P. Elrod - The Hanged Man

Then the calmer and stronger impression of Lord Richard’s feelings swept through her: fear, not for himself but for others. It had raised him to his feet to defend them. He’d not allow it … righteous anger, contempt for faceless cowards, sudden bursts of surprise as they shot him and finally a weakening as his body slipped past the point of return. She pulled back to avoid experiencing his death, but the last trace from his psychic spoor was, oddly, annoyance and exasperation. He knew he was dying and instead of a final prayer to his Maker he-

“Alex, wake out of it.”

James was before her, concern on his face. She slammed her lead barrier between them before his emotions could intrude. That was enough Reading for one night.

“You’re not all right, so I shan’t inquire if you are,” he said. “You will sit a moment. You will sit now .”

His hand on her arm, not pinching this time, he guided her to the settee. She noticed its back was full of holes, as were the walls.

“We’re lucky no one else was killed by those bas-bounders. Terrible shots.”

“They were aiming high on purpose,” she said. “Lord Richard was their target, not the rest of us.”

James gave no reply, but glanced at the room as though to confirm her assessment.

Mrs. Woodwake, moving like a sleepwalker, drew the remnant of a sheet over Lord Richard’s body. Dr. Hamish was still on the floor, and he looked ill. James went to what was left of his liquor stores and found an unbroken bottle and a glass. He poured and pressed the contents of the glass upon Woodwake and gave the bottle to the doctor.

“Get up, John. Drink to a fallen warrior, not a dead patient.”

Hamish gave a great weary sigh and stood and drank, then handed the bottle back. “We need to find a policeman.”

That snapped Woodwake out of her daze. “Absolutely not. This is a matter for the Psychic Service, not Scotland Yard.”

“Bit late for that, ma’am,” said James, nodding behind her. Flanked by Lieutenant Brook and two wide-eyed constables, Inspector Lennon stood in the entry taking in the scene of battle with a great scowl.

* * *

Mrs. Woodwake had a barrage of instructions for him once she got his attention, and Lennon had an objection to all of them, apparently. His low rumblings were reminiscent of a lion with a bellyache. He never actually roared, but made his opinions clear.

The guests in the house were asked to stay on the stairs for the time being, until they could be interviewed. They retired, grumbling and full of questions. Dr. Hamish sat with them. He wore a black look and perhaps needed the company of friends.

Alex kept to herself on the settee, thinking it best to stay out of the way until called for; James joined her, taking a swig from the bottle.

“What the devil is going on?” he asked quietly. He looked to be a dangerous creature with his bloodshot eyes, hair a wild mess, and blood halfway up his arms and streaking his face, but his manner was composed. Events had boiled the fool out of him. “Who were those men?”

“I don’t know,” Alex whispered. “I was called to a case over on Harley Street … and … and things went wrong. Lord Richard arrived…” She faltered over her story. It was no proper report made to a senior in her department, but a rushed and disjointed muddle of random words, conjuring images she wanted to forget. Beneath it all, she knew she’d have to tell the whole thing later again and again and that there would be no ease in her spirit from it, no catharsis of release. This would be with her forever.

“What happened?”

“Father.” She felt herself choking. “My-my father’s dead, James.”

“Gerard? When did he get back from-dead? Good lord … was that the case?”

She nodded. “I didn’t know. Not until after. I didn’t know. Murdered … and I didn’t know it was him .”

“Oh, my poor little Alex.”

She used to resent him calling her that, but not now. He put an arm around her. He’d never done that before, not even when they were children. But she couldn’t relax against him, couldn’t allow herself to break down and howl her grief-she had none. She was numb inside. That wasn’t right. She should feel something. That was her trade, feelings. Emotions of death and life and truth and lies-but belonging to others, not her.

“What’s to be done?”

She shook her head. “The Service will deal with it. Why didn’t he write to say he was home?” Why didn’t he write at all?

“Are they connected?”

“What?”

“Your father’s death and this attack. Are they connected?”

“I don’t know.”

“One did follow hard upon the other.”

Indeed they had. She slipped free of his arm and went to Mrs. Woodwake, breaking in on what looked to be an increasingly tense exchange between herself and Lennon.

“Ma’am, I need to know-”

“Know what, girl?”

Alex repeated her cousin’s question.

Woodwake glared at her, mouth tight, eyes hard. “I cannot answer.”

“You must have some insight, ma’am.”

“If I do, then this isn’t the time or place to impart it to you or anyone else.”

“But-”

“The matter is closed. Protocol was violated at Harley Street, accidentally, but there’s to be no repetition. Miss Pendlebury, you are excluded from both investigations except as a witness.”

“I can’t be excluded!”

Woodwake rounded on her like Medusa, and with the same effect: everyone froze in place. When she spoke, her voice was low yet penetrating in the hush. “You will follow orders. I am aware of the unique circumstances of tonight’s events and how difficult this is for you, but rules are in place for a reason. You cannot be involved.” Her face softened. “Reverse things: If it had been my father, what would you be telling me this moment?”

There could be no argument for that. “May I know how things progress?”

“So long as it does not compromise the inquiry-inquiries.”

Alex hated it, certain that she would be told nothing.

“I require your attention, please.” Woodwake raised her voice, directing it at the others present. When they were looking at her, she delivered the startling order that Lord Richard’s demise, indeed, all that had happened tonight, was not to be discussed with anyone.

“I rely on your discretion and loyalty to the crown,” she said. “Until further notice this whole incident is a state secret. Anyone speaking of it will be prosecuted for treason.”

This resulted in a near-collective gasp from those present.

Only James did not appear awed. He stood, still holding the bottle. “ What did you say, madam?”

She repeated the order.

“That’s mad,” he drawled. “How the devil do you expect this lot to not talk? Everyone talks. First thing tomorrow someone will share a hint with his barber or her dressmaker, another will wink at an old school chum at his club or get to yarning over the port and in an hour it’ll be in every paper in the land. You cannot possibly hope to keep this secret.”

“I fully expect it to remain so, sir,” she snapped. “Or will you accuse any here of being disloyal to queen and country?”

“Not disloyal, merely careless. Come now, you lot. Which of you has never dropped a word when you shouldn’t? The more important the word, the more dire the promise, the faster it fell, am I right? You can’t get more important than Lord Richard. Unless it’s the Lord Consort Arthur, God forbid. This thing’s a proper blister, masked hooligans tearing through London and murdering men.… One word in the wrong ear and it’s all up.”

Mrs. Woodwake’s glare had no effect on James, but the whole house seemed to hold its breath. “For the sake of Her Majesty’s feelings, we must keep this quiet. I will not have the queen reading of the death of a dear friend and faithful servant in the paper. How do you think she would feel? How would your own mothers feel?”