P. Elrod - The Hanged Man

“You met him at the swimming race today.”

“You’re joking.”

“Sadly, not.”

James bent for a closer scrutiny of Teddy. “What the devil is-”

“Let’s keep names out of it for the present. We’re all going to Service headquarters and statements will be taken there.”

“How boring. Might I be excused? Oh, well. Nothing for it but to do my duty and all that, however inconvenient. Good heavens, is that a woman you’ve got tied up?”

“Little cousin,” said James, looking out the study window at the unusual quantity of traffic in the square, “you’ve inserted yourself into history. No mistake about it.”

“Bother that,” snapped Alex.

“It’s true. The Grosvenor Square raid promises to have greater repercussions than anything since Guy Fawkes was found strolling under Parliament with a pocketful of matches. Looks like hundreds are being arrested.”

Alex had no mind for her place in history, being distracted by the need to acquire immediate transportation to Service headquarters. Every conveyance from half the stations in the city were being used to transport prisoners. Omnibuses were commandeered, even open carts from tradesmen were sent in.

She finally ordered Lord Hollifield’s coach made ready, her authority backed up by the queen’s carte blanche letter. Alex liked this level of command, but understood a disproportionate amount of responsibility came with it. She gladly anticipated turning the paper and her charges over to Mrs. Woodwake as soon as humanly possible.

As a grudging concession to James, who was more of a gentleman than Alex was a lady, she allowed him to place Andrina on a settee and remove her blindfold. She’d returned to her full senses and chewed at her gag, attempting to talk. It would have been comical, but Alex was certain those bursts of frustrated sounds were not fit to hear. The gag remained in place.

“Andrina, you’ll be given the chance to speak as much as you’d like soon enough. Until then, you may want to consider what sort of apologies to write to our godmother and in particular to Princess Charlotte. After tonight you won’t be allowed within miles of the palace ever again.”

Fingate, poor fellow, looked moderately appalled, not at Andrina’s fate, but at Alex’s obvious satisfaction over it.

Alex realized that she was not the ingenuous fledgling he’d known ten years ago, but she refused to feel badly about that. Where Andrina was concerned, it was impossible to conceal the pleasure of finally having the last word.

Lord Hollifield remained quiet. He’d made use of pen, ink, and paper, composing a letter to his wife. Alex read it to make sure it wasn’t a coded message to another member of the Order of the Black Sun. She apologized for intruding and gave it to Sebbings to hand deliver. Though a traitor, his lordship was royally connected and would require delicate handling for the time being.

Brook, with an abstracted expression, strode across to the desk, opened the top right drawer, took something from under a sheaf of papers there, and returned to where he’d been standing by the bookcase door.

With a dreadful face, Hollifield gave a short groan of misery and slumped.

“Mr. Brook?”

“Yes, Miss Pendlebury?”

“Were you aware of what you’ve just done?”

It took him a moment to work out how he’d acquired the derringer in his hand. “Oh. Well.”

“You could not have known that was in the desk.”

“I’ve never been in this room before,” he admitted.

“Your talent is certainly manifesting itself in useful ways today. Bravo.” She turned to Hollifield. “You are not taking the gentleman’s way out to avoid accountability, sir. Remember your family. Causing harm to yourself harms them.”

“What of your family, Alex? What untold harm have you done to them this night?” He shot a pointed look at Teddy and Andrina.

“They brought it on themselves, but I dread giving the news to their parents. My uncle and aunt won’t thank me for it, but better from me than a stranger. I’ll have no friends on the Pendlebury side, and the crimes committed will taint my name as well. Uncle will resign in disgrace, Aunt will-well, never mind. What comes will come.”

The coach arrived, much to Alex’s relief. She wanted to leave before Lady Lindsey returned from her royal dinner.

Lord Hollifield now seemed stoically resigned to accept the consequences of his actions in the best public school manner.

Seemed . Alex sensed he had a small gem of bright hope deeply hidden. What it might be she could not say, but it had to be removed. There was a moment of scandalized distress from others when she ordered his hands restrained behind him by police darbies. They were to be left on indefinitely.

“Really, Alex, must you?” asked James.

She shot him a bleak look. “I don’t … I don’t want the man hanging himself later.”

That took James aback. He looked ill, but nodded and said nothing more on the subject.

Alex briefly touched Hollifield’s arm as he was helped into the coach. The bright little gem was gone, replaced by bleak darkness.

The ride to headquarters was silent. She was tired to the bone and welcomed the respite, however short. Duty called again when they were stopped at Whitehall by armed men from the Horse Guards. Barricades were up, blocking the street. The queen’s letter got them through.

Lights burned in every window of the Service building, and just across Richmond Terrace, New Scotland Yard was active as a knocked-over anthill. Horse Guards and soldiers on foot were everywhere. Some were even posted on roofs overlooking Downing Street. She’d never seen such a thing before.

When they rolled through the gates into the courtyard Alex picked up the excitement in the air. Her telegram to Woodwake had prepared the way for the prisoners. Hollifield, Teddy, Andrina, and the hapless guard (still groggy from his fight with Brook) were swept off to hidden regions to eventually be questioned by Readers. Alex wondered if the rules might be set aside to include her in the process, since she could offer insight to her cousins’ reactions. Time would tell.

Mrs. Woodwake was busy elsewhere, though. Interviews would have to wait. Instead of a meeting room or even the dining hall, their party was escorted up to a large parlor on the fourth floor. It looked less like a ministry office and more like a private home.

A cheery fire burned, the rugs were thick and mellow in color and some exceedingly fine landscape paintings drew the eye beyond the limits of the walls. Windows looked out over Whitehall and the length of Downing Street. During the day a slice of St. James’s Park would be visible beyond.

Bullet holes marred the glass from the attack that afternoon. Rags had been stuffed in to halt draughts. Corresponding holes in the ceiling attested to the velocity and force of the air gun bullets. The great black rectangles of night made Alex uncomfortable, as though invisible things were staring in on them. She pulled the heavy brocade curtains together.

Benedict, blown again from having to climb stairs, balked at the door, pointing in alarm at what hung over the fireplace.

“Mirror! Get me away! Get me away!”

He blundered backward into the hall. Brook and James caught him and Alex promised to remove the offending décor. That calmed him, but he remained rigid as a corpse until two of their staff escorts lifted the framed glass from its hooks and took it elsewhere.

Fingate had apparently appointed himself the poor man’s unofficial keeper, and with soothing words got him settled close to the fire. Benedict shut his eyes and hummed to himself, his fingers tapping the chair arms. Alex thought she recognized Bach.