A Study in Darkness (33 page)

“Did they?” Tobias asked.

“Of course. The envelope of the original note had been tampered with. It is little surprise that rumors abound that my niece ran away, for that is what the letter states. What happened in that interview with the Gold King, Mr. Roth? Surely you know
something
.”

Tobias’s head pounded. “I can’t answer that. But I do know Keating. He uses people. And I know Evelina—she protects those she loves. In all probability, he’s coerced her into one of his unholy games.”

Holmes sat up, his eyes glittering. “And what game is Keating playing this time?”

Tobias wished he’d paid more attention, but he spent much of his time trying to ignore the incessant intrigues. In truth, he’d been trying to pretend he wasn’t living his current life at all. “He’s been cozy with the Scarlet King these days. I think they are scheming against King Coal.”

Holmes nodded. “This clarifies what she said in the letter.”

“What do you mean?”

The detective narrowed his eyes. “Thank you for coming today, Mr. Roth.”

Holmes’s face said it all. Tobias was in a gray zone, halfway part of the enemy’s camp—trusted a little, but not completely.

Tobias recognized the dismissal, felt it sting, but ultimately he didn’t care. He’d been thinking about Evelina every second since the miserable affair with the kiss blew up in his face—but at least he’d finally shared his suspicions with someone who could do something. “I’ve said all I came to say. I need to go.” Tobias picked up his hat.

“Mr. Roth,” Holmes said in that deceptively pleasant way
he had, “once again, thank you for sharing this in such a timely manner.”

This time, the barb struck home. As Holmes had said, it had been weeks. “I hope it helps.”

He’d nearly reached the door when the detective spoke again. “One other thing.”

Tobias stopped, feeling like a thief caught in the act of escape. He just wanted to be out of there, away from the cursed man and his cutting remarks. “What?”

“I respect the fact that you came here at all, given what my investigation did to your family. Let me repay that a little with a piece of information. While searching for my niece, I got wind of a very odd fact.”

Tobias turned, a nauseous sense of anticipation crawling up his throat. “What?”

“Dr. Magnus is alive.”

TOBIAS BOLTED UP
the stairs of Hilliard House, bursting into his sister’s bedroom. Imogen was huddled in a chair, her knees drawn up under her chin and a knitted blanket cocooned around her. He skidded to a stop, taking in the dark circles under her eyes and the hollows under her cheekbones. She was glued to a newspaper, a horrified expression on her face.

“What are you reading?” he asked.

“These murders in Whitechapel.” Her voice was faint, as if she didn’t have the strength to speak up.

“You shouldn’t read that rubbish. It’s vulgar.”

She lifted her head, her eyes huge and dark. “You don’t understand. I dreamed this. Every detail.”

Tobias waved a hand. “If you insist on reading all that, of course it will make your nightmares worse.”

“But this was before—oh, never mind.” She let the paper drop to the floor, then blinked at him as if she suddenly realized who he was. “Tobias, what are you doing here?”

For an instant, he wished he could spare her everything he was about to say, but this was too important. “Magnus is back.”

Imogen curled tighter under the blanket. “Bloody hell, you’re still in your wedding suit. Where’s Alice?”

He blinked, not sure he’d ever heard his sister curse before. “Still at the hotel, for all I know.”

Imogen’s eyes flared wide. “Tobias!”

“Listen to me. Dr. Magnus is back!” He articulated every syllable.

“Back how?” she finally said, looking at him as if he’d lost his wits.

“Alive! Holmes said so. I went to see him. I had to know if he’d heard anything about Evelina.”

She shook her head, as if trying to clear it. “Had he?”

“No. But he’d got wind of Magnus.” And while Holmes would almost certainly find Evelina, it was anybody’s guess how the doctor could be brought down.

Imogen shifted uneasily. “Magnus wrote to Evelina months ago.”

“She knew?” Tobias snapped, his temper slipping its leash. “Did you?”

Imogen licked her lips. “Father threw her out. Why would she say anything to our family? And why would I raise it with Father? You know what he’s like.”

Tobias did at that. Frustration bubbled in his gut, but he closed his eyes, breathing hard and ignoring the many, many questions that would only drag him down another dark hole. “Magnus was dabbling in magic. The dark kind.”

“Everyone acted like he was a friend of the family,” Imogen said doubtfully. “At least at first.”

Tobias had believed that, too, until he’d seen the other side of the fiend. “He was friends with Father long ago, but they had a falling out. Something to do with those automatons that disappeared.”

Imogen frowned. “I never quite followed that. What was so special about them?”

That was a good question. The maid servant, Grace Child, had died at almost the same time they were stolen, and he’d always wondered if there was a connection. Tobias rubbed his eyes, his sleepless night dragging on him. “Father told
me a story once. He built the automatons, and Magnus made the dolls walk and talk. It was amusing at first, but eventually Father got nervous and told Magnus to stop. They argued and Magnus demanded to be paid a huge sum of money for the work he’d done, as if Father had hired him to do it.”

“Did he?” Imogen prompted.

Tobias shrugged. “Who knows the truth? He said he threatened to destroy the dolls until Magnus claimed a curse would rebound on our family if they were so much as chipped. So the pater stored them in the attic and kept them a secret.”

Imogen fiddled with the fringed end of the blanket. “But then Magnus turned up in London last spring, and father tried to move the trunks someplace else.”

“And Magnus stole them anyhow.” Two grooms had died during the theft.

“No clue as to where they went?”

“None. As long as we all thought Magnus was dead, I never gave them much thought. But if he’s still alive, that means he’s still holding them hostage. I think that’s why Father was always polite to Magnus in public. There was some kind of blackmail going on.”

“They were just dolls,” Imogen protested. “Ugly ones, from what little I remember. Papa made them around the time Anna and I were sick. I think they were meant to cheer us up, but—ugh.”

They were indeed hideous, but Tobias had seen less of them than his invalid sisters. “You would have been—what? About six?”

“Six or seven,” Imogen said distantly. “Anna died after we’d just turned seven.”

And Imogen’s illness had dragged on for years after that. She still wasn’t strong. Tobias rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “Everything horrible that ever happened in this family dates from those automatons. And a dozen years later, Magnus is still using them as a weapon.”

Imogen blinked at him. “What do you think that means?”

Finally, he could see a clear path to follow. “We have to find out the whole story. I remember seeing a folio of Father’s notes in Magnus’s things once. There was probably something there, but I never had time to read the whole thing. Maybe there are letters or diaries or—or maybe we’ll just have to ask. But we need to know everything that happened. And then we have to get the wretched things back.”

“No,” Imogen said.

Tobias stared at her. “No?”

She shook her head, glaring at him. “You’ve just been married. Yesterday, in fact. You have more important things to do than to rake up the past.”

His temper spiked. “Evelina is missing. Now Magnus is hanging over our heads.”

“How do you know? You didn’t even know he was alive until an hour ago.”

“But he will be. I know him. And I can’t go to Italy right now and stare at paintings just because custom requires a honeymoon.”

“What about Alice?”

“What about her?”

“You’re hurting her.” Imogen slid down in her chair, a picture of misery. “At least try.”

But Tobias was more worried about his sister right then. He put a hand on the blanket lump that was his sister’s knee. “Im, what’s wrong?”

“Everything.” She swallowed, curling into a tighter ball. “The nightmares. And I’m worried about Evelina, too.”

A wave of pain and guilt stole his voice for a moment. “Holmes will find her. You know he’s the best.” And now the detective had another clue, for what it was worth. Tobias hoped like hell it made a difference.

Imogen pushed her hair out of her eyes. “I know he is.”

“Then cheer up, eh?” He wished he could take his own advice.

She gave him an owlish look. “I’ll make you a bargain. I’ll help you look for answers if you go spend some time with your wife.”

Tobias rose, knowing she had a point. Sooner or later, he’d have to face Alice. “Allies?” he asked. It was a ritual from childhood, the relic of a thousand war games in the woods.

“Allies,” she said with some resignation. “You’re still my brother, after all.”

THE OLD NICHOL ROOKERY WAS ONE OF THE WORST CLUMPS
of dense, run-down tenements anywhere in London. The Saracen’s Head clung to the edge of the slum like something stuck to the sole of its shoe. A short, squat, whitewashed building, it had always been a place where the legally averse had congregated, and it continued that proud tradition even in the face of King Coal’s Blue Boys.

Nick had to bow his head to get through the doorway without knocking himself silly, but he heard Digby’s grunt behind him as the tall helmsman predictably forgot to duck. Striker followed up the rear, the metal bits on his coat jingling as he moved.

The place stank of the ashes and spilled beer that formed a greasy black slick under his boots. Mugs and cups belonging to the regulars hung on nails above the bar, but a shelf nearby held a stock of additional tankards. Old, cracked saucers sat on the bar filled with scrapings from the frying pans, a twist of cloth set alight as a wick for the improvised lamps. The Head wasn’t one of the Blue King’s places, and so it had no gas, coal, or steam. That suited everyone just fine, as long as one didn’t mind carrying the stench of burning bacon in one’s clothes.

“Well,” said Black George, the barkeep, in his usual rumble. “If ’tisn’t the scourge of the high aether come to drink
our porter. Sing me a shanty, boys, and tell tall tales of the clouds.” He rumbled a laugh, hawked, spat, and plucked three tankards down from their hooks. He was a big man, shaped like one of his own casks, with curly black hair that turned into a curly beard without interruption. He began filling the tankards with the Saracen’s notoriously sour ale.

“There won’t be any shanties tonight, my friend, though maybe Digby will play you a tune.” Nick strolled toward the bar, noticing who immediately cleared the path, and who waited till the last moment to step away. There were always a few who wanted to inch up the pack order by taking on one of the pirates, but tonight there were no takers. Just as well. Enough heads would be broken as it was.

“Business?” Black George smacked three pewter tankards, rumpled with dents and dings and glistening with foam, upon the scarred counter. The other drinkers shuffled away from the tankards as if they might explode. “It’s always business with you boys. Except you, Digby. You’re a man who knows what makes a good time.”

“Aye, George,” the tall helmsman said, pulling a battered fiddle out from under his coat. “And it’s a royal treat to come to a place where folk appreciate a good tune. Not like these airborne billy goats.”

“The beer comes free as long as you play,” George said. “Just take it to the back.”

And Digby did, for once remembering to duck when he passed beneath the black wooden beam that stretched the length of the place to reach a circle of chairs. The seats were drawn around a smoky fire that smelled suspiciously of the stables. Nick guessed the fuel was picked up off the street once horses had gone by.

“We’ve had a good run,” said Nick to George. “Took three of the Gold King’s transports before the job you sent my way.”

“Did it go well?”

Nick tried to decide if that was a polite question, or if George was fishing for information. “The customer is satisfied his deliveries were made in good order. And now I’m free to sell my merchandise.”

“There are plenty hungry for whatever you have to sell.”

Nick gestured, and Striker stepped forward, spiky hair standing out around his face like a hedgehog’s quills. The flickering light danced over the metal on his coat. “Show him.”

Striker turned around, displaying the back of the garment. Samples of the gears, wheels, plates, and every bolt and screw were stitched there in decorative array. Of course, there were plenty of items too large to include, but it worked well enough as a sales tool. Striker had always covered his coat, both for protection and as a means of carrying the valuable parts with him. It wasn’t a fashion for everyone. Nick had tried the coat on once and felt like he could hardly move.