A Clockwork Heart (9 page)

“Perhaps,” Marsh said with a tight smile. “Now if you will excuse me, I think I had better be on my way.”

“Thank you for your time, I look forward to hearing from you further.” Willoughby rose from his seat. Marsh's shook the commissioner's hand briefly before taking his leave.

Downstairs in the foyer, the doorman held up his coat and hat, which had both been dried and brushed while he had been upstairs.

Marsh lifted his collar and stepped back into the relentless rain. The mud in the streets was making life miserable for both men and the poor carriage horses who clopped through the city. He stopped and dropped a handful of coins into the hat of a clutch of shivering children who were sat huddled together in a doorway. London was truly gripped in the misery of what was surely the wettest, coldest February in living memory. Marsh bunched his hands inside his coat pockets and walked on. There was something Willoughby was not telling him. This was a clever ploy because it only made him want to investigate the matter more. And he had not pictured Willoughby as a cunning man. He had been wrong. Not for the first time, Marsh felt himself yearn for the piece of mandrake root bound in linen that was buried under the ancient yew tree in the gardens on his estate. For in that sacred place and in the light of the full moon he had performed the ritual that bound his powers away. And on that clear, cold night shortly before his wedding day, Marsh had become an ordinary man. At the time it had seemed like a good idea, for he would rather die in one lifetime having loved Elle, than spend centuries on his own. That was the sacrifice he had made. The question was whether it had been a decision he would live to regret.

Outside the front door of the house, the fog swirled. It parted briefly like stage curtains for the Warlock to slip through and out into the waiting night. He left alone, without telling anyone where he was going.

But I followed. For I could tell that there was an ill humor in the air. It spoke of darkness and demise. It was a foulness that the warlock with his new blunted senses did not notice.

I must admit that I did not want to go out in the dark of the night where it was cold and raining, but I had promised my lady that I would look after him. A promise is a promise and so I could not, in all conscience, allow him to go without me.

In spite of the weather, he chose to walk through Hyde Park. The trees sighed as he passed. They always lamented when they sensed magic that was lost. I've often wondered if there were trees that wept for me somewhere.

In the darkness I could sense them waiting. They were many—an army, completely silent, but for the synchronous ticking of their hearts.

Outside the Serpentine gates, the Warlock paused to hail a cab. A sleepy steam cab driver perched atop his converted hansom, trundled up.

“The East End,” the Warlock said.

The cabbie grunted and I could tell that he too, was unhappy about being out on a night like this. But the cab shuddered to life and under cover of the noise and steam of the engine, no one noticed me slip onto the back of the parcel rack.

We travelled for quite a while though the gritty rain-slicked streets. The only signs of life were yellow and orange lozenges of light that shone from unshuttered windows. Those with any sense were locked away indoors, sheltered from the cold. For only the very desperate and stupid would brave and the wet and the unexplained things that roamed these streets at night.

The Warlock told the cab to stop near a public house. It was an old, shabby place with very little that was beautiful about it. I do not like these places, for they remind me too much of the servitude I had left behind in Paris.

No matter where one goes in the world, there are the places where Shadow creatures ply their trade. And as a rule, Shadow creatures do not like competition.

But I held my nerve and followed the Warlock inside, mostly unseen.

The Warlock ordered a pint from the counter and sat down at one of the tables. He took a resolute swallow of the ale, grimacing as he contemplated the rings that stained the wood. I made myself as small as possible and found a place to sit on one of the grimy sconces near the ceiling.

The Warlock did not wait long before a man wearing a hat with a peacock feather strode up to the table.

They spoke and the man nodded.

The Warlock pulled a portrait photograph from his breast pocket and slid it across the table. “This man. Have you seen him?” he said.

“I might have. It's hard to say,” the other said.

The Warlock narrowed his eyes and slid a coin across the table. “Perhaps this might help you remember.”

His companion picked up the shilling and held it up to the light. With nimble fingers and sleight of hand, he made the coin disappear. “I seem to recall seeing someone of that description. But it is not safe to speak here. You will have to come with me.”

“And where might we be going?” the Warlock said.

A small smile flickered on his companion's face. “To see someone who remembers better than I do.”

I strained to listen more, but my attention was drawn away, for I sensed the danger moments before it materialized next to me.

Gin fairies. I could smell the perfume of juniper on them.

“Oi, Frenchie. You ain't got no right to this corner. This here is our place,” one said. He had beautiful eyes, the color of summer at midnight.

“I'm not here looking for business. I am just watching over a friend,” I said.

The biggest of them snorted. “I can't say as I care. Business or no business, we don't like your kind round here.” The three fairies circled around me in a rather menacing way.

One of them caught my eye. He was a handsome fellow with a face that was gentler than the others. He gave me a long sad look that spoke of regret and the hope that things might be different.

“I'm sorry. I'm …” I started to say, but I glanced over to the table where the Warlock and the peacock-feathered man were and I gasped with dismay. The table was empty.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to offend,” I said as I pushed past the fairies and flew out the door before we could come to blows. I wish I could have stayed to make friends, for I had missed others of my kind. But a promise made is one to be honored and my path lay in pursuit of the Warlock.

Outside was only the street in all its ordinariness. I could see no one through the swirling mist.

At a dark lamppost I paused, looking left and right. The Warlock's scent clung faintly to the cold metal, but it was melting in the mist. It would not be long before all traces of him would be gone. I flew in the direction his scent drifted from, but the buildings in this place formed a labyrinth that was almost impossible to navigate.

I flew this way and that, ever more confused until I was completely and utterly lost. I became very afraid, for London was a dangerous place for someone as little as me. And all the while, the rain sifted down, soaking into my wings with an iciness that was almost debilitating.

Eventually I came to a small clearing that sat dank and forlorn beside a bridge. In the darkness a small fire burned. I could smell the scent of incense and horses. Traveling folk. These people were usually sympathetic to creatures of Shadow. I was sure they would let me rest here awhile until the sun came up.

I sighed with relief as I settled on the steps of the wagon. I am sure the good mistress who lived here would not mind.

And true to my predictions, it was not long before I sensed someone behind me. I looked over my shoulder, just in time to feel a large bell jar clamp down over me. I groaned inwardly, for there were few things in the world I hated more than being captured in glass jars. Yet once again, here I was. At the mercy of someone who did not understand who I was or what I could do.

The face of a woman appeared outside the glass. She lifted the jar and placed it on the table inside the wagon.

“Hello, sweetling,” she murmured. Her voice was gentle but oddly distorted by the curvature of the glass. “I am honored that you have come to my doorstep. Please feel welcome here.”

I shook my head and started throwing myself against the sides of the jar in the hope that I might be able to escape. My efforts were in vain, as they always seemed to be. For it is the lot of my kind to be forever bound. Never free.

The woman laughed. “Oh, not so happy then, I see.” I noted that she was far younger than I had first thought. Her face was fresh and unlined with the plumpness of youth. But it is so difficult to tell the age of mortals, for they die so quickly.

“Well, I am sure we might be able to fix this,” the woman said. “If you don't want to be in the jar, you should simply agree to behave. This will only take a moment.”

She reached for her sewing basket and drew out a skein of bright red silk—the kind fine ladies used for their embroidery.

She started singing in a low soft voice as she unwound the thread. As she sang, I felt the amber tendrils of her magic surge up and envelop me. It was thick and strong, like wood smoke from a damp fire, that it almost suffocated me.

Hoping to find a means of escape, I looked about frantically for any bottles of liquor. Brandy, whisky, even gin—anything that might help me slip into spirit form so I may leave this wagon. But I found none, for the wagon was spotlessly clean and furnished simply with no signs of any vice.

Very slowly, the woman lifted the lid off the glass jar. She dropped the silk inside and slipped the little noose she had knotted around my ankle. I wanted to protest, but before I could fight her, I felt the magic tighten around me with sickening certainty. I was caught, like a rabbit in a snare with a bright red bit of silk

“There you go. Now you are mine. It really wouldn't do for you to go wandering about in the night like that. It's dangerous out there and you are almost half frozen. You should be glad that I found you and took you in.” She unrolled the silk and tied it to a brass ring that was set in the wood of the inside of the wagon.

Then the woman opened a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of absinthe and a bowl of sugar. “With this silk you are bound to me now, but there is no reason why you should be deprived.” She set both down in front of me.

“Please. Eat, rest.” She uncorked the bottle. “I am very sure that you and I are going to have wonderfully sweet dreams together. I really do mean you no harm.” She smiled warmly at me. “I hope you will be my friend.”

I tried to fight it, but the lure of the liquor and friendship was too strong. I knew I had to keep searching for the Warlock, but my kind never really has much of a chance resisting the call of absinthe. And so against my better judgment, I slipped back into the cool green oblivion that would forever be my prison.

CHAPTER 11

Elle hopped out of the front seat of the motor and bounded up the stairs before Neville could open the door for her.

He had been remarkably quiet on the way home from the airfield, but she had not really paid him much heed because she was too excited to see Marsh.

She hoped he had received the telegram she had sent from the airfield in Dieppe, just before they made the crossing over the Channel.

The spark lights outside the front door cast a welcoming glow for those coming out of the early February darkness.

Elle paused under them to smooth down the skirts of her new dress. She had purchased it on impulse on her way back from the telegraph office. It was a pretty shade of the lightest blue and trimmed with lace, which softened her features and highlighted the color of her eyes.

The thought of seeing Marsh again sent a flush across her cheeks and a cloud of butterflies swirling up and down her insides. She wasn't about to admit this too openly, but she had missed her handsome husband more than she had thought possible.

She had done so much thinking on the way back after her discussion with Ducky and there was so much she wanted to tell him.

She threw open the front door and dumped her holdall on the mahogany table with the China vase in the entrance hall. Today it held a large bunch of white lilies and the cloying sweetness of their scent made her nose prickle.

“I'm home!” she called up the stairwell as she took off her oversized hat and dropped it on top of her holdall.

Only silence greeted her.

“Mrs. Hinges? Caruthers?” She strode through to the library, sure that Marsh would be sprawled on the sofa, but the room was empty and dark. The fireplace was cold.

She turned and walked through to the drawing room. The wooden heels of her smart new shoes made a hollow sound on the old floors.

Just outside the drawing room, she ran into the butler. “My lady, welcome back.” He looked somewhat flustered.

“Oh, hello, Caruthers,” she said.

The butler gave one of his solemn bows. He was a tall man in his early sixties with a stern face that came from years of following proper decorum. But Elle was not fooled by his restraint. Below those bushy eyebrows were bright blue eyes that were fiercely intelligent. Caruthers was a man who smelled of silver polish and peppermint; a man whose fierce scrutiny missed nothing and so she regarded him carefully. Something was very wrong in this house and she needed to know what it was.

“Did you have a pleasant journey, madam?” he said, without batting an eyelid.

“Yes, thank you. But where is everybody? Why is the house so quiet?”

Caruthers paused, with a pained expression on his face. “Perhaps your ladyship should come into the drawing room and sit down for a moment.” He opened the door and gestured for her to enter. Elle noticed that he was struggling to meet her gaze.

Elle went cold. “What's happened?” she said.

“Please, this way, my lady.”

Inside the drawing room, Mrs. Hinges was perched at the very edge of one of the occasional chairs. She rose the moment Elle entered, her hands fluttering to her throat in the way they did when she was upset.

“Mrs. Hinges, what's wrong?” Elle said.

“I'm so sorry. We have been out looking all night,” she said.

“Searching for what?” Elle felt her heart race.

“Eleanor.” The professor spoke in a quiet voice behind her. He had been sitting so still in one of the wingback chairs that Elle had not noticed him until now. He looked tired.

“Papa, for heaven's sake. What on earth is going on? I thought you had gone back to Oxford by now?”

“There is no way to say this gently,” the professor said. “Hugh hasn't come home.”

Elle felt the air leave her lungs as if someone had punched her in the stomach. “What do you mean Hugh hasn't come home?” she said.

“He went out late yesterday afternoon, just after sunset. He didn't say where he was going and until now he hasn't returned. I'm so sorry, my dear,” Mrs. Hinges said as gently as she could.

“I saw him take his carriage cloak and a rather frayed-looking top hat, ma'am,” Caruthers said. “I tried to recommend that he take his good hat, but he was out the door before I could finish my sentence. He went out alone and did not say where he was going or when he was to be expected back.” Caruthers looked contrite.

Elle felt herself grow even colder. The carriage cloak and a frayed top hat were the same clothes he wore in Paris on the day they had met. Marsh wore those clothes only when he did not want anyone to recognize him; when we was about his business as a warlock for the Council.

“I don't think we need to worry quite yet,” the professor said. “Perhaps he is running an errand or something.”

“Errands don't take all night, Papa,” Elle said. “Where is Adele? Perhaps she knows something. I told her to watch over him while I was gone.” Elle rose and walked to the conservatory.

In the atrium the ferns waved a gentle hello in the air she stirred up as she strode into the glass room. Everything was silent. Today there were no bees droning against the glass. Adele liked to invite lost bees into the atrium where she offered them sanctuary in return for visits to her plants. Where she found willing bees in the dead of winter was one of the many mysteries that shrouded the fairy.

“Adele?” Elle said.

There was no answer. She started peering through the plants, lifting fronds out of the way. At the back of the atrium was a pretty wooden fairycote they had bought for Adele shortly after they moved to the house. It was a miniature dollhouse, complete with wooden doors and shutters. Each room was decorated with exquisitely crafted miniature furniture. The outside of the dollhouse house was decorated with intricate fairy patterns. Marsh and Adele had spent hours copying these from a book he had found in his study. Adele was indeed one of the few absinthe fairies in this world who had her very own mansion house.

She peered in through the doors and windows, but all the rooms of the dollhouse were empty.

“We haven't seen the fairy either. She has disappeared too,” Neville said. The whole household—the professor, Mrs. Hinges and Caruthers—were all with Neville in the breakfast room behind her.

“Shall I send someone to draw you a bath, ma'am? You must be cold and tired from your journey,” Caruthers asked.

Elle shook herself out of her reverie and blinked at the concerned faces who were watching her closely.

“Yes, of course. I'll be along in a moment,” she said flatly.

She could not afford to go to pieces right now. She owed them all at least that, so she allowed herself to be herded off to her rooms, like some fragile creature in need of care.

In the privacy of the bathroom, Elle sank into the warm bathwater. She turned the bar of rose-scented soap over and over in her hands and watched as it turned the water cloudy around her, in much the same way absinthe taints water with its touch.

They had been so harsh with their words to one another the last time they had spoken. Where was he? Had he gone back to the Council? And if he
had
gone back to the Council, where did that leave her?

“Oh, where is he?” She asked the voices, but for once they were utterly silent.

She sat in the bath until the water cooled, until Mrs. Hinges tactfully tapped on the bathroom door to inquire whether she needed anything.

“I'll only be a minute,” Elle called. She rose from the water, shivering and started toweling herself dry.

Mrs. Hinges was waiting for her when she stepped out of the bathroom. “Elle, my dear, why don't you sit down?”

Elle sat on the stool in front of the mirror in her dressing room. She felt cold and numb and in no mood to take on the formidable likes of Mrs. Hinges.

“I know it might not be my place to interfere, but I have noticed that things haven't exactly been perfect between you and his Lordship.” Mrs. Hinges picked up one of her hairbrushes and started brushing Elle's long auburn hair, like she had done when Elle was a little girl. “I'm only mentioning it because I care about you both as if you were my own children,” she said.

If it had been anyone else who said these words, Elle would have been outraged at the impropriety of the comment, but Mrs. Hinges was the closest thing to a mother she had and her concern touched Elle deeply.

“I know, Mrs. Hinges, and now he's not here. What if he's left me?” Elle felt her throat constrict at the thought.

“Now, don't go finding thoughts which have no right to be in your head. He has only been gone a little while. Men sometimes need a little bit of space. And there may be a very good reason for all this.”

“And what if I've given him too much space?” Elle said. “Oh goodness, I've been such a horrible wife.”

“Oh, his Lordship does not strike me as the kind of man who would abandon his duty,” Mrs. Hinges said.

Duty. There was the word—all ugly and constrictive.

Elle rested her hand against her forehead, suddenly deeply tired.

Mrs. Hinges put her hands round Elle's shoulders. “I think you should get into bed and get some rest. I will bring you some dinner in a little while. Neville has said that he will go out again this evening to look for him. If anyone knows all of Lord Greychester's haunts, it is Neville. Who knows, things might look better in the morning.”

For once in her life all the fight and anger went out of Elle and she allowed herself to be tucked into bed like a child. The cup of warm milk Mrs. Hinges fed her later was laced with nutmeg and something bitter she could not quite put her finger on. But eventually, the warmth lulled her into an exhausted sleep.

The morning brought no relief. Elle glanced back from the window when the maid brought in her morning coffee.

She had been sitting on the windowsill in her nightdress for hours, just watching the street outside.

She poured herself a cup and continued her vigil at the window. Outside the relentless drizzle sifted down, turning everything outside into a state of mushy dampness. In fact, the morning was so gray that it was hard to tell where the low clouds ended and the fog mist that rose from the ground began. So much for an early spring, she mused.

Sighing, she left the window seat and wondered across to Marsh's wood-paneled dressing closet. This was her husband's inner sanctum, a place she almost never entered and never on her own. The dressing room was immaculately clean and tidy, for Neville was a good valet and he kept Marsh's things in excellent order.

Elle ran a hand over a cuff-link box. And the row of neat brushes Neville used on his coats.

Then, quite on impulse, Elle opened Hugh's clothespress. Inside, his jackets, coats and trousers hung in neat rows. She wrapped her arms around the clothes and buried her face in the cloth in order to inhale the scent of sandalwood and him.

The familiarity of the fabric against her skin brought both anguish and comfort in equal measures, before something rustled against her cheek.

Elle looked up from the clothes with a little frown. There was something in the pocket of one of the coats she had just gathered up. She started feeling about until her fingers closed around a folded piece of paper. She drew it out and took it over to the window where she opened it. The paper was crumpled and had disintegrated in one of the corners as if it had had somehow become wet. But the neat copperplate writing was easy to read. It was a letter from the Office of Police Commissioner Willoughby inviting Marsh to meet him at his club. It said nothing about why, but gave the date as the day before he disappeared.

Elle's forehead crinkled with worry. What had Marsh been up to while she had been away?

He had sworn to her that he wanted nothing more to do with the Shadow politics, but here he was being summoned to meet with the police commissioner. Unwelcome thoughts of their argument sprang to mind again. Had he really been bored and frustrated enough to start working again without telling her?

Elle stared at the letter in her hand. She hated to admit it, but she was going to need some help in order to sort this mess out. And while she generally hated asking anyone for help, she knew just the right person for the task. Someone who would be on her side and who would be able to talk some sense into Marsh.

Still holding the letter Elle she strode over to her bureau and pulled out a telegraphic message transfer form. Quickly she scribbled a note, pausing only to make sure that the message conveyed the urgency but gave away no information to prying eyes.

She put the folded from into an envelope and rang the bell pull. When Edie appeared, she thrust the note into the startled girl's hand. “Take this to Caruthers. Tell him to go to the post office immediately to transmit the message. It is urgent.”

“Yes, my lady,” Edie bobbed a curtsey and headed for the door, looking somewhat alarmed.

Elle looked at herself in the mirror and let out a startled laugh. Dressed in her nightdress with her hair escaping wildly from her braid, she did look rather like a female version of her father when he was in one of his intellectual frenzies. But none of that mattered right now. She finished her coffee in one gulp and set the cup down with determination. Whether good or bad, she was going to find her husband and get to the bottom of things.

But first, she needed to get dressed.