The Great Game (Royal Sorceress) (21 page)

“Lady Gwendolyn Crichton to see Mr. Howell,” she said, briskly. If she had been dealing with another magician, she could just walk into the building – with or without Howell’s permission – but she had no automatic right to face a non-magician. “Please let him know that I’m here.”

“Certainly, Milady,” one of the guards said. “I shall enquire of the Master.”

Gwen kept her face impassive as the guard left the guardpost and ran towards the house, leaving her waiting outside the gate. That was rude; protocol dictated that she should have been offered a seat in the guardhouse while waiting to see if Howell would agree to speak with her. Leaving her outside implied that she was unwelcome... which she might well be, she conceded. Very few people wanted to
meet
the Royal Sorceress.

The guard took nearly ten minutes to return to the guardpost. “The Master is ill, but will see you,” he informed her, as he pulled open the gate. “If you would please accompany me...”

Gwen felt her senses twitch as she followed him up the lane and into the house. The farm had been plastered with psychic residue from the hundreds of women who had been confined there against their will, creating impressions that would last for a thousand years. Howell’s house felt... spooky, almost as if she were stepping into another nightmare. And yet, unlike the farm, there was nothing sinister about the building. Indeed, if she hadn’t been the Royal Sorceress, she would have thought that she was imagining it.

Whatever Howell did for a living, she decided as the butler took over her escort, it had to be very lucrative. His house was littered with paintings and expensive decorations, including several that would have been banned in polite company. He also seemed to have a small army of servants at his beck and call, some of whom eyed her curiously as the butler led her though the house. Gwen’s mother could not have wished for a more aristocratic house.

And yet Howell was no aristocrat. Gwen was sure of that, if only because she couldn’t imagine an aristocrat with a title refusing to use it. A businessman, perhaps? It was possible, except that a businessman who had seen such great success would almost certainly be offered a knighthood, if not a peerage. The Establishment believed in trying to co-opt talent where possible, even if society’s matrons didn’t really like the idea. They’d sooner marry their daughters to Frenchmen or even Russians before letting them marry a former commoner.

“The Master is in bed,” the butler informed her, as they stopped outside a heavy wooden door. “Please don’t go near the bed, Milady. You could catch his illness.”

Gwen nodded, impatiently, as he opened the door and showed her into a darkened room. The only light came from a gas lantern that had been turned down low, barely giving enough light for her to see the man lying in his bed. There was a faint smell of something unpleasant in the room, reminding her of the hospitals Lucy had been setting up for the poor. She hesitated and then cleared her throat. She couldn’t help feeling guilty for disturbing a sick man.

“Lady Gwendolyn,” Howell croaked. The sheets rustled as he turned to look at her. “I’m sorry not to be in a better state.”

“I’m sorry to have to disturb you,” Gwen said. She was slowly becoming used to the darkness. “I can arrange a Healer to attend you, if you would wish.”

“It’s just a cold,” Howell said, after a moment. He sounded rather peevish at the whole suggestion, although Gwen couldn’t understand why. “It will be gone in a few days.”

Gwen peered at him. Howell didn’t
look
very dangerous at all, certainly not dangerous enough to scare a man who had gone tiger-hunting in India. He looked rather like a middle-aged uncle, a man secure enough in his own position to offer friendship to his nephews and nieces without reservation. His face was pleasant enough... until she saw his eyes. There was something snake-like about them that sent chills running down her spine.

“I hope you will get better soon,” she said, as she gathered herself. What could he do to disconcert her? “I need to talk to you about Sir Travis.”

“I assumed as much,” Howell said. “I read about his death in the paper. Terrible business, My Lady, simply terrible.”

Gwen nodded in agreement. “I won’t waste your time,” she said, bluntly. “What was your business with Sir Travis?”

Howell studied her for a long moment, his icy regard making her shiver again. “It was my intention to offer him a loan,” he said, finally. “We were discussing the precise terms of the loan, but failed to come to an agreement.”

“A loan?” Gwen repeated. “Did he need money?”

“I assume so,” Howell said, sardonically. “People do not generally try to borrow money unless they have some desperate need of it.”

Gwen resisted the urge to scowl at him. His story was plausible; there were certainly no shortage of aristocrats who were rich in everything, but money. A title didn’t automatically confer wealth on its holder. And Sir Travis had not been very wealthy. Most of what he’d owned belonged to the family, rather than to him personally. He could not have sold Mortimer House without his family’s permission.

She looked up at Howell and saw his eyes resting on her face. “And you,” she said, “were going to loan him the money? Is that what you do for a living?”

Howell smiled, but the smile didn’t touch his eyes. “There are some... individuals who would prefer not to have to ask a bank for a loan,” he said. “Those individuals place discretion ahead of anything else, even security. They eventually come to me.”

Gwen had listened to her father’s business dealings, back before Master Thomas had offered her the chance to join him. The banks were rarely completely discrete; the bankers shared information with one another, information that eventually leaked out onto the streets. If one aristocrat was heavily indebted to one bank, the other banks might well know it and refuse to loan him anything else. And yet there had been no clue that Sir Travis was indebted to anyone.

She put that thought to one side for a moment. “And you loan them the money?”

“Indeed I do,” Howell said. “My repayment schedules are quite generous. And often they have more to trade than simply money.”

“Sir Travis didn’t have much income,” Gwen mused. She might not have been expected to handle money – if she’d been a normal girl with a normal husband, the husband would have handed all of the money affairs – but she knew enough to know that Sir Travis might have been a bad investment risk. “Why did you want to loan him money?”

“He called me,” Howell said. He gave her an odd smile. “It was up to
him
to convince
me
to loan him money.”

Gwen gave him a sharp look. Olivia had told her more than she’d ever wanted to know about life in the Rookery – and how loan sharks could bleed a person dry, once they got their claws into someone’s life. Their victims would take out a relatively small loan, but the interest would just keep mounting up until they were forced to take out a second loan just to cover the first one... for a person with limited income, it might be impossible ever to get out of debt. And then the loan sharks would move on to their children.

“Right,” she said, sharply. “And did he say
why
he wanted the money?”

“Of course not,” Howell said. “We merely discussed his ability to repay the loan, should it be made.”

“I see,” Gwen said. There was nothing
illegal
in offering to loan someone money, but the whole concept still bothered her. “What did he have to offer?”

Howell sighed. “Relatively little, I’m afraid,” he said. “He claimed that he was going to marry the daughter of a High Court Judge – and take up a more prestigious position at the Foreign Office. But I am not so inclined to believe vague promises of future wealth, Lady Gwen. I asked him for an agreement that would give his house to me, if he failed to repay on schedule. He refused to provide such an agreement.”

“He couldn’t have, legally,” Gwen said. “Mortimer Hall belongs to the family.”

“But they might have been willing to settle,” Howell said. “I
would
have had a claim on the estate...”

He shook his head slowly, deliberately. “We failed to come to a meeting of minds,” he added. “I have no claim on his estate.”

Gwen nodded. “When did you visit him?”

“The appointment was for ten o’clock,” Howell told her. “I was early, of course. Punctuality is
so
important.”

“Ten o’clock,” Gwen repeated. That would suggest that David had been the first visitor, followed by Howell... with Talleyrand the last person to see Sir Travis alive. “Did you happen to notice if anyone else visited that night?”

“I saw no one,” Howell said. “Indeed, Sir Travis was opening the door himself. That is
not
a sign of wealth and power.”

Gwen suspected that Lady Mary would have agreed. The unwritten laws of etiquette insisted that servants – a butler or a housemaid – should meet guests and help them to make themselves presentable before they saw the master or mistress of the house. It was rude to wear a coat when entering a house, but if the servants were the only ones to see it could be overlooked. Polite Society had plenty of rules that were ignored as long as no one actually had to take notice that they were being broken.

And he was right. Even the poorest upper-class families would have at least three or four servants. Sir Travis had had just one. And even then, Polly should have greeted everyone at the door. Sir Travis doing it himself wouldn’t leave a good impression.

I wonder what sort of conclusions Talleyrand drew
, she thought.
David would have known, of course...

She studied Howell for a long moment. “Did you know anything else about Sir Travis’s life?”

“Nothing,” Howell said, blandly. “His family weren’t speaking to him or his mother... although I dare say that they will already be demanding that Mortimer Hall is handed over to them. The closest branch of the family to Sir Travis is known for being grasping, I’m afraid.”

Gwen scowled. There was probably a letter at Cavendish Hall waiting for her from the family, if they’d seen a copy of the will. And they might just be tempted to try to move into the building
before
Gwen had completed her investigation, even though it was still under police guard. If they were wealthy and powerful enough, they could ignore formality and present the world with a
fait accompli
.

She wasn’t entirely sure that she believed Howell, but for the moment there were no grounds to ask further questions. “I should warn you that you are a suspect,” she said, instead. “Please don’t leave London without permission from the police. I may have to talk to you at a later date.”

Howell’s eyes glittered in the dim light. “I have told you all I know that is relevant to your investigation,” he said, flatly. “Should you continue to harass me, I shall be forced to take steps.”

Gwen met his eyes, resisting the temptation to take a step backwards. “It is a step in the investigation,” she said. “I’m afraid that there are no legal grounds for objecting, unless you can present proof that you did
not
kill Sir Travis.”

“I am not required to prove my innocence,” Howell reminded her. His voice became mocking. “How can the Royal Sorceress be unaware of
that
?”

That was true, Gwen knew. The police were required to prove someone’s guilt beyond reasonable doubt, not force someone to prove their own innocence. If Howell
hadn’t
been the last person to see Sir Travis alive, there was good reason to believe that he
wasn’t
the killer. She couldn’t blame him for being indignant at the merest suggestion that he was a suspect...

And if I have a bad reaction to him, Sir Travis’s reaction would be far worse
, she added, in the privacy of her own mind.
He wouldn’t step down his Sensitivity while talking to him at all
.

“However, you are a suspect,” Gwen said, instead. “We can request that you stay in London until the investigation is concluded.”

Howell’s face seemed to twist, becoming
dangerous
. Gwen had known many dangerous men, including Master Thomas and Jack, both of whom could have taken Howell’s house apart without breaking a sweat... and yet, it was impossible to escape the sense that she was looking at a very dangerous man indeed. Not a violent man, not a thug or a genteel magician... something far worse. She felt her skin crawling as she reached for her magic, preparing to shield herself. And yet there was no obvious threat...

“Maybe I will,” Howell said. The sense of danger refused to abate. “How is your mother, these days?”

Gwen blinked at the
non sequitur
. What did her mother have to do with any of this?

“You might wish to ask your mother about me,” Howell said. He turned over, showing her the back of his head, then reached for the bell and gave it a ring. “Jarvis will show you out.”

“What,” Gwen demanded, “does my mother have to do with you?”

“Ask her,” Howell said. She couldn’t see his face, but she could hear the amusement in his voice. “I am sworn to silence.”

Gwen opened her mouth to demand answers, then the door opened to reveal the butler. She shot an angry look at Howell’s head, briefly considering trying to force answers out of him, before deciding that it would be futile. Even if she succeeded, it would give her enemies too much ammunition. There were strong laws on the books against mind-reading without a warrant, most of them too strong for their own good. Too many Talkers were in breach of them as soon as they came into their powers.

“Good day, sir,” she said, icily.

Howell made no response.

She allowed the butler to lead her back down the corridor and out of the house, unable to escape the sense that she had just escaped with her life. It was illogical; there had been no danger, certainly nothing that she could see. And yet her senses had been warning her that she was in very great danger indeed. But of what?

Sir Travis would probably have
known
what the danger was... but Sir Travis was dead. His Sensitivity had failed him at the last.

The guards opened the gate for her, allowing her to step out onto the street. Gwen couldn’t help noticing that the gate was stronger than she’d realised, carefully designed to make it hard for someone to break it down without explosives. An angry mob might not be able to push it down by naked force. If Howell had enemies – and loan sharks would have plenty of enemies – maybe it made sense, but... somehow, she was sure that he hadn’t told her the complete story.