The Constantine Affliction (13 page)

Ellie laughed. “I wondered if you recognized me. I’m a bit disappointed. I thought the disguise was rather good.”

“It is, and at first, I took you for a man, and stepped forward only to prevent the murder of a stranger. But once I got closer… there is no disguising your eyes, Miss Skyler. Not even that mustache can distract me entirely from those. You followed me tonight, then? You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“This is no game for me, sir. This is my business. My vocation. Indeed, my life.”

“I cannot be responsible for your safety.”

“And I, Lord Pembroke, cannot be responsible for yours. But… thank you for helping me. Things might have become… awkward.”

“You have a remarkable gift for understatement. Did you learn anything interesting while skulking along after me?”

“I am fairly certain I saw the face of the murderer,” she said.

Lord Pembroke’s footsteps faltered, the rhythm of his step-click-step thrown off, and Ellie allowed herself a small smile.

“That
is
interesting. Of course, I recently learned the killer’s name, but still, a description is always helpful, as names can be changed.”

Ha. Well, he’d outdone her, then. “Why did you take her body away, Lord Pembroke? I am inclined to think well of you based on your past services to justice, and of course because of your recent more personal intercession on my behalf, but… you must recognize that some of your recent behavior lends itself to… misinterpretation?”

“A gift for understatement
and
diplomacy. You know, I think I’d back you for prime minister.”

“Alas, my sex disqualifies me from such office, even if my good sense did not.”

Lord Pembroke
hmmmed
.
“One might think after three years, the Constantine Affliction would lead to some… flexibility of thinking in terms of men’s spheres and women’s spheres. But it seems to me the plague has only strengthened the divisions.”

“People fight far more desperately to hold on to things they are afraid they might
lose
, Lord Pembroke.”

“Understatement, diplomacy, and wisdom. I might be tempted to add ‘beauty’—but, well.”

“The mustache.”

“Quite so,” Lord Pembroke said. They rounded a corner and continued walking. Their environs became gradually less atrocious, with alchemical lights replacing the flickering gaslamps, and streets that were quiet because the residents were respectable, rather than lying silently in wait.

“Do most women stop asking you difficult questions once you distract them with flattery?” Ellie said.

“Most women never ask me difficult questions at all. Apart from my wife. Winifred never hesitates.”

“She sounds like a woman I would admire. You will need to answer me eventually, sir, or I will have to ask the questions in print, and then everyone
else
will be asking them as well. The promise of an interview is all very well, but the things I’ve seen tonight… it’s hard to construe them as anything but the concealment of a heinous crime. Please do convince me otherwise, Lord Pembroke?” She really hoped he could, and not just because he’d complimented her eyes. Because of the intelligence and humor she saw in his, mainly. She did not want him to be a villain.

Lord Pembroke sighed. “Would you like to have a drink with me at my club, Miss Skye?”

“Which club is that, sir?”

“The Luna Club.”

Ellie laughed. “They admit women, now?”

“Of course not, Mr. Jenkins. But why should that concern men such as ourselves?”

***

They found a carriage for hire and rode toward the West End, conversing in low voices as they went. The dim interior of the cab was curiously intimate, and though they were discussing matters of life and death and crime, it was remarkably like having a chat with an old friend. Ellie told him how she’d seen a fleeing man in the alley, and was apologetic at being unable to provide a better description of the likely killer.

“It’s all right,” Lord Pembroke said. “It’s only in sensational stories that the murderer invariably has an eyepatch, a wooden leg, and a birthmark in the shape of a cello on his cheek. Most people just look like… people. We’re not terribly memorable, as a rule.”

Ellie was glad he couldn’t see her smiling in the dark.
He
was certainly memorable enough. “If you knew a murderer was operating in the area, why not tell the police?”

Lord Pembroke sighed. “Mr. Value insists on handling the situation himself. He believes the killer is trying to embarrass him, or call police attention to some of his other businesses. His concerns are plausible, though I am unconvinced—I think the killer has more complex motivations than annoying Mr. Value, though that’s clearly part of it. Men like Value believe the world revolves around them, though.”

“That tells me why Value wants the police left out of it. Why do
you
? Why work for him at all?”

“On that, I can say only that life is complicated, and men of conscience must sometimes make uncomfortable alliances in order to serve the greater good. I know such an answer will not satisfy you, Miss Skye, but… let me only say that further secrets are not mine to tell, all right?”

Ellie shifted uncomfortably, aware of how small and dim the interior of the carriage was, how close together they were—practically knee-to-knee. She didn’t want to think ill of this man she’d admired. “You are working with Value to protect… someone else?”

The interior of the carriage was dim, but she thought he nodded, imperceptibly. “Mr. Value is not above threats of blackmail, and there are those I… care about… who I would not see harmed.” He glanced out the carriage window. “Ah, we’re nearly there.”

Ellie had to admit a certain degree of excitement at the prospect of entering a gentleman’s club. For someone of her sex, such clubs were as mysterious as the distant Orient or the jungles of Africa. It was nearly midnight by the time they pulled up outside the stately brick building on St. James’s Street and alighted from the carriage. “Is it truly open so late?” she asked.

“Indeed. The Luna Club has always been open at all hours of the day and night, though it’s most trafficked during more sensible hours, of course. Some of the gentlemen play cards until dawn almost every night, but that’s about as boisterous as it ever becomes. The new clubs on Pall Mall are more lively and fashionable, but it’s a bit quieter here. I come to the club to relax and think, you see, unlike some of the younger set.”

“Are you a card player, sir?”

“Oh, a bit, of course, but not a serious one. I am not competitive in that way, nor am I terribly interested in either winning or losing money. Which is fortunate. A taste for heavy betting would interact in a terribly dangerous way with my
other
vices.” He grinned at her, then rapped the knocker on the imposing carved oak door. A moment later the door swung soundlessly open, revealing a middle-aged man with white whiskers. He looked like a perfectly ordinary servant to Ellie, but Lord Pembroke staggered back as if the man had struck him. “Ransome!” he said. “What on Earth are you doing here?”

The man stood ramrod straight, like Dignity personified, and said, “The Luna Club was in need of a night porter, and Lady Pembroke was kind enough to provide a reference.”

“Ah. Well done, then.” Lord Pembroke seemed a bit lost, and Ellie found the effect rather endearing in a man who was otherwise so confident. “I regret that your, ah, prior situation proved untenable.”

“I have only the utmost respect for you, my lord. But this position is simply a better fit for my abilities.”

“Quite.” Lord Pembroke gestured at Ellie. “This is Mr. Jenkins. He will be my guest tonight.”

“Welcome to you, sir.” Ransome stood aside to let them in, and once they entered the foyer, took their coats and hats. “A number of gentlemen are playing cards, sir, if you’d like to join them.”

“No. I believe we will go and talk in the library. Jenkins and I have much to discuss.”

Ransome bowed smoothly, as if he were hinged at the waist, and took their things away.

“Simply a better fit,” Lord Pembroke muttered as they continued deeper into the club. “That man was my valet! Really our all-around servant, he did a bit of cooking, too, but he didn’t have to stay awake all night when he was in my employ! At least, not regularly. I am
quite
certain I paid him more than the Club possibly could. Can I really be such a dreadful employer?”

Ellie chose not to answer, looking around the club as they walked. She found it disappointingly dull, even stuffy—room after room of dark paneled walls, faded floral carpets, gleaming brass gas lamps (neither alchemy nor electricity here), dead fireplaces, and the occasional framed portrait or landscape or severed animal head on the wall. Lord Pembroke led her into the library, which was the very exemplar of its kind: shelves standing twelve feet high on all the walls, inviting-looking club chairs clustered in the corners, a long library table surrounded by straight-backed chairs. She had no doubt all the furniture was antique, but none of it struck her as particularly beautiful.

“We should have this room to ourselves. Those gentlemen who remain past midnight are not here to read.” Lord Pembroke slid the wooden doors shut, closing off the library from the corridor, and Ellie felt a fluttering thrill of the illicit. Of course, she had been alone in rooms with men who were not blood relations before, most recently with Mr. James, but that was… altogether different, somehow. Lord Pembroke was only a bit older than she was, and handsome, and
married
. Ellie’s late mother would have been appalled to learn she was alone with him, irrespective of her unusual garb. For that matter, so would Mr. James.

Lord Pembroke gestured for Ellie to take a seat in one of the armchairs, and she sank down gratefully, still sore from her hours of walking and standing. He opened a cabinet and removed two glasses, then poured himself a measure of brandy from a decanter on the small round table between them. “Drink?” he said. “Or are you an advocate of temperance?”

“Few would call me temperate, but no, I seldom imbibe.” Ellie tried to smile, but it made her mustache itch. “I will have just a splash, for appearance’s sake.”

Lord Pembroke poured her a quarter of an inch in a snifter and passed it over. “Drinking for the sake of appearance. What a peculiar notion. I sometimes
abstain
for the sake of appearance, but more often, I do not bother. Appearances are given entirely too much weight, I think.” He didn’t savor the brandy, as Ellie had expected, but tossed it back, as if taking medicine, and then poured another glass, larger than the first. That one he sipped. After a moment, he leaned forward, rolling the glass between his palms. “I spoke to a dead woman tonight, Miss Skye. She told me the name of her murderer. I don’t know if that is the sort of story your editor would print. Or, for that matter, if you even believe me yourself.”

“I have met people who claimed they could converse with spirits,” Ellie said carefully. “I did not find them… credible.”

Lord Pembroke shook his head. “This was no spirit. That place you followed me to is the laboratory of Abel Value’s pet scientist. The fellow is a bit odd—that’s an understatement—but he’s undeniably brilliant. He explained that, because the body was freshly dead, it might be possible to… extract information from her.”

“Like that old story about how you can see the last thing a murder victim witnessed by looking at the reflection in her eye?”

“A bit. A bit. But more scientific. There were… strange apparatuses, and a jar of fluid, and delicate wires attached to an organ still warm from life, and when all was said and done… a voice emerged from a horn, and told me the name of the murderer.”

Ellie frowned. “It was a hoax, surely? Like the mechanical Turk? Perhaps this scientist bears some grudge against the person named, and set up an elaborate ruse to fool you?”

“The possibility has crossed my mind, Miss Skyler. And yet… the details the voice gave were compelling and personal. And in this age of wonders, where men can be transformed into women, where fires can burn eternally, where strange lights flicker in the sky and bizarre creatures are glimpsed in the waters of the Thames, who can say what might be impossible?”

Ellie tsked. “The existence of one unlikely thing does not necessitate belief in
all
unlikely things. But… it is probably best to proceed with an open mind. I have heard stories of people who seemed to be dead, who were later restored to life—bodies pulled out of icy lakes and laid out on the slab, only to sit up with a gasp once they warmed up. Perhaps a fresh corpse could be made to speak. I could not say.”

“It’s certainly worth investigating the voice’s claims, and I intend to do so, and swiftly. I have asked Mr. Value’s scientist not to divulge the name of the accused to his employer until I have had the opportunity to investigate. I did not accuse the scientist of deceit, of course, but simply expressed caution. Even if it
was
the poor woman’s voice, she might have been mistaken in her identification, after all. The scientist agreed, but I have no idea whether or not I can trust him to keep silent. He may have sent word to Value already, and if so, the accused may not survive the night.”

Ellie shuddered. “Value is truly so savage?”

“He would call his actions pragmatism, not savagery, but they amount to the same thing. I will endeavor to see the killer brought to
proper
justice if he is guilty—not to Value’s justice. The reason I am here, drinking, instead of out there, looking for the man, is because I have no way of
finding
him. Normally I would reach out to my police contacts to help me locate someone, but I can’t do so in this case—even my closest friend in the police, Inspector Whistler, would ask too many questions. One of the advantages of working with a criminal like Value is access to a network of criminal information—but I can’t ask
him
, either, without risking the death of the subject of my investigation, before I can satisfy myself regarding his guilt or innocence. I am at something of a loss as to how to proceed. I find a few drinks and a bit of conversation can help stimulate my mind. So here we are.”