Ashes To Ashes: A Ministry of Curiosities Novella (The Ministry of Curiosities Book 5) (4 page)

He passed her his handkerchief. "Speaking of Buchanan, do you know about your stepson's latest interest?"

She paused, perhaps needing a moment to adjust to the change in topic. "Interest?"

"Her name is Ela."

She swallowed. "Oh. That sort of interest. No, I didn't know about her." She lifted her chin, stretching her throat above the high lace ruffle of her collar. "Who is she?"

"A dancer with the circus."

Her bark of laughter held no humor. "Of course she is."

"You haven't seen her at Harcourt House?"

"God, no! No gentleman brings home his mistress for the world, and the servants, to see. That's obscene."

She should know, having been a gentleman's mistress prior to her marriage. Lincoln wasn't sure how she'd convinced Lord Harcourt, Andrew's father, to marry her, and he didn't want to know. The agreement struck up with Golightly had probably helped her cause considerably. Harcourt had been a respected, conservative nobleman—he wouldn't want the world thinking he'd fallen for a dancer. The fact that Julia was a headmaster's daughter had been enough of a scandal at the time.

"They must have hired a room somewhere for the purpose." She strode away, her deep plum skirts swishing around her ankles. She trailed her fingers along the back of the sofa then turned to face him, her back to the fire. Her eyes seemed to glisten, but whether from unshed tears or something else, he couldn't be sure. "Did you mention this Ela woman merely to see my reaction, Lincoln? Are you curious to know if I'm jealous of her?"

Lincoln knew that Julia and Andrew had a dalliance before she met Andrew's father. He wasn't as sure whether their affair had continued after Lord Harcourt's death, although it wouldn't surprise him if they had an arrangement. It would be easy enough, since they lived in the same house and both had passionate natures that neither seemed fully able to control. But there was a tension between them with a sharp, cruel edge to it. Lincoln didn't know the source of the tension, nor did he understand why they stayed together in the same house if they didn't like one another. Their relationship, like many, was a mystery to him.

He blamed his lack of understanding on a deficiency in his education. He'd been taught a broad range of subjects, but his lack of interaction with other people meant he felt like he was always observing through a window, unable to hear the conversation on the other side.

Charlie had been good at understanding people. Years of living with gangs on the street had honed senses Lincoln doubted he even possessed. She could quickly identify subtle changes in the mood of others and the meaning behind facial expressions and tone of voice. She knew how to express her feelings, and how to coax the best out of people. And sometimes the worst.

"Lincoln? Are you listening to me?'

He snapped his gaze back to Julia. "Buchanan is your stepson," he said. "Why would you be jealous of his latest paramour?" It wasn't the cleverest thing he'd said all day, and the stiffening of her spine cued him into her opinion of it.

She sniffed. "Paramour is not quite the appropriate word, in this case. I prefer to use whore."

"She was also O'Neill's lover," he told her.

"Ah. That explains your questions. And here I thought it was to goad me."

"I don't goad."

Her lips flattened. "I'm sure the dancer is merely a passing infatuation for Andrew, but please, ask him yourself. I'm sure he would love to answer your questions."

Unlikely.

"Do you know how long the circus is in London?" she asked.

"Until February, I believe."

"That long?" She turned her back to him and held her hands out to the fire. A few deep breaths later, she turned once again and plastered a smile on her face. "I'm holding a Christmas ball soon. I'd like you to come."

"I'm too busy."

"I haven't told you which night. Besides, everyone will be there."

She'd said something similar when she wanted him to attend another ball three months prior. In that instance, she'd used the carrot of the Prince or Wales's presence. Lincoln had gone only to see the man who'd fathered him. It was the first time he had been in the same room as the prince, and it would hopefully be the last. He wanted nothing more to do with him.

Julia approached and took his hands in hers. "I'll send you an invitation. Now, what does a woman need to do to get an invitation to dinner at Lichfield?"

"I rarely dine at an appropriate hour for company."

"You're home now. We could pass the time in here or…elsewhere until the gong."

"I have work to do."

She pouted. "Don't be difficult, Lincoln." She stroked his jaw, and once again he had to catch her hand.

"Good day, Julia." He tugged the bell pull beside the door. Doyle must have been hovering nearby, because he appeared mere seconds later. "See Lady Harcourt out," Lincoln said.

Julia swept past him. He didn't need anyone to interpret her facial expression for him this time. The set of her jaw and diamond-hard stare gave him enough clues. That and her silence.

* * *

P
atrick O'Neill must have been
a valued member of Barnum and Bailey's troupe to get his own private room in Mrs. Mather's lodging house. Other bedrooms housed two, three or four lodgers, sometimes sharing the same bed. Lincoln had peered into each room to ascertain the layout of the house before returning to O'Neill's to begin his search.

Although he hadn't been inside the house the day before, he had been close enough to overhear the detective inspector speaking with Mrs. Mather, and he had seen their faces as they both gazed up at the third window from the right on the second story. It had been easy to use window ledges and shutter corners to scale the wall, but he would have found another way in if the relevant window had been closed. Fortunately it was open, most likely to let fresh air into a room where the scent of death still lingered beneath the equally pungent smell of carbolic soap.

The room itself was little wider than the bed. A small table had been wedged between the bed and wall, a candle burned almost to a stub on the surface. There were no lamps or other lighting. Not that Lincoln would use them if they were available. The moonlight filtering through the window was enough. That and instinct.

The mattress had been removed, along with the linen, but dark patches of what he supposed were bloodstains could still be seen splattered over the floral wallpaper behind the bed.

Lincoln worked quickly, first checking the two drawers in the dressing table. They held O'Neill's personal items—comb and hair oil, beard trimmer, a bible, rosary, ink, pen, blotter and paper. Four letters written on thin paper were tucked into the corner, all dated after the troupe's arrival in London, and all from family members still living in Ireland. Lincoln recognized their names from the ministry archives. He skimmed the contents as best as he could, given the poor light, and skimmed his fingertips over the blank papers, feeling for indentations made from the pen on the sheet that had been above it. Nothing of use. He flipped through the pages of the bible, but nothing fell out.

He moved to the traveling trunk stored at the foot of the bed. The lock had been forced open, most likely by the police looking for clues. Moonlight glinted off the gold paint of a wide belt attached to a costume that would have covered very little of O'Neill's body. The idea was probably to show off the man's musculature, and perhaps to titillate the female audience. There were other costumes too, one Arabic in nature with pantaloons, and a loincloth made of animal hide. The trunk also contained a shirt, heavy woolen coat, a pair of trousers and old boots. His best suit and shoes must be with the body for burial. If he'd been wearing a nightshirt at the time of death, it had probably found its way to the scrap heap. Aside from a book of Irish ballads, the trunk was empty.

Lincoln searched through pockets. He flipped through the pages of the book. He searched everywhere and found exactly what he expected to find—nothing. No evidence of an argument or an enemy, gambling debts, jealous lover or grudges held. It appeared as if O'Neill's death had been a random attack.

Someone in the next room—Ira Irwin, most likely—snored. Lincoln had time to go through everything again. He searched the walls and floorboards, stepping on a creaking one near the door. He silently cursed himself for the foolish mistake then listened. All seemed quiet. Too quiet. Irwin had stopped snoring.

Lincoln hurriedly re-checked the letters, books and papers, then moved back to the clothing. Outside in the corridor, a light footstep made him pause. Someone was there. He should leave.

But he also needed to be sure he hadn't missed anything. He quickly searched through the pockets again, but they were indeed empty, and the linings contained nothing sewn into them.

He glanced at the door as another footstep sounded, so light that he questioned whether he'd heard it or imagined it. A wise man would escape now. Lincoln was in no mood to be wise tonight, or any of these last few nights. Besides, there were only O'Neill's boots remaining. He needed mere seconds.

He loosened the bootlaces and thrust his hand inside, stretching his fingers down into the toes of one boot, then the other.

Paper crinkled. He pulled it out, stood and dove for the open window, just as the door crashed back on its hinges.

"I can't see!" someone shouted.

"A figure! There! Climbing through the window!" That was Irwin. "Head him off downstairs."

Lincoln held onto the window ledge and swung to his left. He caught the ledge of Irwin's window and pulled himself up. He'd had more time to find footholds on his earlier ascent to O'Neill's room, but fortunately the layout of the building was the same here and he didn't have to think too much. As he reached the fourth level, the ceiling height was lower, the roofline sloped, and it was easy to reach the eaves.

Unfortunately, he wasn't fast enough.

"He's gone up!" Irwin shouted.

Lincoln gripped the eaves and swung, hand over hand, to the next building. Its roof was lower and Lincoln climbed onto the tiles as quietly as he could. He crossed the gully to the back of the house but the wall was too sheer to climb down. He ran up the steep, slippery pitch and glanced back toward the lodging house.

Someone had the courage to pursue him. Someone fast and unafraid of heights. An aerialist, perhaps.

Lincoln ran on. He jumped from roof to roof, leaping over narrow lanes where necessary. But he couldn't continue forever. The roofs would come to an end soon, and the aerialist hadn't given up. Lincoln could overpower him if necessary, but he didn't want to harm an innocent man.

He reached the last roof and balanced on the sloping tiles. He peered over the edge. No shutters, and the window ledges were too far apart. He ran to the back of the house and spotted a sluice pipe running down the wall. There was no time to test its strength. He swung his legs over the eaves and grabbed on with his knees.

His descent was so fast that he reached the cobbled yard before the aerialist peered over the edge of the roof. He dodged through an archway to the lane beyond, and ran to his right. Instead of running straight along it, he scaled another wall into another yard, through a gate and into a yard, then a wider lane.

He knew these streets like he knew the patterns of lines on Charlie's palm. The aerialist did not. There were no sounds of pursuit; no hue and cry had been raised. He was very much alone on the frosty, sooty London evening. He slowed to a brisk walk and headed back toward Highgate. He'd not brought a horse or carriage with him, and the walk was a long one.

So he ran. Instead of allowing his mind to wander at will, he forced himself to stay alert, to listen and focus on the task at hand. He'd almost missed the piece of paper in the boot, now tucked into his pocket. That was sloppy. He'd also almost been caught. That was unfortunate. On the other hand, it was also exhilarating. He'd not had a good chase across rooftops in an age.

Lichfield Towers was in darkness when he arrived. Nobody waited up for him. He hadn't asked them to, and yet he almost wished he had.

He shook off those thoughts and poured himself a brandy in the library. By the light of the candles, he dug the note out of his pocket and read it. It was an address. One he knew well.

Harcourt House, Mayfair. Julia's home, and Andrew Buchanan's.

L
incoln was a coward
. It wasn't a word he liked to associate with himself, but on this occasion, he could admit it. He hunched into his coat on the street opposite Harcourt House, his hood pulled low, and waited for Julia to leave. More than an hour later, his patience was rewarded as the front door opened and Millard the butler handed her an umbrella. She descended the steps and strolled up the street. Once she was gone from sight, Lincoln approached the house.

Millard answered his knock. "Lady Harcourt is not at home, sir."

"I wish to see Mr. Buchanan," Lincoln said.

"He's not available to callers."

Meaning he was probably still in bed. Lincoln checked his pocket watch. It was almost midday. "Inform Mr. Buchanan that he will make himself available to discuss Ela. If he's not down within fifteen minutes, I'll come up to his room and drag him out of bed by the ankles."

Millard didn't blink an eye. He merely stepped aside to allow Lincoln in. "May I take your coat, sir?"

Fifteen minutes later, Buchanan ambled into the drawing room. He looked as if someone
had
dragged him out of bed by the ankles. His fair hair was flat on one side and stuck out from his head on the other. He rubbed bloodshot eyes and stifled a yawn.

"Bloody early, ain't it, Fitzroy?"

"No."

Buchanan crossed to the window and looked out. He winced and rubbed his eyes again, even though the day wasn't bright. "You're right. Not too early for a drink at all." He poured a snifter of brandy and offered it to Lincoln.

Lincoln shook his head and Buchanan sipped from the glass. "I believe you know Ela, one of Barnum and Bailey's dancers," Lincoln said.

Buchanan smirked. "I
know
her. Speaking of girls, where's your fiancée? She's not with you today?"

Julia hadn't told him? "Charlie no longer lives with me."

Buchanan lowered the glass and blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream. "You don't say. Interesting."

"Why?"

Buchanan swirled the liquid around the snifter. "Does this mean you're no longer engaged?"

Blood surged along Lincoln's veins. He forced himself to remain still, and to think. A suitable answer came to him after several thumping heartbeats. "Charlie is too young to get married."

"Hardly. Girls younger than her have been hitched, or promised." Buchanan's smirk reappeared, more twisted than before. "Besides, she's hardly innocent, given her background. Probably has more experience than me. I wouldn't mind finding out what the little vixen—"

Lincoln grabbed the turd's throat, cutting off the flow of verbal vomit spewing from his mouth. Buchanan choked out something inaudible, and his face turned a satisfying shade of red.

"If you disparage her again," Lincoln snarled in Buchanan's ear, "I will castrate you and serve your balls to you on a platter. Do you understand?"

The purple veins on Buchanan's temple stood out in bas-relief. He attempted a nod.

Lincoln let him go and watched as Buchanan fell to his knees, one hand at his throat, the other holding the snifter steady so that none of the liquid spilled.

A movement by the door caught Lincoln's attention. Millard stood there, his steady gaze on his master. How much had he seen? After a moment, he merely said, "Is there anything you require, sir?"

"No," Lincoln said, not caring if Millard had addressed him or Buchanan. "Get up," he ordered Buchanan when Millard backed out of the drawing room and shut the doors, despite not being asked to. "I have questions about Ela."

"If you want me to talk, you shouldn't've tried to bloody kill me," Buchanan rasped.

"If I wanted to kill you, you would be dead." Lincoln waited while Buchanan got to his feet, drank the rest of his drink, and poured himself another.

By the time he sat in the armchair, his color had returned to its usual washed-out pallor, although his throat remained red. "What about Ela?"

"You know her intimately."

Buchanan held his glass up in salute. "And?"

"And did you know that she was also intimate with another circus performer by the name of Patrick O'Neill?"

"A mick?" He snorted then winced and rubbed his throat. After a long sip, he said, "Thought she had better taste than that. He's not one of those freaks, is he?"

"He was the strong man."

Buchanan paused, the glass near his lips. "Was?"

"He died two nights ago."

Buchanan nodded thoughtfully then took another sip. "Then she'll be more available now. Twice a week isn't enough."

Lincoln waited while Buchanan finished the rest of his drink. What had Julia ever seen in this parasite? Perhaps he'd been less of a prick when she'd first met him at The Alhambra. Perhaps their prior connection, and her subsequent rejection of him in favor of his father, made her feel guilty enough to allow him to stay on at Harcourt House. Then again, Lincoln wasn't sure if guilt was an emotion she was capable of feeling.

"What does the fellow's death have to do with me?" Buchanan drawled.

"Did you kill him?"

"No! Do you think I'm jealous of a greasy mick freak? I didn't even know about him until now."

Lincoln believed him. The man was easy to read, and Lincoln's senses told him he had nothing to hide. Buchanan hadn't killed O'Neill. "He knew about you," Lincoln said. "I found this address among his things."

"Blimey. Do you think
he
was jealous of
me
?"

"It's possible. It's also possible that he was killed before he had a chance to come here and confront you, if that were his intention."

Buchanan swallowed and touched the red mark across his throat. "Thank God for that."

"Have you seen anyone lurking outside lately? Have you been followed?"

"Not that I am aware. What did he look like?"

"Regular height and average build with brown hair. He sported a beard and moustache, and would have had an Irish accent."

"Doesn't sound familiar." He frowned. "Wouldn't the circus strong man be, well, strongly built? I thought a thick build would be the order of the day."

"O'Neill's strength was quite ordinary. His feats were a result of his supernatural power. He could move objects with his mind."

Buchanan leaned forward and held the empty glass by the tips of his fingers. His eyes flared. "Incredible. What a power to have! Image the things one could do."

Imagine the things that could be done if someone like Buchanan had powers. It was why it was so important to document the lineage of supernaturals and know where each one was at all times. Lincoln might not always like the committee members, but he agreed with their philosophy and that of the ministry on the whole. Having supernaturals living among regular folk had the potential for danger, if certain powers were controlled by the wrong people. It was why he'd told Charlie not to let anyone see her use her necromancy, and why he'd not told a soul where she'd gone.

Lincoln took the liberty of pouring himself a snifter of brandy. He drank it and set the glass back on the sideboard. It didn't make him feel any better.

"I say, are you listening?" Buchanan said.

Lincoln turned and gripped the edge of the sideboard at his back. He hadn't heard a word. "Go on."

"I was telling you about the strange thing that happened to me last week. On Tuesday, I think it was. I'd spent the previous night in the arms of the delightfully supple Ela at our usual meeting place."

"Which is?"

"A dreary little establishment in Kensington where rooms can be rented by the hour." He screwed up his nose and snorted. "The landlord resembles a rat. Can't recall his name now. Anyway, I left after we…you know…and came home a little after dawn. I was almost at the steps here when I slipped over on the pavement." He looked at Lincoln, waiting for a response.

"You were drunk."

"Not very. Besides, I can drink a bottle of champagne and still walk a straight line, I'll have you know." He sniffed then frowned at his empty glass. "It was strange. The ground was dry, I didn't trip, and I had an odd sensation of my legs buckling under me. Then there was the laughter."

"Go on."

"I thought I heard a man laugh. When I looked up to give him a piece of my mind, there was only one fellow nearby and he was walking away."

"Describe him."

"He wore a hood and I couldn't see his face, but he was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin." He shrugged. "If there was something distinguishing about him, I would have taken more note, but I forgot about him instantly."

"Which direction did he head?"

"West."

If it had been O'Neill, and his revenge upon his rival had merely been to make him fall down, then Lincoln doubted jealousy was a motive for his murder. O'Neill hadn't confronted Buchanan over his affection for Ela, so it was unlikely he would confront any of her other lovers, if she had any. It was looking less and less like O'Neill's death had a logical explanation at all.

And more and more like he was killed for being a supernatural.

* * *

L
incoln knew
before he reached Lichfield that something was amiss. He couldn't pinpoint what it was, but it felt like a change in the air, a disturbance. If he had to guess, he would say that someone new had arrived at the house. But Lichfield Towers never had callers except committee members.

He entered via the back door and went to the kitchen directly. Doyle jumped to his feet and stumbled through a greeting. He quickly put his hands behind his back, perhaps to hide his forearms. He'd removed his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves to do the polishing.

Cook said nothing, just glared from his position by the stove. It was his usual response of late. Gus barely lifted his gaze from the carrots he peeled at the table. He seemed to be warring with a smile. Lincoln had a bad feeling about the visitor.

"Who's here?" he asked Doyle.

Doyle blew out a breath as if he were fortifying himself. "Lady Vickers, sir."

Seth's mother. Lincoln had forgotten she was due to arrive from America. He had agreed that she could stay at Lichfield until she found a position as companion to one of her friends, but that had been before Charlie left. Now he would have preferred to be alone with only the servants for company.

"Where's Seth?" he asked.

"Helping her ladyship settle into her room," Doyle said.

"Which one?"

"The yellow room furthest from your suite, sir."

"Gus, I want you and Seth to join me in my study after he's finished with Lady Vickers."

"Sir," Doyle said as Lincoln went to leave. "An invitation from Lady Harcourt arrived a few minutes ago. Shall I bring it up to you?"

"Bring it up with luncheon." He strode out of the kitchen. "And wine."

He took the servants' stairs to the second level. Seth's raised voice echoed along the corridor from the other end of the house, where Lady Vickers now resided. A booming female voice responded. Lincoln retreated to his own rooms and shut the door.

He settled at his desk and contemplated his next course of action. With O'Neill's death looked like it was due to his supernatural powers. But with no clues as to the killer's identity, or that of the man who'd hired him, Lincoln had to return to the information from Billy the Bolter. He didn't like to rely on others, but he had no choice. He had to trust that Billy hadn't simply made up a story to get paid. Lincoln hoped his reputation was fearsome enough to deter false claims.

Doyle brought up luncheon and the invitation to Julia's ball. It was to be held that night. Clearly Lincoln's new status as a single man had secured this last minute inclusion.

"Will there be a reply, sir?" Doyle asked.

"Not yet."

"Very well."

He opened the door and a woman's voice ran clear through the house like a bell. Doyle cast Lincoln a sympathetic grimace then stepped aside to allow a woman dressed head to toe in deep black to enter. Seth came in behind her, a harried look in his eyes.

Lincoln stood and bowed. "Lady Vickers, I assume."

She gave him a simple nod. "Mr. Fitzroy, I want to thank you for inviting me to stay."

"Inviting?" He shot a glare at Seth.

Seth looked like he wanted to turn and leave. If he did, Lincoln would chase him and haul him back by his collar. He wasn't doing this alone.

"Of course it won't be for long," Lady Vickers went on with a wave of her gloved hand. "Once word gets out that I have returned to London, I expect the invitations from my friends to flow in. It would be cruel of me to refuse, particularly when their country houses are so much larger than Lichfield Towers. Why, I feel as if I am under your feet here."

Lincoln stared. He wasn't sure what to say.
Congratulations? I hope you're not too disappointed in the size of the house?
It had been large enough until she arrived.

Lady Vickers seemed to be waiting for him to speak, but he kept quiet in case he said the wrong thing. This was a woman who appeared to be comfortable with polite small talk, and Lincoln had found that area of his education as lacking as his understanding of people. She was everything he'd come to expect in an English lady of a certain age. She was quite tall, like Seth, with a formidable figure. She wouldn't be easy to knock off her feet. She wore mourning, but whether that was for her husband or her lover, he couldn't be sure. Perhaps both. The hem was a little frayed and the clothes themselves simple in style with no embellishments. She touched the ring finger on her left hand. It was bare, like all of her fingers, and Lincoln suspected the action was born from habit. She wore no jewelry, not even earbobs.