Beyond the Grave (18 page)

Oh. Of course I would be listed in his catalogue. I wasn't sure whether to be pleased or disconcerted, however. Perhaps a little of both. It was, after all, nice to be worthy of being catalogued yet troubling for the same reason.

L
ela lived
in a van on Mitcham Common on the southern edge of the city. She was a gypsy, and we were fortunate that it was coming up to winter or she and her family would have been traveling through the countryside, picking fruit. The cold weather brought the Romany gypsies back to London, and its numerous commons, where they squeezed what small fortune they could from selling their crafts or pushing grinding barrows through the streets to sharpen scissors, saws and knives.

I'd never been to Mitcham. My haunts were north of the river, in the familiar territory of my childhood. It took us some time to drive from Highgate to the city's south, but at least the weather was fine. It would have been difficult going if the unmade roads near the common had been muddy. As it was, Seth had a devil of a time avoiding potholes, much to Gus's annoyance.

"You think you can do better?" I heard Seth growl when Gus once again swore at him for not maneuvering around a rough patch that caused me to almost bounce off the seat. "The landau's not as nimble as the brougham."

Thankfully we soon reached the common and the jolting came to an abrupt stop. There was only a rough track ahead, so we would have to walk through the gypsy camp to inquire after Lela. The common really was little more than a campsite. Tents and vans huddled around smoky fires, their flaps and awnings fluttering in the breeze. Horses grazed on the open grass and several dogs lazed beneath the carts and vans. Some fifty or so dirty faces watched us through eyes the same deep black as Lincoln's. If I'd not known he was part gypsy already, I would have guessed now.

Seth and Gus jumped down from the driver's seat. Gus's jacket flipped open, revealing the bone handle of a gun tucked into his trousers.

"We'll wait here," Seth said, keeping a watchful eye on an advancing group of children.

"Oi, get back," Gus growled at him.

"They're only looking at the horses and rig," I told them.

"Don't be so sure, Charlie. They're thieves, the lot of 'em."

"As was I," I said. "But I wouldn't of stealed a horse from under your nose now, would I?" I let my slum accent come through, playing it up a little to remind him that I had been no different to those children only a few short months earlier.

Gus was too busy watching the children to notice.

"How up to date is the information about Lela?" I asked Lincoln as we followed the track into the camp.

My first glimpse at the ministry's archives had been a revelation. Centuries of investigations had been meticulously recorded, with anyone suspected of possessing a magical talent noted down and filed away. It wasn't just names and addresses, but also the type of magic they possessed, the names of immediate relations, and a note on how harmless they were deemed to be. Most of the records were old, the subjects deceased, but Lela's entry had been added relatively recently.

"It's several years old," Lincoln said, as he scanned the crude dwellings.

"Do you think she still lives here through the winter?"

"Gypsy groups follow the same pattern of travel every year, going to the same farms in the summer and returning to the same camps in winter. If Lela's still alive, she should be here."

"And if she's dead?"

"We'll have to look for Buchanan elsewhere."

A group of burly men emerged from between the tents like a slow moving tide and blocked our route. They wore long coats that had probably once been black or rich brown but were now faded to gray and a muddy dun. Some were hatless, one wore a cap and another a broad brimmed hat more suited to a farmhand. Bushy moustaches and beards did nothing to hide their angular cheekbones and the undisguised challenge in their eyes.

I shuffled closer to Lincoln and glanced over my shoulder at Seth and Gus. They watched us from the coach, hands hovering near their waistbands where their weapons were stowed.

"We're looking for a woman known as Lela," Lincoln said. He opened his palm to reveal several coins.

One of the men reached for the money but Lincoln snapped his hand closed. He arched a brow in lazy inquiry.

"What d'you want wiv 'er?" the man in the cap asked in a thick accent.

"My friend is missing and I have reason to believe he came here to speak with her."

"He ain't here."

"I know, but I wanted to find out if he ever made it or got lost along the way. You are not under suspicion."

The man spoke to his companions in a foreign language. I wondered if it was one Lincoln understood. He gave no sign that he did, however, and waited for them to address him again.

"Old Lela be tired," the man said. "Come back tomorrow."

Lincoln dipped into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out more coins.

One of the hatless men scooped them up and the one in the cap jerked his head toward a wagon. "In there."

The large wagon was one of the sturdiest and certainly the brightest in the camp. Crimson curtains covered the windows and the door was painted to match. Panels along the side bore a swirling pattern in deep green with hints of yellow that appeared golden in the beams of sunlight filtering through the clouds.

I stood behind Lincoln as he knocked and felt my skirts shift in a direction opposite to the breeze. Without looking, I thrust out my hand and caught the wrist of the little thief.

"You have to do better than that," I told the lad. He was no higher than my waist with black hair sticking out at all angles from his head and serious eyes that held no fear, only defiance.

"How'd you know?" he asked.

"It takes a thief to catch a thief."

The eyes widened and I winked at him. His jaw dropped and he eyed me up and down as if he were seeing me for the first time. "You never."

The door to the wagon opened and a stooped woman, wearing a faded red scarf over gray hair, regarded us. Even though she stood four steps above Lincoln, she was still only his height. She regarded him closely. At least, I think she did. Her eyes were hard to see, lost as they were amid deep wrinkles.

One of the men who'd followed us said something in the foreign tongue, but Lincoln interrupted him in the same language. The woman, who I assumed was Lela, chuckled so hard her entire body shook. She stepped aside and indicated for him to enter.

Lincoln spoke again and I caught my name amid the sharp consonants and throaty vowels. Lela nodded then disappeared inside the wagon. I followed and Lincoln stepped up behind me.

The wagon wasn't a simple farmer's cart that had been covered over. It was a home with a table, a small faded blue sofa and two chests bearing the same pattern as the outside of the wagon. A large crimson curtain hid the far end from prying eyes, and a thin gray-green carpet deadened our footsteps. Throws and tasseled cushions in jewel colors covered the sofa and chairs, and several charms hung from the ceiling so that Lincoln had to duck. Both of the Harcourt ladies would have a fit at the mish-mash of colors, although Marguerite might like that the interior had a cluttered, close feel to it.

Lela indicated we should find somewhere to sit. The man who'd followed us remained near the door, his arms crossed and his feet a little apart. Her bodyguard, I suspected.

Lincoln spoke again in the foreign language and Lela glanced at me.

"I try," she responded in a heavy accent, and I realized he'd asked if she could speak English for my benefit.

I smiled. "Thank you."

She did not smile back but instead turned her focus toward Lincoln. She studied him closely and even reached over and fingered his hair. The web of wrinkles bracketing her sunken mouth drew together. She nodded slowly and said something in her own tongue.

"Half Romany," Lincoln answered.

Lela glanced at me. "Her know?"

"Miss Holloway knows."

She nodded again, this time in what I guessed to be approval, but whether that was because she approved of him not keeping his heritage a secret, or because she approved of him being half gypsy, I couldn't tell.

"Your friend?" Lela asked. "His name?"

"Andrew Buchanan." Lincoln described him, right down to his snobbery and dissoluteness.

Lela shook her head. "He not come to me." She arched thin, patchy brows at the man standing by the door, but he shook his head too.

Lincoln thanked her and stood, knocking one of the multi-faceted pendants hanging above his head. "Charlie," he said when I didn't move.

"Miss Lela," I said, "are you a real seer?"

"Some say yes, some say no." She shrugged.

"What do
you
say?"

She broke into a grin that revealed more gum than teeth. "I say I know things you do not."

"Like what?"

"Charlie," Lincoln warned.

"Like he is son of great man."

Lincoln went very still, but he did not show surprise, only apprehension.

"How great?" I asked.

Lela shrugged. "I cannot see through shadows. So many shadows. But you…" She suddenly grabbed my hand, causing Lincoln to step forward, a move that in turn made the bodyguard shift closer. "You have no shadow. You clear, bright." She let me go and traced my outline from my head to my waist without touching me directly. "You chase bad shadows away."

Lincoln grabbed my elbow and hauled me to my feet. A glare at the bodyguard caused him to step aside.

"Er, thank you, Lela," I tossed back as Lincoln directed me down the wagon steps ahead of him, not altogether gently.

She said something in her own tongue that had Lincoln's hold tightening on my elbow as he marched me through the camp. Lela's chuckle followed us on the breeze.

"What did she say?" I asked, repeating her words as best as I could.

His hard gaze didn't waver from the coach, up ahead, where Seth and Gus were surrounded by gypsy men. "Nothing."

"It wasn't nothing. She thought it was amusing, but you did not."

There was no opportunity to question him further. The small crowd gathered around our horses and coach looked angry. Sleeves had been rolled up to reveal strong forearms, and one or two men danced on light feet, fists raised in Gus's direction. He stood between Seth and the horses and looked very relieved to see Lincoln.

"What's going on?" Lincoln growled, finally letting me go with a little shove in the direction of the children who stood out of the way.

"Bloody Gus thought it would be a good idea to take up the challenge of a dice game with these…fellows," Seth said. "He lost."

"They cheated!" Gus cried.

"You didn't have to accuse them! Now you've offended their honor or something."

"But they cheated!"

"Shut it," Seth hissed.

Lincoln reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a small pouch filled with coin. The gypsy men lowered their fists and one snatched at the pouch.

I bent down to the little boy next to me, the same one who'd tried to pick my pocket. "What does
fara scapare
mean?" I whispered in an accent I hoped was close to Lela's.

The boy wrinkled his face and I worried that his Romany might not be very good or that my accent was atrocious. "No escape," he said after a moment then held out his hand for a coin.

I turned out my empty pocket to show him that I had nothing to give. His face fell. I bent closer to his ear. "Allow me to pass on something I learned when I was only a little older than you."

He looked at me dubiously, perhaps regretting that he hadn't asked to see a coin first before translating.

"When picking a woman's skirt pocket," I said, "move with the breeze, not against it."

"Charlie!" Seth shouted. "Hurry up."

I kissed the top of the boy's greasy head then took the hand that Lincoln held out for me and climbed into the cabin.

No escape.

T
o my dismay
, two of my least favorite people were waiting for us upon our return to Lichfield. I groaned as I recognized General Eastbrooke and Lord Gillingham's coaches and horses.

"What are they doing here?"

"Either Julia or Harcourt has informed them that we've made progress in our search for Buchanan," Lincoln said.

"But why do they need to come here to discuss it?"

"Perhaps they're not here to discuss the developments, but my methods."

I frowned at him until it dawned on me what he meant. "Oh. You mean my involvement."

"I'll tell them it was necessary for you to summon Buchanan's spirit as a test. They'll see reason."

"I doubt it," I muttered.

The coach slowed at the top of the drive instead of taking us around the back as Lincoln usually preferred. He rarely stood on ceremony, but his visitors would expect him to heed propriety and enter through the front door.

"I should come with you and talk to them, since it involves me," I said.

"That may not be wise."

"No, but it's cowardly for me not to."

He leveled his gaze on me. "You are not a coward, Charlie."

I gave him a grim smile, and decided that I would act as maid and bring in refreshments. It would give me a legitimate excuse to be among them, and Lincoln couldn't send me away.

As it turned out, I had to act as maid anyway. Seth and Gus remained in the stables to tend to the horses. I suspected they remained outside purposely to avoid our guests.

Cook was already assembling teacups on a tray when I entered the kitchen. "'Bout bloody time," he muttered, shoving the tray at me. "Thought I was going to have to wait on 'em myself." He shooed me away with a flick of his apron and some grumbled words of which I only caught "Gillingham" and "prick."

I hurried along the corridor to the parlor at the front of the house. The general's blustery voice drifted clearly out to me before I reached it.

"…doesn't justify your methods, Lincoln."

"He's a peer of the realm, for God's sake!" Gillingham exploded. "That alone puts him above reproach."

"Not to mention he's Buchanan's brother. He's hardly going to clock him, is he?"

"Your accusation was made doubly humiliating by having your maid overhear it all, Fitzroy. For God's sake, man, what were you thinking?"

Ah, yes, there was the slight against me that I expected. It didn't bother me, since I cared nothing for Gillingham's opinion, and I entered the parlor without any anxiety.

"I wasn't accusing him of anything," Lincoln said, as he took the tray from me with a nod of thanks. "And Charlie had every right to be there. She's assisting me. Tea, General?"

Eastbrooke muttered something incomprehensible that I suspected was a protest about a number of things—Lincoln serving tea, and me being involved in the investigation, chief among them.

"You are being deliberately provocative, Fitzroy," Gillingham said, looking down his nose at me. "Her involvement is unnecessary and inappropriate."

"I think not." Lincoln's bored dismissal disguised an undercurrent of frustration, which I suspected only I noticed. "Involving Charlie is effective. We now know Buchanan is alive."

"Use her necromancy by all means, under supervision, but do not invite her into Lord Harcourt's drawing room!"

Lincoln handed Gillingham a teacup then looked to me. "Tea, Charlie?"

"Yes, thank you." I sat on a chair, well away from the two visitors who were both still standing. The general glanced at the sofa behind him, as if he didn't know what to do, and Gillingham set down his cup on a table.

"Very well," he said on a sniff. "If you insist on remaining here, child, I cannot be responsible for the things you'll overhear."

"I'm sure you
can
be responsible," I countered, "but you choose to say them anyway. Go ahead. I doubt my sensibilities are as delicate as those of other ladies."

"No doubt you will have heard worse in the sewers." He picked up his teacup again and addressed Lincoln. "You're too lenient on her, Fitzroy."

"Agreed," the general said, eyeing me with a frown as he sipped his tea.

"Raising the witch proves she is a danger—"

"That matter has been resolved." Lincoln's voice was as sharp as cut glass. "Estelle Pearson has been sent back."

"I didn't know she was a witch," I told them.

Gillingham didn't look at me. I might as well not have spoken. "By taking her to Harcourt House yesterday, you have exposed Lord and Lady Harcourt to an indignity they should never have had to endure."

"I'm quite sure Marguerite's illegitimate child had nothing to do with Charlie."

I smiled into my teacup, only to jump when Gillingham stamped the end of his walking stick into the floor. "This is not a joke! She is your
maid
, Fitzroy, and a gutter rat at that. Can you not see the harm you do to your reputation, and that of Lichfield—"

"My reputation is
none
of your concern."

The earl recoiled at Lincoln's low, vicious snarl. "General?" Gillingham turned to his friend, his face a patchwork of pink splotches. "Surely you have something to add. Or is it up to me to rein in your man? Again."

But the general was still staring at me over the rim of his teacup, as if he were trying to go unnoticed. Despite my conviction not to let it bother me, I felt my color rise.

"My God," the general murmured. He lowered his cup and turned to Lincoln. "You've developed feelings for the chit."

I dropped my teacup into the saucer so hard that a small chip flew off. My face flamed. My heart thumped. I wanted to hear Lincoln's answer a little too much for my own comfort.

"Charlie is living here under my protection." Lincoln had gone quite still. Even his lips hardly moved as he spoke. "My feelings for her are as a guardian toward his ward."

My teacup rattled in its saucer. I set them down on the table and studied my hands in my lap. My guardian. So that's how it was for him. It was all very proper and respectable, considering the circumstances. And yet I didn't want proper and respectable. I wanted him to be very improper with me.

"I've never known you to allow anyone as much leeway as you give her," the general protested. "There's no other explanation."

"She is my employee," Lincoln ground out, delivering every word with a blunt, brutal edge. "To imply otherwise is inappropriate."

"Since when have you cared about what is appropriate? Anyway, you just said she is like a ward to you. So which is it? Ward or employee?"

Lincoln's answer was an ice-cold glare that forced even the formidable general to sway back a little.

"If this is true," Gillingham said, glancing between them, "she cannot stay here! Once she has you dancing to her tune she'll use her necromancy and unleash chaos!"

"That is ridiculous," I said.

Gillingham's head jerked round to look at me, but Lincoln got in before he spoke. "Charlie's right. This entire conversation is absurd. If you're quite done, then see yourselves to the door. We have work to do."

"Hear him out," Eastbrooke said.

Gillingham nodded his thanks at the general. "I know how women work, particularly women of her ilk."

"There is no ilk where Charlie is concerned," Lincoln said in that quiet, commanding voice of his.

The general shook his head sadly. "And you tell us you have no feelings for her," he muttered. "It is quite obvious that you do."

My heart lifted, and I frowned at Lincoln, trying to determine if there was any truth in the general's observations. But he merely scowled harder than I'd ever seen him scowl.

He strode to the door. "Good day, gentlemen."

The general shook his head sadly and followed, but Gillingham remained where he was. "Good lord, use your head, man! You must see that she has far too much power over you now."

"All I see is a man who is not listening to a thing I'm saying. Get out of my house before I throw you out."

Gillingham stalked past Lincoln, his walking stick barely hitting the floor. "This is not over."

Lincoln followed the two men, and I slipped through the far door that led to the unused music room to avoid him. In something of a daze, I made my way outside, desperate to escape the house. And Lincoln.

I needed a few moments alone to think. I ruled out hiding in the orchard. Autumn had stripped the trees of coverage, and he would look there first. The stables were now quiet except for horses munching on their feed. Seth and Gus had finished their duties. I climbed the ladder to the loft and picked my way past a rusty wheel, some tools, and a cracked leather saddle, to the bags of feed piled into a pyramid. I sat with my back to them and swiped at the tears dampening my cheeks, willing myself to stop being a pathetic fool.

But I couldn't dislodge the memory of Lincoln's face as he denied General Eastbrooke's accusation most vehemently. It had been one of stone-cold fury. If ever I needed proof that he had no feelings for me, that look was it. And, of course, his denial. Our kiss had merely been a heat-of-the-moment thing, hastily done and just as quickly forgotten. Eastbrooke had been wrong. Lincoln wasn't in love with me.

I didn't want to rejoin the household and face him just yet, so I stretched out my legs and rested my head against the rough calico. It smelled of oats and horse, a surprisingly comforting smell that lulled me.

I sat forward as I heard footsteps pause near the door before moving closer. The top of the ladder shook with the weight of someone climbing it.

I wasn't surprised to see Lincoln's unruly, dark hair appear. He remained on the ladder and regarded me through eyes still dark with the remnants of his anger. "This looks more comfortable than the orchard."

"How did you find me?"

He tilted his head to the side and regarded me with an arched brow.

"Oh. Yes, of course. I suppose I'll never truly be able to escape you." It was meant as a joke to lighten the mood, but his face fell.

"I know I'm not the easiest person to work for, but I hope you don't wish to escape me altogether."

"That's not what I meant. Of course I don't wish to go away. I'm happy here." I bit my lip to stop myself saying something that would make this moment even more awkward.

"I'm glad to hear it."

"But if the four committee members get their way…"

"Pay Gillingham and Eastbrooke no mind. I'm not going to banish you, and they have no power to force me. Not because of…that, anyway."

That? What was "that" precisely?

"You know how things lie between us, don't you?" he asked tentatively. "You understand my…position?"

"You made it very clear to me."

His eyes clouded at my snippy retort. "Then come inside. It's cold out here and your presence is missed."

By him or the others?

We crossed the courtyard together and headed into the house through the rear service doors. Seth and Gus were in the midst of recounting the events from the gypsy camp to Cook who listened with an amused smirk.

"We were lucky we got out of there with our lives," Gus said, shaking his head.

"
You
were lucky." Seth lounged in the corner armchair and propped his booted feet on a stool. "
We
were perfectly fine. Charlie, I saw you whispering with one of the snotty-nosed little brats before we left. What about?"

"He was not a brat, nor was his nose dirty," I said.

Seth waited for an answer with an expectant air. So did Lincoln. He stood by the door, his mild gaze on me, his hands behind his back.

"He acted as interpreter, that's all."

Lincoln continued to watch me. His lips parted and he drew in a small breath as if he were about to say something, but he must have thought better of it and closed his mouth again.

"For free?" Gus asked.

"I paid him with knowledge. I told him how to be a better thief."

"Charlie!" Seth threw his hands in the air and let them fall on the chair arms. "You can't go around doing that."

"He's only a little child. I would rather he escaped the clutches of the constables than wind up separated from his family…and worse."

"Then he should stop thieving altogether!"

I rolled my eyes as Lincoln retreated from the kitchen. I didn't know why I expected him to remain after he'd fetched me. We had nothing more to discuss for now. Our investigation had once more hit a dead end, and we were no closer to finding Buchanan. Perhaps he would come up with a plan of action if we were alone.

The afternoon wore on and I continued to perform the duties expected of me as a maid, since there was no one else to do so. Nor did I particularly mind. I would rather work than sit around and sew something I neither wanted nor needed. As I was helping Cook mix the bread dough at dusk, Seth came up to me with the chatelaine box.

"I forgot," he said. "I fetched this from your room when you first asked me, but I haven't returned it to Death yet. Are you sure you still want me to?"

I shrugged. "Why wouldn't I be?"

His mouth shifted from side to side. "What is your education in the classics like?"

"The classics? As in old books?"

"Ancient Greek and Roman myths."

"Non-existent. If it wasn't Christian, Anselm Holloway didn't want it in the house. If it wasn't in the house, I didn't learn it."

"That explains it then."

"Explains what?"

"Why Fitzroy gave this to you. He knew you wouldn't understand the meaning behind it."

"Show me," Cook said, looming over my shoulder.

Seth opened the lid and the silver chatelaine winked in the light from the lamps. My breath caught. I'd forgotten how pretty it was, and how finely worked. Perhaps I'd been too hasty in asking Seth to give it back to Lincoln. Hasty and cowardly. I ought to do it myself.

"He gave it to me because it's a practical gift for a housemaid," I told Seth.

Cook looked at me. "If he wanted practical he would of given you one made of tin, and plain. This ain't no practical gift."

"No indeed." Seth pointed to the figure of the woman looking out to sea from the balcony. "Do you see the dolphin?"