A Study in Sable Read online

  This attachment to Magdalena wasn’t sexual at all; that had been Nan’s first fear. But if it had been sexual, given her gifts, she would know if that was something Sarah was feeling. Nan knew of friends of Memsa’b’s that were “special friends,” and she was anything but a prude, so when that had occurred as a possibility, she had dismissed it for lack of evidence. It wasn’t a romantic infatuation, either. It was more like . . .

  Like hero-worship. No, like blind, unthinking adoration that allows no room for any critical thinking. Adoration to the point that whatever Magdalena does is perfectly right and good, as long as Magdalena is happy. And this made no sense. “Pashes” like that, especially for actresses, singers, or dancers, were normal in teenaged girls, but Sarah was far past that age now.

  Nan felt herself consumed by frustration, anger, and, yes, jealousy. What had Magdalena done to deserve that kind of worship? So, she could sing! So what! That was just a mere accident of birth! And now she had stolen Sarah, was taking her away from Nan, and—

  —and with an effort that was so physical it made her chest and stomach hurt, Nan throttled all that down. Because saying anything along those lines right now would be absolutely fatal. And hadn’t she been warned?

  Absolutely, I was.

  Sarah yawned hugely. “It was a long night. I need sleep.”

  “I’m sorry I kept you up, then,” Nan told her, making her voice sound sympathetic, even though she had to struggle to keep sarcastic tones out of it.

  Sarah smiled sweetly. “I’m glad you’re back. It means Grey won’t be alone during the day.”

  “Get some rest,” Nan replied. “We’ll keep the flat as quiet as a church.”

  But as soon as she was sure Sarah was asleep, she got her hat and shawl and the two bird carriers and fetched Grey and Neville from their room. “In your boxes you two,” she said, as they looked at her questioningly.

  “Wot?” Suki asked, “You goin’ someplace?”

  “We are going someplace,” Nan said firmly. “We’re going to talk to the Watsons. And to Sherlock Holmes. He will probably find what Sarah had to say—interesting.”

  “Sarah ain’t roight,” Suki said, frowning, and looking at Sarah’s closed door.

  “No, Sarah isn’t right. And we’re going to get to the bottom of this mystery,” Nan replied, firmly.

  Suki ran for her shawl and cap and helped fasten Grey up into her carrier while Nan took care of Neville. And in moments, they were closing the door silently behind them.

  Well, I didn’t lie. The flat will be as quiet as a church.

  • • •

  They had reached 221 Baker Street very quickly, and Holmes had settled them in his sitting room just as the clock struck eight in the morning.

  “Fascinating,” said Holmes. He had a pen in his right hand; now he tapped it against his left. She and Suki had found places to sit in Holmes’ perpetually cluttered sitting room; the birds were in their carriers at Nan’s feet. “What you have been telling me tallies with some other investigations of my own. Magdalena has cut something of a swath through our gentlemen of means. The demi-monde is extremely wroth with her, the more so since the lovers she has discarded for those with more means have neither lost their infatuation nor blame her in any way. Instead, they seem content to hang about and continue to send her presents without getting anything in return.”

  “Is that—normal?” Nan asked, doubtfully. This wasn’t an area she had any experience in. The rich were certainly . . . different. Back in the slums where she’d been born, taking a new lover would likely mean a knife fight. And in the Hartons’ circle of friends, “middle class morality” notwithstanding, such a thing simply was out of the question, and would probably have caused social rifts as people took one side or another.

  “On the contrary, unless one discards a wealthy man for someone with whom he could not possibly compete—the Prince, for instance—being cast off is usually the cause for a histrionic scene at the least and a lawsuit at the worst. Magdalena seems to lead a peculiarly charmed life in that regard.” Holmes pursed his lips. “Unnaturally so, I would say.”

  This was insanity. Was everyone in her circle of influence enthralled by her to the point of sheer adoration, as Sarah was? “How is she doing this?” Nan asked, desperately.

  Holmes raised an eyebrow at her. “Pray, do not ask me, Miss Killian. The emotional and amorous weapons such a woman has at her disposal are a complete mystery to me. It might just as well be the action of some of John’s supposed magic. The how does not matter in the long run. What we want is the why, and the what. Why is she doing this, and what, exactly, are her intentions?”

  “Marriage?” Nan hazarded.

  “In most cases I would agree with you, but I do not think Magdalena would be satisfied with life as a married woman, not even to one of the highest rank in this country.” He nodded, as if he was completely certain of that.

  “Woi?” asked Suki. Holmes glanced down at the child, startled, as if he had forgotten she was there.

  “You can say anything around Suki, Mr. Holmes,” Nan reminded him. “I doubt there’s much that would shock her, given where she spent her early years.”

  “I sore a leddy wi’ three fellers oncet,” Suki said meditatively. “I snucket inter th’ ’all an’ sore. There was a buncha fellers. They was payin’ a whole shillin’ to watcher—”

  “Suki—that’s one of the things we don’t talk about,” Nan warned, and looked back at Holmes. “I’m as curious as Suki. Why wouldn’t Magdalena be content with being a Lady, or a Duchess, or a Baroness?”

  “Because, the gentlemen who are young do not have fortunes, and the gentlemen who have fortunes are not young,” Holmes replied, with a half smile. “Yes, there are any number of titled young men looking for wives on this island; one and all they are under family orders to look for rich American wives to prop up estates that are aging and need a fortune to be put in repair. And there are a few addled old men of fortune looking for wives who will happily marry a chorus girl, or an actress, or an opera singer, or even their housekeepers—but they would require their wives to be faithful and chaste, or at least, utterly circumspect. And they would also require their wives to give up their professions. Whatever negative things I can say about Magdalena, she is as in love with performing as she is with luxury. She thrives on audience attention. I cannot see Magdalena sacrificing her operatic career to gain a life of wealth and privilege married to an old man.”

  “Neither can I,” Nan admitted.

  “So that leaves us looking for motive, for a purpose. What is it that Magdalena wants?” Holmes asked.

  “Anything that someone else has,” Nan blurted bitterly, thinking of Helmut . . . and of Sarah.

  Holmes blinked. “My dear Miss Killian. You might be on to something there. She’s not unlike the mythical dragon, heaping up stolen treasures in her cave. A fiancé here, a sable cloak there, a pearl necklace, a Marquess . . . and to what lengths would she go to get them, I wonder?”

  “I don’t know?” Nan ventured.

  “Nor do I. But I intend to find out.” Holmes flashed Nan a smile. “Go on up to the Watsons; they should be ready to see visitors now. See what they have to say about all this. For all I know, they have some means to snap your young friend out of her spell.”

  Nan nodded and picked up the bird carriers. From the right-hand one came Grey’s plaintive voice.

  “Fix Sarah—fix Sarah!”

  For the first time ever, Nan saw Holmes emotionally moved. He bent until his face was even with the screened side of the carrier. “We shall, Miss Grey,” he said, in a tone of voice so kind that Nan nearly cried. “I promise you. We shall.”

  • • •

  “I think Holmes is on to something,” said Mary Watson, after Nan had told the pair the entire story. “What if Magdalena is using some sort of charm or talis
man? It would account for her extraordinary ability to make people adore her, and for her ability to keep them adoring her after she’s discarded them.”

  “Is there such a thing?” Nan wondered.

  “I’ve never seen one, but there are certainly stories of such things, and I see no reason to disbelieve them,” John replied. “After all, you and Sarah each have talismans from Puck, and you know those work.”

  “That’s true,” Nan mused, then her thoughts darkened. “But if that’s true, it must be a terribly strong thing to work as well as it does. How can we ever free Sarah from it?”

  “I don’t know—but Cedric predicted this, and he was right. You mustn’t give up on her, and you mustn’t try to break it yourself by putting her into a position where she is forced to choose between you and Magdalena. That will certainly be fatal to your friendship.” Mary pursed her lips and looked at John. “I think only one of two things will work. Either Magdalena will decide she no longer needs Sarah and discards her, or Sarah herself will come to realize that she is being manipulated. In either case, I think Sarah will probably come to herself again once she’s kept away from Magdalena.”

  “Or we break the damn spell or destroy the charm,” John replied impatiently. “I think direct action is needed here, my love!”

  “Direct action would be faster,” Nan said, letting Grey out of her case and putting her on the back of a chair.

  “Fix Sarah!” Grey insisted. Neville nodded emphatically from Nan’s shoulder.

  “Patience, little friend,” Mary soothed. “We should ask Beatrice Leek about this; magic intended to manipulate emotions tends to be the sort of thing witches are asked to do. We should also take this directly to Lord Alderscroft; I have no doubt he is aware of Magdalena’s conquests, but he might not be aware of this aspect of it, and that will cast her influence in a whole new light.”

  “I’ve never heard of this sort of thing being a part of Elemental Magic,” John brooded, tapping his fingers on the armrest of the sofa. “Could it be the result of a psychic power?” He looked up at Nan.

  “That . . . didn’t occur to me,” she admitted. “I believe the ability to feel the emotions of others is referred to as empathy. I suppose, just as there is projective telepathy, where one can put thoughts into someone else’s head, there could be projective empathy. But . . .”

  She was lost in thought for a moment, and Mary was the one who jarred her out of it. “But what, Nan?”

  “But telepathy only works on one person at a time, so I suppose empathy does, too. I would have to ask Memsa’b.”

  “Well then, I think we have our tasks,” John said briskly. “I will go have a talk with Lord Alderscroft. Mary, you find Beatrice and see what she has to say. Nan, it will be up to you to speak to your mentor.”

  Nan nodded. It occurred to her that there was another reason to want to speak to Memsa’b. And if all parties agreed, the result would certainly be a test of how strong Magdalena’s hold was on Sarah.

  • • •

  They managed to reach what had once been one of Lord Alderscroft’s “country” homes (although now it was just at the edge of the suburbs of London) just before noon. Memsa’b had insisted they all have luncheon as soon as they arrived. Now the birds sat on their old perches in Memsa’b’s study; Suki and Nan were in two old, comfortable chairs. Neville was within reach of Nan, and Memsa’b reached out periodically to pet Grey comfortingly.

  They were at the Harton School, a school for the children of expatriate British parents, some of whom happened to have psychic abilities. Schools serving expatriate parents were dotted all over Britain—but this was one of the few where the interests of the children were put ahead of the chance to make money. Here, the littlest ones were cared for by native ayahs of the same sort that had cared for them where they’d been born. The servants were a mix of the peoples of India, the same sort of servants the students had been tended by at “home.” And instead of the sort of unsatisfying, unhealthy foods they would have been fed in one of those money-making schools, they got the same curries and other dishes they were used to.

  When Nan and Sarah had joined the school, it had been in a rather bad neighborhood in London. Shortly after Nan and Sarah had saved Lord Alderscroft from a near-fatal situation, he had turned over this country manor to the Hartons, and that was where the school had been ever since.

  Memsa’b’s study had been the drawing room; as such it was attractive and airy, with tall windows that looked out on the formal garden. The furnishings were all of an older style than was fashionable; Lord Alderscroft had seen no reason to replace them when he had inherited, and the Hartons preferred to leave things as they had been. It was just as well; plain, sturdy furnishings with plain or leather upholstery held up better with children about. All the truly irreplaceable or fragile objects had gone into storage.

  Memsa’b—Isabelle Harton—was still a very striking woman, although no one would ever have called her “pretty.” There was something about her that signaled a great deal of experience acquired without bitterness. Like Nan, she wore a suit in the “Rational Dress” style, although hers was navy blue rather than brown. She listened patiently, without interrupting, pausing now and again to caress Grey when the parrot seemed agitated. “This is very distressing,” Memsa’b said when Nan finished her story. Her brows were furrowed, and her face had a look of unhappiness and puzzlement about it. “If I were not absolutely certain it would only make matters worse, I would come back to London with you and box Sarah’s ears myself until I brought her to her senses.”

  “It’s been a temptation,” Nan admitted. “If that fellow in Sevenoaks hadn’t warned me, I probably would have done so already. Does this sound like anything you’ve seen or heard of before?”

  “Yes, but there was only one victim at a time, not entire swaths of them,” Memsa’b replied. “And when the wretched wench lost interest in a victim, she lost power over him, too. Her discards certainly were not inclined to continue admiring her from afar and send her presents!”

  “What did they do?” Nan asked, rather certain she was not going to like the answer, but thinking she needed to know anyway. “When they were discarded, that is.”

  “It depended entirely on the personality of each man—the victims were all men,” Memsa’b replied. “One flung himself in the river and drowned in despair. Several joined the Army, declaring that their lives were over so they might as well lay them down in the service of their country. But one was not taking the situation quietly, and sued her for breach of promise. She thought it was all very amusing until the judge and jury handed down a guilty verdict and she was stripped of all her ill-gotten gains.”

  “What did she do then?” asked Nan.

  Memsa’b sighed. “Found herself another victim, a wealthy old man, and married him. That was when we psychics took the law into our own hands and . . . dealt with her. When we were done, she could no longer play her tricks on anyone, and when he was no longer completely besotted, her spouse became suspicious and jealous and made sure she was never alone, night or day. He controlled every penny, accounting for the last farthing she spent, put the control of the household expenses in the hands of his housekeeper, and allowed her to establish credit with no merchants.” Memsa’b’s lips thinned in what was not exactly a smile. “And when she went anywhere, there was always a special secretary accompanying her. If she tried to gull an unsuspecting dressmaker or shopkeeper into extending her credit, the secretary would step forward and inform the intended victim that ‘milady’s husband will not honor any debts his wife contracts.’ To put the icing on the cake, he was a great deal more vigorous than she had bargained for. He lived to be almost a hundred, so by the time he finally died, she was in her sixties, and very little joy did she get out of her inheritance. But that has no bearing on what’s happening to Sarah.”

  “No, it doesn’t sound like it.” Nan sighed.
“Memsa’b, Suki, there is something I want to propose to you, which is why we came all the way out here. I’m very much afraid, the way Sarah has been acting of late, that she’s not . . . safe . . . around Suki.”

  “Wot?” Suki exclaimed, whipping her head around to stare at Nan incredulously. “Wotcher mean? Sarah ain’t gonna hurt me! An’ I c’n take care o’ meself!”

  “I mean, if Magdalena decided she wanted Sarah to spend nights and days in the hotel with her, in her current state of mind, Sarah is perfectly capable of abandoning you without any warning,” Nan replied. “And if I happened to be gone—if, for instance, something came up that required me to be away—you would be all alone. And I know that you are brave, and you know how to take care of yourself, but terrible things like fires happen that you would have no control over.”

  Suki opened her mouth as if to object—then a strange look came over her face. “An’—if the roight bitch took th’ notion Oi was gettin’ i’ th’ way—” She shook her head. “Aye.”

  “Suki if Sarah was in her right mind, there is nothing she would let get between you,” Nan said urgently. “You know that. I know that. There is no question of it.”

  Suki nodded, slowly. “So. Wot then?”

  “We talked about you starting at the Harton School. I’d like you to start early. Now, in fact.” Nan held her breath, hoping she wasn’t going to get rebellion.

  “I’d be pleased to have you, Suki,” Memsa’b said quickly. “You could give some of my little boys a swift, sharp lesson in how girls are not inferior creatures. It’s a lesson they dearly need to learn. Most of my girls here have been brought up with the notion that if they are tormented, they must run to an ayah, rather than fight back.”

  A hint of a smile crossed Suki’s solemn face. “Oi could, that,” she admitted.