along the balcony and opened the doors onto another room, a music room and library. There was nothing of particular note except a large Chinese vase, the sister of the one in the séance room. I looked inside. It was deep and empty. Closing the balcony doors behind me I returned to the scene of the séance. Lord Summerhayes had only just returned. “Did the police find anything on the balcony or carpet near the door?” I asked. “They searched but didn’t say if they found anything,” Lord Summerhayes said. I went to the chair where Gregson had sat. There was nothing on the table or the chair itself to show that here a man had died, murdered in the most arcane manner. The carpet behind the chair was slightly discoloured. I dropped to my haunches to touch it. It was just a little damp. Luckily the room had been locked up for three days, and the weather had been cold preventing the patch from drying completely. I brought my fingers to my nose. I was instantly transported to my childhood. My parents had taken us to the seaside. Happy images of Jonathan running barefoot amongst the waves, his tros rolled up to his knees. I was chasing him, along the dry shingles because I was still wearing shoes, and I’d already been scolded by Mama for getting them wet. Jonathan reached down into the water, extracted something, and pelted it at me. I screamed and ducked. I found it behind me, broken and fragmented. I scooped up what remained and pelted him back, but the thing disintegrated before reaching him. “What is it, Mrs. Hunter-Payne?” his lordship asked. I collected myself and rose to my feet. “Nothing,” I muttered, not sure if what I was thinking was important or not. Inspector Dundas was at the door as I prepared to leave. He had been watching me. “It is a most singular case, is it not?” I asked. He made no response. “Inspector, I realise that having an amateur under your feet is not ideal, but you cannot deny I’ve been useful to you in the past?”

He took a deep breath as his face reddened. “His lordship has shown you the note?” He held it up. He glanced at me before addressing his lordship. “I’m glad you gave this to me, my lord.” “Has Musket spoken to you yet?” I asked quickly. “I haven’t gotten around to him.” “He tells me that Laird escorted Lady Summerhayes to a house in Upper Brook Street where they held séances.” “I see.” “It is possible he has fled there.” He caught the eye of a young constable hovering at the door. “Find the butler and get the address in Upper Brook Street. On the double!” The constable saluted and rushed from the room. “Inspector,” I said. “I suspect Laird has tried to throw suspicion onto Lord Summerhayes.” “There is that possibility.” “Firstly, Inspector, the obvious person to blackmail is her ladyship, not her husband. Secondly, the note was supposedly placed amongst his lordship’s papers either the day before or on the day of the séance. It was probably placed there by Laird. Thirdly, Gregson would not have forewarned his lordship of his blackmail attempt. He would have surprised him with it after the séance. Lastly, he would not have resorted to a note, let alone a note with his name on it.” The inspector nodded. “Those things did occur to me.” He looked to Summerhayes and asked the same question I had. “Was there an attempt made on your wife to blackmail her?” “I’ve already asked. There has not been any attempt. My wife is devastated

about the whole matter.” “I’ll need to speak with her.” His lordship cleared his throat. “If I can trust your discretion, Inspector.” He hesitated, then took another deep breath. “I know of my wife’s, ah, liaison with Laird. I approve of it and encourage it. For the obvious reason. My wife has needs, I am beyond my prime, and I chose to indulge her. I don’t care what you or society thinks of me. You hear me? Society be damned! I love my wife and I wish to keep her. Is that too hard to understand?” Dundas’s face turned beet red, while Lord Summerhayes face was apoplectic with the effort. I led him to a chair and sat him down. I could not imagine the courage it had taken for him to say what he had to Dundas. The cost to his honour was incalculable. I wondered how much farther he would go to protect his wife. I called to Musket for a brandy for his master. After he had calmed down I addressed the inspector. “Clearly whoever wrote that note, and I doubt it was Gregson, would have blackmailed Lady Summerhayes in the first instance. Only if she refused to pay would he attempt to blackmail his lordship. Thus the note is clearly a ruse intended to place suspicion on his lordship.” Dundas nodded. “Before you go to Upper Brook Street, Inspector, is there anything else that would help me?” He gazed at me for a few moments. “Very well. Assuming the innocence of Lord and Lady Summerhayes, that means our suspects include the Paladins, the Kellogs, the fellow Drake, and Laird, the missing footman.” “Indeed.” I hesitated, but the question needed to be asked to ascertain the depth of the inspector’s knowledge. “Is there evidence of any connections between these people?” “We are still making inquiries in that direction. My lord, if I may ask a question?”

“Please do, Inspector.” “To your knowledge, had Lady Summerhayes spoken or made with Gregson? Perhaps a brief meeting, between him and your wife?” The inspector had a look on his face that suggested he was particularly interested in his lordship’s response. “None at all, Inspector.” “Perhaps if I can speak to her ladyship again?” “Damn your eyes!” Lord Summerhayes leaped out of his seat. Had the table not been between them I’m sure he would have struck the inspector. “She has retired with a headache. I will not allow her to be disturbed.” Unperturbed the inspector continued. “Perhaps tomorrow, then.” “What is it, Inspector?” I asked gently. “I have received word from my office. An anonymous letter was received in the mail. It says that your wife and Gregson met the day before the séance.” “Impossible. That’s a lie. My wife told me she had never seen him before, and she doesn’t lie! Not to me! Never!” “Does it say where this meeting occurred?” I asked. “It does not.” “I smell a plot, Inspector.” “Perhaps. I insist on speaking with her ladyship again tomorrow.” “Damned if you do!” I reached over and touched his lordship’s arm. He looked at me, realised the situation and resumed his seat with an abashed expression softening his features. “I apologise, madam, but the damned impertinence.” Dundas was holding his own anger within. I hoped his lordship had not gone too far in defence of his wife. “What was the material that Gregson drowned in?” I

said, changing the direction of the conversation. Without taking his stony gaze away from Lord Summerhayes, Inspector Dundas answered me. “The pathologist is still conducting tests. All he can tell at the moment is that it is gelatinous and organic in nature.” “May I suggest something to him through you?” I offered, with my most innocent smile. The inspector took a deep breath of exasperation. “Very well, what is it?” “That he might compare the material from Mr. Gregson’s lungs with that of jellyfish.” “I’m sorry?” “The carpet smells briny, like the seaside,” I said. “Jellyfish are gelatinous and organic, are they not?”

Chapter Four Double Loss

One would have thought my little triumph over the inspector would have left me feeling very pleased with myself. The colour of his cheeks, his stunned silence and his slack jaw should have left me giggling in the cab ride home. But it didn’t. Instead, my thoughts were overbrimmed with images of Victor Drake. My body was suffused with an all too familiar warmth, my nipples ached and my quim tingled. Thankfully Bisby was silent beside me, gazing protectively out the window, ever alert to danger. As I expected he had been waiting patiently on the steps with an umbrella, chatting to the constable, and with the Cumberland cab at the ready. I had to get my thoughts away from Drake. “I’ve changed my mind,” I said to him. “Take us to the office.” Bisby ed the order to the cab driver. I leaned back into the thickly upholstered seat and closed my eyes. Erotic thoughts filled my mind’s eye. Drake’s towering figure lifting me off my feet and carrying me into his… This would not do! “Bisby!” “Yes, ma’am?” I changed the direction of my thoughts. “I have not seen Miss Clayton for several days. Do you know where she has got to?” “No, ma’am.” I felt stupid. Her whereabouts would be secret, and even if he knew, Bisby would be unable, and unwilling, to divulge them for no good reason. “Of course, I

should not have asked.” I sat for a moment, my face flushed. “It’s just that I am worried about her.” “You are, ma’am?” “Don’t sound so surprised. We are all compatriots, are we not, having seen violent action together?” Indeed I had gotten Bisby and his colleague, Oxley, into a gunfight with Russian agents on the London Docks. We were brothers in arms as any soldier could claim. “We are that, ma’am.” He was silent for a moment. “The general called her away. Something urgent.” I gave him a smile, genuinely grateful he had taken me into his confidence. “There is always something urgent in our… what do you call it? Line of work?” “We don’t call it anything, ma’am. It’s safer not to talk about it at all.” “Of course. I’m sorry.” Another few moments of silence. “You are correct, madam. There is always something urgent.” It was well after lunchtime and my stomach was rumbling when I pushed open the door to my Investigation Bureau on Queens Road, Bayswater. I found Felix sitting at my desk. He looked up, smiled at my appearance, then ed where he was. He leaped to his feet. “Don’t get up,” I said. “I’ll sit at Archie’s.” I put my reticule with its half-brick on the desk and sat down, adjusted my skirts, and inspected the mud spots. I took off the overshoes in a slow and measured manner, aware that Felix was watching me with his dark eyes. “Where is he?” “Following up on the case of the missing hunter and chain. He has to interview a pawnbroker he knows. He should be back soon.” Archie had told me about the case yesterday. A crime of pickpocketing, or as Archie described it, dipping, had occurred outside the famous Vauxhall Gardens

site which had closed last year. The new landowner had been stripped of his pocket watch and chain while he supervised a team of surveyors. He had not felt the deft fingers extracting his property, as delvers are famous for their sleight of hand worthy of the music hall stage. The expensive watch possessed great sentimental value, and the gentleman was eager to recover it, and had authorised Archie to pay above the boards for its return. Felix gazed at me attentively. To everyone’s knowledge he was one of my investigators. What was not known was that I’d also enlisted his services as a tutor in the erotic arts. After my Jonathan’s death in the Crimea I had for years shut myself away from any attachments, both emotional and physical. This hiatus from life went beyond normal bereavement. The throwing off of my mourning costume, and the brazen act of opening the Investigation Bureau, seemed to release all bonds of propriety. My interest in bodily pleasure exploded within me at the same time as I met Felix. He’d been a prostitute at the Lavender Club, a brothel going by the euphemistic title of an Introduction House, and innocently involved in a crime. I had been instantly attracted by his intelligent face; square-jawed and clean-shaven, and a head of thick curly black hair. “It is good to see you here, back in the office,” he said. “What are you up to? Can you spare some time?” His face brightened, and he put aside his pen. “I can, most happily.” “I picked up a case this morning.” I outlined the case and asked him to find out what he could about the suspects and the victim, as well as The Square & The Circle meeting rooms on Upper Brook Street. He took note of the names in a small notebook he kept in his coat pocket. “I need you to gently question the servants about what happened the night of the séance.” I lost my train of thought. Felix gazed at me expectantly. “What is it?” The truth was that my arousal caused by Victor Drake had not completely subsided, and since entering the office I had become acutely aware of Felix’ s attractive masculinity. Images of us making love flashed through my mind as we

spoke. I felt my face warm considerably, not to mention my nether regions. I wanted to take Felix in my arms then and there. I couldn’t, of course, for Archie was due back soon. I needed to change the direction of my thoughts and dampen my desire. “How are you and Nurse Bramble getting on?” His expression brightened. “Very pleasantly. She is an adventurous woman.” “More than I?” He pretended to weigh the two of us up. “The answer to that,” he said finally, “may require some more exploration.” My quim tingled at the possibility. That wouldn’t do, however. A wave of guilt swept over me. “I do not want to come between you two at all. I do not want her hurt in any way. It does not bear thinking if she should discover us.” “I’ll ensure she doesn’t. I believe she shares your interest in voyeurism, and the revelation, if it ever happened, might not be displeasing to her.” The thought of sharing his bed with Nurse Bramble was not displeasing to me either. She was a vibrant and attractive young woman. My quim tingled at the sudden image that filled my mind of the two of us sucking Felix’s cock, kissing each other over the shaft. “We will not tempt fate,” I said firmly. “Understood.” It took a great deal of willpower not to go over and sit on his knee and kiss him. It was well that I did resist, for at that moment Archie returned. He too was pleased to find me at the office. As he divested himself of hat and coat he told me of his interview with the pawnbroker and that the word was being put out that anyone receiving the stolen goods would be compensated without police involvement. “Our client should be well pleased.” I vacated Archie’s chair and went to stand at the window. “I have not been completely at leisure,” I told him. “I picked up another case of murder this morning.” Archie raised an eyebrow. His young features became etched with concern. If recent history was any guide, his fears were valid.

“I know I have a habit of attracting violence,” I said. “But this case is of a spiritual nature in the withdrawing rooms of the gentry. I’ll borrow Felix this afternoon to accompany me to Berkeley Square, the scene of the crime.” “It’s a friend of the general,” Felix added. “Lord Summerhayes.” Mention of the general made it worse in Archie’s mind, I was sure. That work always seemed to involve danger. Before he could express his concern I hurried things along. “I’ll leave Felix to give you the details while I say hello to our friend the doctor before we depart.” His concerned expression only intensified. I put my hand on his shoulder and gave him a reassuring squeeze. “I’m completely recovered,” I said. “I’m up to it, and I’ll borrow Felix this afternoon to uncover some background on the people involved. If it becomes too interesting, if you know what I mean, I’ll bring you in. I promise.” Experience, however, showed that I rarely brought others in if a case became too interesting, as I put it. My reluctance to endanger others had invariably endangered them. “I promise,” I repeated. “Where is Miss Clayton?” he asked. “Off on some mission for the general. I’ll be all right,” I added. “I don’t need her to be my nursemaid. I rescued her last time, ?” I had conveniently left out the fact that Archie, Baudry, and Felix had then rescued me from a watery death in Father Thames. He sighed dramatically, knowing I was a lost cause. “Please be careful, ma’am,” he implored. “You’ve only just recovered.” I gave him a motherly kiss on the cheek. “I won’t be long.” My lover, Dr. Jack Baudry, had his lodgings and surgery just up the corridor from our office. Before I had sustained my multitudinous injuries I had often called upon him during his lunch period when he purposefully did not book patients, and we would make love on the rug in front of his fire. I was looking forward to resuming that practice, hence the timing of my visit. My tummy fluttered in anticipation, as I transferred my erotic yearnings initiated by Drake, away from Felix and toward Baudry. Shameful, I know. My expectations, however, were tinged with a shadow of anxiety. Those few days

after my dunking in the Thames, Baudry had been very attentive and solicitous. Every time I awoke out of my fever dreams he would be there, bathing my forehead with a cool cloth, speaking to me in a soothing voice, directing Nurse Hazleton as to minute details of my care. As I recovered after Christmas and into the New Year he became strangely distant. I would awake and overhear terse discussions between him and Miss Clayton. At first I thought these the result of their natural animosity, but there was something deeper. It seemed to me that he blamed her for my injuries. That was incorrect, of course. Though my violent confrontation with Vladimir had been in her defence, I was the architect of the disaster, my impetuosity as usual overcoming caution. My family doctor had prescribed laudanum to help ease the pain of my injuries, and my recollection of those days are somewhat hazy. I disliked the effects of the soporific treatment; my head felt twice the size, seemingly filled with cotton wool, a fertile ground for strange and terrifying dreams. I quickly weaned myself of the mixture, demanding smaller doses and finally rejecting them completely. Luckily Nurse Hazleton was of a similar opinion, telling me she had seen the terrible effect laudanum and its cousins had on patients who took too much too often. I became convinced that my impressions regarding Baudry and Miss Clayton had been correct. Their hatred of each other seemed to intensify, and their urgent whispers in my presence turned to loud accusations, of what I could not tell. It was very strange, that they would fight over me, for I reasoned I must be the cause, or else why have it out in my room? My feelings toward Miss Clayton were ambivalent. She was an experienced Agent of the Queen, and I could learn much from her. She also was a mysterious character, and while she was free with her opinions about the art of spying, she generally kept her own counsel on personal matters, except when describing her sexual adventures with the Cumberlands, the genius couple from Edinburgh, and her fellow agent Jackson, an intriguing gentleman I was yet to meet. Despite those disclosures she remained an enigma to me; cold and aloof like the fabled sphinx. With these thoughts and apprehensions flying about inside my head I waited in his surgery’s outer office while he finished with a patient. The waiting room contained two elderly men. My heart sank. He had not left his lunchtime free. His surgery door opened, and he escorted an elderly woman out. His eyes ed my presence but there was no affection there, more embarrassment in front of his waiting patients. When he said goodbye to the departing woman he

apologised to those waiting, saying he would only be a moment. One of the old gentlemen rolled his eyes. “I won’t be long,” I said to the man. “I promise.” Taking my elbow, Baudry escorted me into his office. I always enjoyed being close to Baudry. He was tall, with a strong physique and I could not but help compare him to Drake. The comparison didn’t hold well. Drake was taller and broader, bigger than Baudry on every visible measure. Once the surgery door closed behind me I took Baudry’s face between my hands and kissed him forcefully on the mouth. After a moment of surprise he returned the kiss. My heart fluttered. I released him and before he could speak I said, “I’m investigating a murder.” Before he could respond I launched into a truncated precis of the crime. He listened, but I could tell with only half an ear. His indifference quickly became irritating. “Baudry, what is wrong?” “Nothing.” “You’ve been avoiding me.” “I’m sorry.” “I thought after my decision to return to the Bureau, something you most heartily encouraged, everything would go back to the way it was.” He turned away and retreated behind his desk. “I’ve had things on my mind.” After he didn’t elaborate I went to the door. “I won’t keep your patients waiting any longer,” I said coldly, unable to keep my displeasure to myself. “When are you finishing this afternoon?” “Six.” “I’ll be back by then. I insist we have dinner together.” “I’m…” I waited for a moment, holding his gaze, daring him to deny me.

“Of course,” he said finally. I left his surgery feeling hurt and dejected. His behaviour was unable. I wondered what could have changed over these last few weeks. It was nothing I could have done. Certainly, before my unwanted swim in the Thames I had decided to distance myself from him, for his own protection. I feared his involvement with me would get him killed. I know my decision hurt him, as well as me. Baudry demonstrated his unimpeachable love for me by ignoring my wishes and saving my life that night at the London Docks. Baudry had miraculously appeared just in the nick of time. I felt a twinge of unease at the memory. Not the horror of being shot, punched and kicked, and almost drowned, but the timeliness of my rescue. It was a miracle that he had been there to effect it. I had assumed Baudry had seen Archie and Felix dash off in a hurry and had intuited I was in danger. His intuition had been correct. We’d never spoken about that night in any detail. He’d not given me the chance, and now I knew why. I had thanked him of course, for diving into the polluted river to save me, ruining his fine evening clothes. When I had promised to buy him a new set he waved away my offer, appearing most embarrassed. That night I had itted my foolishness, and made a commitment to return to him, Felix, and Archie, and not go off on my own and get myself in trouble ever again. Since then I’d been desperately ill, unable to offend unless… Oh, God! Had I said something indiscreet during my fever dreams? My heart stopped, and a coldness filled the hollow of my belly. Had I blurted out my arrangement with Felix? Had I confessed to carrying on a sexual affair with my employee? Fever dreams are like that. One rambles on and on, usually incoherently. But what if I had described my relationship with Felix in painfully lurid detail? No wonder Baudry’s affections had turned cold. My God. What a fool I’d been not to realise it earlier. This explained much of what I didn’t understand. While I was seriously ill he had attended me in a most faithful and attentive manner until something had changed. Now that I’d recovered, his duty to me had ended. Baudry would feel

betrayed. He was a deeply honourable man. In fact it had been that honour which had forbade him to leave me to my own devices and forced him to risk his life for me. To risk his life for a woman who was betraying him. To be in the same room as me must be an anathema. Oh, how he must hate me. This was a complete disaster. There could be no going back. I was near to bursting into tears of desperation when it struck me that I was, perhaps, on the wrong track. There was another reason for his distemper. A very good reason. It was quite obvious, and I chastised myself most savagely for forgetting the uncomfortable truth that I’d realised before Christmas, but with my illness and the laudanum had conveniently forgotten, putting it out of my mind because I couldn’t help but feel guilty about it. How could I be so dense? There had been another time he had risked his life for me. During the deadly fracas on the airship Imperative which resulted in the capture of a French spy -- his half-sister! My blood ran cold. She was now under sentence of death, and her dawn appointment with the gallows was imminent. It had been I who had sent her there. My investigation had brought her to justice, and to her grisly fate on the trapdoor. That fact alone would explain any his coldness toward me. Perhaps until the ghastly sentence had been carried out, not that I opposed it, for she had been only moments away from killing me, perhaps then Baudry and I could attempt a rapprochement. That was just wishful thinking, and I knew it. Self-disgust overwhelmed me. What sort of monster was I? Sending his halfsister to the gallows, betraying him with Felix, coldly rejecting him -- how could I possibly entertain the delusion of being worthy of his love? I didn’t deserve him. He was better off without me. Certainly he’d be safer. I brushed away a tear. He no longer loved me. That was the brutal reality. I had to accept it. He was done with me, and to be brutally honest with myself, I deserved nothing less. I took a few more moments to fix a smile on my duplicitous mouth and opened the office door. I surprised Archie greatly with a strong motherly hug. “It’s so good to be back with you and Felix,” I gushed. “I know I don’t tell you enough how much you

mean to me, and how much I depend on you.” Archie’s face turned sunset red. Felix went to the rack and selected his coat. Leaving a confused and embarrassed Archie behind, Felix and I made our way down the busy street. Alf had seen our approach and had the cab all steamed up and ready for us. The garrulous driver had shown his character and expert driving skills in a previous case assisting Archie and me to escape some ruffians. I had immediately engaged him on retainer to make himself available to the Bureau at all times. “Afternoon, miss,” he said cheerfully, touching his cloth cap. “Afternoon, Alf. How is Mrs. Jenkins?” “Well, miss. She sends her regards.” “Thank her for me.” I handed him Lord Summerhayes’ card. He read the address and returned it to me. “I’ll have you there in a jiffy, miss.” Once inside the cab I settled back into the leather seat. Alf engaged the gears and the cab lurched forward in a roar of steam and clatter of pistons. “Felix. Hold me.” “Gladly.” “I feel frustrated.” He considered this for a moment. “You have been unwell. Your body has recovered, and it is natural now that it turns to certain other needs.” He was so right. Having his arms about me sent a slew of sensations coursing through my body. I had warmed immediately, my nipples hardened, and my quim tingled. If I was a dishonourable monster, then let it be so. “Kiss me.” He complied most enthusiastically. “I have missed you,” he said. “And I you,” I replied, and returned the kiss with equal fervour. “To return to our former conversation, I trust you satisfy Nurse Bramble, and she you.”

“Very much so. She is quite adept in the bedroom.” “Tell me. Does she suck your cock well?” “Assuredly.” “As good as I?” I teased. “As you know I have wide experience, and every woman is different. Some are more experienced than others, some more sensitive to the context of the situation and relationship.” “Go on,” I said. “You know I enjoy listening to you when you talk about bedroom matters.” He laughed and kissed me. The kiss lingered, our tongues wrestling madly inside our mouths. “Some are tentative,” he continued when the kiss ended. “They kiss and lick, taking only the head into their mouths, while others are aggressive, and with great determination take the full length into the mouth, indeed into their throats, sucking with gusto so that they leave bruises on the tender flesh, producing prodigious quantities of saliva. Others grip the shaft like a vice, and stroke it most violently while others prefer to leave their hands free to pleasure themselves. Some lick and suck the cods.” My hand strayed its way between his legs and found the hard shaft within his tros. “Continue,” I prompted. “Some in their enthusiasm seek to bring the cock to full tumescence in a matter of seconds, and then to climax in minutes. Others are more measured in their strategy. They slowly tease the member to full strength, and with lips and tongue and fingers maintain it in anticipation for upwards of an hour, before delivering the coup de grâce. Some take the issue into their mouths and swallow. Others discreetly deposit the essence of their lover into their palm and dispose of later.” Through the thick material of his tros I stroked the hard shaft with my fingertips. He groaned in appreciation. “I believe you have instructed me in all those techniques,” I said coyly. “You were an able student, now a master, I would suggest.”

“And Nurse Bramble?” “She is self-taught.” “What does that mean, pray tell?” “She has had a number of partners who have had different preferences, and so her repertoire is quite expansive.” “I would not have thought it of her. She has an exuberant character, we can all see that, but I am surprised her calling as a nurse has allowed her so much freedom to explore and develop such talents.” “Sadly, when young she was sold to a brothel by her father to pay his debts.” “Oh my!” I was stunned. I could not imagine the pain and cruelty she would have experienced. “After a number of years she escaped their clutches, and was fortunate to have the patronage of a rich and kindly man who financed her education.” “I would never have guessed,” I said. It was an example of not only a person’s ability to rise from low circumstances and succeed, but also the capability to hide so much, to keep their secrets deep and live on with pride and confidence. “It is a wonder her character has remained as it is. I have seen many who surrender to their lot and perish in both body and soul.” “She is a remarkable girl,” I said, suddenly embarrassed. I took my hand away from his crotch. I felt I had intruded on her territory, and that her life experience made her far more worthy of the prize than I. “What is it?” he asked. “She freely confided this with you?” “She did.” “Then she must love you. I cannot imagine anyone sharing such personal intimacies with someone they did not hold in the highest regard.” I suddenly

ed Lord Summerhayes sacrificing his honour for love, exposing himself to Inspector Dundas, a man he held in absolute contempt. Felix didn’t respond for a moment. “Elizabeth, she and I share a common experience, both of us serving in a brothel, and all that experience means.” “You haven’t told me very much about that, about your experiences.” “One day perhaps, but there is much I find distasteful in my memory and do not wish to bring it to recollection. Things that I have done, and had done to me, they do not warrant being spoken of.” “I’m so sorry.” “It is what it is. Fate is fate, what is done is done, and cannot be altered. Recollecting it will not change it or absolve me. It serves no purpose. I prefer to think of now, and dream of the future. Nurse Bramble is of a similar viewpoint. She is an honest soul and believed it important she tell me. We have that commonality of viewpoint that experience provides. She said she saw that in me immediately when we met in your house -- at least after I became conscious of my surroundings. She had the benefit of tending to me for some time before I awoke. And when I did…” “She fell in love.” “I wouldn’t say that. She had the advantage of me, all my bodily functions, and that breeds a certain intimacy. Then when I was in such a condition that allowed conversation, she knew who and what I was. Like can always tell like.” A commonality of viewpoint. A telling phrase, I thought. There must be a certain comfort in that. She and he had shared experiences I cannot even guess at, and never would. He and she saw the world in a certain way that was barred to me. Of course I knew that to be true. I had shared that same comfort with my beloved Jonathan. We were, as the general put it, two peas in a pod. We shared our early years together, and we grew into adulthood together. He and I had the same experiences, the love of horse riding, the exploring, the adventures, the secrets we shared and kept from the adults. We must have seemed to any observer to be interchangeable. We knew each other’s thoughts before we expressed them and would fall in a heap of laughter as we finished each other’s

sentences. A certain comfort indeed. It was love. “You must be gentle with her,” I said. “You must love her in return. She deserves no less.” “We are comfortable together,” he murmured, as if realising it for the first time. He seemed on the brink of saying something more but Alf changed the gears, and I heard him swearing at some other cab driver. I reached into my reticule. “Here are some of the new prophylactics that Fleur Cumberland sent to me. You must try them with Nurse Bramble.” “Sarah,” he said softly. “Her name is Sarah.” Oh my. Felix was truly in love, and it wasn’t with me.

Chapter Five Lady Summerhayes

The remainder of the journey is lost to me. I cannot say what streets Alf drove us along, the state of the rain, or the types of Cumberland cabs that steamed past. Were they imitation thoroughbred horses or miniature giraffes? I could not say. My thoughts were all ajumble, bouncing around inside my head like tennis balls. In the space of thirty minutes I had lost the two men in my life. I was glad Felix had found someone to love, and a little sad that it wasn’t me. I was disappointed that our special arrangement must come to an end. I would miss his caresses, the excitement he could create in my body, the explosive climaxes that he could inflict upon my wanton flesh. I would miss that greatly. Perhaps it was for the better. I had learned much from him, but I was no longer experiencing a reawakening -- I was fully awake now. Though there was more to learn, I had no doubt of that, I realised our lovemaking had come to a point where there was less novelty ahead than behind, and Felix would offer me little that was surprising or new, that the excitement would die from repetition and lose its point. Sad as it was to lose Felix, I realised it had been unavoidable. What had not been inevitable was losing Baudry, and I was bitterly angry at myself for it. My own thoughtlessness, selfishness, and lack of honour had brought about that loss. My God, what would Jonathan think of me? Alf brought the cab to a halt with a lurch. I extracted a blank telegram form from my reticule. I had begun the habit of carrying blank forms with me as I seemed to send a lot of them. I hastily wrote to Baudry cancelling tonight’s dinner. I couldn’t bear facing him until I had composed myself. I couldn’t imagine what I would say that could possibly have meaning. Felix took my hand as I exited the cab. I handed the note up to Alf and asked him to find the nearest telegraph office and send and then return for us. “Aye, miss.” With that off my mind I once again applied my thoughts to the murder. We stood

on the steps where this morning a constable had barred my entrance. All was quiet now. The rain had ceased. Felix checked his hunter to confirm that we were on time and used the unicorn-head door knocker. Musket answered the door and smiled in recognition. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hunter-Payne.” “Good afternoon, Musket. I arranged with his lordship that I would return.” He nodded. “My master said to expect you.” Musket took us directly to the little parlour where I divested myself of my hat, umbrella, and overshoes. He took all three as well as Felix’s hat and gloves. “I trust Inspector Dundas interviewed you about Upper Brook Street,” I said to Musket. “He did, madam. He left directly to search the rooms.” “I’m sorry for the disruption you’re experiencing, Musket, but I fear I will impose on you some more. This is Mr. Felix Rider. With his lordship’s permission I’d like him to talk to the servants.” “If it will help the master we’ll assist all we can. My master has asked if you would be kind enough to wait for him in Lady Summerhayes’ withdrawing room. Please follow me.” He led us up the staircase to a room on the other side of the house from the séance room. It was a bright room with a tall window at the far end. The curtains were open, letting in the subdued afternoon light, and the glass doors opened onto a wide balcony. A chaise longue with a table next to it were on one side of the room facing a fireplace. On the opposite side was a long sideboard on which were arranged a number of framed pictures of a man through various stages of his life, from the nursery to a uniform. The subject was obviously Timothy Summerhayes, the boy sacrificed to the god of war. Felix went to examine some of the paintings lining the wall. Unlike the rest of the house there were no pictures depicting the war, but instead country scenes with a couple of portraits. One of a dashing man somewhere around the age of forty at the seaside, Lord Arthur Summerhayes, and it occurred to me that this room was where she could sit and better times. Lord Summerhayes entered the room, his face tired and drawn. “Mrs. Elizabeth

Hunter-Payne. Welcome again to my home.” “A pleasure, my lord.” I replied as he took my offered hand and kissed it. “May I introduce my associate, Felix Rider.” “Mr. Rider.” Felix bowed. “My lord.” I thought it best to quickly get to the point. “Is it possible for Mr. Rider to interview your servants?” Surprise crossed his lordship’s face. “Of course, of course. I’ll have Musket make one of the parlour rooms available.” “If I may, my lord,” Felix said, his voice respectful, though firm. “I would prefer, with your permission, to speak with the staff in the servant area. They will feel more at ease. I do not want to suggest that anyone is under suspicion. I’m only seeking information that may help the investigation.” “Oh, of course. Capital thinking. Capital.” He went to the wall and pulled on a cord. Musket returned, and after listening to his lordship’s instructions with a blank expression, led Felix out of the room. “Impressive fellow,” Lord Summerhayes said. “Knows his business I expect.” “He does and is most tactful and trustworthy.” I looked about. “Would Lady Summerhayes prefer to speak here or in the séance room?” “I’ve asked her to meet us here, if you don’t mind.” “Not at all.” “She is still shaken by what has occurred.” “Is she aware that I know about the blackmail note?” “She is.” “And that I know about Laird?”

He nodded as the door opened, and a blonde-haired woman in a beautifully embroidered lemon-coloured silk dressing gown entered. She held a lapdog in her arms. Phaedra Summerhayes was an attractive five and forty, possessing large pale blue eyes, and a sensuously shaped mouth. Her eyes, though red and puffy, were intelligent and cunning. She was at least twenty years younger than he. This was not uncommon and attracted little comment in society. If her son Timothy was nineteen or twenty at the time of his death, then Lord Summerhayes would have been an attractive forty-year-old when she married him. If I had not seen her, or heard him this morning when he gave up is most precious possession -- his honour -- to protect her from suspicion, I would have assumed it possible he’d been an aristocrat short of money, as so many seemed to be, and needed to marry into it, and her family, desperate to gain a title for their daughter, gladly acquiesced. Sadly I found that love matches were more common in sensation novels than real life. It was clear, though, that any assumption in that direction would have been incorrect. These two people were genuinely in love. As if to confirm my assessment she went directly to him, grasped his hand, and pressed herself to him, as if seeking protection. “My apologies for the intrusion, Lady Summerhayes.” She nodded, and clutched Jan, her Japanese Spaniel, to her breast as she sat on the chaise lounge. She reached out a hand for her husband to her. “I understand you need to investigate, and we need to clear this up as soon as possible. I can imagine the poisonous gossip that is being spread among our acquaintances. I am not disturbed on my . Who cares what my friends say over their tea, but what it means for Randolph is unable. His reputation, his club…” “Now, my dear. We’ll get through this unharmed. You’ll see.” “That I invited this calamity into our home by my wretched…” Her voice faltered as her glance had stopped on a framed picture of her son. She took a deep shuddering breath and collected herself. “I am to blame for this.” She looked at me with a fierce demanding expression. “You must help us, for Randolph’s sake.” “My dear, please do not distress yourself so. Mrs. Hunter-Payne is quite the dizzy. She’ll get to the bottom of it.”

“I’ll try my best,” I said. My words sounded hollow and weak against her allconsuming distress. I felt sorry for her. “I only have a few questions. His lordship has given me much already. The footman, Laird, may have fled to Upper Brook Street. Can you tell me about that house?” Her pale face reddened considerably. “It belongs to Lady Kellog, left to her by a distant aunt. She and her husband didn’t know what to do with it, and decided to rent it out to professional people, solicitors, doctors, and such. She kept one set of rooms on the third floor for our spiritualist meetings.” “How many people belong to The Square & The Circle?” “I don’t understand. What has that got to do with…” “Now my dear, do not distress yourself. Mrs. Hunter-Payne needs to get an overall picture of what is going on.” She took another long quivering breath. “Very well. It is a small group,” she explained. “Several of my friends and I. We were likeminded in our quest to have some …” She pushed a sodden handkerchief to her red button nose. “We live in squares,” she continued after a few moments. “Berkeley Square, Eton Square, and others. Séances are a circle of people holding hands.” “Oh, I see. I had wondered.” “We meet weekly to read the latest newsletters and discuss the nature of the spirit world. We wanted so very badly to our dear ones, but we are not fools, and we were careful not to be gulled. There are unscrupulous men, and women, who trick and exploit the vulnerable. We have nothing to do with them.” “Is it hard to tell the tricksters from the genuine?” “It is. We each vet the mediums before we recommend them to the rest of the group for them to assess. That way we are not taken in.” “Very sensible of you,” I said, glancing at his lordship. His gaze was fixed on his wife, adoring and full of concern. He wasn’t going to scoff at the idea of spiritualism in front of her, not out of fear, but from love. He was still besotted with her, even after two decades of marriage.

Though forthcoming about the society, she seemed to be holding something back, but I could not guess what. “And Laird accompanied you to the meetings?” “He was first footman,” she said defensively. “His duties included escorting me whenever I left the house, to assist me when shopping and protect me from ruffians in the street.” With a furtive glance to her husband, she added, “He would wait outside with the other footmen.” The truth hit me in the face. How could I be so obtuse? In all probability The Square & The Circle was more than a spiritualist society. It was a convenient place for bored ladies of quality to take their lovers where they would be safe. I needed to explore that no further. “It is the medium, Mr. Paladin, in which I am interested. Can you tell me what you know of him, and how he conducts his séances? How did you first learn of him?” “I first heard his name several months ago through the society. Maeve, that is Lady Aldershot, heard through one of her connections that Mr. Paladin had come to London.” “Where from?” She looked to the ceiling. “Portsmouth, I think. Or was it Bournemouth? Somewhere on the south coast. She heard that he was reliable. She made the with him and went to one of his public séances.” “Public? He has an audience?” “You misunderstand. These are small gatherings of up to ten people that he schedules bi-weekly at his home in Swinton Street. He performs other private sittings by arrangement.” “Oh, I see. Pray, go on.” “She arranged to attend one a few days later. She was very impressed. Their loved ones spoke to them through Mr. Paladin, telling them things about their life on Earth before they were taken away, and offered them assurances that they were now at peace.” “And your friend received such reassurance?”

“Mr. Paladin was not able to her brother. He explains it quite well, I think. He says spirits are not at his beck and call, they have their own duties in heaven, and do not make the difficult effort to appear just because he, or we for that matter, wish it. His controlling spirit, Mr. Paladin’s that is, is a soldier named Wally, a friend of his who was killed at the Battle of the Alma, like my Timothy. Mr. Paladin says he is a joker, hence the shenanigans with ectoplasm and the table rapping. His little joke, Mr. Paladin says.” “Did your friend eventually get to speak to her brother?” “She did. Her third visit was most gratifying. She said it was quite a moving experience. Her brother had been ed by Wally and so was able to make the effort to speak to her. He spoke through Mr. Paladin, not in his exact voice, of course, one would hardly expect that, but he spoke of things they had shared, little remembrances that were very accurate. Maeve came away quite enthralled. Of course, when I heard this I attended a public séance as soon as I could arrange it.” “And Mr. Paladin impressed you?” “Indeed. At the second séance he summoned Timothy for a short time, and it was wonderful. That convinced me to organise a séance here.” She grasped her husband’s hand. “I am so sorry I did that. With that decision I have brought calamity down upon us. Will you ever forgive me?” “There’s nothing to forgive, my darling. You are not at fault in any degree.” I left them a moment to themselves, for their mutual gaze was strong and complete. I was quite sure I did not exist for them during those moments. She truly was sorry for what had happened, but for her husband’s sake, not her own. Of that I was certain. “What did Timothy say?” I asked eventually. I couldn’t help myself. “Is he at peace?” I was thinking of my Jonathan, of course. She took a deep breath and dabbed away tears from her cheek. “Oh, yes indeed. He said he was happy, without vexation except what he sees in my heart. He told me to stop grieving for him. That when I ed I would understand the wonder of it all, and that his death at the Alma was a release into marvels I cannot yet imagine, but all would be revealed at its proper time. I was to live my life

complete, and not waste another moment in useless grief.” His lordship took her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “It was a marvellous thing for him to say, my dear.” She broke down, and buried her head in his shoulder, sobbing most pitifully. Jan the dog took this opportunity to leap from her lap and sat on the carpet looking up at her most piteously, whining as if it shared her broken heart. I looked away, embarrassed to be a witness to this moment of such personal exposure. I reflected on his words, Paladin’s or Timothy’s, it didn’t matter. I hoped that what he said about the afterlife was true. Who wouldn’t? Of course it was sheer fancy, but Paladin’s charade would have no harmful effects on the living, except the parting of a few guineas. As long as that was all they parted with. After a minute she had collected herself. I had intended to ask what her son had said that convinced her he was actually her son, but that moment had ed. I would not question her belief. That would only cause her to take umbrage, and so ruin any further cooperation. “Was there any indication that Mr. Gregson was in any difficulty?” “None at all. Mr. Paladin conducted the séance as he usually does. Wally was up to his tricks rapping on the table. The ectoplasm issued from Mr. Paladin’s mouth, and floated above the table like I had seen in the other seances, before it disappeared with a thump. It quite startles you, even if you had seen and heard it before.” Lord Summerhayes laughed. “That it did. You should have warned me, my dear. Even an old soldier like me jumped out my skin.” “Did the ectoplasm get anywhere near Mr. Gregson?” Lady Summerhayes shook her head. “It stayed hovering over the centre of the table. It did not approach any of us at all.” “How high was it above the table?” “Oh, only a foot, I should say. Am I right?”

Lord Summerhayes nodded. “Indeed. It seemed to come from Mr. Paladin’s face, zedded about a bit, small zigzags, slowly mind you, and went to the centre of the table, hovered there and then returned to Mr. Paladin. Then the table shook with an almighty thump, and the stuff disappeared.” “What exactly did it look like?” “Like a dim greenish mist,” he said. “It moved gently, folding in about itself, as if blown by some draught, but there was none in the room as the balcony doors were closed. Is that how you would describe it, my dear?” She nodded. “Mr. Paladin told us before not to put any store in it, it was just Wally’s little game. He was a trickster apparently, when he was alive, japing all the time, pulling tricks on his friends. Mr. Paladin was put out about it. He said it made a mockery of his séances, but he couldn’t control Wally, because Wally controlled him.” “How unnerving,” I said, for want of anything better. Paladin had not said any of this at the inquest. Probably to avoid scorn from an already sceptical room. “Was there anyone occupying the room next to the séance room?” “No, we were alone in the house except for staff, and Mrs. Paladin.” “And when you put the lights back on, my lord? What happened then?” “It was horrible,” Lady Summerhayes said. “We were all quite affected by what Timothy, and the Kellog’s boy had told us, and we were a little embarrassed for each other. Then Mr. Drake noticed there was something wrong. Mr. Gregson was leaning back in his chair, his face covered by slime that dripped off his chin onto his collar, and from his hair onto the carpet. I’m sorry to say I screamed in terror.” “It was a harrowing sight,” Lord Summerhayes agreed, gently patting his wife’s hand. “What happened next?” “Mr. Drake went to Mr. Gregson’s side. He looked over him, and then started scooping the slime out of his mouth.”

Lady Summerhayes buried her face into her husband’s chest again. “Most disturbing,” I said for want of anything intelligent to say. “May I ask what prompted your group, The Square & The Circle, to investigate Mr. Paladin?” Lady Summerhayes looked to her husband. “To be honest, it all seemed too good to be true,” she said. “The reports of his work were overwhelmingly positive. The society just wanted to be certain.” There was more to it than that, I was sure. I was equally certain she’d not tell me. “I understand. It was a very prudent move. How did the society hear of Mr. Drake?” “He approached us, I believe.” “I see.” Seemingly exhausted she fell back into her husband’s arms. “If that is all, I think I’ll retire.” “Yes, my dear.” So, Drake approached the society. On what basis I wondered had he convinced them to hire him to investigate Paladin. Lady Summerhayes’ trite explanation of why they decided to investigate Paladin rang hollow to me. There must have been more to it. Laird was probably pleasuring Lady Summerhayes, and possibly Lady Kellog as well at Upper Brook Street. I imagined lurid scenes of frantic copulation between the three of them. Were they being blackmailed because of it? Did they suspect Paladin? Had that motivated them to investigate him? But to what end? As a blackmailer he already had power over them. Had they planned to kill him, but then discovered Gregson was the blackmailer? I realised I knew absolutely nothing of the victim, the medium, or indeed, the investigator, Drake. I needed to know more.

Chapter Six I Consult a Medium

Do they have horses in heaven? Oh, to talk to my Jonathan again. The temptation to converse with my darling offered by the spiritualists was growing strong. Truly, though, what would I say to him? Should I apologise for the shameful things I have done since he died? it to the many rules of society I had broken, little though he himself had cared for them? Confess my sin of taking two lovers? Should I plead forgiveness for the lives I’ve put at risk, and for the ones I’ve taken? Or should I tell him how bereft I’ve been without him, how empty and forlorn? On that cold December night, as I sank to the bottom of the Thames, I welcomed death, because I wanted to be with Jonathan again. Desperately so. Everything I imagined saying to him sounded so pitiful; weak and feeble. He would not recognise me. Where was the girl who challenged him on horseback to jump the fallen oak? Or the girl who bandaged his bloody leg after that old boar had gored him? Or the brazen hussy who’d dragged him into the hayshed and clumsily deprived both of us our virginity? I decided I’d have to greet him like the day he’d returned from his first term at Oxford. It had been first time we’d been separated for any lengthy period since his boarding school days. I see him now, stepping down from the coach. We had stared at each other in silence for a full minute. Our eyes interrogating each other’s, testing if the other had changed. After that long silence, at the same precise moment, we had reached out for each other’s hands, our fingers entwining. Then, without either of us leading, we had gone to the stables, and saddled our horses. All without exchanging a word. We raced each other to the stream and without a word, despite the drizzling rain, we made love on the grassy bank beneath the sheltering branches of a willow tree. I hoped there were horses in heaven. “Miss?”

“Oh, Alf. I’m so sorry. Off in my own little world.” I handed him the medium’s card. He looked at it and handed it back. “Easy done, miss.” “What did you discover?” I asked Felix after Alf had closed the cab’s door. “Did you speak to all of the servants?” “I did,” he replied. “All expressed shock over a murder in their house. As you know, servants can be very protective over the reputation of their employers. All say they were ignorant of the crime until the alarm was raised. Most were asleep in their rooms, and therefore uned for, but for their roommate’s testimony, which is all but unverifiable, but for the strong advocacy of Musket, who insists everyone was where they should be.” “Tell me all.” “Cook kindly gave me a cup of tea and a buttered roll. While I ate she told me that Mrs. Paladin was, ‘a nice gal, quiet but friendly.’ She was with her the full time. Musket brought her down to the kitchen after she had got her husband settled at the séance table. They talked by the fireside as Cook prepared some sweets for after the séance. Mrs. Paladin even helped, but they were disturbed by the hullaballoo, and they all rushed up to see what it was about. She was very distraught about the murder, concerned that her husband had been injured. She was very upset, Cook said.” “Who else rushed up from the kitchen?” “Cook, the wife, kitchen and parlour maids, and Laird, the missing footman. Now there’s a randy bugger, if his reputation is anything to go by. He was caught by Cook herself feeling up the kitchen girl in the larder. She didn’t tell Musket because the girl has a history and was on a warning already and being a cunning old biddy, I’d wager she was keeping the knowledge to take future advantage of him, knowing Musket’s intolerance for that sort of thing. From Cook’s recollection during the séance he’d been in the kitchen polishing his lordship’s boots. He came and went a few times, but she was busy doing other things to notice how long he was absent. Neither the kitchen maid nor the parlour maid could say the footman was present the whole time, but that wouldn’t be unusual as he had other duties.”

I knew that would be the case. Laird would have all manner of minor responsibilities to occupy himself. “Anyone uned for?” “Lady Summerhayes’ maid said she was in the laundry washing her cap and unmentionables.” “They do their own laundry?” “They send it out, but she’d neglected to include some from their trip away. They’d been to Selsey for a few days the week previous so Lady Summerhayes could pay her respects at her sister’s grave. Musket was in his lordship’s room laying out his nightwear. The tweeny was asleep, dead on her feet, she said she was.” “Anyone know Laird’s current whereabouts, or any shenanigans with her ladyship or Lady Kellog for that matter?” “No idea where he’s gone, and none confided in me about him playing about with his betters.” Alf stopped the cab with a clank of gears and a whoosh of steam. The medium’s lodgings were in a modest building on Swinton Street. We were met at the door by a fresh-faced maid who asked us to wait in a small parlour. Mrs. Paladin was dressed soberly, again as if in mourning. Her haunted sorrowful eyes told of long suffering. She’d been crying. “Mrs. Elizabeth Hunter-Payne,” she said in a resigned tone. “Thank you for seeing me. As I mentioned this morning, I would very much like to attend one of your sittings.” She made no reply. “I it complete ignorance of spiritualism,” I continued. “My husband died in the Crimea, and for many months now I’ve had this ever growing feeling that Jonathan wanted to tell me something before he left, but sadly was unable to tell me before he was killed.” “Unfortunately we have no seats available for some time.”

“What a shame,” I said. The door opened suddenly, and Mr. Paladin wheeled himself in. “Tana, where is my…” His voice trailed away when he became aware of our presence. Mrs. Paladin immediately went to his side and wheeled him deeper into the room closer to the fire. In this setting he looked even more frail, if that was possible. She adjusted a tartan blanket over his knees. “I’m sorry for interrupting,” he said. “Mrs. Elizabeth Hunter-Payne, it is a pleasure to see you again.” “As it is mine. May I introduce my cousin, Felix.” “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “I was just explaining to Mrs. Paladin that I wish to talk with my husband who was killed in the Crimea.” His soft face remained ive. “Many of my brothers in that lamentable conflict use me as a conduit to speak to their loved ones.” “I understand you were in the war yourself and have close bond with the spirits of those who have ed.” He gazed steadily at me. “Since the inquest I have been thinking about you. Your name, Hunter-Payne. I once knew a Colonel Payne, though not very well. I met him outside Sebastopol. Would he be a…” My heart stopped. The room seemed to close in, the edges of my vision seemed to darken until the limit of my sight was circled around Paladin’s sightless eye. “Mrs. Hunter-Payne. Are you well? Tana. The smelling salts.” I shook my head to clear my vision and waved the away the offer of those pungent restoratives. “No. No. I am well. Thank you. You just surprised me, that is all. Tell me, please. Did you know my husband?” He sat back and closed his eyes. His expression relaxed and for a moment I thought him asleep. “Not intimately,” he began slowly. “I met him briefly on the

day of the last battle. At the Redan. I was a runner, taking messages from the commanders to the officers. I took Colonel Payne a message from brigade headquarters. A big meeting, all the commanders, French, Ottoman, and ours were in attendance. General Westmore himself gave the note.” The general! My heart skipped. “What did the note say?” I waited with my breath held. I knew so little of those last hours of Jonathan’s life. Archie’s recollections of that day were fragmented and confused. He could not much of their last day, except he and Jonathan had faced overwhelming odds, that Jonathan fought to the very end. He had mentioned no note. “Oh, I didn’t read it. Against regulations. There was no time in any case. The order to attack was due, and everyone was moving around like ants in a nest. I found the colonel at the forward trench, with his men, ready to advance at the signal that the French had achieved the Malakoff fort. Your husband read the note and cursed most colourfully, I recall. He initialled the note and sent me back. He addressed his second in command, then he and his man then went off down the trench alone following, I assumed, his new orders. I myself returned as ordered, but scarcely a minute later splinters from an exploding shell took me off.” In my mind’s eye I saw Jonathan and Archie running down a muddy trench, receding from me, until smoke obscured them from view. I must have fainted into my chair because the next thing I knew I had started awake, the sharp pungent stench of smelling salts in my nostrils. I was in Felix’s arms, my head against his chest, and he was stroking my hair. “Don’t move, just relax,” he said gently. “You’re safe. All is well.” It wasn’t. All was not well. “I am so sorry if my words have upset you, Mrs. Hunter-Payne.” Though groggy my mind was again working, and in my heart there was a tremendous desire to know more. “How was he? When you gave him the message. How did he appear?”

He gazed at me solidly for a few moments as if assessing if what he would say next was wise, helpful, or destructive. “I will be honest,” he said at last. “You must understand we were all the same. We had been in the trenches some considerable time under constant bombardment. Regardless of rank we were all dirty, foully begrimed, some splattered with blood, sometime our own. None of us had shaven for days, perhaps weeks, our hair was long and verminous. We stood ankle deep in human waste. We stank. I would like to say your husband was resplendent in his uniform, perfectly clean, his buttons shining, like in a painting in the London Gallery, but that would be a lie.” His expression was sad, his voice soft, apologetic, and a little ashamed. Archie too had been honest with me, and I knew that their situation and appearance had been appalling, that they had suffered terrible deprivations, but even by his , Jonathan was standing proud, unbettered, his attitude defiant as if the death and destruction around him had left him untouched in spirit, always a man of honour, the man I ed in my heart. Archie was young, he adored Jonathan, the father he never had, and I loved his young heart for wanting to spare me any suspicion that Jonathan may have succumbed to the hell around him. “I thank you, sir, for your honesty. It has come to me as a shock, that is all. It must be difficult for you to recount such horror.” He lowered his gaze. “Thank you for your concern. It is difficult, as you say, but for me, somehow it helps.” “I have searched for people who knew my husband in those last few months, but without success.” He nodded. His face was dark now, as if he was reliving those awful days. “The officers, brave men all, perished in great numbers. Captain Preston of the 90th, and his Lieutenants Swift and Wilmer, Major Welsford, Captain Hammond, Colonel Handcock of the Perthshire’s, and poor Colonel Eman, all most grievously killed. In my humble role I had taken orders from the tent to them all, spoke with them a little, not much given my station, but shared observations of the weather and such, and they would have known and spoken with your husband of matters of much greater import.” His voice quavered. “But they were men, good men, and they are all gone now, cut down by grape shot, ball and

splinters, and at the end it was hand to hand, bayonets and gun stocks. Brave men all, who deserved more from life.” His feeble body collapsed even farther into his chair. I took a deep breath to steady my heart and my voice. “That is why I need you, sir. Desperately. I need to know that he is reconciled with his life and his death, that he is at peace.” “If it is in my power, madam, then you shall have it. It will be my honour to assist you in any manner I may. I cannot guarantee , but God willing he will speak to you, and give you what solace he may.” I took his hand. “Thank you, sir. Oh, thank you.” “I must warn you, however. At the next séance I intend to ask my spirit control why Mr. Gregson died. I cannot predict what may transpire. If you wish to delay your sitting, I fully understand.” “Not at all. I hope you find the answers you are looking for, as I may find mine.” “Then it’s settled. Tana will give you the details.” He sighed and his body seemed to deflate. “I am tired. My wounds.” “I am sorry you are suffering,” I said. “You carry it with great dignity.” He gave me a gentle smile. “I suffer more than some, but less than most. I consider my infirmities to be part of my journey to a greater understanding. I believe it is my wounds that have opened up the spirit world to me, or at least given them access to our world, something normally impossible to achieve.” “However it is done, I am grateful for you,” I said, clasping his hand. Tana finalised the arrangements for the next sitting. I thanked her profusely. “It is my husband you should thank,” she said coldly. “I fear for his health. Each séance leaves him weaker. I fear I shall lose him soon if he does not stop.” “I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “Truly, I am. Perhaps you can persuade him to give fewer sittings.”

Her tone softened. “I’ve tried. He believes he has a duty before he es to connect as many people as possible to their loved ones. It is his calling, he says.” “Before we go, ever since the inquest I have been thinking about the murder. Can you think of any explanation for Mr. Gregson’s death?” Her answer was immediate. “It was done to ruin my husband and destroy him.” “Who by?” “The Square & The Circle,” she said. “Why would they do such a thing?” “They seek to discredit my husband. Their instrument was that man Drake. He is an investigator. He did it.” “How dastardly,” I said. I took her hand. “I’m sure your husband will be vindicated. He is a good man.” She showed us to the door and slammed it behind us. “You are a convincing actress, Elizabeth,” Felix said after Alf had set the cab in motion. I looked out the window and recall little of what I saw. The air was still and chilled my breath frosting in front of my face, fogging the glass. I closed my eyes for a moment. “He was very convincing.” “I think he believes he has supernatural powers, certainly. A result of his head injury do you think?” “Perhaps, but he knows how to grasp the innermost feelings of the bereaved, and tug at them most touchingly. Assuredly our desire, our pitiful need for reassurance does most of the work for him.” “I’ve seen many bubblers in my time,” Felix said. “Cheaters, in the cant of the street. The successful ones have charisma and display earnest consideration of their mark’s affairs. This Paladin is a master of the trade.”

“You’re not a believer, then?” He shook his head. “I’ve seen too many people cheated of their life’s earnings by such as he.” “Grieving makes us gullible, I’m afraid.” “Do you think he really met your husband?” “His stating so many names gives his claims a certain ring of authenticity, and a strong dose of poignancy. Jonathan wrote to me mentioning some of those men. That’s what gripped my heart, the possibility that he had seen Jonathan in those last minutes of his life. However, those names are well-known to anyone with a knowledge of the war. I’ll ask the general,” I replied. “I doubt Paladin is his real name, though. He needs some investigating.” “I’ll start work immediately on his background. Has Archie told you of his idea?” “What is it?” “As you know, he grew up on the streets, and says there is a kind of telegraph without wires, a web of communication that links the four corners of the city. A rumour can start in Mayfair at breakfast time, and before sunset it has travelled the breadth of the city and the sailors of Gravesend speak of it. It is street people themselves that sing without wires. Archie proposes to tap into this web. You would have noticed a paper boy who has his patch outside our office?” “I have.” “Archie offered him a sixpence for information about a person of interest in one of our cases. It was a test of sorts, as we already knew the answer to the question. It took that boy a scant two hours to come back with the correct information, and a little more besides that we did not know at the time, but have since confirmed.” “Archie thinks we can use this resource?” “He does. I too have s still at the Lavender Club. It’s under new management now, no less venal, but on the quiet I may be able to use this web of

information.” I gripped his hand, knowing how difficult that would be for him. “Be careful.” “We will ensure we are not party to any criminal activities, but paying for information may advance our investigations. At the very least point us in the right direction.” “It sounds an excellent idea,” I said. “We will be discreet. A ive receiver of information only. We will choose our s carefully and entail their silence. We do not want it known generally, as that will entice those trying to gull us.” “As long as we do not fall for indiscriminate or vexatious gossip mongering.” “For people who use false names it may be our only way of finding the truth behind their activities.” We discussed the advantages and dangers of Archie’s idea some more before Alf delivered me home. I agreed that this case may provide a convenient opportunity to put Archie’s web to the test. That night Vladimir did not pay me a visit, instead I suffered nightmares of Paladin handing my beloved husband the note that would see him to his doom. I awoke screaming.

Chapter Seven Painful Secrets

Aviatrix crashes in London Daring female parachutes to safety Three injured in front parlour as flaming wreckage destroys house So went the column headlines on page one of The Times. The unidentified female pilot had, according to the journalist, valiantly steered her stricken craft away from St. Paul’s in an attempt to land in Regents Park. She jumped from the aircraft at the last minute to parachute to safety. She was last seen limping away from the scene before boarding a Cumberland cab, which transported her away before authorities could question her. There was a description of the aviatrix which seemed to me to be somewhat familiar. That thought galvanised my thinking. I had been putting off the decision all morning, and after rushing through breakfast and quickly dressing I asked Alf to take me to the general’s Mayfair address. My thoughts were in a state of turmoil. What Paladin had said to me resonated discordantly with what Vladimir had told me on the docks during our fateful encounter. Could I believe either of the s of Jonathan’s last minutes? Probably not. Only the general could be the arbiter of truth, yet I had delayed taking him into my confidence for I feared what he might say. Bolton, the general’s butler, greeted me with a smile and bade me welcome. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, Bolton, but I need to speak with the general urgently. Is he in?” “He is, Mrs. Hunter-Payne. I’ll take you directly to him. He is in the library.” Bolton announced me at the library door. The general rose from his high-backed leather chair and came to greet me, holding his one remaining arm out to me. The other had been lost at Waterloo.

I kissed him on both cheeks. “Thank you for seeing me,” I said. “Not at all, my dear. My morning is free. You’ve come at the right time. I’ve just finished a report to offer at an audience with the Queen this afternoon.” He led me to a chair by the fire and offered me a sherry as I sat and arranged the grey-black folds of my dress. “As the Queen’s spymaster, I imagine you have a lot of reports to make.” He chuckled as he made our drinks. “Is this one about Miss Clayton’s fiery crash?” “Ha!” He chuckled. “Perceptive as always.” “What happened?” “This is top secret, my dear. Miss Clayton’s aircraft was shot down by a Russian pilot who was trying his best to shoot down an airship over London.” It took me a moment to take in the horror of what he was saying. I had seen for myself the damage a single small aircraft can make to a city street. I could not imagine the death and destruction resulting from a great airship plummeting from the sky. Thank God, Miss Clayton had prevailed. “And the Russian?” “Wounded. He fled but crashed into the channel. Miss Clayton saved many lives.” “Is she well?” “Sprained ankle, and a bullet grazed her cheek.” “My God!” “She was extremely lucky. The bullet which touched her went on to strike her aircraft’s boiler.” “Is it true she steered the craft away from St. Paul’s?”

He nodded. “Tried for the park and stayed to the last moment before she jumped out.” “I didn’t even know she could fly one of those things.” “She has many talents.” He handed me my drink. “Now, Elizabeth, you didn’t come this morning to enquire about Miss Clayton. I can tell.” His eyes twinkled. His voice was warm, and reassuring. “What’s troubling you?” I took a deep breath. “Yesterday I attended the inquest in the séance murder.” “Ah, I see. Lord Summerhayes took my advice to seek you out.” “He did. It is a most perplexing case.” He took the chair facing me. He held up his glass. “To Jonathan.” It was our custom to toast my dear Jonathan whenever we could. It was an enduring sign of our mutual connection. The sherry gave me the fortitude that had been draining from me the moment I knocked on his door. “Actually it is Jonathan I wish to speak about.” “What is it, Elizabeth?” The moment had come. “What was Jonathan actually doing in the Crimea?” There must have been something in my tone that gave him pause. I tried to stay neutral, but I fear my voice was sharper than I intended. He downed his sherry in one gulp and went to the drinks table. He took some time extracting the stopper from the brandy decanter. He poured two glasses. He turned and held one out to me. I declined. He returned it to the table and resumed his seat. “What makes you ask?” There was a fragility in his voice that I had never heard before. This man, veteran of Waterloo, confidant of the Queen, and mentor to my Jonathan, had in my eyes always been the epitome of wisdom, strength and honour. He had never faltered. I loved him as a father.

“He wasn’t simply a soldier, was he?” He took a sip. “Jonathan was never simply anything.” The prevarication irritated me. I continued. “The Queen told me when I met her at Balmoral that she had watched his career. It struck me as a great honour at the time, that our sovereign noticed my husband who had given his life to her. It didn’t occur to me till much later that her interest was a little” -- I searched for a suitable word -- “odd.” “In what way?” I didn’t want to challenge him on this. I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, but I couldn’t stop now. I had to know. “The Queen taking a particular interest in an undistinguished colonel? That is not usual, surely, unless there was a reason she would pay him particular attention.” He swallowed his brandy and slowly put down the glass. He leaned back in his chair. “I’d spoken to Her Majesty many times about Jonathan. She knew I considered him to be like a son.” “She said as much.” His eyes had become watery. “Then --” I cut him off. Unconscionably rude, but I was a like a ratter tearing after my prey. “She spoke of him while asking me to take on her commission.” I paused on the precipice. “Was Jonathan one of her agents?” He took a deep quavering breath, and when he exhaled it seemed his whole body deflated. A tear formed, and suddenly there was a rivulet running down his wrinkled cheek. His lips trembled, and he looked to the fireplace. “Yesterday I met with a man named Paladin. He said he was at Sebastopol. He was a runner, taking messages from the tent to officers at the front, in the trenches.” He had looked up at me sharply when I used the word tent. It must have been slang or code. “What did he say?”

“Do you recall his name?” He shook his head. “There were many runners.” “He said that on the day of the attack on the Redan, he took a message from you to Jonathan. Jonathan read it and was very angry at its import. He left command of his men to his second, something he would have only done in the direst of circumstances. Then he and Archie went off into the smoke and fire. Why did you order him to leave his men?” The general’s face had frozen into a rictus of horror. It was, I imagined, the look one would give as the past, always nipping at one’s heels, finally got a grip on the ankle, and began to pull one down. “Forgive me, Elizabeth,” he said finally, after a long moment, his voice soft and shaky. I knelt in front of him and took his hand. “Of course. Without question. I forgive you, for whatever it is. It is just that I must know.” He squeezed his eyes shut and the rivulet became a stream. His thin body began to shake. He began mewling like a wounded animal. The sound cut through me like a knife. His sobs wracked his old soldier’s body as if to shatter him into a million pieces. I took him into my arms, rocking him gently like a child, smoothing the thin strands of hair, whispering. “Shush. Now, now.” After a minute he regained control of himself. The sobs slackened and his body relaxed as he gave a great shuddering sigh. A deep breath filled his chest and he sat ramrod straight. He raised his head. “I apologise, my dear.” I kissed his wet cheek. “It is me who should apologise. I had no right.” He grasped my hand and squeezed it, so tight he made me wince. “You have every right.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I have feared this day. Every day of my life. I hoped I would be dead before you had reason to ask it of me.” “Tell me, and you will fear it no longer.” “I doubt that. My despair has only just begun, for with this knowledge you will

despise me.” “Never.” “You don’t understand.” He leaned away from me, took a deep breath and fixed me in his tear-filled gaze. “I am the cause of all your woe, my dear Elizabeth. I sent him to his death. Our Jonathan. It was me. My orders. Elizabeth, my darling child. If not for me he would be here with you today.” My mind roiled with a maelstrom of emotions I could not identify. I returned his watery gaze. The abysmal silence broken only by the hollow ticking of the clock. “It was war,” I heard myself saying. “You were doing what had to be…” He shook his head to silence me. “It won’t do, Elizabeth. It won’t do. I have no defence, my dear. I blundered. My arrogance killed him. I played blind hookery with our boy’s life, and he paid.” “Tell me, then, make me understand. What has Vladimir to do with it?” His jaw dropped in bewilderment. “Vladimir?” “On the dock, just before he shot me, Vladimir said that he knew of Jonathan, had met him, at Sebastopol. That Jonathan was a deserter, a traitor.” “That is a damned lie!” “Then what was he talking about?” “Vladimir lies. That is his stock and trade.” His voice was stronger now. He was in command of himself once more. “I ordered Jonathan to a Russian scientist who wished to come over to our side. I sent Jonathan to a specific location away from the Redan to safely extricate him.” His face set as if made of stone. “It was a trap.” I imagined the scene. Amidst a bloody battle, where Jonathan should have been focussed on leading his men, being distracted by their need to find this Russian. Tears flowed hot and salty as I imagined he and Archie running headfirst into an ambush.

“A trap? I don’t understand. Why would they want to trap Jonathan?” “Jonathan was my intelligence handler in the front lines. Had been throughout the war. That is how the Queen learned his name. You see, we had a spy, several in fact, in the Russian command. One in particular was very well placed. He communicated with us through a sophisticated system. I won’t go into details, they are banal, but the spies would leave messages for Jonathan which he then relayed to me.” I couldn’t imagine how difficult or dangerous that would be. “And they found out about it and set the trap.” He nodded. “When he ed us to say that he was under suspicion, and needed to escape, of course I believed it, everything else he had told us had been true. If we could get him out safely he would be a treasure trove of information.” He bowed his head. “I was overconfident, you see. I ordered Jonathan into the thick of it to rescue him. They wanted to kill our man to send us a message. Jonathan was that man. He died because I took a risk.” He stopped and took a deep shuddering breath. “You see, the spy had a code word to inform us if he was sending a message under duress, that if they were forcing him to send false information. I had insisted on it. If caught his life was already forfeit, he knew that. He would not ask to be saved if he was already caught. That code word was not used, so I blundered ahead. The coordinates he supplied were precise and the plan feasible. I was carried away with the coup this would have been. My hubris failed our poor Jonathan.” “It wasn’t your fault,” I repeated. “Jonathan trusted me. He would not have left his men for anyone else. Only me. He trusted me.” “As I do. You were right to send him. Who else could you trust with such an important mission? Who but Jonathan could you rely on to succeed?” “Every night I relive that moment, writing the orders that sent him to his death. I call out in the night, rescinding the order, calling him back, but Jonathan doesn’t hear me. He never hears me.” “No more,” I said. “No more dreams.”

“No. No more dreams.” His voice sounded strangely final. “Vladimir. Was he there, at Sebastopol?” “I don’t know.” “Could he be the spymaster who bested you?” “He could have been. I don’t know.” “I think he was. Vladimir must have caught your spy, and with his powers of mesmerism had him send that last message to you, without the code that signified he had been captured.” “Perhaps.” He gripped my hand. “Jonathan was not a deserter. What Vladimir said to you is a lie. A damned lie!” “I know it. That’s not what I feared. I feared it was Vladimir who was responsible for Jonathan’s death. It explains his perverse interest in me.” The image returned of Vladimir standing before me on the London Docks, aiming his gun at my head. Of all moments, standing in the snow, his plot foiled, and agents closing in, he chose to taunt me with lies about Jonathan. Why would he do that? It seemed to me that he was enjoying some perverted thrill of not just killing the husband, but destroying his wife’s memory of him as well. As Vladimir spewed his foul lies, I plunged my swordstick into his chest, and he had shot me. We both plunged into the dark polluted waters of Father Thames, and despite my best efforts to drown him he had escaped, calling “Dasvidaniya,” as he pulled down the hatch of his submarine -- until next time. Something hardened inside me, like a stone, cold and heavy. “If he still lives I vow to destroy him. Nothing on Earth or in Heaven will prevent me.” The general made no response. He appeared broken, his eyes empty. I was horrified at the sight. I had done that to him. My precious need to know had exposed a secret he had tried to keep buried for all this time. I had winkled it out of him, relentlessly picking away at the old wound, not caring what it meant to him to have his fatal misjudgement exposed. I went cold at the thought that honourable old soldiers like him had a way of

dealing with personal failure. I didn’t want the general to take that step. He meant too much to me, and Jonathan. “I need you.” I took his wet face in my hands and forced him to meet my gaze. “Will you help me? We must make him pay.” He nodded. “We will make a covenant,” I said earnestly. “Say it with me. We will make him pay. You and I.” His voice faltered, so I made him say it again, his voice sounding stronger by the third repetition. I left him sitting stock-still before the fire, repeating our pact in a distant, dried-out voice. Before departing I told Bolton his master had had a shock, and to send word to the palace that he was indisposed and was unable to attend his meeting with Her Majesty. Lastly I ordered him to secure any weapons that were about the house. Bolton raised his eyebrows at that, but realised well enough what I meant. “It will be done,” he assured me.

Chapter Eight Like Can Tell Like

Like boiling tar, hatred bubbled and roiled within my heart. Following the struggle at the docks, I had resolved, heart and soul, to hunt Vladimir down and silence him forever. If it were possible this morning’s revelations had deepened that resolve, had transformed it into an obsession, the sole purpose of my life. Vladimir must be destroyed. Every breath I took from now on would be dedicated to that end. Nothing would dissuade me, distract me, or deter me. The weak platitudes that I had fed myself over the last few weeks; let it be, turn the other cheek, let the desire for revenge die, and instead dedicate myself to love, and living a fulfilling life, all fell away like drifts of black snow from the eaves. I needed someone to talk to, someone to understand. But who? I quickly dismissed my circle of confidants. I couldn’t burden Archie with this. He had gone through enough in his young life for me to take him back into the trenches. He had rebuilt his life. I could not drag him back into the mud and blood. I just couldn’t. I had lost the intimacy of Felix and Baudry. I’d just destroyed my mentor, the general, with my selfish badgering, and Miss Clayton was somewhere convalescing after her battle in the sky over London. I suddenly realised how few friends I had. Not for the first time I found myself wallowing in self-pity, the comfortable refuge in which I languished for years after Jonathan had been killed. Though I exchanged a cheery pleasantry with Alf and used my limbs to climb down from the cab and walk to my precious Investigation Bureau, my mind was numb. To compound my sense of desolation, Archie and Felix were out. The day log that Archie kept, to record their movements in case anyone went missing, told me they were following up the names I had given Felix yesterday. I sat before the fire, calming myself, pushing away the thoughts of the general being bested by Vladimir, and how he’d been gulled into sending my Jonathan to his death. I was in a low state, and perhaps it is unsurprising that I found myself

walking down the corridor to Baudry’s rooms. Perhaps I thought I could salvage something. I do not know what I was thinking, such was my despair. His door was locked. A sign said that Dr. Baudry was away and that a locum, Dr. Mathews would be in attendance from tomorrow until further notice. I ed the information with a dull sluggish heart. I returned to my office, cold and empty. I had lost him. For whatever reason, be it sending his sister to the gallows, or confessing during my delirium of my arrangement with Felix, or my misguided rejection of him; whatever the cause he was lost to me now. He had gone away. The luxury of self-indulgent weeping was denied me as the door I had just closed opened again, and Felix and Archie rushed in, full of excitement. At first I listened with half an ear as they recounted their discoveries, but the import of the information quickly drew me in. Laird’s body had been pulled from the water at St. Paul’s Pier. He’d been stabbed with a long thin blade, according to our at the morgue. The footman’s body had been dumped into the Thames. Archie had asked his street s for word to be ed around the mudlarks upriver from there. So far nothing useful had been learned, apart from a few descriptions of a toff, a finely dressed man in a top hat and with a silver-handled cane in the vicinity of Horseferry Steps near Lambeth Bridge. Men dressed like that were common. Archie was hopeful the mudlarks, usually children who scrounged a living in the filthy muck, and who seldom talk to the police, would, for a sixpence, provide us with the information we needed. Felix had learned from the local prostitutes that the house on Upper Brook Street was a house of assignation, under the guise of a spiritualist society. They told him their suspicions had been roused from what dripped from the loose tongues of various servants that attended the meetings. The raid by Inspector Dundas, his informants told him, had netted a box of letters which his constables had carried away. I tried to put it all into perspective. What did I know? Lady Summerhayes was having an affair with the footman. The note said it, and his lordship confirmed it. The supposed blackmailer was killed in his house. But was he the blackmailer? Only the note said that. Another note, anonymous this time, had been sent to

Scotland Yard throwing suspicion onto Lady Summerhayes. That clearly suggested a plot by someone to discredit the couple. In any case, I could not believe either of the Summerhayes could have committed the murder. First, why do it in their own home? Surely they could have killed him anywhere in London. Their home would be the last place they would choose. So, someone wanted Gregson dead, and wanted the Summerhayes suspected of the deed. The fact that the jellyfish had been placed in the room before the séance suggested a premeditated act, requiring planning and subterfuge. The flask that once held laudanum in Gregson’s pocket could have been placed there by the killer to mask the fact that the drink Gregson consumed shortly before the séance contained an unhealthy dose of the soporific. Who planned this crime? An outsider with access to a first-floor room? While possible, there was no evidence an outsider climbed the ivy to the balcony and somehow let themselves into the séance room. Laird the footman was an obvious suspect, and his murder suggested he was working for someone else who was cleaning up loose ends. Why would he kill Gregson? If not for himself, then for who? If the note was authentic, and Gregson was a blackmailer, then who else could he have been blackmailing? Lord and Lady Kellog? Other of The Square & The Circle? The Paladins? Victor Drake? The Paladins would not have him killed during a séance as that would only serve to attract attention to them. But The Square & The Circle had hired Drake to investigate Paladin. That was a motive, for certain. But did he do it? Weak and restricted to a wheeled chair Paladin could have suborned Laird to commit the murder for him. But why choose the séance? Why choose that house? I blew out my cheeks in frustration. Perhaps it was a mistake. Gregson had not been the target at all, but Drake. He threatened the Paladins’ reputation. Was it possible the footman entered the room in the dark, and in the dark had killed the wrong man? I counted the Paladins as one, but perhaps I shouldn’t. Could Gregson have been blackmailing Mrs. Paladin and she had the footman kill him? But there was no obvious connection between her and the footman. Or perhaps she arranged the murder to discredit her husband’s séances so he would give up the trade. No, that was ridiculous. There was a risk he would be hanged for murder. Perhaps that was it, she was having an affair with Laird, and this was an opportunity to remove her sick husband. No, that was just as ridiculous, Mr. Paladin was dying. She had only to

wait for nature to take its course. I was going round in circles. It was all very exasperating. I came out of my thoughts noticing that both Felix and Archie were studying me most attentively. I apologised and explained my twisted notions. We discussed them from every angle imaginable, and I hit upon a plan. “It’s all a tangle now, and to move things along, I’ll propose to have Paladin’s next séance at the Summerhayes’ house, like before. He wants his spirits to solve the crime, let’s give him the opportunity at the very scene. Perhaps your mudlarks can come up with something with which I can trap him. Get me a telegram book.” I sent telegrams to Paladin, Lord Summerhayes, Lord Kellog, and Inspector Dundas recommending a séance at the Summerhayes’ residence. I used slightly different explanations to each and invoked the inspector’s authority to ensure compliance. That done I thanked Archie and Felix for their commendable work and that they were to keep me informed if anything more came to light. I was going home. I left the building and entered what seemed a fairyland of bright sunshine. The air, though bitterly cold, for the first time in months seemed fog-free and clear. Instead of turning left and securing Alf’s cab to go home I made my way to the park. There were many people taking advantage of the unexpected mid-winter sun. Parasols were abundant, women walked in bright dresses and governesses supervised laughing children glad to be outside. I saw many couples, arm in arm, talking, laughing. I felt so alone. My desperate need for someone returned. Someone to fill the void Baudry had left in my heart. On impulse I hailed a Cumberland cab and showed the driver Victor Drake’s card. Throughout the journey I thought of his manliness, his towering bulk, those penetrating eyes. My body was aflame when the cab stopped in front of his house. An irresistible force controlled me, and I had willingly surrendered to it. Lust had become my puppet master. My thumping heart hammered a discordant beat in my chest as I knocked. The door opened to reveal an anvil-faced man who considered me sternly for a moment. “My name is Elizabeth Hunter-Payne. Is Mr. Drake in?”

He stepped away allowing me to enter. The hallway was bare of any furniture save a hat and umbrella stand. In it was a collection of umbrellas and canes. As he took my coat, hat, and gloves, I studied the single portrait of a strikingly beautiful young woman. She was perhaps not yet twenty, her fair hair was loose and draped over her shoulder in a provocative manner that suited her mischievous expression. She seemed vaguely familiar. I wondered who she was, and it came to me suddenly that the eyes, the general shape of the face, and the well-defined cheekbones belonged to Victor Drake. A relative, I surmised. The style of portrait and the clothes suggested the painting was several decades old. His mother, perhaps. The painting was unsigned. The servant jolted me out of my study of the painting. “If you will follow me, madam.” He led me down a tiled hallway to a staircase. On the first floor he led me into a dimly lit study with only a single lamp and a flickering fire. “Mrs. Elizabeth Hunter-Payne.” Drake’s voice was as thick as honey. He strode toward me, his hand outstretched. “You came.” His surprising welcome quickened my beating heart. “I was expected?” “Forgive me,” he said kissing the hand I offered. His lips warm against my skin. “I had the presumption to wish that you would come to see me. So I made myself available.” He did not release my hand. He gazed down at me from his great height, his expression expectant, letting me make the first move. My body was hot, and I knew my face to be most shamefully flushed. I had a moment of doubt. Why had I come here? A stupid thought. It was obvious. Why play coy with this man, or myself for that matter? Damn me! I needed a man. A stranger. Him. When I spoke my voice was low, husky. “A friend of mine said to me that like recognises like. I’ve realised that was true when we met at the inquest. Was I correct? Are we alike?” His lips curled into a knowing smile. “I saw you, noticed you, sensed something about you,” he said in a similarly low and throaty voice. “That is why I introduced myself to you so boldly.” He led me deeper into his room. We stood in front of the fire, letting it warm away the chill. Our gaze held tight, like two struggling swimmers locked

together as we sank into the depths of desire. “What are we to do?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper. “I am a widower,” he said unexpectedly. “My wife was killed in India.” “I’m sorry,” I mumbled uncertainly. “I am a conventional man,” he said. “I thought you should know that I am not betraying anyone.” “I am a widow,” I said, and thought also of Baudry and Felix, both now lost to me. “I am not betraying anyone either.” He kissed my hand again, without taking his eyes off mine. “My bedroom is through here.” “Then we should retire to it,” I replied. He opened a door onto a long room, comprised of a sizeable dressing room separated from the bedroom proper by a large couch and several armchairs. It was simple in its masculinity, comprised of spare furnishings in heavy oak; a washstand by the windows, a closet, and a writing desk. A display cabinet was mounted on a wall filled with daggers and swords of various types. On the mantelpiece were a number of old framed pictures of a woman, the same woman as downstairs. In some she wore an Indian costume, a sari, and in the background were Indian temples. In one she was at an easel painting a small boy. A warm fire filled the room with a soft amber glow. The smell of tobacco permeated the air. At the far end of the room was a large bed with plain coverings. He pulled me toward it. I pulled my hand free to open my reticule, and after rummaging around for a few moments finally extracted a small envelope bearing the product name: Cumberlands. “These are new, from Cumberland Manufacturing,” I explained, gazing into the deep pools of his eyes. “They are the latest in prophylactics. I’m told you are not even aware that you are wearing it.” He smiled knowingly. “I will, on the condition that you apply it?” I had no time to even formulate a reply. His lips were upon mine, his hands holding me firm by the shoulders. The kiss dissolved any lingering uncertainty. I

wanted this; needed this. We undressed each other in a rushed, almost frantic endeavour to be naked. During the unbuttoning, unlacing, and peeling away of each other’s clothing I recalled Miss Clayton’s description of how Fleur Cumberland applied the prophylactic to Agent Jackson’s cock in a most lewd, but provocative fashion. At last we were naked. I felt dwarfed by his physique, towering over me, enveloping me in his strong arms. The firelight flickered over his tanned flesh like lightning across the water. Drake’s body was something to behold; firm musculature bulging everywhere. My gaze traced the undulating topography like an airship pilot looking for a place to land until a feature, like a jagged cleft in a hillside made me gasp in surprise. It was scar tissue, lines of now closed fissures that crisscrossed his chest, punctuated by circular scars. He had no nipples, only scars where they should have been. He noticed my reaction, and his exploration of my breasts paused. He took my hand and pressed my fingers against the scars. “I was wounded at the very beginning of the Indian mutiny,” he said. “Taken prisoner by a particularly brutal man who enjoyed torture.” He motioned to the display cabinet. “He employed a number of blades to inflict different sorts of pain. He was an artist in agony.” “My God! I’m so sorry that happened to you.” He shrugged. “I lived.” “How did you escape?” “He kept me alive for a very long time, each day enjoying the flowering of my pain like a conscientious gardener cultivates his roses, snipping here, slicing there. I became his obsession. That was his mistake. He kept me too long.” His tone was flat, emotionless, and I wondered what horrors it disguised. “When the chance presented itself I escaped. I took his life, as well as his treasure, which allows me to now live free and independently.” “Do your wounds give you any trouble?” He flexed his arm, showing off the huge biceps. He laughed at my wide-eyed reaction. “If ever I have the need, I can gain employment in a circus as a

strongman.” My laughter turned into a giggle as he swept one arm under my legs, and ing my shoulders lifted me high into the air. He carried me, quickly sidestepping the couch and brought us to his bed. He dropped me onto the soft mattress. With limbs akimbo I squealed like I was a girl of sixteen again and couldn’t stop laughing. He ed me in the bed, wrapped his arms about me and kissed me, urgently, stifling any sound from me other than welcoming moans of desire. “I notice you have scars of your own,” he said after he ended the kiss. “A few,” I itted, trying to match his nonchalance. “My ear was shot off, my nose broken numerous times, and I was stabbed three times.” “Not that long ago, I see.” “A few months.” “You were lucky. Just a half inch to the side and the blade would have severed your artery and you would have bled to death in just a few minutes.” “I don’t know if luck had much to do with it. I bartered with a killer who saved my life.” “There is a story there, I wager.” “For another time.” “The blackguard who did these things?” “Several blackguards. All but one dead.” He cupped my chin and brought my face up to gaze into his eyes. “How did you say it before? Like knows like. It seems it is true.” He kissed me, hard. His lips crushed mine, working against them fiercely, opening them to allow his tongue, like a conqueror, to invade and occupy my mouth. His firm hands covered my breasts, squeezing them fiercely. Then one hand slid down my belly to between my legs.

“You are wet with wanting,” he said. “I am hard with equal wanting. Do what you need for us to fuck. Do it now, or I swear I’ll take you as you are.” I opened the packet and extracted the tissue-thin ring of rolled rubber. It weighed less than a feather and was thinner even than the ones made out of skin used by Felix and Baudry. I put the rubber between my lips and was surprised at the minty taste -- the Cumberlands thought of everything. I drew in my breath. The sheath inflated a little inside my mouth and bowing my head I placed my lips over the head of his cock. Lowering my head I used my lips to unravel the French letter over his shaft, taking his cock deep into my mouth. His hands gently pressed the back of my head, holding me still, then pushing me farther down. My eyes teared up as he went deeper into my throat. My gag reflex began, and he released his pressure for a moment before pushing my head back down over his rigid flesh. The forcefulness of his actions took my breath away. I was completely in his control, a development I found both disturbing and exhilarating. His demanding hands pushed my head back and forth over his cock. Suddenly he pushed me away, onto my back, and like a beast pounced. His large body moved with economy, spreading my legs without effort, his hard member pushing past my wet lips driving into me with one solid thrust. I gasped, and grunted as he claimed me, his cock like a pile driver, spearing me to my core. I heard myself crying out in sheer animalistic pleasure, gasping with each assault, grunting as he reached my depths, then trying to prevent his withdrawal by wrapping my calves about his buttocks. He was too strong for me, and he plundered me like a machine. I grasped his strong arms, bracing myself against the next onslaught. The bed creaked below me as he drove me into the mattress. My climax was almost instant, no time for the gradual building to ecstasy I was used to with Felix or Baudry, but a sudden ascension and fall. My quim clenched around his shaft as he continued its relentless piston-like action. Another climax followed, then another. I was screaming, hardly able to breathe as another paroxysm claimed me. I was quivering, shaking uncontrollably. I opened my eyes to watch him as he fucked me. He was looking down at me, his eyes ablaze, his mouth set in a determined grimace as his pelvis continued to thrust, his thighs slapping against mine like the sound of a washerwoman’s paddle beating a wet sheet. I had no time to laugh at the ridiculous analogy as another climax claimed me, and as I screamed he threw his head back and

growled like a beast. Suddenly he was still, holding his cock deep inside me. I could feel his thick shaft pulsing. Eventually he lowered himself onto me, then rolled away. His chest heaved as he caught his breath. With my body vibrating with the dying notes of pleasure, I lay back, cradled between one strong arm and his hard chest. He reached over to his bedside table and after a moment lit a cheroot and blew a ring of smoke into the air. I watched it rise, coiling into the air like a wraith before seeming to melt into an amorphous cloud. My body eventually calmed enough to speak. “How did it feel, when you killed your captor?” He drew heavily on the cigarette and slowly exhaled another circle of smoke. We watched it rise, vibrating in the air until it dissolved. “It was like exploding in your cunny,” he said. His ission did not surprise me. I welcomed its plain honesty. “I hope so. There is one I need to kill.” He traced my scarred thigh with a finger. “The man who did this?” I shook my head and took his other hand and drew it to my ruined ear. “The one who shot me.” “I would offer to help,” he said softly, blowing another ring of smoke. “To hold him down for you, but revenge is best experienced selfishly, alone and unaided.” “Then that is how it shall be.” His fingers found my wet and swollen quim and became busy. After he had taken me to another climax I felt for his cock. Unnoticed he had removed the Cumberland. I scrambled about for my reticule before I ed it was in the other side of the room. He drew me to him. He kissed me hard, and moved over me, pushing my legs apart with his knees. His cock prodded my belly. “Wait!” I said. “My reticule is in…”

He kissed me, hard and long, smothering my protest. I squirmed beneath him and rolled away. “I insist,” I said playfully and skipped from his bedroom into his dressing room. By the light of the fire in the study I found my reticule where I had flung it during our frantic undressing. “Would you like a drink?” I called. “Only if you can fit yourself into a glass and I can drink you,” he replied. I laughed. I found another Cumberland packet and extracted it. The pictures on the mantelpiece drew me. The same woman, one was an over the shoulder view of her sitting in front of a mirror, giving me a strong impression it was a self-portrait -- I had used the same conceit when learning to paint. Unlike the others I had seen, she was older and her expression, captured in subdued hues of oil, depicted immeasurable sadness. Drake’s eyes held that same sorrow, I realised. Beside it there was another seascape; a shingle beach, some old jetties stretching out into a calm ocean. The legend on the frame said it was of Bracklesham Bay, Selsey. “Are you lost, woman?” he called from the bed. “Part of me has a great need of you!” I laughed, and the thrill of his words; commanding, definite, and full of desire drew me back. I rushed to his bedroom, and instead of going directly to his bed I went to inspect one of the portraits on his wall. I took my time, knowing his impatient eyes followed me. “My mother,” he volunteered. “She was very beautiful.” He stared past me at the image. “She was that.” His voice was melancholic, wistful. “And if I am not wrong, a wonderful painter.” He nodded. “It was her true vocation.” “Speaking of vocation, how long have you been an investigator?”

“Since I returned from India.” “How on Earth did you get involved with spiritualism? It seems such an odd choice for someone with so much lust for life!” He took a drag on another cigar. “After my father’s death, and before the mutiny, I sent Mother home, to England.” “That was fortunate,” I said. “Aye. We traded one death for another.” “How so?” “I was wounded, and taken prisoner, unable to communicate outside the dry well in which I was kept. For eighteen months before she died, my mother believed me dead in the mutiny. She was distraught, and like so many others in her grief, she turned to spiritualism. She was gulled by a medium, a fraud, obviously, who bled her dry with made up stories about me in the great beyond.” “I’m so sorry.” “When he had emptied the family coffers, he was publicly exposed as a fraud and fled to . My mother realised she’d been fooled and could not deal with the shame.” “Oh dear.” “Upon my return she had been dead for several months. So you understand the reasons for my scepticism.” I bent down and kissed him. “I’m sorry about your mother.” “It’s over with now.” “Losing someone is very, very hard. My husband was killed at the battle of the Redan outside Sebastopol. I learned from Paladin the circumstances immediately before his death.” He gripped my wrist and pulled me close. “Do not believe a word of it. Like all

his ilk, he’s a liar. No different from the one who played my mother for a fool. He’s a fraud, like all the rest.” “He sounded very convincing,” I started to say, but he cut me off. “He’s nothing but a blackguard! He’ll fool you with trifles, then he’ll bleed you dry. That’s what I told Lady Kellog when she hired me.” “How does he do it? Have you divined his method? Tell me.” He took another drag and slowly blew another ring of smoke, putting his thoughts in order. “It is not very complicated. He s the relatives of the dead soldiers that he knew, giving them free messages from the great beyond. They are so thankful they attend his séances to learn more, to speak directly to their loved ones. It is a most pernicious scheme. The man is a vampire, attacking people at their most vulnerable.” “He is convincing,” I said. “What about the ectoplasm, and the voices? I can’t imagine how he does it.” “The ectoplasm is pure theatrical make-believe. It is an old trick. Phosphorous from the match factory smeared onto a gauze rag. He has false hands, so whoever sits next to him does not notice him use a telescoping rod from which the rag hangs. He reels it out over the table while throwing his voice like some music hall ventriloquist. When the show is over he thumps the table, startling the people next to him in breaking with the false hand so he can slip them back into his coat. “Incredible,” I said. “False hands?” “You noticed that he holds his arms strangely?” I nodded. “He appears ill, frail, shrunken, probably consumptive.” “At the séance he wore a dirty ill-fitting army coat with the arms distinctly larger than normal to accommodate the false hands.” I thought through what he was saying. “It seems impossible.” “The room lights were turned out by Lord Summerhayes. When he was again

seated he was instructed to blow out the candle. The room was completely, and utterly dark. Paladin asked everyone to place their hands flat on the table and touch their little fingers. What those sitting next to him didn’t realise was that in the moments between the candle being extinguished and the touching of fingers, he had replaced his real hands with a gloved dummy -- he wears gloves throughout.” “Oh, I didn’t know that. But surely he would have to move too quickly to be unnoticed.” “With practice it would take only moments. Elizabeth, have you had any dealings with dippers? Pickpockets?” I ed Archie’s case at the old Vauxhall Gardens. “Oh, yes, I see. They can be lightning fast in snatching a prize and hiding it in their clothes. I see -- it is possible.” It sounded plausible, just. I had difficulty imagining it, though. Drake saw my scepticism. “Have you ever seen a stage magician? Have you wondered how they can deceive you under the bright circle of the limelight? Practice. With practice you can achieve anything.” I nodded my agreement. “As you say. But I think he truly believes he is talking with the dead.” “Aye. It does seem that way.” “You sound disappointed,” I said. “Aye. I cannot help but feel sorry for the man. His head injury has robbed him of his common abilities and left him with a melancholy delusion. It is his wife, Lady Macbeth if you will, who is at the bottom of it. She is the puppeteer behind his show, working his strings, pushing him out into the world to satisfy her ambition.” “She didn’t strike me as particularly malevolent,” I said. “I believe she is genuinely concerned with her husband’s health.”

“I’ve seen her like before.” He pulled me closer. “That is why I do not think it was Paladin himself, but his wife. She and Laird are involved, Gregson found out about it, and she had Laird kill him.” “The only thing that makes sense,” I said and sighed. He cupped a breast and bent his head to kiss the nipple. His teeth captured my nipple and his tongue worried the nub in a most distracting manner. I shivered in pleasure. I recalled the way Mrs. Paladin looked at her husband. “She truly loves him, I think. I can tell. Her devotion is real.” “Being a practical man I wouldn’t know about that sort of thing. Emotions, I mean. Women are more sensitive to those softer aspects of life.” His fingertips were stroking the lips of my quim. “I believe in actions I can perceive, behaviour. Every woman is unique in her own way; her scent, the manner in which she moves, speaks, laughs, and the way she reacts to a caress, a kiss, and how she responds at the peak of excitement.” His fingers gently delved between my lips. “These are things I can see and feel with my fingertips.” I surrendered myself to his expert attentions and was, for a time, lost. “Are we? More sensitive, I mean?” I asked once my breathing had slowed, and coherent thought returned. “I doubt our capacity in that regard. Women can be blind to the softer aspects of life just as men can.” He noticed my scrutiny and was suddenly contrite. “I did not mean to be condescending. I spoke incautiously.” I continued. “We, the fairer sex, I think, are given attributes we do not deserve, and are unfairly placed on pedestals. That exalted position limits us, confines us to a world narrow in its opportunities, restricting us to childbearing, wiping the sweat from our husband’s brow, managing a home. We are excluded from the outside world, which suits the purposes of men, who laud us with all saintly virtues, but nonetheless burdens us with a mantle we do not deserve. We are as strong and as weak as men, as noble and as base, as honourable and as disreputable, as rational and as capricious, as intelligent and as stupid, as…” I stopped and blushed at my pomposity. “Mrs. Hunter-Payne, Elizabeth, you are the equal of any man,” he said, his tone

held more than mere flattery. “Indeed, superior to most of my acquaintance.” A welcome warmth spread through my body. “Only most?” I teased. “I’ve only known you a scant two hours. Further acquaintance may improve my estimation.” “Or more likely detract from it.” He pulled me onto him. “I doubt that. Now put that blessed thing on and let me show you something I learned in India.” And he did. I’ll never again doubt those temple drawings I had once been shown, with women and men making love in all sorts of unlikely knots of arms and legs. It was long after when my thighs had stopped quivering that rational thought returned. I would be black and blue tomorrow. He had gripped me so hard as he drove his cock into me. So many positions I could not adequately recall them. Felix, I realised, had been very gentle with me, and Baudry as exciting as he was, conventional. Drake had an animal-like directness. He made love without reservation, his powers of endurance beyond Felix, Baudry, and even Jonathan. His unfailing hardness took me to countless peaks of ion, his fingers and tongue ruthless in their explorations of my body. Now he was smoking, drawing on the cigarette with slow long pulls, and blowing the smoke high and away from me. He was engaged in deep thought. I laughed. “It’s funny, I came here today to warn you.” “Warn me? Whatever about?” “I thought that Laird killed Gregson by mistake. In the dark. I thought that whoever put him up to it would try again.” He looked at me, a broad smile on his face. He flexed his biceps for me. “You think I am in danger?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Your bravado aside, I thought either Mr. or Mrs. Paladin, or both, using Laird, have killed once, they can do it again.” “What made you think they want to kill me?”

“I’m guessing they found out that The Square & The Circle asked someone to investigate them, but he didn’t know who exactly was carrying out the investigation. Perhaps they mistakenly thought it was Gregson and killed him.” I told him about Mrs. Paladin’s reaction at the inquest when he had itted to being an investigator. “Now that they know it is you, they’ll try and kill you next.” I traced my finger along one thick scar that trailed across the expanse of his chest. He drew me close and kissed my forehead. I craned my neck to kiss him on the lips. I tasted tobacco, acrid but somehow arousing. I reached down and found his cock hard, and still wearing the Cumberland. I stroked it gently while our tongues played. “I’m glad I was wrong.” “Do you always talk during lovemaking?” “Not as a rule.” He played absently with my left nipple, an action that set the fires in my belly alight again. I drew myself on top of him, opening my legs and slid his cock inside me once again. I gasped. I wiggled my hips until he was well seated inside me. I sat up and looked down at him. He gazed at me for a moment before reaching for my nipples. He pinched them delightfully. I closed my eyes and took a moment to savour the feeling before continuing. “Laird would only do it to protect himself or someone else. What if it was not Paladin? But someone from The Square & The Circle?” He dropped his hands down to my hips, and effortlessly lifted me a few inches and then by raising his hips he began to fuck me, slowly and deeply. “You mean Lady Kellog or Lady Summerhayes?” He fucked me faster. “It is not unknown for women to have a dalliance with a servant, especially a young virile man. Laird was certainly both, I recall.” I told him about Lady Kellog flirting with the footman, and Inspector Dundas’s suspicion of her. The grip of his fingers on my thighs was hard, and would leave more bruises I was sure, but the combination of the pain, and the solid length of him sliding

inside me was too much to experience and still concentrate on motives for murder. “So… Gregson… was… blackmailing either Mrs. Paladin, Lady Kellog, or Lady Summerhayes.” I abandoned all conjecture and took over the movement around his cock. I rested my palms flat on his wide chest and using my knees, thighs, and hips I contrived to set up a frantic range of movements, vertical, sideways, finally grinding my sensitive nub against his pelvic bone. My climax was explosive, more so than the first, and he wouldn’t let me rest, his hands returned to my hips and he began a violent thrusting motion with his hips until he groaned like he was mortally wounded, and I felt his cock pulsate within my sodden quim. I climaxed once more and fell exhausted onto his chest. After a few moments I became aware of my surroundings again. He was caressing my hair, wet with sweat, humming softly a strange tune. It was a sad melody, haunting, full of inconsolable longing. His fingers traced my jaw, then the side of my throat, lingering there. “What is that tune?” I asked. “Oh, nothing. Just something I learned in India. I still think it was Mrs. Paladin,” he added. “Society ladies conspiring to kill in such an elaborate manner does not strike me likely. It required low cunning to plan and orchestrate something like that. The séance was Mrs. Paladin’s only chance to get Laird close enough to her victim. If he had been killed in their own home suspicion would be well and truly cast in their direction.” “You are right, I think.” My fingers traced the scar where his nipple used to be. “So, during the séance, while it is dark, Laird the footman, under orders from Tana Paladin, enters either through the music room door, or the balcony door which he left deliberately unlocked, went to the vase, and poured the jelly into Gregson’s mouth.” Drake nodded. “He previously drugged Gregson’s drink, so he would be unconscious in a half hour or so. Now that I recall, Gregson looked increasingly tired as we talked, and when we took our seats I half expected him to start snoring in ten minutes flat!”

“Then that clinches it!” I clapped my hands. “Bravo. I think we have solved it.” His fingers left my throat and traced their way to my breast. “It is all supposition. We have no proof.” I rolled off him and knelt by his side. “That’s why I have a plan.” “Plan?” “I’ve been thinking,” “Not while fucking, I hope.” “Of course not. I’ve been beyond thought for an hour at least.” “I’m glad to hear it. It would wound my ego grievously to believe I could not keep you distracted from a murder investigation.” “You kept me very distracted,” I said. “So this plan may not be very sound. I’ve only just come up with it.” “Let’s hear it.” “At the séance tomorrow night. I’ve already asked Paladin to hold it at Lord Summerhayes’ house again. He seems keen to do so. He says he wants his spirits to solve the murder. He’s also promised to have my husband speak to me, as if I believe in that rubbish. The sheer hide of the man.” “It will prove to be entertaining,” he said. “I aim to trap him,” I said. “Paladin cannot be allowed to continue this charade. It has the capacity to hurt people very badly. I cannot let it continue, and if we are right, his wife must be brought to justice.” “How will you do that?” “With your help. This is what I was thinking about. I’ll insist Mrs. Paladin sits in the circle with us. I suspect he’ll have his supposed spirits set the blame onto Lady Summerhayes or Lady Kellog. When he does, you switch on the lights. We expose his false hands, and his mechanical contraption. If we are lucky Mrs.

Paladin will slip up and tell how she killed Gregson. If she didn’t do it, we’ll focus on Lady Summerhayes, and then Lady Kellog. After all, the footman did it for someone. Will you help me?” He studied my face for a moment, then kissed me most deliciously. “Of course. It will be the greatest of fun.”

Chapter Nine The Trap

The arrangements were surprisingly easy. Everyone fell in with my plan, even Inspector Dundas, who with his constables would be listening from the music room. My plan was not infallible, of course. In all probability it would fall flat. In fact I hoped it would. The outcome, in any case, was in the hands of the spirits, and the children of Father Thames. Archie and Felix agreed with my flimsy logic, suggesting ways to fill in the weak points with information from the streets. The following day I spent at the office piecing together scraps of information I’d obtained from Bisby, the general, as well as several newspapers, while Felix and Archie were scouring the banks of the Thames, seeking any mudlark who had seen anything peculiar upstream from the St. Paul’s Pier. I didn’t envy them. The weather had reverted from yesterday’s brief sunshine to driving rain, and then the freezing cold had turned the streets to ribbons of silvery ice, flecked with the soot of a hundred thousand chimneys. The mudlarks would not be out in these terrible conditions, not even if they were starving. Archie and Felix returned late into the evening, bedraggled and shivering, their sullen faces telling me the sorry story. “Then let the spirits have it,” I told them as I handed each a deep brandy. “Let’s hope the theatre of the evening will provoke the reaction I require.” Archie shook his head. “We’ll go out again first thing. Trust us, we’ll find someone.” The following day was no better. If possible the weather was even more unfavourable. By late afternoon I had heard no news, and so prepared to move with what I had. Marianne dressed me in my mourning costume, checked that my reticule held a half-brick, ensuring the clasp knife was securely in my dress pocket. She checked the parasol for me, and I loaded my 1851 Adams revolver. I hoped I wouldn’t need any of it.

We assembled at Lord Summerhayes’ residence at a quarter to six. We stood about, engaged in nervous chatter as we each had a glass of sherry. Mr. Paladin sitting in his wheeled chair appeared anxious and insecure. As Drake had observed he wore an army greatcoat two sizes too big for him, his thin, almost skeletal arms, disappearing into his voluminous sleeves. The coat was stained with rust about the collar and with horror I realised it was similar to coats I’d seen on returning troops. This was what he had worn in the trenches, and the rust was his own blood. Drops of sweat peppered his forehead and rolled down his temples. I understood his unease. He had promised to produce the murderer, and his thoughts must be dwelling on what would become of his reputation if he failed. The Square & The Circle would certainly lose confidence in him. His wife, Tana, surprised at my insistence she participate in the séance, fussed over him, wiping his brow, ensuring he drank several glasses of water, and was suitably rugged up. I studied her carefully. She loved her husband. I was sure of it. Did she have it in her to have planned the murder as Drake suggested? She was intelligent, there was no doubt about that, and determined too. Though sad, very sad. The Kellogs too were impatient and anxious. As usual his lordship was imperious and complaining. This was the first time I had met Lady Kellog. She was a tall slim woman, with auburn hair. Like Lady Summerhayes she was twenty years her husband’s junior, and quite attractive, her creamy skin almost glowing. Lady Summerhayes avoided making eye with everyone, except her husband, and when their eyes met her face was cast in an expression of shame and contrition. She responded to Drake’s greeting and small talk with a few mumbled words, leaving her husband to apologise for her. She avoided Drake’s gaze and stared instead at her husband’s hand which held and caressed her own in a most loving manner. I felt touched by the scene. Had Jonathan lived and returned to me, we would have had decades of love ahead of us. I was unable to prevent my jaw clenching as Vladimir’s malignant shadow intruded into my thoughts. Drake towered over us like some goliath, his piercing gaze hardly leaving the Paladins. When not on Gerard it was on Tana. The intensity of his dislike of the couple was intense. I frowned at him and whispered to him to not give the game away. Reluctantly he stepped back and signalled to Musket for a brandy. While

waiting he transferred an evaluative gaze to Lord and Lady Summerhayes. Lady Kellog went to Lady Summerhayes and whispered in her ear, no doubt trying to calm her. Lord Summerhayes, clearly uncomfortable in her presence, ed Lord Kellog to light a cigar. There was something intimate about the way the two women touched each other’s hands, but their eyes avoided holding any gaze. They shared a secret, and The Square & The Circle bound them to it. If things worked as I planned we would have the murderer in little over an hour. There was no absolute certainty that I was right, and nerves made my fingers shake as I held the glass. Felix opened the door and caught my eye. He nodded and gave me the thumbs up signal. Success! The mantel clock chimed seven. “Will everyone come to the table please,” Mr. Paladin said. “Please leave your drinks on the sideboard.” With the inclusion of Mrs. Paladin and myself, we had eight at the table. I sat between Drake and Lady Kellog, and Mrs. Paladin sat in the chair once occupied by Gregson. She was clearly uncomfortable, and I offered to change seats. She agreed immediately. That put me on Drake’s right-hand side. “Lord Summerhayes, will you light the candle please? Then check that all the doors are locked.” Lord Summerhayes did so, then went to the room lights and turned them completely off leaving us surrounding the pale glow of the candle. “Place your hands on the table, your little fingers touching.” Once we were so arranged, Lord Summerhayes was instructed to blow out the candle. Without a fire the room was plunged into a deep impenetrable darkness. The only sound was the breathing of eight nervous people. Drake began stroking my little finger with his. I stifled a giggle and slapped the back of his hand. Nothing happened for several minutes, and by the sound of breathing I could sense the level of dread was growing. Only Lord Kellog seemed untouched by the drama. He cleared his throat impatiently. Then Mr. Paladin began breathing deeply, taking long loud intakes of breath and equally forceful exhalations that I hadn’t believed him capable. There was a shudder of the table. Then he spoke,

summoning his spirit guide, his voice forceful and commanding. “Henry, my friend, my old comrade. Are you with us?” A moment of silence then followed. Suddenly Mr. Paladin gave a great intake of breath, and the table shuddered, startling everyone. Even Lady Summerhayes, who had experienced a number of séances before, failed to stifle a cry of alarm. Then a cloud of faint green mist seemed to appear where Paladin was sitting. The ectoplasm seemed to move as if in a soft breeze, but there was no draught in the room. Its movements were mesmerising. So strange yet so comforting. Though I knew the mechanics of the trick, it was impressive. I could not tell if it was gauze or smoke. “Nah then, who do you wish to speak?” The voice was so unlike Paladin’s own, possessing a thick guttural accent I couldn’t identify. The voice was so distinctive and unique I found it hard to believe it belonged to Paladin at all. The table was rocked with several hard bumps. “Nay paupin’ about now,” Paladin said. “Serious now. I have Elizabeth Hunter-Payne. She wishes to speak to her husband, a fine colonel. You knew ’im, I reckon.” “Know ’im now, I does.” “Elizabeth.” I jumped in surprise. The new voice was not Jonathan’s, but it was close. If Paladin had met Jonathan in the Crimea as he said he did, he would have heard Jonathan’s voice, and was now working from imperfect memory. Nevertheless, I trembled inside. It was a close approximation, as close as his voice I heard in my dreams. Shivers cascaded through my flesh. “Jonathan?” “Little time,” the voice said. “There’s much to do. My darling, yours is a mortal life, not to be wasted like this. Let me rest, Elizabeth. Live your life. Love and be loved.” Though this seemed to be Paladin’s standard message to the bereaved I was touched. Tears welled in my eyes. “There will be time for horses,” he went on. “We will ride again, but not yet, my love. Not yet.” My breath caught in my throat.

“Beware the Russian,” Jonathan continued. “He is cunning, bested us, the general and I, didn’t see his hand at all until it was too late. Leave him be.” “I can’t, Jonathan! I can’t!” Paladin was silent a moment. I cried out in desperate need. I couldn’t help myself. “Jonathan, are you there?” The ectoplasm faded and disappeared. There was silence for almost a minute. I tried to collect myself. As my rational mind scoffed at the very idea, my heart thought different. What had just happened, could not have happened. Drake grasped my hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Smoke and mirrors,” he whispered. It was what I needed to return to rationality. I squeezed his hand and took a deep breath to still my thumping heart. Paladin then spoke again. “Who is here?” The ectoplasm reappeared, and a woman’s voice filled the room. A sad melancholy voice. “I’m sorry, Arthur. Forgive me.” Lord Summerhayes reacted. “What?” Paladin was certainly a master of voices. This was so very convincing. But who was this woman? Drake had also started in surprise. He stirred in his seat and made a guttural sound of disbelief. “Arthur. I should have had faith, and waited for your return,” the woman’s voice said. “I should have waited.” “This is a lie! A damned lie!” Drake shouted. “Paladin, you fucking bastard! How dare you!” “Arthur. Let go of your anger,” the woman’s voice continued. “Know that I am at peace.”

Drake was on his feet. “I’ll kill you, you bastard!” “Like you killed me?” accused a male cockney voice which replaced the woman’s and filled the room with resonating hatred. Lord Summerhayes gasped. “Gregson!” “Drake, you killed me,” the voice said. “What foolishness is this?” Drake asked, calmer now, a tinge of laughter in his voice. “You’re a liar, Paladin. A charlatan. You’ll have to do better than that.” The supposed voice of Gregson continued. “Those who were watching from this side have told me it was you. Creeping through the darkness!” A host of voices babbled in the darkness, agreeing with the accusation of murder, all blending into one call for vengeance. I had put a hand on Drake’s arm but he shook me off. “Paladin, you cheap music hall act. You and your false hands, the extension rods. You had the footman kill him with your wretched ectoplasm.” “You put laudanum in my drink!” Gregson’s voice continued. “Laird left the jellyfish for you. He is here with me, accusing you of murder. You stabbed him with your silver cane at the Steps!” “Rubbish! You’ve gone too far, Paladin. Trying to accuse me. I know it was you and Laird. You and your wife killed him at Horseferry!” Another male voice cut in. “All I wanted was the fifty pounds you promised.” “Laird?” Lord Summerhayes said, aghast. “My God! It is him!” Lady Summerhayes screamed and then I heard a thump as her head hit the table in a dead faint. This had gone far enough. I rushed over to the light by the door, and with shaking fingers lit the gas with a lucifer I’d placed there in preparation. Drake stopped in mid stride. I blocked his progress, and we faced each other over Lady Summerhayes’ swooning body. He glared at me. “Elizabeth?”

The door opened behind me and Archie led in a young girl, barefoot, wearing a long overcoat many sizes too big for her. The mudlark. Archie bent down and whispered in her ear. She nodded and pointed a dirty finger at Drake. Rage contorted Drake’s features into a mask of fury. With a casual sweep of the arm he pushed me aside as if I was a rag doll. As I tumbled to the floor I saw him lunge toward Paladin. I fell against the wall where I had left my reticule and umbrella. In less than a heartbeat I had regained my footing and extracted the blade. Drake had Paladin by his shirt front, and was lifting him out of his chair. I yelled Drake’s name and touched his shoulder with the blade. He laughed and swatted it aside with his broad hand, and before I could react with equal ease he shoved me away so that I toppled into Archie’s legs as he shoved the mudlark out the door to safety. I untangled myself from my skirts and regained my feet. Drake had pulled the limp body of Paladin completely out of his chair, and with long determined strides went to the balcony doors. In a shattering crash of wood and glass he barged through them as if they were paper mâché. He raised Paladin above his head, easily, for the man weighed so little, and with an inhuman roar he callously threw the frail man over the balcony as if he was of no more consequence than a piece of timber. “No!” Tana cried and ran through the wreckage of the doors. She leapt onto Drake, raking at his face with her long fingers. He grabbed her by the shoulders and made to throw her too off the balcony. Struggling helplessly Tana Paladin screamed in fear. I knew with certainty he meant to throw her over. I followed her out. “Drake!” I shouted. “For the love of God!” Drake glared at me. “Don’t interfere!” “Please don’t.” Inspector Dundas called out from inside the room, his voice sounding in my ears as if he was a great distance away, but in fact he was only a few feet. “Get out of the bloody way!” Like a concertina opening out, time seemed to slow to a snail’s pace as Drake turned away from me and toward the railings. With a strange sense of déjà vu I

lunged with my blade, and struck him in the side of the chest. I felt the blade pierce his coat and shirt under the armpit, a moment of resistance, then the point sank through his flesh with surprising ease. He turned to look at me, incomprehension folding his features. In the same instant from behind me ripped an explosion, and a bullet tore through Drake’s shoulder, spinning him about. He dropped Tana, and luckily she fell onto the railing and then onto balcony, and not over it to oblivion. My momentum took me past her, and I barrelled into him. Drake overbalanced. Being so tall he simply toppled over the railing, and I went with him. Suddenly I was falling, though this time not into the cold wet embrace of Father Thames, but the frozen slush of the Summerhayes’ garden. During the few moments of weightlessness, Drake clutched me to him, and he rolled in mid-air so that he was underneath me when we struck the ground with a bone jarring thud. Winded, and stunned, it took me a few moments to collect myself. From above I heard screams and shouts. Beside us was the shattered body of Gerard Paladin. I rolled off Drake’s body, wincing in pain from my ribs. Drake was breathing slowly, laboriously. He turned his head to gaze at me. Then he began gasping for breath. He grasped the blade, stared at me for a moment, then wrenched it from his body. “No!” I cried, knowing he should have left the blade where it was. His coat instantly blossomed with red, and the slush between us began to pool with blood. I struggled to my knees and nursed his head in my lap. Drake gazed up at me, his lips quivered as if about to speak. For a few moments no sound came. “Be still,” I said. “How did you know?” His eyes fluttered shut. “Wake up! Don’t go to sleep.” His eyes opened, the eyelids quivering. “How?” Pink froth appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“I didn’t see it at first,” I said, thinking that speaking to him would somehow keep him with me. My blade had pierced his lungs, I was sure, and perhaps nicked his heart. “Only when I went to your dressing room to fetch another Cumberland did all the pieces fall together. The portraits on the wall, they looked so familiar. I was sure I’d seen that person before, or a relative at least. You resemble her, of course, but then it occurred to me that so does Lady Summerhayes. You share her eyes, and cheekbones. Your story about your mother, the blackmailer, and the medium, then the Selsey landscape, a beachscape. Selsey is near Bournemouth, from where Mrs. Summerhayes said you came. They’d been there only a few weeks ago so Lady Summerhayes could go visit her sister’s grave.” He coughed, and more bloody foam dribbled from his mouth. I wiped it clear with my thumb. “I guessed then that you were behind it all,” I continued. “Then I was scared you might think I suspected you. I had to think quick and made up that silly story of suspecting the Paladins of wanting to kill you.” “I thought you a fool,” he muttered. “But all the time you were fooling me.” “For some reason you needed to kill Gregson, and for some reason you wanted to ruin the Summerhayes with that fake blackmail letter you had Laird put on Lord Arthur’s desk. Why?” “I wanted his fucking lordship to pay,” he said before giving a soft blood-soaked cough. “Laird knew too much.” He grimaced in pain. “His death put suspicion at his lordship’s feet!” He coughed again, a terrible wet hacking sound. I wiped away more blood from the lips which had kissed me so ionately only two days before. “There was a chance you would have gotten away with it,” I said. “I had no proof of anything. Your mistake was killing him. You were seen.” He grimaced in pain. “The girl?” “A mudlark. Children who live along the river. We asked upriver from St. Paul’s Pier if anyone had seen a toff with a silver cane. You were seen coming away from Horseferry Steps, just upriver from where the River Police found his body.” “I didn’t see her.”

“No one ever does. Her kind are invisible. Until we found her I couldn’t prove anything. All I had was a possibility of Paladin getting you angry. He was most accommodating. He wanted to see if his spirits would come through for him.” I caught my breath, and glanced at the medium’s crumpled body, his legs and arms twisted so unnaturally, his clothes askew. No sign of any false hands or telescoping apparatus or phosphorous soaked gauze. He was innocent, and I had caused his death. I wondered how soon his ghost would the others and visit me in my dreams. Drake shuddered and gasped for breath. “I’m so sorry about your mother,” I said, stroking his temple. “I’ve read the local newspaper report.” This seemed to rouse him. His voice became stronger. “When I came home, I asked around. The fisherman said, when they found her, she was covered with jellyfish.” He began sobbing, frothy bubbles of blood expanding and multiplying, covering his chin. I wiped them away. I ignored the crowd of people, Archie, Felix, Dundas, who had surrounded us by then. “You bribed Laird to hide the jellyfish in the vase by the window. You put the strong dose of laudanum in Gregson’s drink. You used that trick, didn’t you, the false hands?” A ghost of a smile. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you about the hands.” “While the ectoplasm show was captivating everyone, you went to the vase, and because Gregson was comatose, you simply held him still, and poured it down his throat. Then you put the hip flask in his pocket to make him seem the addict and throw suspicion of drugging the drinks away from you or Laird. But what I don’t understand is why try and implicate Lord Summerhayes? Why tell him about his wife’s infidelities? Why throw suspicion onto him?” He tried to speak, but no sound came. “His lordship already knew,” I said. “The note had no effect on him. The police suspected the note was fake. Why do you hate Lord Summerhayes so much?” He tried to speak again, but no sound came. I bent close to his bloody mouth.

“How could he not know?” “Know?” I asked. “Know what?” His face blanched, and his voice became almost imperceptible. “Her diary.” He gave a heavy shudder, and those powerful inciteful eyes lost their lustre, and in a moment they had become dull, unseeing marbles. I had killed him. Like knows like.

Epilogue Secrets Laid to Rest

There was no escaping the inquest. The coroner ruled that the fall killed Drake, that the inspector’s shot to the shoulder had saved Tana Paladin’s life, and I had simply got in the way. The coroner also closed the Gregson murder case. Dundas was pleased with the press coverage, for I had given him all the credit, explaining my intervention at the end was an accident, and had nothing to do with his elaborately laid plan. Three days after the inquest I sat in his office at Scotland Yard. As a show of thanks the inspector allowed me to read the mother’s diary which he had found in Drake’s writing desk. The inspector marked the relevant pages, and I read enough to know of the heartache, the secret that led to the calamity that was her life, and the final straw that led to her final escape.

* * * I love HIM, but he loves Phaedra. Oh, how can I describe it? HE was so gentle with me, so affectionate. How HE made me feel I have no words. The glory of the universe has opened for me, and HE has the key. I was so scared. I wore Phaedra’s perfume, and forbid him to turn on the light. HE was reluctant, fearing he would make me with child, but I silenced HIS protests with a long kiss, my practice kisses with the Vicar’s son had given me some skill for HE protested for only a minute before succumbing. Beyond a kiss I was blind, knowing not what to do, but HE was experienced, HE had been married, and was so apologetic, and then relieved, then happy, when HE realised I had been a virgin. I returned to my own bed, a woman at last. HIS woman. My own private joy is short-lived. HE has asked Phaedra to be his wife, and

Phaedra has accepted. Father was, of course, honoured that a hereditary Lord, a rich one at that, would want one of his daughters, and mother is beyond happiness. HE insisted on a wedding as soon as possible. Being an honourable man HE probably thinks he may have made her with child. Phaedra confronted me. Scolded me and slapped me. I deserved it. When HE proposed marriage HE made reference to last night. Phaedra had been surprised, but she quickly realised what had transpired and did not let on. She was always very perceptive, and she knew of my infatuation, that’s what she called it. She was wrong. I love HIM. She was furious. They had not so much as kissed, she told me, or held each other close. I had stolen what should have been hers. She will never forgive me. She had me swear to hold my tongue. Never to speak of it.

* * * Oh joy of joys. I am with child. HIS child! Phaedra told Mama, and she Father. They didn’t say much after I confirmed it, but not who the man was. I would never betray HIM. And neither will Phaedra. It was not HIS fault. HE thought I was Phaedra. HE loves her, and I know nothing good would follow if HE did the honourable thing, which HE surely would, and took me as HIS wife instead, as much as I want it. How foolish could I be if I demanded it? HE would detest me. Father is furious. He insists I marry some friend of his. Some odious fellow from India. Father owed him some debt from their service there. I met him that one time last year. He had come to stay, and was continually drunk, and committed an outrage on Doris the parlour maid. I deserve no better. I leave for India within the week, and I dread the hell that awaits me and my child. My future husband has, at least, some money, so HIS child will be provided for. I am resolved to take my punishment. HIS lock of hair which I stole from his pillow will sustain me.

* * * The light of my life, my beloved son is lost, in a distant land, dead, unmourned.

Mr. Paladin says he will try to my beloved son. He is a good man, solicitous and humble. I’m sure he can reach my Arthur.

* * * Oh, calamity. My secret is found out. How? My drunken brute of a husband confided in some fellow inebriate who, for a price no doubt, has told my blackmailer. I thought it long forgotten. By others, not by me. Never! Twenty years! Gregson was at the séance and will tell HIM of my deceit. My love will know how I wronged HIM and deprived him of a son! All I had in this world was my son and my secret. Now I have nothing. Nothing.

* * * “Thank you,” I mumbled, handing the diary to Inspector Dundas. Embarrassed by my tears, he looked away and fumbled for a handkerchief, which I took from him. “Gregson found out about her secret,” Dundas continued. “Probably, as she thought, someone in their cups blabbed. He would have studied her, learned of her attendance at a séance and went as well with that fake story about a sister to get close, maybe to intimidate her. That was when he began the business with Mrs. Paladin, and they embarked on their blackmailing scheme.” “If only she had lived a few more weeks,” I said eventually. “None of this would have happened. If only she had waited. She would have held her son again.” “And he would have killed Gregson anyway, and swung for it. He was full of hate. The inhuman torture he experienced in India warped his brain. That’s the way of these things. In Drake’s mind they were all complicit in his mother’s sorrow and death. Gregson obviously, and he connected the Paladins to the blackmailing scheme.” “He believed that every woman is unique,” I said, recalling our conversation. “And that it was impossible for Lord Summerhayes not to have known that Drake’s mother was not Phaedra. He hated his aunt for not being a good sister,

for not making way for his mother. That, in his words, meant they had to pay.” “Who knows what he would have done to them had you not exposed him. Good work noticing the self-portrait from Selsey, where his mother is buried, and the similarity in appearance between Drake and Lady Summerhayes.” Of course I hadn’t told the inspector of those difficult minutes that followed in Drake’s bed, as I cast about silly theories of him being in danger, and agreed with him that Tana Paladin was the killer as he put out his own conjectures to lead my thoughts away from him. I had been afraid he had sensed that I had paid too much attention to his mother’s paintings and deduced his connection to the Summerhayes. I wonder if he had suspected I guessed the truth, but decided, for whatever reason, not to act. I can still feel his fingers caressing my throat, firm at first, then soft. One more nightmare to add to my nightly catalogue. “We did it together, inspector.” I pointed to the diary. “We do not need to show this to Lord Arthur Summerhayes, do we?” He shook his head in the negative. “To know he has lost another son, even if he was a cold-blooded killer who hated him for not marrying his mother.” “He has gone through enough, I think. Inspector, did you not think it odd that he so quickly itted he knew about his wife’s infidelities? Such an ission, that he was being cuckolded, would be an anathema to him. His honour would preclude it absolutely.” “Unless…” “Unless he thought his wife had enlisted Laird to kill her blackmailer. He was protecting her by making a sacrifice of his honour and removing her motive from our calculations.” He scratched his chin. “Do you think she knows he suspected her?” “Probably not.” I put my hand on the inspector’s sleeve. “One more secret, yes?” “Why not? I see no need to upset the applecart.” “None at all,” I said, much relieved.

“Mrs. Paladin has confessed,” he said, seemingly glad to change topic. “The death of her husband has taken away what spirit she had left.” He chuckled at his unintended pun. “She and Gregson were in cahoots, she its that, though not romantically. She insists that she stayed true to her husband. Gregson would investigate the people who attended their first séance, and before their second he’d whatever information he had collected to Mrs. Paladin. As her husband slept she would whisper any pertinent anecdotes in his ear. The poor sod didn’t know any better. She fed him laudanum for his pain which made him susceptible to suggestion. He thought the spirits were talking to him. She says she didn’t know that Gregson went on to blackmail those people with the extra information he found in his digging. I don’t believe her. They were a right pair of wronguns.” I saw no reason to mention that with Gregson dead, she had no one to investigate me, and unlike Hamlet’s Uncle Claudius she could not pour anecdotes into his sleeping ear. “She appeared very concerned about his health,” I said. “She tried to dissuade me from attending his seances.” “She didn’t want you sniffing about. Not to mention without Gregson she had no blackmail money to rely on, so she had to keep her poor husband alive for as long as possible.” “You’re a cynical man, Inspector,” I said. “What will happen to her?” “Depends on what I charge her with. I haven’t decided.” “How did he do it?” I asked. “Paladin. There were no false hands, or extendable rods, or gauze soaked in phosphorous. And his voices, they were something to behold.” “A ventriloquist, a mimic,” he said dismissively. “A difficult, but learnable skill, at least that’s what an informant in the theatre tells me. The ectoplasm, some chemical held in the mouth with which to illuminate the breath, blue john, calcium fluoride, phosphorous or some such. Lucky he didn’t catch phossy jaw like the matchstick gals.” “That is just too banal, is it not?” I asked. “No realm of the spirits? Just mundane tricks of the stage.” “The mundane is my realm, Mrs. Hunter-Payne.”

“Touché, Inspector. Touché.” As I rode home I considered the events of the past few days. Though what Paladin had said during the séance still unnerved me, and left me with unsettling dreams, I couldn’t quite believe in the supernatural. Not quite. Certainly Paladin was a believer in his own powers, I was sure of that, but how did he know so much about me? I had only asked him to fool Drake into believing it was his mother speaking, nothing else. From the diary I now know he knew Drake’s mother, though by another name, and when I enlisted his help I mentioned what I knew about her and that she lived in Selsey, near Bournemouth, so he would have ed her and his attempt to her supposedly dead son. But how had he known about me, horses, and the Russian? The Square & The Circle continued, with Lady Kellog at the helm, but Lady Summerhayes did not return. I suspected she no longer enjoyed the delights of Upper Brook Street, and that after this scare she preferred to direct her surplus energies toward showing her lap dog Jan and winning ribbons. Gregson had been blackmailing someone in the group, probably Lady Summerhayes, and possibly Lady Kellog, though she’ll never it it; she’s too good at keeping secrets. The identity of the blackmailer would have been unknown, but Lady Kellog may have suspected a connection to the Paladins, as the blackmail coincided with their appearance on the scene. Lady Kellog would not be an easy victim. She would take action, and that explained the eagerness with which The Square & The Circle hired Drake when he approached them in his secret effort to get close to her and Paladin. Gregson possibly attended the séance to pressure a recalcitrant Lady Kellog directly. Did Lady Summerhayes recognise her sister’s son, I wondered. If I could detect the family resemblance, then surely she could have. Her reluctance to even look at Drake that fateful night surely means she did. If so, she would’ve hoped that he did not recognise the connection. His lordship’s poor eyesight explained his ignorance of Drake’s resemblance to his wife’s sister. To be honest, I didn’t care anymore. The case was over. I had no reason to investigate further. I had identified the murderer, and that was enough for me. And what did I think of Drake? I found it too unsettling to consider closely the meaning of my attraction to a

killer, and what we did together in his bed. The bruises on my thighs from his rough love have faded, and with them the perverse desire he had awakened. At least I could understand his motives and respect them. The evil of revenge sits easy with me now, and perhaps after Vladimir is dead, I can let that part of me sleep as well. A note from Baudry announced his return and held an invitation to lunch. As I walked hesitantly along the corridor to his rooms his door opened, and a slim man on crutches emerged. He wore a plaster on his cheek, and his top hat was low over his forehead. He didn’t look up as he ed, but respectfully bobbed his head. I went on a few steps before stopping. I turned. “Miss Clayton.” “Ha!” she said and stopped. She looked back over her shoulder. “Go to him,” she said. “He is in need of you.” I watched her make her way to the stairs, thinking her parachute would have proved useful at the séance as Drake and I plummeted to the hard-icy ground. That nauseating sense of weightlessness returned to my belly as I pushed open the door of Baudry’s rooms. Though deeply dark I could make out his form by the ruddy coals of a dying fire. “Thank you for coming.” His voice was slow, and heavy. I stepped closer until I stood beside his chair. I looked down at him; the shadows cut deep lines across his face. “Where have you been?” I asked eventually. A long silence. “I do not want to lie.” “Nor I,” I said. I took a deep quavering breath. “I have a confession to make.” After a few moments he replied. “As have I.” “After hearing mine, I will understand if you never wish to speak to me again.” “I also will understand if you never wish to see me ever again.” We hide things for many reasons, but mostly out of fear. I hoped that despite the motive, something good could come. I reached into the shadows and touched his

face. “Then perhaps we should not confess.” Another few moments of silence stretched like a bridge across the dark pit of secrets that separated us. “Aye. It may be for the best.” He grasped my hand, pulled it into the shadows, and held my palm to his cheek. I thought of the other secrets I’d encountered recently, deadly, hurtful secrets that can shame and kill. “Like dogs yapping at our heels,” I said. “Our secrets will eventually come for us.” “They always do.” I moved closer and knelt to take his other hand. I held it to my breast. “Until that time.” I kissed him, in the darkness, the deep, deep darkness that shrouds and hides the secrets behind desire. I thought not of horses, as Baudry and I kissed and caressed ourselves into sweet forgetfulness, knowing that a ride through the drizzling rain to the grassy banks of a crystal stream would come soon enough, and was meant for someone else and I.

Mikala Ash

Aussie Mikala Ash used to be a mild-mannered training and development consultant by day, and a wild sci-fi and paranormal adventure writer by night. Now she is a brazen full-time writer and nature photographer who is concentrating on having among other things, “… bags, and bags of fun!” Mikala at Changeling: changelingpress.com/mikala-ash-a-83