P. Elrod: The Hanged Man

“Thank you, Lieutenant…?”

“Brook,” he said. “Attached to the Service by special order,” he added.

That covers a number of sins, she thought. And by whose order?

Alex transferred the revolver from the foyer table drawer to her coat pocket, which raised an eyebrow on her escort, but it, along with a notebook and other odds and ends, was part of her normal kit when on duty. Though not strictly required to carry one, all Readers who dealt with criminal cases had to learn the use of firearms. Many times she’d been called to parts of London as dark and dangerous as any jungle, and she liked having the solid weight of a Webley on her person.

She donned her fore-and-aft hunting cap, tying the earflaps under her chin, and wrapping a muffler about her throat. Whatever awaited tonight, she would not suffer unduly from the cold.

Brook held the door. She almost threw him a salute in passing to find out if he’d return it out of habit. That would be inappropriate humor, given the situation. Instead, she went out, then locked up.

Their conveyance was an ordinary hansom, not the unadorned closed carriage the Service favored. Her driver was much too finely turned out to pass as a London cabbie, though.

I will have to send word upstream about that .

There was a fresh crop of New Year recruits to train, and none of the upper-class ones, including their hide-bound instructors, had the least idea how to blend into the vast background of commonplace London life. Brook was evidently one of them. A cabbie with an Eton accent? Quite ridiculous.

Alex climbed in, pretending to overlook the lieutenant’s offered hand. Yes, definitely from some high stratum. His mother, or more likely his nanny, had taught him nice manners. Well and good. Alex appreciated nice manners. Had she been in a dress she would have accepted help, but the ease of movement her cycling costume allowed abrogated the need.

Brook put on his hat and touched the brim, and the cab rocked as he climbed up to the driver’s seat.

She pulled shut the half doors that would protect her from some of the wet, and heartily wished for a more sheltering conveyance. Sleety wind stung her face as they trotted north along Baker Street, then cut right onto Marylebone Road, heading for the northern end of Harley Street.

London was usually clogged with all manner of vehicles, but not at this hour of night. Their trip was miserable, but brief. Brook pulled the horse up just short of the house. There was a hospital ambulance already waiting in front, and two men hunched in its lee, smoking cigarettes. They couldn’t remove the body until she had a look at things.

Even in this weather, a few idlers hung about, hoping for a glimpse of something interesting or to earn or beg a copper. A constable kept them at a distance. Every window with a view of the street had one or more faces in it, taking in the show like theater attendees in private boxes.

How long has this been going on?

She preferred to arrive at the scene of a death as soon as possible, nearly always before the ambulance. Things were easier to Read when the residual emotions were uncontaminated by intrusive traffic or eroded by the passage of time. There were strict rules of preservation in place now, but not everyone followed them.

Investigations had a pattern: discover a body, notify a doctor or a constable depending on the circumstances. If there was anything suspicious about the death, clear the area and send for a detective from Scotland Yard and a Reader from Her Majesty’s Psychic Service. Tonight, Miss Alexandrina Victoria Pendlebury happened to be the closest.

Lieutenant Brook dropped down, one of his heels slipping on a patch of ice. He grabbed the hansom and kept his balance. This time she accepted his hand as she emerged.

“Have a care, miss,” he advised kindly.

Would that be for the sidewalk, or for what waited inside the house?

She was familiar with the locale, often cycling along Harley Street, taking the air when the weather was temperate. The house was part of a row of impressive structures, each four stories tall with three dormers at the top, each made individual by the use of different colors of brick. They were wonderfully respectable and, despite high rents, much in demand by members of the medical establishment.

This one’s wide door with frosted glass panes was very like her own. It was also noteworthy for being between two large bay windows, one for its own building, the second belonging to the neighboring house.

The lower facade of number 138 was of fine white stone with a faux Roman arch trimming the fanlight window. The metalwork screen on the fanlight, the elegant iron fence on either side, and the brass knob in the center of the door were all nearly identical to the front of her own house, but on a grander scale.

The keystone of the arch had a distinctive carved head, like a death mask, emerging from its surface. That was new. She’d have noticed such a thing on her last jaunt here some three weeks ago. Prior to that, the building had been vacant for about a fortnight. So the new tenant had been here less than a month and had money to spend on exterior decorations.

She wanted to ask who lived here, but that could wait. The Service was strict about investigative process and rightly so. They caught more criminals that way.

Inspector Lennon opened the door. Gaslight spilled out, catching on specks of sleet flying past. “Finally,” he growled, looking her up and down. “Get inside and get on with it.”

Despite tangible results that came from Readings, Lennon maintained a broad skepticism tinged with contempt for those with psychical talent, but followed official procedure to the letter. One could not lodge a complaint against that, however poor his manners.

“Good morning, Inspector,” she said, mounting the three steps and entering, unruffled at being addressed like a lazy scullery girl.

“Nothing good about it, Miss Pendlebury, as you’ll find out.”

“Please, no information. Just tell me where.” She removed her muffler and cap, stuffing them into her pockets, then took off her gloves.

“Upstairs, last room on the left.”

Unbuttoning her ulster, she had a quick look around, unsettled by the similarity of the house’s exterior to her own. The foyer was somewhat different, this one paneled in dark, shining wood, not bold, cheery wallpaper.

To her left was a sizable parlor with chairs and tables along the walls. The draperies on the bay windows were closed. The parlor obviously served as a waiting room. She could assume a doctor owned the premises, and that he might be a bachelor or widower. A framed print on the wall extolling the virtues of Dr. Kemp’s Throat Elixir supported it. No lady of the house would have that up in even the public receiving areas. It was frightfully common.

“Where are the servants?” Alex asked.

“The whole lot’s back in the kitchen.” Lennon nodded toward a door under the stairs that must lead to that area. “We got them clear soon as may be.”

She heard voices and clamor: someone sobbing, someone else clattering about with pots and pans, probably seeking solace in the familiarity of work.

“Inspector, would it be possible to have a cup of tea for me when I’m done?”

He grunted and looked at Brook, who had shadowed her inside. “My men are busy. You see to it.”

The lieutenant might have wanted to watch her at work, but said, “Yes, sir,” and went off. Imagine that: a member of the upper class fetching tea. The Service was a great leveler. To his credit, Brook gave no indication the task was beneath him. Sergeant Greene, born and raised in Whitechapel, would have balked, but only because he’d consider it woman’s work.