His Lordship Possessed

His Lordship Possessed Page 5

“I do, Your Honor.” That was Fourth, and he cleared his throat twice before continuing. “I have enjoyed the privilege of being acquainted with Miss Kittredge as a business associate for several years.”

“Business? What’s this?” Newton looked over the rim of his glasses. “She’s a working gel?”

“Indeed she is, sir,” Fourth said. “She keeps an office downtown in the Davies Building, where I am also employed. In all the years I have known her, Miss Kittredge has never once practiced any form of magic. She does not believe in it.”

“I challenge this testimony,” Fordun said at once.

“Mr. Jones, summon the court detector,” Newton said.

I turned to Clark and whispered, “What’s a detector?”

“Useless,” he murmured back. “Coin holes, the lot of them, but old magis like Newton think they’re infallible.”

A few minutes later an elderly man in a plain dark green robe was led into the courtroom. Milky cataracts occluded his eyes, and he appeared to be completely dependent on the clerk guiding him up toward the bench, for when the clerk stopped, so did the detector.

“Magistrate,” the old man said in a surprisingly strong voice. “How may I serve the court?”

Newton gestured for Fourth to join the old man, and the clerk guiding the detector turned him to face him.

“Hold out your hands, palms up,” the clerk told Fourth. “Stand still and do not speak unless you are spoken to.”

Fourth did as he was instructed, and the old man rested his fingers over both palms. “You are the witness whose testimony has been challenged.”

Fourth swallowed. “I am, sir.”

“Hmmm.” The detector moved his fingertips over the palms under them. “Why are you here, young man?”

Fourth glanced at me. “To help a friend who has been unjustly persecuted, sir. That is all.”

“Not all.” His wrinkled brow furrowed. “Something . . .” He slowly turned his head toward me, although it was obvious from the vacancy of his eyes that he was stone-blind.

“Well?” the prosecutor demanded, his tone impatient. “Is the boy lying to protect this female?”

“No.” The old man turned back toward Newton. “This young man speaks the truth, Magistrate. His testimony may be accepted as such.”

Fordun seemed to explode. “I challenge the use of this detector, Your Honor. He is clearly unable to discern the falsehoods being presented by this boy. I demand to bring forth my own detector, who will refute his findings.”

“That one,” the detector said as he nodded at the prosecutor, “is your liar, Magistrate. I needn’t touch him to ferret that out.”

Newton sighed. “Sit down, Mr. Fordun.”

“I am not on trial,” Fordun snapped. His voice rose to a near-bellow as he addressed the magistrate. “Your Honor, I vigorously insist you—”

“In my court, sir, you insist on nothing,” Newton shouted over him. “Now take your seat and stay your tongue, or I’ll have you charged with contempt and hauled out of here in shackles.”

Fortunately for Fordun, he appeared so furious as to be rendered speechless, and stalked back to his seat. The detector tugged at his guide until the clerk brought him over to me and Clark.

The old man held out his hand but didn’t touch me. He seemed to be fanning me as if he were afraid I’d faint. “Remarkable. I can almost feel it.”

“Feel what?” Clark wanted to know.

“Nothing that is lost is gone forever, my dear,” the detector said to me, but not in a kindly or reassuring manner. He sounded so stern it almost seemed like a reprimand for some wrong I had done.

I felt puzzled, but he had supported Fourth, so I tried to be polite. “I will remember that, sir.”

“Yes.” His lips drew back from yellowed teeth in a pained grimace. “I think you will.”

“If it pleases the court,” Fordun said, and barely waited for Newton’s nod before he continued, “I believe from the detector’s address of this defendant that she has somehow tampered with his ability to carry out his duties. Indeed, she may have bespelled him as well as her aid-solicitor before being brought before Your Honor.”

The detector chuckled and shook his head. “As she is, she can bespell no one and nothing.”

“You were not asked to testify,” Fordun flared.

“Thank you for your service, detector,” Newton said, and gestured for the clerk to remove the old man. As soon as he left, the magistrate clasped his hands and regarded Fordun. “Barrister Fordun, in consideration of your previous service to the Crown, I will not issue an arrest warrant for you on charges of obstructing justice and accepting bribes. However, I do intend to file a lengthy and detailed complaint with your superiors. If you have accepted some sort of remuneration for these theatrics of yours today, I suggest you spend it at once, or hide it under your mattress evermore.”

The prosecutor paled. “You cannot suspect me of wrongdoing, Your Honor. I am charged with enforcing Her Majesty’s law.”

“Then, sir, you have utterly failed the Crown today.” Newton toyed with his gavel as he regarded me. “Miss Kittredge, I would very much like to hear precisely why you are really here in my court, but I daresay that once I know the reason it will cause an equal amount of havoc in my life.”

“Doubtless it would, Your Honor,” I agreed.

“Very well.” He glared at Fordun. “I find that the Crown has not fulfilled its obligation of presenting proper evidence or any lawful substantiation of the charges against the defendant. The charges against Miss Kittredge are hereby vacated, and this case is dismissed.”

He slammed his gavel down once.

“You can stay the holidays at the farm,” Doyle said as he tucked the riding blanket over my skirts. “Mum wouldn’t let you leave before Christmas, and the snow usually cuts off the roads up there until well into February anyway.”

“I’m not going to your parents’,” I told him for the third time. “I have to work—I have to find a new office—and my home is here in the city.”

He didn’t start the motor. “Lord Walsh will be out for blood now, Kit. He won’t rest until he’s driven you from Rumsen, and that might well be in a gravecart.”

Snow was beginning to fall, so I pulled up my hood and tugged on my gloves. “If that happens, Chief Inspector, then I’m counting on you to send him to the gallows.”

“Hang you, Kit.” He thumped the dash with his fist. “You’d rather lose your life than give up this damned independence of yours?”

I saw a dark figure standing between the two court buildings. Not a flake of snow marred his long black hair, and not an ounce of pity softened his eyes. I thought he might approach us, but he simply stood there watching.

“If I can’t live as I want,” I countered, looking away from Dredmore to Doyle, “then why go on?”

A loud whine turned into a quick smash, and a large, jagged hole appeared in the glasshield in front of me. I glanced down to see gleaming shards covering the blanket over me, toward which Doyle pushed my head.

“Stay down—” He drew his pistol and leapt out of the carri, crouching down low.

Someone had shot at us. I heard another bullet ping off the radiator grill before Doyle fired in return and men began shouting.

I lifted my head just enough to see over the dash, and watched as Dredmore advanced on a red-cloaked figure taking cover behind a tree. He ignored the shots being fired at him as he brought up both hands and made a strange slashing gesture.

The tree fell over, its trunk sliced apart. A moment later a wide spray of red splashed the snowy ground, and the head of the snuffmage rolled through the gruesome puddle.

Doyle jumped in and started up the motor. “Hold on, Kit.”

He drove off toward the street at a reckless speed.

I stared back at Dredmore, who was standing over the dead assassin, and then focused on my hands, mainly to avoid seeing the drivers frantically diverting their horses and carris out of our path. “That was meant for me.”

“Maybe so.” Doyle gave me a quick glance. “Are you hurt?”

“No.” Seeing Dredmore kill with just a gesture, however, was making my heart pound in my ears.

A few minutes later Doyle stopped the carri in front of my goldstone, but when I tried to climb out he caught my arm.

“Wait here,” he said.

“And freeze? Why?” My eyelashes and hair were already icy, but then I saw the front entry to my flat standing open. “No.”

Doyle snatched at me but I was too fast for him. I nearly fell as my boots slid on the icy slush covering the floorboards of my front hall, and I grabbed a wall hook as I spotted the broken glass and wilted flowers on the threshold of my front room.

“They might still be in here,” Doyle told me as he caught up. “Go outside and wait like a good gel.”

“Leave off, Tommy.” I picked my way round the slush and went into my flat.

Whoever had broken into my home had not been instructed to take anything; every possession in the room had been systematically smashed, slashed or shredded. A plaster-dusted, twenty-pound hammer lay on the floor under the holes it had knocked through my paintings and walls. Cold wind washed my face as it blew in through the shattered windows, and had begun to freeze all the food that had been emptied out of my icebox and pantry.

More ice was forming from the puddle coming out of my bath; I looked in to see three small fountains of water gushing from the pipes that had been torn out of the walls. My sink and old bathtub had also made the acquaintance of the hammer, judging by the pieces they lay in.

At first I couldn’t understand the torn, twisted mound of material heaped atop my commode, until I made out the pattern of my favorite red bodice. Every garment I owned had been emptied out of my armoire and dressers, torn apart, and shoved into the loo.