Page 3 of Ashes To Ashes
Billy rubbed his arm and backed away, almost tripping over his own cap, which had fallen off when Lincoln caught him. "Blimey," Billy muttered. "Jim were right about you. He said you was the devil himself, hidin' in the shadows, watchin' and waitin' for someone to wrong you. And when they do…" He sliced his finger across his throat to mimic a knife cut.
Lincoln picked up Billy's cap, careful to keep the man's feet in his line of sight. Billy didn't move, not even a shifting of his weight. It would seem he had no intention of crossing Lincoln, or he would have taken the opportunity to attack.
"You're not the first person to mistake me for the devil." He handed Billy his cap, but didn't let go immediately. "I doubt you'll be the last." It was difficult to glare at the man in the dark, but hopefully Billy heard the threatening tone and understood the implications if he tattled. Lincoln let go of the cap. "Good evening."
"Er, uh, good evenin', sir." The stutters and the "sir" were a good sign that Billy the Bolter would be complicit.
Lincoln watched as Billy backed out of the lane. When he reachedthe end, he fled. Lincoln didn't follow. Instead, he returned to the back of the lane, hopped into the cart, then leaped over the wall. The yard on the other side was empty, the shabby tenements surrounding it dark. He quickly scanned the area then exited through the archway and onto the street. He ran down another alley, then another so narrow that his shoulders skimmed the walls on either side.
He turned a corner and pulled up quickly as two constables approached from the other direction. Fortunately they had their heads down, bent into the breeze. If Lincoln hadn't been so distracted by his thoughts, he would have been more cautious. He came across another two constables on patrol before leaving Whitechapel altogether. The police had become more vigilant since the Ripper murders. It was too little too late for the victims.
Seth and Gus waited for him with the carriage outside Liverpool Street Station. They both nodded when they saw him but didn't speak. Gus took up his position at the back and Lincoln climbed inside the cabin without bothering to lower the step. Seth wasted no time in driving off and they were soon speeding through the poorly lit London streets to Highgate. They skirted Hampstead Heath and rolled through the iron gates of Lichfield Towers.
Lincoln spared a glance for the house as Seth drove around the side of one broad wing to the stables and coach house, although Lincoln avoided looking up at the central tower, as he always did these days. There were no lights lit in any of the dozens of windows, no smoke drifting from the many chimneys. It was grayer and grimmer than ever, like it was going into hibernation for winter. Some would call it an impressive example of Gothic architecture, a magnificent English mansion, but to Lincoln it was nothing more than a roof over his head. He would have been as satisfied living in the cellar of a burnt out building, as Charlie had done for years before coming to Lichfield.
Shecalled the great, hulking pile of gray stone 'home'. Women were sentimental about these things, and Charlie in particular had a strong emotional streak that influenced her thoughts and actions. She'd quickly developed an attachment to Lichfield, once she settled in. He'd been warned that would happen. He should have listened.
But Charlie was gone, and he doubted the others who lived at Lichfield saw the place as she did. They were practical men. Emotion didn't rule them. They had come to live there, and work for Lincoln, purely for financial gain. It was time to remind them of that, since they seemed to have forgotten it lately. Only the day before, Seth, Gus and Cook had threatened to leave. Mere months ago, none would have dared.
"What did you learn, sir?" Gus asked, as Lincoln alighted from the cabin outside the coach house. "Did he know anything?"
"Nothing useful," Lincoln said.
"Want to tell us what was said over a drink in the library? We won't be long here."
"No." Lincoln strode off. Even with his back to them, he heard the drawn-in breath of frustration from Gus, and Seth's silence was telling. Of all of them, Seth didn't hold back his opinion anymore. It was probably because he believed in his God-given right as a nobleman to rule commoners, even those who'd saved him from getting his face smashed in at an illegal bareknuckle fight and now paid his wages.
Lincoln made his way upstairs and along the corridor, determined to get all the way to his own room this time without stopping. He failed, however, and paused outside Charlie's door. No, notherdoor, anymore. He rested his hand on the doorknob but didn't twist it. After a moment, he let it go, satisfied that yet again he hadn't succumbed to the temptation to enter. He hadn't been inside since he'd tried to pack her things on the morning she'd left.
That morning was etched into his memory and couldn't be removed, no matter how hard he tried. He couldn't forget the wavering pitch of her voice as she'd questioned him, shouted at him, pleaded with him, and finally acquiesced. Nor could he forget the way her eyes changed shape and color with each emotion, and the way her expressive mouth told him what she was really thinking when her words did not. He remembered all too clearly the stab in his gut and the ache in his throat when her tear-soaked face looked up at him as he watched her departure from the tower room—the room she'd reluctantly occupied upon her arrival at Lichfield.
As with all bad memories, the best he could do was to push it to one side, where he didn't stumble over it every moment of every day. Sometimes, that even worked.
* * *
Doyle brought in the newspaper, along with Lincoln's breakfast. The man was efficient, professional and unobtrusive, all qualities Lincoln liked in his staff. While Seth, Gus and Cook were reasonably efficient, they lacked the other two attributes. They had also shed most of their reserve in the last few weeks and even dared to speak to Lincoln as if he were their equal, if not their friend. Doyle still feared and respected him. Another reason to like him.
It was still dark, and Lincoln lit the lamp on his desk to spread out the newspaper. Doyle had ironed out the creases, even though Lincoln had told him it was unnecessary. He picked up his teacup, only to set it down again as he read the headline on the front page: CIRCUS STRONG MAN SHOT IN HEAD AS HE SLEPT. Lincoln scanned the article. By the end, he was sure he had another supernatural murder on his hands.
According to the article, after the show at the Olympia ended, the victim had retired to his lodgings for the evening, alone. A gunshot had woken some of the other performers around two AM. When they investigated, they found Brutus dead in his bed. No one had seen the killer leave, and the police had no suspects. The performers claimed the victim was a good man with no enemies. The article went on to describe the feats of strength Brutus displayed in his act. It was the lifting of the brougham clear off the ground that intrigued Lincoln. No man could do that. Nonormalman, not even a strong one.
But the piece of information that really gave him pause was the name. Brutus was a pseudonym used for the act. His actual name was Patrick O'Neill. Lincoln recognized it.
He dressed and headed up to the attic where the ministry archives were stored. They were copies he'd made when he'd first started working at Lichfield. The original files were kept at Julia, Lady Harcourt's Mayfair house. Lincoln had made copies not only to familiarize himself with supernaturals and their powers, but also to have the files on site where he could access them. He hadn't trusted any of the committee members to give him access back then, and he certainly didn't trust them now.
The attic had been visited a number of times recently, as the files were checked and updated after the last murders. Each of the small drawers contained approximately twenty files, some taking up several pages. Much of the information in those longer documents had been gathered centuries ago and followed descendants through the generations to the present. The originals had been written on parchment, but these copies were on ordinary paper. Many of the files were no longer active, the hereditary line having died out. There were a little over two hundred active ones, one of which was Patrick O'Neill's.
Lincoln remembered the details clearly, but he pulled out the file anyway to re-read it. According to the document, Patrick O'Neill was descended from a line of supernaturals based in Ireland. Their power wasn't strength, but moving objects with their minds. It was the same power that Reginald Drinkwater possessed. The file listed O'Neill's last known address as New York, where he'd taken up with Barnum and Bailey's circus troupe.
According to the newspaper article on his desk, the "Greatest Show on Earth" had come to London for the winter and had already performed several shows at the Olympia in Kensington. Lincoln had seen the advertisements describing the star acts, including that of Brutus himself. Was it the claim of "super-human strength" that had caught the killer's eye, or had the ministry's archive been accessed and O'Neill's name found there?
If it were the latter, the suspects narrowed considerably, and in a direction that worried Lincoln. He might not like or trust the committee members, but he hadn't pegged any of them as murderers.
Then again, the murders had been carried out by a middleman. It was easier to kill someone when you didn't pull the trigger yourself and could simply read about it in the papers the next day. It was the best way to assure anonymity, if the hired gunman's silence could be bought.
Other recent events and coincidences bothered Lincoln too, not just the murders. How had the committee known that Charlie raised the body of Estelle Pearson, for one? Spies, of course, but who had hired the spies? Lincoln had found none lurking outside the gates of Lichfield, but he hadn't checked before the event, only after, when his suspicions had been raised. Also, who had known that Charlie regularly rode Rosie and cut through the saddle straps? Perhaps that had been a guess, considering Rosie was the only small mare in the stable, and there had only been one side saddle.
Whether the committee were involved or not remained to be seen, but at least Charlie was out of the way now. Sending her north had solved that dilemma, although it hadn't been his primary reason for organizing the position at the school for her. He'd done it so he could work at his best again, without distraction or hindrance. Having her nearby played havoc with his attention. Now he could focus once more.
