All is Fair (22 page)

“Hi Sam, it’s Cathy. New number again, I’ve texted you so you’ve got it. I lost my old one when we were attacked. I was just calling to make sure you’re all right. Max came to see me and said you saved me from Lord Thorn and that your wife died and I wanted to say… I don’t know, that I was thinking of you and hoping you’re coping and stuff. Can you call and leave a message to let me know you’re all right? I don’t know when I’ll next get a chance to–”

The message cut off – she’d run out of time – but there was a second one.

“Sorry, I was talking too much. I’m staying in the Nether, Sam, I’m not going to find a way out. The system is fucked here and the more I learn about what’s going on, the more I know I need to change it, but I can only do that from the inside. I’ll pick up any messages you leave. If there’s an emergency, or if you really need somewhere to be away from family or stuff like that, come to Spencer House near Green Park in London and ask for Morgan. He’ll let you in and get me, but only do that if you really need to, all right? Take care, Sam. And thanks for helping me and Sophia.”

He ended the call, and the text message with her number arrived. He called it straight away.

“Cathy, it’s Sam. Don’t stay there, you have to get out. I know you’re scared of the Fae, I am too, but there has to be a way to be free of them. I have some stuff to take care of, then I’ll be in touch.”

When he pressed the key to end the call he realised he was shaking. Leanne had spent all those years thinking she could just get that little bit closer to the top and change the world; now Cathy was falling into the same trap. He almost called her back to tell her that her husband had threatened him, but decided against it. If she lost her temper at her husband he’d know they’d been in touch and she’d only get into trouble.

“It’s all a fucking mess,” he muttered. He had to go back to Lord Iron and sort him out. Then he had to go and find Cathy and make her realise she needed to get out before she ended up losing her life to a struggle she couldn’t win.

The first thing Max saw when he woke was the gargoyle. It had been sitting in the same place all night, having gone there after Ekstrand’s threat.

“We’re going to do something, aren’t we?” Its question sounded more like a statement.

Max nodded, dressed and went down to breakfast. There was no sign of Ekstrand. “He’s in his study,” Petra said when he checked the living room. “We’re not to disturb him.”

“There are Chapters all over the Heptarchy without a Sorcerer,” Max said. “He needs to take charge.”

Petra put down her book and looked at him properly. “I’m sure Mr Ekstrand has a plan.”

“Are you?”

“Are you going to patrol again today?”

“I want to see if Mr Ekstrand is going to give me any new instructions.”

“I told you, we’re not allowed to disturb him.”

Max was about to reply when Axon came to the doorway. “I think we need to.” He was holding a newspaper. “Look at this.”

He went to the coffee table and laid it before Petra, pointing to an article.

“Oxford scientist discovers Ekstrand syndrome.” Petra read the headline and looked up at Axon with surprise.

“Go on,” he said and she looked back at the newspaper.

“An Oxford psychologist, Dr Rupert Superior, has announced the discovery of a new psychological disorder, one he claims could put the entire country at risk, if not the world, were it to go untreated. Coined ‘The Ekstrand Syndrome’ and identifiable by a simple set of psychological tests, this discovery, Dr Superior asserts, is the most significant since the work of Sigmund Freud. ‘The Ekstrand Syndrome consists of certain personality traits which can appear relatively harmless in isolation,’ Dr Superior said, ‘but when presenting as a cluster in one individual can pose a significant threat to society. I discovered it in a patient with long-term trust issues and an inferiority complex. He began to commit violent acts in order to further his own egotistical fantasies and delusions about taking over the country. Unfortunately this patient is so dangerous that rather extreme measures needed to be taken to ensure the safety of others, but I believe that now the full extent of his problem – and the threat of the syndrome itself – have been identified, the individual will pose no further danger to innocent members of the public.’ When asked how sufferers of Ekstrand Syndrome can be identified, Dr Superior replied, ‘They are always men who believe themselves to be more intelligent than their peers despite repeated evidence to the contrary. They dedicate significant time and effort to trying to remove those considered a threat to their schemes and refuse to accept they might be wrong. Aside from the patient in question it’s my belief a not insubstantial number of Conservative Party members also suffer from Ekstrand Syndrome.’ Dr Superior has yet to publish a paper on the disorder.”

The gargoyle was wheezing with suppressed laughter but Petra was ashen. She looked at the date at the top of the page. “He’s still alive then. How did he get this into today’s newspaper?”

“Maybe he put it in before the attack,” Max suggested.

“I thought the same thing,” Axon said. “Then I noticed this.” He flipped forwards a few pages. “There’s a piece here on a student prank involving a clay ball thrown at the Bodleian Library. It says, ‘No damage was caused and the students in question will be severely reprimanded.’ And in the puzzles page… here, there’s a wordsearch that’s clearly been tampered with.”

Max moved to read the list. “Idiotic. Sorcerer. Failed. Murderer. Attempted. Inferior. Revenge. Retribution. Pride. Justice.”

The gargoyle sniggered.

“This isn’t funny!” Petra said. “When Mr Ekstrand knows it didn’t work he’s going to be distraught.”

“He’s going to keep being obsessed,” the gargoyle said, not laughing any more.

Max didn’t want Axon and Petra to hear anything else the gargoyle might say. He had to find the person behind the murders before the last two Sorcerers in Albion killed each other. “I’ll leave you to tell Mr Ekstrand,” he said to Axon. “I have things I need to do.”

Will covered the letter he was writing when there was a knock on the door to his study.

“Mr Bertrand Persificola-Viola,” Morgan announced.

The younger Viola walked in, dressed in a Regency-style outfit with a superbly cut single-breasted tailcoat and high cravat. He was so much smarter than his brother Freddy, in more ways than one, Will suspected. Bertrand gave a formal bow and entered, heading for the chair on the other side of the desk that Will gestured to.

They shook hands before he sat down. “Thank you for accepting my request to speak with you, your Grace.”

“I assume it’s something important or you’d have said something at Black’s, earlier.” Will sat down. He also expected something was about to be raised off the record, or Bertrand would have visited him at the Tower.

“I wanted to be discreet, and to ensure a private conversation didn’t become the subject of gossip.”

“Would you like some brandy?”

“Thank you, your Grace, but no. I don’t drink alcohol.”

Will inclined his head in acknowledgement. The younger wanted to distance himself from Freddy in every way, it seemed.

“May I say, before we go on,” Bertrand said, “I understand the Duchess was kind enough to pay a social call to my wife earlier today. Charlotte was deeply touched and quite thrilled that Her Grace singled her out for the honour.”

Will smiled. Cathy’s gesture was perfectly timed. “My wife said she enjoyed the visit immensely.” He had no idea if that were so, but was planning to quiz her on the subject later.

“Your Grace, something has come to my attention that I believe you should be made aware of, if you haven’t been informed already. Several people are considering leaving Londinium to go and live in Oxenford.”

Will pressed his fingertips together, keeping his expression neutral. “People are free to live wherever they wish, if the ruler of the city permits it.”

“They’ve been personally invited to consider moving by Margritte Tulipa.”

He hadn’t expected that. “How many?”

“I know of ten but there may be more. All influential families, including my brother.”

“I know Freddy took Bartholomew’s death badly.”

Will watched a muscle work in Bertrand’s jaw. “My brother speaks first, thinks last. I apologise for his appalling behaviour at the first Court.”

“There’s no need for you to apologise for him. His actions aren’t your fault.”

Bertrand looked down. “He’s been to Oxenford and is waiting on the Hebdomadal Council for a formal invitation to move there. He’s trying to persuade others to come with him and take their tithe from Londinium’s coffers. I felt you should know.”

Will almost thanked him, but stopped himself. He didn’t want Bertrand to know it was the first he’d heard of it, or to appear beholden to him. “Have you received a letter from Margritte?”

“No, your Grace. It seems I’ve been overlooked.”

Will didn’t miss the bitterness in his voice and felt Margritte’s omission had little to do with it. No doubt he’d been overlooked many times. “Older brothers can be difficult,” Will said, adopting a more relaxed position. “Mine is said to be the most able swordsman in Albion. Every time I picked up a sword I was compared to him. I always fell short, but I didn’t mind.”

“Why? If I may be so bold.”

“Because he deserves the acclaim. He
is
the best swordsman. If I was to be judged poorly thanks to his
inability
to wield a weapon it would be a different matter altogether. I wouldn’t just be overlooked, or compared unfavourably, I’d be suffering an injustice.”

Bertrand’s eyes flicked over his face, as if he were searching Will’s expression for any sign of something other than solidarity. “I had the impression that you’re going to be a Duke with a strong sense of justice.”

“Indeed.” Will nodded. “A Duke must do all he can to ensure the people under his care are able to be all they can be. Whether that’s ensuring they can travel safely or simply helping them to solve their personal problems, it’s all equally important.” Bertrand was nodding slowly, listening with total attention. “Wherever I perceive an injustice it’s my duty to ensure something is done.”

“You’ve already demonstrated that, your Grace. So many in Londinium are nothing but words, but you act decisively to protect those under your care.”

Will smiled to mask the uncomfortable flash of memory. He had acted decisively but he’d killed the wrong man. “I do all I can to make sure those I love – and those who are loyal to me – have the very best of my protection and care. I hope, when people realise this, they can feel confident and secure enough to act decisively themselves, to make their lives all they can be.”

“Even if they had to do something… radical?”

“If I believed it was for the good of Londinium, yes. Sometimes a forest has to have a great tree felled to give enough light for others to grow. It’s a radical act, but for the good of the whole.”

Bertrand’s chest swelled and his eyes glistened with the implicit permission he’d just been granted. “I won’t take a moment more of your time, your Grace, I’m sure you are very busy.”

Will stood and extended his hand which Bertrand shook enthusiastically. “My door is always open to you, Bertrand. I’m better able to help if kept well informed.”

“I’ll bear that in mind, your Grace.” Bertrand bowed and left.

Will sat back down and took up his pen. There was another knock on the door. “The Marquis of Westminster is here, your Grace.”

“That time already?” He covered the letter again. “Show him in, Morgan, and bring us a bite to eat.”

“Very good, sir.”

Tom soon entered and they shook hands. Whilst he wasn’t as uptight as Bertrand had been, Tom was far from relaxed. “I trust you’re well, your Grace?”

“Tom, please. We’re in my house. Call me William.”

He went to the tantalus on the sideboard behind him. “Brandy?”

“No, thank you. I have the report. Would you like me to leave it with you?”

“How about giving me a summary now? Do you have time?”

“Of course.”

Will waved a hand at one of the twin sofas in front of the fire and sat opposite Tom. Whilst he settled into the corner with an arm on the rest and his legs crossed, Tom remained bolt upright as he looked through the sheaf of paper in his hands. That he and Cathy had been brought up in the same household still amazed Will.

“I’ve interviewed all the victims who came forward and some interesting findings have emerged. One of the most important is that there’s more than one team of robbers.”

“That’s interesting,” Will said. “How–”

There was one knock on the door and it opened. Cathy marched in. “What’s going on?”

“Catherine!” Tom stood. “The Duke and I are having a private meeting.”

Cathy’s hands were on her hips. “So this is how it is, then? The ladies sit and embroider while the men talk about all the important things?”

“Catherine,” Tom’s voice was stern. “Don’t be so rude.”

Will watched with interest as the old family pattern emerged. Cathy continued to ignore her brother, her eyes fixed on Will.

“I can contribute,” she said. “If I’m clever enough to be a good Duchess, let me be more than someone who sits next to you in the Court and has tea with wives.”

Tom turned to Will. “I’m so sorry, she’s always been difficult.”

“Tom!”

Will held up a hand. “You’re right,” he said to Cathy. Tom would be on his side no matter what, but he had to win Cathy over completely. He couldn’t bring himself to use anything that overpowered her emotions again, especially not after having been a victim of it himself, so he needed to do all he could to bring them closer together. And she was right, she wasn’t stupid.

Her smile made her features softer and he found himself smiling back. “Thank you,” she said.

“Come and sit next to me, my love. Tom was telling me what he’s found out about these highwaymen.”

Tom sat down, took a deep breath and focused on the pages again. “As I was saying… there are several groups of robbers – the attacks on multiple carriages are simultaneous and in different parts of Londinium. Jewels and money are stolen, as would be expected. The carriages are never attacked on the way to or from the Court. Only large banquets, balls and soirées.”