P. Elrod: The Hanged Man

Murder disguised as suicide was complicated enough, but the procedural breach put Lennon in a fury, which he aimed at Lieutenant Brook.

“I’ll not be responsible,” he roared. “If you bloody Service people can’t keep track of your own, then it’s not my fault when things go wrong.”

Alex sat numb and silent in the parlor, out of the direct line of fire, finding Lennon’s reaction to be more comforting than if he’d taken her hand and offered sympathetic condolences. Though his anger clouded this part of the house, it was a good thing. He’d stir people up, get them moving, see to it they found out who had murdered her-

God, I can’t get my head around it. It’s too grotesque.

She choked at the rose scent of the handkerchief and threw it away. The smell clung to her hands. She clenched them into fists and hammered them once on the arms of her chair. Only Fingate, standing protectively over her, noticed, but made no move, just a soft humming sound of distress.

Alex glanced up at him, noting other minor changes the years had made. His soft brown eyes were sad and full of pity for her. Her control slipped and she felt a wickedly strong slap of anguish and grief from the man. It was unintentional, but the purest emotions could bowl one over; he was in great pain from the death of his master. She took a breath, eyes shut, and had to imagine a lead barrier clothing her like a suit of seamless armor. It was the first exercise in self-preservation she’d taught herself and the most reliable. She steadied out and squared her shoulders.

“We must get outside,” she said. “All of us.” The last thing the next Reader would want was a fellow member of the Service failing when it came to basics.

No one heard. Lennon was still on a rampage.

Alex raised her voice to a strident, cutting level. It felt unpleasant to speak, was unpleasant to hear, but she repeated her statement as an order, and this time it got through even to Lennon. He was in charge of the investigation, but she was the senior member of the Service here, and ultimately her authority trumped his.

This was the first time she’d ever used it. She wondered if he would comply. She locked her gaze on him and hoped he’d fall back on duty and training.

Apparently yes. He shut down and turned to the servants. They’d crowded into the entry, drawn by the row and to get a glimpse of the remains being carried out in a basket. Fingate had spared her that, bless the man.

“Everyone out, ” rumbled Lennon. He wasn’t shouting, but his size and tone made it seem so. People fled through the front door into the sleety night as though the house were afire. Lieutenant Brook herded the last ones clear, pausing on the threshold.

Alex stood, forcing herself to be steady, and indicated to Fingate to precede her. He slipped past Brook. She followed, then Lennon, who slammed the door with a bang.

Strangely, he had her ulster over one arm. He glared at her as though not pleased at being caught doing a kindness and thrust it at Brook, then stalked over to one of the mystified constables to pass the word up the ranks about the disaster.

Brook came to her, awkward for a moment, then politely held the coat that she might thread her arms through. It was so mundane as to be ridiculous. Alex fought down the treacherous ripple of hysterical laughter that wanted to break free. That was dangerously close to losing control, which would not do at all. She was in charge until someone else arrived.

She murmured gratitude to Brook and buttoned in, grateful to have silk-lined wool between her and the wind. The servants were not so lucky, huddling together with miserable faces, not a coat or cloak in sight. Fingate stood next to her when he should have been with them. No matter.

“Mr. Brook, please organize something with Mr. Fingate and get those people to shelter in one of these houses as quickly as possible. They are not to speak to anyone. Impress that upon them.” She could trust that Fingate would know of a friendly neighbor who would lend their home to such a purpose and that Brook’s official standing would smooth the way.

“Yes, miss,” they said in unison. Suddenly working together, they exchanged unsure looks, but sorting credentials would have to wait.

They moved off, leaving her alone with the sleet speckling her face and clinging to her hair. She found her hat in a pocket and pulled it on, then her gloves and the muffler. Everyone had something to do, the world rolled on, and yet her father …

Mere yards away, shoved into the anonymity of a morgue wagon, his cold clay growing colder.

How could I not know his emotional trace?

Because she’d not expected it. Why should she? She hadn’t seen him for ten years, not since he’d cut short her education in China and sent her packing back to England without a word to explain why.

Alex had been fifteen and adored him, but Father’s odd reticence against answering her reasonable questions had left a lasting hurt. Until then, they had always been so comfortable together and talked about everything.

“Something’s come up,” was all he’d said.

Something more important than me, she’d finally concluded.

Ten years since she’d last seen him waving from the dock in Hong Kong, and in that time, not a letter, not a telegram. The thorny pain of being sent away like a discharged servant had been slow to root, for she had not wanted to believe it, but it burrowed deep and had grown strong. She’d consciously pruned it back over the years, but now it jabbed her, all over again, making her flinch.

Why did he not contact me when he got home?

Why had he not contacted her, period?

He’d been in London at least three weeks, perhaps longer, living less than half a mile away. Surely he’d have gotten in touch with his brother, her uncle Leopold, to get her address. Why had no one spoken to her of this? She wasn’t on good terms with the Pendlebury clan, but Leo had always been polite to her and would have sent word.

She’d have to remain here until another member of the Service arrived, but once free she’d go straight to the Wilton Crescent house and make a holy terror of herself.

Damned Pendleburys, she thought, then more charitably wondered if Leo had simply not known his wandering brother had returned. That didn’t seem right. Certainly Gerard would have-

Or not.

Alex did not fight the surge of old anger that rushed her. It was a familiar if tiresome companion.

If he’d not contacted his own daughter, then he might not have called on the rest of the family.

Why?

That question could only be answered by the inquiry into Lord Gerard’s murder, but she was now banned from the case.

The next Reader will clear me, though. That done, she’d get back into the middle of things-starting with Fingate. He’d been her father’s valet for ages and would know everything. It might spare her the need to storm the Pendlebury sanctum.

Inspector Lennon accomplished what he was good at, making an ungodly row, stirring things around far more effectively than she’d expected. He took possession of the front parlor of the house next door, expediting Brook and Fingate’s efforts to shelter the servants from the weather. Alex was included and dragged inside with them, but kept apart. Despite orders, there was considerable conversation going on until Lennon snarled a believable threat to clap everyone in darbies and set them back in the street if they didn’t shut their bloody pie holes.

Their host, a sturdy-looking doctor named Millcrest, didn’t seem to find anything objectionable about the irregular use of his home. His bearing and clipped manner marked him as ex-military. He set his staff to work making tea, and they hopped to it as though the fate of the British Empire hung in the balance.