The Friday Society (15 page)

22

Politics

I
T HAD BEEN
almost exactly a year since Lord White had first brought Cora with him to the Palace of Westminster. It was an odd sort of coming-out for a girl, but she was presented to Lord White’s colleagues as his assistant in a way oddly similar to the way a girl of means would be presented to society as a candidate ready for marriage. Cora had found herself surrounded by men who complimented her for little more than existing; the main difference was simply that none of them was interested in courting her.

Now a year on, she was a common sight walking down the neo-Gothic halls of Parliament. And, where once she had been mocked as one of the only women in the palace, now others were mocked if they didn’t know who she was. She was famous.

She was also being totally ignored this morning. And not in that usual “Oh, it’s just Miss Bell” kind of way. There was a heightened feeling of tension this morning—something different from the typical anxiety that preceded a vote. Usually the halls were filled with men trying to make last-minute deals with their colleagues, pretending they weren’t remotely concerned about the outcome and sweating through to their topcoats. It was a mix of denial and male bravado. Fascinating in its absurdity.

Today. Different.

“Dr. Welland,” whispered Lord White into her ear as they passed between two of the Queen’s guards.

Of course. The doctor’s murder had been the subject of much conversation in the last day or so. Articles had been appearing in both the morning and evening papers speculating about the murder. The victim had evidently been found by some most clever police officers in the wee hours, his body and head easy enough to recognize. Cora had a faint memory of a young officer speaking with her at the door and wondered if there was a reason her presence at the scene had been left out of the newspapers.

Dr. Welland wasn’t an MP. He had never been been involved in any particular political doings at all, from what Cora could tell. She’d only met him a handful of times accompanying Lord White and she’d been more focused on her boss than on the doctor. His lordship had found it so hard to conceal his fondness for inventing things, the internal struggle playing across his face in a series of twitches and short intakes of breath. It had been fascinating and a little sad to watch.

There would be a funeral, of course, and it would be quite the event. Anyone who was anyone would likely be there. Maybe a few anyones who weren’t anyone, even.

The bell rang. Like Eton schoolboys, the men in the chambers picked themselves up and, in an orderly fashion, started toward the House. Cora stayed close to Lord White’s heels, though she wouldn’t be allowed onto the floor itself, of course. She’d go and sit up in the gallery.

“We’ll send flowers to Mrs. Rawley, but take John Able off the list . . . ,” Lord White said with regard to a completely unrelated matter as she jotted it all down in her notebook. He always just said whatever came to his mind, and she had to sort it all out on her own later.

Cora allowed her eyes to flick up and take quick stock of her company. She had to find Mr. Carter in this mess. He was usually pretty easy to spot, towering several inches above most of the gentlemen.

She turned to look upstream, and finally, as Mr. Low scuttled over to plead one last futile time with Mr. Fish, Mr. Carter and his long limbs came into view. Lord White had stopped speaking, and Cora made the decision that he was finished for now. She could have turned and fought her way up to Mr. Carter, but it seemed like a bit of an ordeal to put herself through. So she simply stopped walking.

Okay, so the man behind her almost fell flat on his face when she did, and she was sworn at as he passed, but it worked remarkably well. In no time, Mr. Carter had floated up next to her and given her a small, tight-lipped smile.

“Bad news about Dr. Welland,” she said.

“Indeed.”

Cora had to jog to keep up with his long strides.

“A great loss to the scientific community,” she added.

Mr. Carter grunted back. Odd that he was so uncommunicative. He was usually quite pleasant to her.

“I met him a few times with Lord White, and—”

“Must we discuss this, Miss Bell?” asked Mr. Carter abruptly.

“Oh, uh, no. I suppose not. I just thought you, in particular, would care, that’s all.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, I thought you were a financial contributor to the Medical and Scientific Institute. Thought you’d care that one of its top men had been murdered . . .”

It was Mr. Carter’s turn to stop the flow of traffic. He seemed unaware of the chaos he had caused and just stared at Cora for a really uncomfortably long moment. Then he grabbed her wrist and yanked her across the flow of men and into an arched alcove.

“What?” he finally managed to say when they were on their own.

“I thought . . . that is to say . . .”

“How would you know something like that? Does Lord White know?”

“I honestly can’t remember where I heard it, but I don’t think his lordship knows. I don’t think he’d mind if he did.”

Mr. Carter was a pasty-faced man at the best of times. A bit of a stereotype of an Englishman, with white, almost translucent skin and yellowing teeth. Cora was impressed that he managed to become even paler at this moment. His mustache, a fine waxed line across his upper lip, quivered.

“Mr. Carter, are you all right?”

“This isn’t good. Not at all. Who else knows?”

“I couldn’t tell you.” She really couldn’t. She was pretty sure he’d freak out if he knew that Nellie knew, too.

“Where did you hear it from?” His voice was getting loud and he grabbed both her shoulders.

“I don’t—”

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember, little girl. Don’t tell me that. You do, and you’re keeping it from me. He told you, didn’t he? How did you meet him? Of course, he liked you. Look at you. Look at your eyes.”

“My eyes?”

“They’re stunning.”

A moment of total confusion. “Uh, thank you?”

“I’ve got to go home.” Mr. Carter released Cora so violently that she nearly lost her balance, and he made his way up the now-empty corridor in the opposite direction.

“Mr. Carter, the vote!” Cora called after him. But he didn’t respond. He didn’t do anything but let those long strides of his carry him out of sight.

23

A Delivery

T
HE SHIP APPROACHED
from the east, hovering several feet above the water on a shimmer of steam and air. It wasn’t the biggest ship Nellie had seen, possibly the size of a small frigate, with as many masts and sails, but hovering technology was only a couple of years old, so it was still pretty impressive to watch the ship make berth. She and the Magician stood right at the edge of the dock as the ship gently glided to a stop. The steam passed over them, propelled by hot air, and Nellie and the Magician were showered by a fine mist.

“Refreshing,” said the Magician, giving her a smile.

All Nellie could think was that her hair was going to be seriously frizzy now.

The Magician usually had his shipments come in to the London Docks at the Wapping Basin, but today they’d traveled over to the West India Docks off Blackwall Reach. It was the first time he’d ordered anything from Africa, and this was where the
Sunburnt Mary
made berth.

The dock system here was two-tiered, a lower level for vessels that sailed upon the water and an upper one for the hovering ships, the ones that floated just above, using the steam created between the bottom of the ship and the water in the sea to propel themselves forward. The West India Docks were currently the only ones outfitted to accommodate the new technology.

Despite the unusual architecture of the place, the smell of the rotting fish and rancid stagnant water that were trapped under the docks was all too familiar to Nellie. The noise, too. The hustle and bustle of travel, of work, always intrigued her. She watched as a young family boarded a small cutter, the child far more excited about the journey than the mother who held on to her tightly.

There were sailors sitting on barrels and leaning against struts, smoking and eating pale-looking sandwiches. Engineers, wearing large round goggles and holding strange large tools, dangled on ropes alongside the hovering crafts. There were several dock masters running about in their black suits carrying notebooks and yelling at everyone and no one.

And then there was the small group of children that had congregated at a distance to stare at the Magician. While almost everyone tended to stare at him, children were the only ones who did it so artlessly. Nellie respected that.

It took some time before the giant crane began to unload the crates from the ship. Nellie knew she and the Magician could have come a full half hour later at least to pick up his shipment, but the Magician had really wanted to see the
Sunburnt Mary
come in.

“Take pleasure even in the daily tasks of life,” he’d say. And that was all well and good if you took pleasure in watching boats. Nellie took pleasure in sleeping in.

The Magician was waiting for a few orders of powders and bottled liquids from Africa for himself, but also waiting for items requested by others. He took requests only if they could be filled by the same local supplier that he was getting orders from, and in this case, fortunately, there were only a few items that had to find their owners.

Finally, they had collected all their goods and traveled back to the south market square in the Magician’s open wagon. It always felt a little old-fashioned to travel by wagon now that there were those steam-carriages available. They easily could have afforded such a luxury, but the Magician liked his wagon. He liked Brutus and Caesar, the old workhorses he had to pull it. The fact was, he had no need to show off to others, and considering where they lived, he’d explained, having expensive new things might appear insensitive to their neighbors. The Magician had an odd way of not caring what others thought and yet, at the same time, doing just that.

The crates were unloaded from the carriage by a couple of helpful boys to whom the Magician tossed a couple of shillings. The first large box, the top of which was riddled with holes, was delivered almost immediately to a very round woman who looked beyond thrilled to see it. The package seemed pretty thrilled to see her, too, the contents making a cross between a growl and a purr as she carted it away.

They had to wait a little longer for the other one to be picked up, and Nellie took a turn about the market as she waited, pausing by the Japanese man’s stand. One of the two boys who worked for him was fast asleep on the ground, leaning up against the leg of a table, but the old man hadn’t noticed. Or at least didn’t seem to care. Nellie glanced over the weapons and thought about Michiko’s sword from the night before. How quickly she’d moved it through the air.

She returned to the Magician just in time to see two tall and thin gentlemen approach. Nellie marveled at their appearance. They seemed like shadows, so lanky and dark in their attire. Both wore bowler caps and dark, tattered overcoats, and each had a pair of dark, round sunglasses. The man on the left had dark stubble on his chin and dark, greasy hair that fell in curls down to just below his chin. The man on the right was clean-shaven save for an overwaxed mustache, and though it was hard to tell, it being hidden by his hat, Nellie suspected his hair was probably equally overly tended. When they were close enough, Nellie got a whiff of a strange odor. A dense, overripe, stale thing.

“You the Great Raheem?” asked the mustached man, his voice higher than Nellie expected.

“I am. Are you Mr. Proper?” replied the Magician.

“Aye.” He paused. Then: “This is my business partner, Mr. Staunch.” He made a slight nod to the curly-haired man. Nellie gasped and both men looked at her. She immediately smiled brightly. In unison their heads turned back toward the Magician, and the transaction continued.

“You’ve given me too much,” said the Magician, counting the coins Mr. Proper had produced.

“Finder’s fee,” explained Mr. Staunch.

“That’s unnecessary.” The Magician returned the extra coin and nodded to Nellie, who produced a small sealed box with “handle with care” stamped on the side. She held it out before her and Mr. Proper, noticing her again as if for the first time, slowly leaned in and took it from her. The air between them seemed to hum as she passed the package, but that didn’t make any sense.

Then the two men turned and disappeared in the crowd.

“Do you know them?” asked Nellie when she felt that it was safe to speak.

“Only one of them. Grave robbers. Fascinating that they would want anything from Africa. Seems like they’re branching out. Why?” The Magician gave her that piercing look of his. There were days when Nellie was certain he could read her mind.

“It’s just, when I was at the institute investigatin’ the society, I came across their names.”

“That makes sense. They make their living selling their . . . goods . . . to hospitals and so forth on the black market. Surely someone at the institute would need a body part or two.”

Well, creepy eye man certainly would. Made perfect sense, actually, that he’d hire them. Still . . .

“Oh.”

“You’re not so sure?”

“No, I’m sure. It sits bad with me, that’s all.”

“Well, they don’t exactly come across as friendly and approachable. But I see your meaning. Never trust anyone who smells of death.”

“Was that what that was?”

“That was. Also never trust anyone who steals bodies from their graves and sells them for profit and orders strange things from distant lands through a third party.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yes.” He didn’t speak for a moment. Just stood, quietly. Then he exhaled so slowly that it could hardly have been called a sigh. Though maybe it was. His version of one. “Come. We have a show to prepare for.”

24

An Afternoon on the Town

C
ORA RARELY WENT
to matinees. In fact, she couldn’t recall if she’d ever seen one. After all, she had to work long hours for his lordship, and anytime they went to the theater it was usually not just for the pleasure of catching a show. Negotiations would be made during the interval. Notes passed between men in boxes. And, of course, it was important to be seen.

A silly turn of phrase, Cora thought, to be “seen.” As if one was invisible if one was not in attendance at events that someone had decided were important. She wondered who made those decisions. Which event was important, which was not.

In any case . . .

She rarely saw matinees.

She oughtn’t to be seeing one today either. She knew that. But Lord White had a late lunch with some of the peers and then . . . well, then she’d been informed of a change to his schedule. Evidently, after all the hard work of securing votes, it was time for his lordship to hit the Red Veil again.

Twice in one week.

Such fun for her, of course.

But it didn’t matter what Lord White got up to. She was meant to return to the house and work on the new commission. Or if not that, at least go over the accounts for the tax man.

Of course . . . none of this meant that she had any plans of returning home anytime soon.

You see. There was the small matter of Mr. Harris.

She didn’t know why she feared Andrew exactly. She’d tried to figure it out, but in the end, it was all a bit of a mess in her head. Basically, the thought of seeing Andrew terrified her. While other girls thrilled at seeing the boys they had romantic entanglements with, evidently Cora dreaded it. Clearly this was because something was wrong with her.

Or maybe . . . there was a difference between what her heart and her head wanted, and her head was still not entirely convinced that Andrew was someone she should spend time with. He didn’t seem to be able to solve problems without her help, had a bit of an ego about his appearance, and that whole “duality” thing. That seemed a little pretentious to her, really, if she thought about it. Even if she’d sort of agreed with the premise.

But he was also really good-looking.

And a great kisser.

Feelings were messy.

She couldn’t avoid him forever. But she could today. Especially because she needed to tell Nellie of Mr. Carter’s strange response to her that morning. So why not take in a magic show? And how convenient that there happened to be a matinee. As if she was meant to avoid going home.

It was fate.

Yeah, that’s it.

Fate.

The Great Raheem had a couple days’ engagement at St. James’s Theater on King Street. It was a popular theater, done up in a very decadent baroque style. The theater’s manager, Mr. Alexander, would schedule the Great Raheem during the dark period between plays, and thus the Magician became a constant performer at the theater while shows came and went. There must have been a friendship there, Cora assumed. And why not? Everyone loved the Great Raheem, and he brought sold-out shows and certain profit wherever he went.

Which, of course, meant that Cora was in standing-room-only in the upper circle.

The show was wonderful. The tricks from the gala were performed again, and Cora was still astonished by them. There was more audience participation. And tricks involving larger set pieces. There was one where Nellie was hidden in a solid iron safe, and somehow she managed to appear moments later at the back of the audience, to loud cheers and applause. Amazing.

When the show was over, Cora joined the throng of fans waiting at the stage door, and in short order, the Great Raheem and Nellie appeared. They were immediately swarmed, and Cora found herself at the back of the pack, jumping to get Nellie’s attention. Finally, she gave up being subtle and just called her name out loudly. Blond curls bobbed up above the crowd for a moment, and then Nellie’s face appeared as she made her way over to her.

“You were great!” Cora called out by way of encouragement. The crowd was formidable, and more than a bit intimidating.

“Thanks,” said Nellie with a big exhausted smile, pushing aside the final few overly excited men and coming up to her side. “Let’s go . . . over here.” She grabbed Cora by the arm and dragged her down the alley and out onto the street behind the theater. Some of the men called after them, upset at Nellie’s sudden departure. “Sorry for pullin’ you like that. Did you like the show?” Nellie asked brightly.

“I did. Say, how did you get to the back of the house? That was incredible!”

Nellie laughed. “Can’t tell you that! It’s magic. Okay, and a body double.”

“Really?”

Nellie grinned. “Whatcha doin’ here?”

“I talked to Mr. Carter this morning, like you asked.”

“And?”

“And nothing. He had nothing to say.”

Nellie sighed. “That’s too bad.”

“Not really. He was acting very odd. Asking who told me . . .”

“Who told you what?”

“Exactly. No idea. And then he ran off, I think to go home. Didn’t even get a chance to vote.”

“That
is
odd!”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help much more than that.”

“That’s okay.”

There was a natural pause in the conversation. Cora used it to think about whether she wanted to ask Nellie something. She decided she would.

“I . . . also . . .”

“Yes?”

“Well, I was planning on going to the police station today, to tell them about what happened last night, and thought maybe you’d want to come along with me.”

Nellie thought for a moment, then nodded. “I guess I could. I don’t think I could help much. You got to the flower girl before I did.”

“The company would be nice.”

Nellie nodded sagely.

“Of course,” she said, placing a reassuring hand on Cora’s shoulder.

“Uh . . . thanks.”

* * *

C
ONSIDERING THE SHABBY
appearance of anyone not in uniform, the girls rather stood out in the dark little station in the Foster family’s district. A few rough men who reminded Nellie a bit of those blokes from the night before stared at them as they passed without even trying to pretend that they weren’t.

Cora approached the desk sergeant, who was standing up on his platform behind a high solid desk. “Excuse me, please,” she said in that commanding way she had.

“Yes?” The officer glanced up, and it was likely he’d intended it to be a brief glance, but upon glancing back down, he clearly had some kind of realization and looked up instantly again. “Yes, miss,” he said with a friendly smile. Noticing Nellie then, he said, “. . . both of you young misses.”

“We would like to report a murder,” said Cora.

“Oh. Well, that is very important business. What’s the particulars, then?” he asked, picking up a pencil and holding it on top of the pad before him.

“A flower girl, near Charing Cross.”

The officer carefully returned the pencil to its resting position and took a moment to think. He glanced at the two of them again, his eyes flitting between the blonde and the brunette. He did a once-over of Cora, and Nellie was pretty sure he was examining not the figure but the clothes hiding it. They were formidable clothes, clearly worth a pretty penny despite their practical, simple appearance.

He made eye contact with Cora once again and then called out, “Murphy!”

There was the sound of something crashing to the ground somewhere in back, the skidding squeak of shoes across a polished floor, and then Murphy came exploding out to join them.

“Oh,” said Nellie immediately, and Cora looked at her. Nellie didn’t say anything else, just looked at Cora wide-eyed, hoping to send her thoughts magically into her brain at this moment.
Let’s go now, let’s go now, let’s go now.

“Yes, Sergeant! You called, sir?” said Officer Murphy, still oblivious to the girls’ existence. For which Nellie was infinitely grateful. Of all the police stations in all of London . . .

“These young ladies need to make a statement about a murder. Will you take them back and see to it?” said the sergeant, gesturing toward them. Finally, Officer Murphy turned their way.

Pink. Pure pink. Not red, not blotchy, but the pink face of total recognition and embarrassment. “You!” he blurted.

“You know these young ladies, Murphy?” asked the sergeant, a hint of something in his voice. Anger? Jealousy?

“Uh . . . no.” A stupid answer and clearly a lie, but fortunately at that moment the front door burst open and everyone turned to see two coppers trying to manage a large barrel-chested hairy man who was flailing around and looking a bit like an overgrown infant. His entrance distracted everyone in the room, including the desk sergeant.

Officer Murphy took the opportunity to signal Cora and Nellie, and they followed him into the larger back room. They passed several desks manned by surprised-looking police officers until they arrived at Murphy’s. Of course, as there were two girls and only that number of chairs, Officer Murphy had to take a turn about the room before he could find one for himself, managing, in the process, to knock all the items on a fellow officer’s desk onto the floor.

Soon he had returned and was sitting, his face expressing mild panic, little beads of sweat appearing along his brow, just below his yellow hair. Hair that had probably had a bit too much pomade added to it and was sticking up in a few odd directions, likely caused by his running his hand through it in frustration without realizing the aesthetic results.

So cute,
thought Nellie.

“So,” he managed to squeeze out. “You again. Funny, that.”

“Isn’t it,” said Cora, not sounding particularly amused.

“Right. Of course. So . . . murder, was it?”

Cora opened her eyes wide at him, then turned to look at Nellie. Nellie just smiled back.

“Yes. Murder. A rather serious subject, don’t you think?” said Cora slowly.

“Oh yes. Of course. Please, tell me.”

Cora sighed. “Last night, near Charing Cross, we came across a flower girl by the name of Alice Foster. She was dying. I think she was stabbed in the stomach. She passed on after a few minutes. . . .”

A back-and-forth followed. Officer Murphy asking reasonable questions and Cora providing as many answers as she could. Finally, there was a lull in the interview, a moment when it seemed they’d been through all the facts and the conversation was coming to an end. Officer Murphy looked over his notes. Then he looked up and glanced around the room. He jerked his chair close to the two of them and leaned in. Nellie and Cora followed his example.

“I must be honest with you girls. There’s only one reason the sergeant called me over, and that was because they’re not going to investigate this.”

“I don’t understand,” said Nellie. It was the first time she’d piped up, and when Officer Murphy looked at her, she noticed his ears turn pink.

“Uh, well, uh . . . it’s just . . . I’m pretty new. And they wouldn’t give me a murder case if they actually wanted to solve it.”

“What about Dr. Welland?” asked Cora.

“They sent me to interview a couple of girls. That’s maybe one step up from paperwork.”

“Thanks,” said Cora.

“Look, I just want to be honest with you both. And that doctor business is part of the problem. Everyone’s on the case. Then there’s the British Museum . . .” He stopped.

“Go on.”

Officer Murphy didn’t look like he wanted to.

Nellie leaned in and placed a comforting hand on his leg. “You can tell us. We won’t tell anyone.” Officer Murphy stared at the white hand against the dark blue of his trouser intently.

“The museum was robbed last night, an artifact, a scroll from the traveling
Lost Treasures of Alexandria
exhibit,” he explained to the hand in barely a whisper.

“Amazing,” said Nellie. No false enthusiasm required in this moment. It was impressive that anyone could rob such a building with its formidable wrought-iron fence and gates.

“If they’re working on the doctor’s murder case, why haven’t you asked us for an official statement?” said Cora.

Officer Murphy looked up almost reluctantly. “What’s that?”

“We were the ones who found him. Michiko fought the man who is probably your most likely suspect.”

“Well, I interviewed you. You said what you had to say, and there wasn’t much more to it. . . .”

“For that matter,” continued Cora, standing up and starting to look annoyed, “why were none of us mentioned in any of the articles about the investigation?”

Nellie could feel Officer Murphy’s leg tense and she realized she hadn’t yet removed her hand. She pulled it back quickly, and he seemed to take that as an admonishment and looked at her with great concern.

“It’s not that . . . it’s just . . . I don’t know. I’m not in charge. I imagine it’s a matter of you being civilians . . .”

“What leads have you been pursuing? I imagine his work with cavorite?”

“With . . . what?”

“He had a very valuable piece of cavorite with him. Anyone from the party could have told you that.”

“People talked of a glowing, flying, mechanical bird. But not this cavorite you’re talking about. And nothing was found at the scene.”

“Of course not, the man in the fog probably took it.”

“You think he was murdered for this cavorite?”

“It’s a very reasonable possibility.”

“I wonder if this British Museum business might have to do with any of it, then?” asked Nellie, fascinated by the conversation, which had set her mind spinning.

Officer Murphy and Cora both looked at her. Cora nodded and pointed at her. “I wonder . . .”

“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Officer Murphy, finally rising. “There’s a lot of crime in this city . . .”

“But what do the flower girls have to do with anything?” Cora asked, mostly to herself. She sat back down, with Officer Murphy following suit immediately, and Nellie felt a bit like she was watching a French farce.

“Nothing,” said Officer Murphy. “Look, someone’s murdered almost every night in this city. And that’s just the reported crime. It’s bad business, but it’s the sorry state we live in. And people get robbed. I imagine this cavorite is valuable, right?”