Page 19 of The Magpie Lord
“That’s the shaman’s problem.” Merrick slammed a drawer shut. “He’s here to keep you safe. If he doesn’t like it...”
“If the blood-covered sorcerer who can bend metal by looking at it doesn’t like it,” Crane said, “then what, exactly?”
There was a triple rap at the half-open door. Merrick’s eyes flicked over, and his face set. Crane sighed silently.
“Come in, Mrs. Mitching.”
Piper’s housekeeper was a grim-faced woman in her early forties, who tackled everything with an air of humourless irritation. Crane approved of her, since she made no secret of her contempt for his father and brother, and she returned his approval because, whatever people said about him, he kept his hands off her girls.
Crane loathed servant-hall politics as much as any other kind, but he made sure there was no trace of boredom or irritation in his voice as he enquired what he could do for her.
Mrs. Mitching hesitated, which was unusual. “Well. My lord. Well, I wouldn’t bring this to you, but... Graham says it’s nonsense, but he hasn’t looked or listened and... My girls aren’t stupid, my lord. Elsa Brook might not be book-learned and she has fancies but she’s no fool. And the fact is, it won’t do, and we don’t have to put up with it, and we won’t.”
“Then you shan’t. Can you tell me what it is you won’t put up with, and perhaps I can help?”
Mrs. Mitching bit her lip. “The fact is, my lord... I wouldn’t say anything—with all said and done, I don’t want to speak ill—but Elsa Brook and Jane Diver both... I saw it myself, my lord. There’s no getting away from it. Isawit.”
“What did you see?” said Crane, as patiently as possible.
Mrs. Mitching took a deep breath. “Mr. Hector, my lord. We’ve all seen Mr. Hector.”
“You’ve seen Mr. Hector,” Crane repeated.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Mr. Hector, who is dead.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Mrs. Mitching. “And that’s not all of it.”
IN THE LIBRARY, STEPHENblinked and stretched and flexed his aching hands as he brought his attention back from the etheric flow, such as itwas, and into the world again. His head hurt, it was freezing in here, and he was painfully hungry, which came as no surprise, given how draining the house was. The etheric currents that he normally drew from without thinking were shallow trickles in Piper.
How had such a lifeless house been the Magpie Lord’s home? Or perhaps that was why it was lifeless, perhaps he’d drained it in some way.
He stared at his knucklebones, white under the skin, and the image of mummies popped into his head again. He pushed it away with annoyance. This house wasn’t a dead thing moving, it was a live thing dying. Or perhaps the shrivelled corpse of something once powerful.
He rose from his crouching position on the floor and looked round the room as he rolled his shoulders. It should have been a lovely place, a double-height room with dark wood shelving, filled with books, many leather-bound and ancient. He should have been consumed with excitement at the idea that somewhere in there might be the Magpie Lord’s own books.
But the room was dusty and loveless and lifeless, and filled with the ivy stink of the Judas jack, and the echoes of two men’s desperate, self-hating, lonely deaths, and the very recent shadows of Crane’s fear and pain, and it made his hands hurt.
“The blazes with this,” he muttered to himself, and headed for the door, which he pulled open only to be confronted with a raised fist on the other side.
“Oh, there you are, I was just about to knock,” said Crane brightly. “I have afascinatingstory for you.”
CRANE SAT BACK IN ANuncomfortably embroidered chair and watched the show with interest.
Mrs. Mitching had been extremely reluctant to repeat her story to Day, despite Crane’s assurances that he could, in some unspecified way, shed light on the mystery. But she had produced a pot of tea and a plate of heavy, wet cake and solid, indigestible buns, and to Crane’s frank astonishment Day had devoured two slices of cake and three buns with enthusiasm that had worked better than any flattery, as well as obviously genuine interest in her tale, and now Mrs. Mitching was as close to relaxing as anyone so rigid ever could.
“So let me be sure I understand,” Day said. “All the...incidents happened in the Rose Walk. You and Miss Diver saw him from a distance, seeming to rage and hit out at something.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And he came up to Miss Brook and spoke to her. Shouted at her.”
“But she couldn’t hear a word, just saw his mouth moving.”
“And when she ran, he chased her to the edge of the Rose Walk...”
“And grabbed at her dress, sir, she says. She swears it was him clutching at her skirts, and that the grip came loose as she stepped off the end of the Rose Walk onto the paved path. With all the rose bushes along there, it’s no surprise to me if something did catch at her skirt, and it’s no surprise what she’d think either, the way that man carried on—begging your pardon, my lord.”
