Ashes To Ashes: A Ministry of Curiosities Novella (The Ministry of Curiosities Book 5) (3 page)

The children scampered away and Lincoln let go.

"I weren't going to hit him," the guard mumbled. "Just give him a scare."

The doors opened and performers spilled into the wintry sunshine. Further along, the animals and their handlers used an unguarded exit.

"Do you know Ela the dancer?" Lincoln asked the guard.

The fellow's gaze narrowed. "You a lord?"

"No."

"Rich?"

Lincoln merely looked at him.

The guard's top lip curled up. "You ain't got no chance with Ela if you ain't a lord or rich."

"That's not what I hear."

"Or a strong man," the guard added, with a chuckle that made the flesh of his neck shake like jelly.

Lincoln watched the procession of acrobats dressed in white tights and red costumes, cut low at the bust and high up the thighs like Elizabethan trunk hose.

"Does Ela have regular liaisons with any of the other performers?" Lincoln asked the guard.

"Why do you want to know?"

"We're private inquiry agents, looking into the death of Patrick O'Neill. The police here in England are useless, and your employers want to find the killer." If the story had worked once, it should work again.

It did. The guard nodded his approval. "Good. Glad they're doing something right by the acts for once." He stroked his heavy jaw. "She weren't with anyone else that I knew, just the strongman. Of course, there were others outside the circus."

"Lords or rich men?"

"Both."

"Do you have any names?"

"No." His hand whipped out and he grabbed the arm of one of the girls walking past—a pretty dark-haired girl with a tiny waist and large bosom that was barely covered by the flimsy outfit. "Gentleman here wants to speak with you, Ela."

Ela told the other dancers that she would meet them later, after she found out if "this one" was "worth it." She spoke in her native Polish, a language Lincoln was familiar with.

She turned a bright smile onto him. It became even brighter when Seth joined them. "
Two
handsome gentlemen?" she said in a thick accent. "I am lucky girl."

"We want to speak with you," Lincoln said.

Seth held up his hand for silence. Lincoln clamped his teeth together. "My dear," Seth said, turning on his smile. "It's Ela, isn't it?"

She nodded. "And you are?"

"Lord Vickers." He removed his hat and swept into a low bow.

The girl held out her hand and Seth kissed it. "I am pleased to meet you, Lord Vickers. Did you and your friend enjoy our performance?"

"Very much. You danced beautifully. So graceful! So elegant!"

"Thank you. You are very kind." She placed a hand on her hip and lowered her heavily made-up eyelids. The coquettish move made Seth stand straighter.

"We have some questions for you regarding the death of Mr. O'Neill," Lincoln said.

Everything about her suddenly changed, from her assured stance to the color of her face. It was as if her life force drained out of her. Her lower lip wobbled and she bit it. If it was an act, Lincoln couldn't detect the lie.

With a jerk of her head, she led them away from the eavesdroppers. "Why are you asking questions about Patrick?"

Lincoln repeated his story. "Did he have any enemies within the circus?"

She shook her head. "Everyone like Patrick. He was kind, good."

"Was he your only lover here?"

Seth shook his head and muttered something Lincoln couldn't hear. Lincoln ignored him.

Ela gasped and placed a hand to her bosom. "I find your question very rude, sir."

"Just answer it. Please."

Her lips flattened. "I have no other circus lover, only him. I know why you are asking this, and I think you are wrong. No one in the circus would kill Patrick. No one. We are like family."

"What about someone from outside the circus? Did any of your English gentlemen friends resent that you had another lover?"

She folded her arms beneath her bosom, pushing them up. Seth shifted his stance. "No one outside circus knew about Patrick and me," Ela said.

"Are you sure?"

"I cannot be certain, no." She studied her painted fingernails, and Lincoln waited for her to continue. She had something further to say, he was sure of it. "There is one man who is, how you say? Persist?"

"Persistent," Seth said.

"Yes, persistent. He demands to see me every night after the second show, and wishes for me to stay with him in his house until morning. But I cannot. I need to sleep, and Mr. Bailey would be very angry if he found out. So would Patrick, if he knew," she added with a quiet sigh. "Poor Patrick."

"Did you love him?" Seth asked.

"Bah! Love is for rich girls, not poor. I like Patrick, but he is—was—a circus man, and I do not want to be in circus my whole life."

"Would your persistent gentleman friend have saved you from this life?"

"No. He was a lord, or lord's son. I am not for marrying, so he tell me. He only wed English girl." She swore in Polish. There was no equivalent in English, but it wasn't a word Lincoln associated with delicate dancers.

"Do you think he knew about your relationship with O'Neill?" Lincoln asked.

"No. I tell him he is only one. That is best way."

That didn't mean he hadn't found out. "This man's name?"

She bit her lip and it took some gentle coaxing from Seth to get her to talk again. "Andrew. Andrew Buchanan."

N
either Andrew Buchanan
nor his stepmother, Julia, were at Harcourt House, so Lincoln instructed Gus to drive on to Lichfield. Upon entering the long, sweeping drive, it became clear why no one was at home at Harcourt House—Julia's carriage stood behind the conveyances of Lords Gillingham and Marchbank, and General Eastbrooke.

"Want me to turn about, sir?" Gus shouted over the rumble of wheels.

"Drive on," Lincoln said. He had to face the committee members sooner or later. It was surprising that he hadn't seen them for some time—since before Charlie left. Breaking the news to them about her departure would be…interesting.

Gus stopped alongside the other carriages so that Lincoln could enter via the front door, something he rarely did. Doyle met him and informed him that the visitors were waiting in the newly refurbished drawing room upstairs, rather than the smaller downstairs parlor.

"They insisted on staying, sir." Doyle kept his voice low as he took Lincoln's coat and gloves.

"Bring tea," Lincoln said.

"Tea has been served, sir."

Lincoln made his way up to the drawing room. He'd been in it only once since the new furniture arrived from France. He'd been avoiding the room. The new pieces had been chosen by Charlie during their recent Parisian sojourn, and he saw her touch in everything. At least this time he would be distracted by the committee members and their inevitable barrage of questions.

"Finally!" Gillingham grumbled. "We've been waiting an age for you."

"It hasn't been that long, Gilly," the general chided. He greeted Lincoln with a curt nod.

Lincoln responded with a nod of his own. It was the same manner in which they'd greeted one another since Lincoln could remember.

Lord Marchbank sat beside Julia on the sofa, furthest from the crackling fire. His greeting was a bland, "Afternoon, Fitzroy." Of all the committee members, he was the one Lincoln respected. There was no guile in him, no false flattery or hidden agenda. He made sound, succinct comments when he had something to say and kept to himself when he did not. He was gruff, honest, and appreciated those who were honest in return.

Julia was his opposite in every way. From her perfectly coifed hair to her shiny black boots, she was every inch a lady. She wore pearl drop earrings today and a matching pearl necklace that she'd looped around her slender white throat three times. There were more rings on her fingers than the queen's, and a pearl and jet butterfly broach took up most of her jacket lapel. The effect was too much for daywear. While he was far from being an expert on the nature of women, he knew a little about behaviors in the animal kingdom. Her elaborate display was perhaps an attempt to catch his eye, or to outshine the woman she saw as her rival.

The woman who was conspicuous by her absence.

"Is Charlie not with you?" Julia asked, peering past him to the door.

He braced himself. "She's gone."

Julia's breath hitched. Her eyes widened ever so slightly as she once again peered past Lincoln, as if she expected him to be joking.

"Gone?" Both Marchbank and Eastbrooke repeated.

"What do you mean, gone?" Gillingham said. "Gone where?"

"She no longer lives here." Lincoln settled on a chair by the window, where it was coldest. The drawing room was larger than the parlor, and not even the blazing fire warmed the entire room. It was the first time he'd spent more than a few moments in it, and already he disliked it. He couldn't put his finger on why.

"Where is she now?" Eastbrooke asked.

"That is not your affair," Lincoln said.

As he suspected, Gillingham's protest was the loudest and involved a spray of spittle. "It most certainly is! We are the committee. It's our right to know everything that goes on in the ministry, including the location of the most dangerous supernatural."

Lincoln didn't bother responding. If he walked out now, would they pursue him? Probably.

"Agreed," the general said, pushing to his feet in a show of superiority. He had always liked to display his physical strength in one way or another. He could no longer beat Lincoln, or order anyone to beat him, but it had never stopped the general from trying to manage him. The man hadn't realized that he couldn't control Lincoln—or the other committee members—anymore. It would come as a rude shock one day.

"Why won't you tell us?" Julia asked, all innocence. "We're as invested in her safety as you are."

He knew her well enough to know when she was lying. Did the others detect it, or was he more in tune with her because he'd made the mistake of being intimate with her?

"Is she in London?" Gillingham asked when Lincoln still didn't answer.

"She is not at Lichfield. That's all you need to know."

Gillingham smashed the end of his walking stick into the floor. "Damn it, man! We must be informed."

"No, you must not."

Gillingham swore, completely disregarding Julia's presence. Not that she seemed to notice or care. She'd probably heard worse. She'd certainly said worse. She had quite a filthy tongue when she shed her noble façade.

Eastbrooke sat again with a loud click of his tongue, but he didn't protest or ask for more information. Of all of them, he knew how useless it was to swear at Lincoln or cajole, beg, or trick him into capitulating once he'd made up his mind about something. When Lincoln was a child, his stubbornness had earned him punishments that ranged from insults, isolation, and finally physical violence, mostly from his tutors but sometimes from the general himself, when he returned home from his military campaigns. Even after Lincoln grew strong enough to fight back, and his skills surpassed even those of his tutors, the general would still try to "knock some sense" into him, one way or another. He finally ceased trying to break Lincoln's stubbornness after Lincoln killed Gurry, one of his tutors.

"Keep your secret, if you like," Marchbank said. "I'm simply glad you came to your senses, finally."

The other three turned to him, once again protesting at being left out of the decision making process. Lincoln wondered which of them really wanted to know where he'd sent Charlie, and which simply resented him overruling their authority.

It was Julia who finally called for calm. Nobody spoke as she poured tea into a cup, got up and handed it to Lincoln. The perfect hostess. Except it wasn't her place to act as mistress of the house.

Lincoln considered refusing the cup, but decided that would be petty.

"Did you send her away, or did she go of her own accord?" she asked.

"That is irrelevant." Charlie was gone, and that was that.

She blew out a frustrated breath. "There is no need for this secrecy. We're satisfied that she's gone. It's what we all wanted."

He did not remind her that at least one member would have preferred Charlie be eliminated altogether. He eyed Gillingham over the rim of his teacup as he sipped. The coward flushed and looked away.

Julia returned to the sofa and perched on the edge, her hands placed in her lap, the picture of a well brought up lady. Few knew that a snake lurked beneath that respectable, poised exterior. Lincoln knew better than anyone. What he didn't know was how much of her waspishness stemmed from her jealousy over Charlie, and how much was innate. Each private discussion between he and Julia since Charlie's arrival had become more and more uncomfortable, as she'd allowed her mask of pleasantness and respectability to slip. She'd thrown herself at him, begged him, threatened him, and once, tried to claw at his face, all because he refused to resume their liaison. Finally, shortly before he and Charlie had left for Paris, she had calmly pointed out every reason why he should send her away. None of those reasons were ones he hadn't already considered. No doubt Julia would see Charlie's banishment as a victory.

He tapped the side of his cup and counted the ripples on the tea's surface. After a moment, his temper had dampened enough that he could discuss recent events. "I assume you are here because of the death reported in this morning's papers," he said. At their nods, he added, "I've already begun my investigation. It's unclear whether this death is linked to those of Drinkwater and Brumley—"

"Of course it is," Gillingham bit off. "It must be."

"Why?"

"He could move objects with his mind, like Drinkwater. Couldn't he?"

"He could." Lincoln glared at Gillingham, hoping to get him to say more than he wanted to. Of all the committee members, he was the easiest to intimidate. "How do you know?"

Gillingham snorted. "I read about his superior strength in the article reporting on his death in this morning's papers. Nobody is that strong."

"With Drinkwater fresh in our minds," the general said, "is it surprising that we immediately thought O'Neill was a supernatural? I too was skeptical about his feats of strength."

"I recognized his name from the archives," Julia said. "After checking, I sent word to everyone to meet here this afternoon to discuss it with you."

O'Neill was hardly a memorable name, but he didn't question her. "As I said, I have already begun investigating."

"And?" the general prompted.

"And there is nothing to report yet."

Gillingham clicked his tongue. "Come on, man, we are not the enemy! You must tell us what you know."

"I will," Lincoln said through a tight jaw, "once I've learned something."

Eastbrooke held up his hands. "Very well, very well. We'll leave it with you. No, Gilly," he said when Gillingham protested. "He has never failed to keep us informed of ministry business."

"The necromancer is ministry business, and he has failed to keep us informed of her whereabouts." Gillingham stamped his stick into the floor again and pushed himself to his feet. "Good day, gentlemen, Julia."

"I'm going too," Marchbank announced, standing.

They departed, along with Eastbrooke, but Julia remained. It would probably be rude of him to ask her to leave.

"You look very tired, Lincoln," she said, frowning. "Is something troubling you?"

"No," he lied.

"I'm glad to hear it." She smiled. "I'm sure that many of your troubles have disappeared now." She came to where he sat, her steps slow and light, as if she glided across the floor. She rested a hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps you're tired because you're not sleeping well."

"That is generally the cause of tiredness."

Her hand moved from his shoulder to his neck. Her fingers skimmed his hairline. She leaned down so that the swell of her breasts brushed his cheek. "Perhaps you're not sleeping well because you're frustrated," she whispered. "I have a special remedy for frustration. A remedy that you once desired very much."

Her misguided confidence in her own appeal would have been laughable if it weren't so pathetic. How had he ever thought her alluring? She repulsed him now.

She touched his tie to loosen it, but he caught her hand. "I no longer desire your particular remedy. Good day, Julia."

She hopped off the chair arm and stepped back. Tears welled in her eyes, as if his words had stung, but he couldn't be sure if they were real tears or false.

"She's gone, Lincoln." Her usually lilting voice turned ugly. "Your little
affaire de coeur
is over."

He finished his tea as slowly and deliberately as he could. He counted the seconds in his head.

"Whether you sent her away or she left of her own accord doesn't matter. She's gone, and it's for the best. You'll miss her for a few weeks, but it will pass and you will once again be as you were."

A few weeks. He wanted to ask if she could be more specific, but didn't. She might not even be telling the truth. As far as he was aware, she'd never been in—

He dropped the cup back in its saucer and tossed them both onto the table beside him. It clattered and possibly chipped, but he didn't care. "That's enough, Julia. It's time you left."

She pressed her hand to her heaving breast. "I—I need to speak with you about something else first. Something of a personal nature."

"More personal than what we've already been discussing?"

She blinked. "Yes." She crossed to the double doors and shut them. "I want you to speak to Mr. Golightly on my behalf."

Lincoln righted the cup and placed it in the saucer. The rim was indeed chipped. "The stage manager at The Alhambra? Why?"

She drew in a deep breath and let it out again. "I had an arrangement with him after I severed my connection to The Al before my marriage. He agreed to ensure that no one in his employ would publicly connect Lady Harcourt with Miss D.D. the dancer. After Merry Drinkwater's recent threats to expose me, I've become concerned that he isn't keeping up his end of our bargain."

"He can't control what people say once they leave his employ."

"He should try!" Her voice rose, along with her bosom as she heaved in another breath. "Oh, Lincoln, she almost exposed me."

"Almost, but not quite. How fortunate that you came up with an arrangement to satisfy her and keep her quiet." That arrangement being the kidnapping of Charlie and Gus so that Charlie could raise Mrs. Drinkwater's dead supernatural husband. Those dark hours when Lincoln hadn't known where Charlie was still ate at him. He had never known real fear until the moment when he learned that she'd been taken, perhaps killed. He never wanted to experience it again. It was after he'd learned of Julia's involvement that he'd begun to see her for the selfish woman she truly was. It had taken every ounce of his control not to kill her. The irony wasn't lost on him that he wouldn't have had that self-control if it weren't for Charlie believing he had it in him.

"Please, Lincoln." She placed her palms on his chest, tilted her chin and blinked watery eyes at him. "Please speak with Golightly and get his assurance that nothing like that will happen again."

He plucked off her hands then let them go. "That is your affair, not mine. Speak to Golightly yourself."

"But I'll be seen!"

"Then write him a letter."

"So he or that horrid Redding woman can keep it and use it against me?" She bit her wobbling lip, and this time he believed that her tears were real. "She never did like me, the jealous minx. Not once Andrew and I…not after he began paying me attention."