Heartless (Parasol Protectorate #4)

Heartless (Parasol Protectorate #4) Page 12

“My, someone certainly has an affection for cephalopods.” Alexia waddled over, all casualness, to examine a row of very small bottles of dark brown glass and mysterious content. They were corked up, each cork boasting a small glass octopus pressed into it in a range of colors. Otherwise, there was no mention made of the content.

She reached to pick one up only to find that the butler, in the silent manner customary to the breed, had sidled up next to her. “I should not, Mrs. Floote, if I were you. Our previous cook had an interest in rather more hazardous forms of distillery and preservation as well.”

“What happened to the good lady, sir?” Alexia asked with a forced lightness in tone.

“She stopped. If I were you, I should take particular care with that yellow octopus there.”

Alexia moved hurriedly away from the whole row of little bottles, suddenly feeling that they were precariously placed on their shelf.

The butler looked her up and down. “There are many stairs in this house, you understand, Mrs. Floote? You will not be able to remain in only the kitchen. How am I to be convinced you are capable of your duties?”

Alexia seized upon this as a perfect opportunity to further her investigations. “Well, I am interested in seeing the accommodations, should you choose to engage my services. If you would be so kind as to show me to the staff quarters, I can demonstrate my mobility.”

The butler nodded and gestured her toward a back staircase that wound up through the house to the attic apartments. The room he eventually shepherded her into was a tiny, cramped cell that still contained some remnants of its previous occupant, just as Alexia had hoped. More small brown bottles and a few curious-looking vials lay about. A handkerchief was spread across the windowsill, upon which bunches of herbs lay drying.

“Of course, we will clear out these quarters prior to new occupation.” The butler curled his lip as he looked around.

Small cloth-bound notebooks were scattered here and there; several were quite dusty with neglect. There were also bits of scrap paper and even what looked to be some kind of ledger.

“Your previous cook was literate, sir?”

“I warned you she was peculiar.”

Alexia took another look around and then, thinking rapidly, maneuvered toward the small bed. “Oh, dear, perhaps those stairs were a tad much given my present condition. I seem to be feeling rather overstimulated.” She collapsed onto the bed, leaning back dramatically and almost overbalancing. It was a paltry performance.

Nevertheless, the butler seemed convinced. “Oh, I say, Mrs. Floote. This simply isn’t on. Really, we can’t consider anyone who—”

Alexia cut him off by groaning and clutching at her stomach significantly.

The man blanched.

“Perhaps if I could have a little moment to recover, sir?”

The butler looked like he would prefer to be anywhere else but there. “I shall fetch you a glass of water, shall I? Perhaps some, er, jelly?”

“Oh, yes, capital idea. Do take your time.”

At which he hurried out.

Immediately, Alexia lurched upright, an exercise that made up in efficiency what it lacked in dignity, and began searching the room. She found very little memorabilia with regards to the occupant’s personality, but there were even more notebooks and mysterious bottles tucked away in the bedside drawer and the wardrobe. She tucked anything that looked to be secret or significant into the stealth pockets of her parasol. Then, knowing she must limit herself, she took what seemed to be the most recent notebook and one that looked to be the oldest and most dusty, along with a neatly printed ledger and bundled them up in Felicity’s shawl. The parasol was clanking slightly and drooping from its excess load, and she thought the knitwear bundle must look very suspicious, but when the butler returned, he was so overjoyed to find her recovered he didn’t notice either.

Alexia decided to make good her escape. Saying she felt weak and had best hurry home before nightfall, she moved toward the door. The butler led her downstairs, declining to offer her the position, despite her calf’s-foot jelly, but suggesting she call round in several months when she had recovered from her inconvenience, jelly apparently being quite the alluring prospect.

He was just letting her out when a voice stopped them both in their tracks. “Well, gracious me. Miss Tarabotti?”

Alexia clutched her loot closer to her breast, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. Then she looked upward.

The gentleman walking slowly down the staircase toward her was an iconic example of the scientific species. His gray muttonchops were untended, his eyes bespectacled, and his attire too far into tweed for midsummer and midtown. Unfortunately, Alexia was all too familiar with that face.

“Why, Dr. Neebs! I thought you were dead.”

“Ah, not quite. Although Lord Maccon did do his level best.” The man continued down the steps, moving with a pronounced limp probably sustained during that last battle in the Hypocras Club’s exsanguination chamber. As he closed in upon her, Alexia noted his eyes were very hard behind those spectacles.

“In which case, shouldn’t you be serving a sentence for intellectual misconduct?”

“I assure you, it has been served. Now, I think perhaps you should come with me, Miss Tarabotti.”

“Oh, but I was just leaving.”

“Yes, I am certain you were.”

The butler, at a bit of a loss, was looking back and forth between them.

Alexia backed toward the open door, lifting up her parasol in a defensive position and pressing her thumb against the appropriate lotus petal in the handle, arming the tip with one of the numbing darts. She wished she had not left Ethel behind; guns, by and large, were far more threatening than parasols.

Nevertheless, Dr. Neebs looked at it with wary respect. “Madame Lefoux’s work, isn’t that?”

“You know Madame Lefoux?”

Dr. Neebs looked at her as though she were an idiot. Of course, thought Alexia, this is a chapter of the Order of the Brass Octopus. Madame Lefoux is also a member. I did not realize the Order was reabsorbing the Hypocras Club. I must tell Conall.

The scientist tilted his head to one side. “What are you about, Miss Tarabotti?”

Alexia faltered. Dr. Neebs was not to be trusted, of that she was certain. Apparently, he felt much the same about her, for he issued a sharp instruction to the butler.

“Grab her!”

Luckily, the butler was confused by the proceedings and did not understand how his role had suddenly become one of ruffian. He was also holding a glass of water in one hand and a jar of calf’s-foot jelly in the other.

“What? Sir?”

At which juncture Alexia shot the scientist with a numbing dart. Madame Lefoux had armed the darts with a high-quality, fast-acting poison that had some affiliation with laudanum. Dr. Neebs pitched forward with an expression of shock on his face and collapsed at the base of the staircase.

The butler recovered from his inertia and lunged at Alexia. Lady Maccon, clumsy at the best of times, lurched to the side, waving her parasol wildly in a wide arc and managing to strike the butler a glancing blow to the side of the head.

It was not a very accurate hit but it was violent, and the man, clearly unused to anything of the kind, reeled away looking at her with an expression of such disgruntlement that Alexia was moved to grin.

“Why, Mrs. Floote, such indecorous behavior!”

Alexia armed her parasol and shot him with a second numbing dart. His knees gave out and he crumpled to the floor of the foyer. “Yes, I know. I do apologize. It is a personal failing of mine.”

With that, she let herself out into the street and lumbered off, clutching her plunder and feeling very furtive and rather proud of her afternoon’s achievement.

Unfortunately for Lady Maccon, there was absolutely no one to appreciate her endeavors when she returned home. Any werewolves in town were abed, Felicity was still out (not that Alexia could confide in her), and Floote was off tending to some domestic duty or another. Disgruntled, Alexia set herself up in the back parlor to examine her misappropriated loot.

The back parlor was already her favorite room. It had been made over with quiet card parties in mind: cream and pale gold walls, ornate dark cherry furniture, and royal blue curtains and coverings. The several small tables were marble topped, and the large chandelier boasted the very latest in gas lighting. It was just that kind of soulful elegance that soulless Alexia could never hope to achieve on her own.

She set the bottles aside to give to BUR for analysis and picked up the ledger and journals with interest. Two hours later, stomach growling and tea cold and forgotten at her elbow, she put them back down again. They had been as absorbing as only the highly private musings of a complete stranger can be. They were illuminating as well, in their way, although not with regards to the current threat to the queen’s life. Of that there was no mention at all, nor was there any concrete evidence to implicate the OBO.

The ledger proved to be a record of transactions, mainly sales the cook had made to various individuals, everything encoded with symbols, initials, abbreviations, and numbers. After reading the journals as well, Alexia surmised that the cook must have been an honorary OBO member. Her interests were focused on those concoctions that one could not purchase easily from apothecary or pharmacist. Such liquids, for example, as Madame Lefoux incorporated into Alexia’s parasol and perhaps other potions even more deadly.

The most recent journal, unfinished and unhelpful, articulated only the increasingly disorientated views of an aging woman who seemed to be succumbing to a brew of her own fabrication, either involuntarily or out of a derangement of the spirit. There was no way to determine whether she was, indeed, the ghost who had come to warn Lady Maccon, but it was as good a lead as any.

However, it was the older journal that drew her attention. One particular entry was dated some twenty years ago. It mused with interest over a new order—for ingredients to be sent by post in separate allotments, for sake of security, to a werewolf pack in Scotland. The connection between time and location caused Alexia to ruminate over her husband’s anguished retelling of a certain betrayal. The same betrayal that would cause him to abandon the Kingair Pack and then take over Woolsey. He had been so very cut up about it. “I caught them mixing the poison,” he had said. “Poison, mind you! Poison has no place on pack grounds or in pack business. It isna an honest way to kill anyone, let alone a monarch.” She realized there was no way to prove a connection, but coincidence in date was good enough for her. This must be an accounting of the order for the poison that long ago was meant to kill Queen Victoria.

“Astonishing,” she said into the empty room, rereading the incriminating passage. Absentmindedly, she picked up her teacup and sipped. The liquid being cold, she placed it back down with a grimace. She quickly ascertained that the remainder under the cozy was equally tepid and pulled the bell rope.

Floote materialized. “Madam?”

“Fresh tea, please, Floote. There’s a dear.”

“Certainly, madam.”

He vanished, reappearing in a miraculously short time with a freshly brewed pot and, much to Lady Maccon’s delight, a small wedge of tempting-looking cake.

“Oh, thank you, Floote. Is that lemon sponge? Marvelous. Tell me, are any of the men awake yet?”

“I believe Mr. Rabiffano and the professor are just rising.”

“Mr. Rabiffano, who is?.?.?.?? Oh, Biffy! Not my husband, then?”

“Difficult to tell, madam, him being in the other house.”

“Ah, yes, of course, how silly of me.” Lady Maccon went back to her perusal of the little journal.

“Will there be anything else, madam?”

“The question is, Floote, why order the toxins from London? Why not patronize the baser elements who supply such pernicious needs closer to home?”

“Madam?”

“I mean, Floote, hypothetically, why special-order poison from one destination only to eventually transport it back to do the dastardly deed? Although, I suppose the queen might have been visiting Scotland at the time. But still, why all the way from town?”

“Everyone orders from London, madam,” replied Floote most decidedly, even though he had no idea as to the specifics of her question. “It is the fashion.”

“Yes, but if one were afraid of being caught?”

Floote seemed to feel he might participate in the discussion even without full possession of the necessary facts. “Perhaps one wanted to be caught, madam.”

Lady Maccon frowned. “Oh, no, I hardly think—” She was cut off by the arrival of Professor Lyall, who looked his normal unremarkably dapper self, despite having just arisen.

He stuck his head around the corner of the door in some surprise, evidently unsure of what to make of his mistress’s encampment.