A Study in Sable Page 4

  So, here they were, in a miniature library the size of the Watsons’ sitting room, meticulously catalogued and cross-referenced, a compendium of everything about Elemental Magic that eight generations of Elemental Masters in London had managed to compile. It was a beautiful room, as suited the Hunting Lodge of London; the bookcases probably dated to the founding of the Club and were substantial Georgian items, no-nonsense, sturdy articles the color of dark honey. They were not glass fronted; having glass doors would have prevented them from being set as closely together as they were.

  “There’s more books on Elemental Magic than we have here, of course,” Lord Alderscroft said, as they wedged their way among the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves holding untold treasures. “There are all manner of handwritten books, passed down through the gifted families all over this country. And every time we can get someone to part with one long enough to make a copy, we do. But I would reckon there’s ten times the number of books on magic and chronicles of Elemental Masters that we’ve no notion of out there than there is in here. And that’s a conservative estimate.” He led them to one particular set of shelves. “Fortunately, what we want and need is all right here.” He indicated a line of books. “The Chronicles of the Hunting Lodge of the Exeter Club going back to its founding, before there even was an Exeter Club. I would suggest starting no later than 1650. Berkeley House was built in 1698, as I recall. There may have been strange activity at the site of that house before it was built.”

  “That sounds like a very sound plan,” John agreed. “Thank you, Lord Alderscroft.” They gathered up the books and took them to a table matching the bookcases at the front of the room, where they spread out their treasures. There was very good gas lighting here, which was just as well, since there was only one window. The more room for books, I suppose, Nan thought.

  His Lordship merely smiled as they took their seats at the table. “You need not thank me. This is precisely why I brought you all together, although I must confess I am just as pleased you did not bring the birds.”

  “They are not to be trusted if they become bored while we read through dry tomes,” Sarah confessed with some chagrin, selecting a book from the pile. “Unfortunately they have a great deal in common with precocious children. We left them with some puzzles containing their favorite treats, which can neither be hammered open nor pried open. They were greatly enjoying themselves when we left, and when they tire of that, Suki will bring them their tea and they’ll nap.”

  “Ah, Suki! She’ll keep them out of mischief.” Lord Alderscroft chuckled. He had met Suki, an orphan with similar telepathic abilities to Nan’s that the girls had found working as a kind of slave for a fraud of a fortune-teller. Suki had been so grateful to be rescued that there was nothing she would not have done for Nan and Sarah, and as another street brat, she had no compunction about wading into any potential threat, fists and feet flailing. She was fearless with the birds as well, and they were fond of her, so she had joined them in their flat as a sort of apprentice. She found going to school a great deal more onerous than serving as their maid, an affinity which occasionally exasperated Nan.

  The flat they all lived in was paid for by Lord Alderscroft, who kept the girls on a sort of retainer to perform investigations for him. He had found it extremely useful to have them at hand when he needed someone whose talents were psychical rather than magical. Or someone who was female, and likely to be more overlooked than a male. They were grateful for useful employment. As they had both decided, the conventional life of a governess, a shopgirl, a teacher or a nurse was not something either of them was suited for.

  “I will confess I feared for my books around those inquisitive beaks,” he replied. “I will leave you to your researches, and I wish you great good luck in them.”

  “His books are the last thing he needed to be concerned about,” Nan chuckled when he had left. “The birds know better now than to harm anything made of paper. It would be his secrets he needs to think about. Whenever they find that there is a hiding place for something, they are unrelenting about getting into it and discovering what is hidden there.”

  John Watson laughed. “I can think of one instance where they would have saved Holmes a great deal of effort.”

  With that, they all settled down to perusing the books. Many were handwritten, although there were some that had been printed. Nothing untoward was reported in the area where the Berkeley Square house now stood before the house was built, nor for many decades thereafter. Then Sarah, who was reading a volume that started about 1800, looked up with an expression of triumph on her face. “I think I may have it,” she said. “The gentleman who owned the house when this book was written is said here to have had an interest in Roman antiquities of the English occupation. Around 1805 he went on several trips to excavate some himself. And in December of 1805, I find a mention of an uncanny occurrence. I think we may have pinpointed our culprit.”

  Nan’s brows furrowed. “He certainly could have brought back something he shouldn’t have,” she admitted, “But wouldn’t the artifact be long gone by now?”

  “The size and danger of a haunting is in no way related to the size of the thing the haunting is tied to,” Sarah replied with authority. “It is, however, related to the amount of power invested in the object.”

  “A ceremonial amulet, for instance?” Mary Watson exclaimed. “Something small and easily mislaid, perhaps even fallen in a crack between floorboards?”

  “I would suspect you of having Nan’s power of mind reading, you are following my thought so closely,” Sarah replied. “An amulet, a piece of jewelry, or even a coin; all these are possible. If the object in question turned out not even to be Roman, but from some other culture, the gentleman in question wouldn’t even miss it if it got misplaced.”

  Sarah and Nan exchanged a look. “If that is the case,” Nan said, taking up the thread, “It’s likely something inimical to the Celts. It was in trying to protect Sarah from it that I first manifested my persona of a Celtic warrior-woman.”

  John Watson drummed his fingers on the table. “Found in or near a Roman excavation but not necessarily Roman . . . inimical to the Celts, or at least something your—former incarnation?—would perceive immediately as an enemy . . . I think we need an expert on mythology. Or history. Or both, preferably.”

  Mary waved her hand at all the books. “We might be able to start here, in any event, now that we have a better idea of what we are looking for. After that, we might try the Reading Room of the British Museum.”

  But several hours later, they were about to admit defeat. There was an extensive collection of books about the Roman occupiers and the tribes of the time and their respective mythos. But there were so many possibilities that they had to give up. It was too hard to narrow the field.

  “Well, now what?” Nan asked the Watsons.

  Mary shook her head. But John Watson looked as if he’d had an idea. “I believe we ought to ask someone Lord Alderscroft doesn’t precisely approve of.” He laughed a little. “Neither does Holmes, for that matter.”

  “Who would that be?” asked Mary, just as curious as the girls were.

  “Beatrice Leek. She and her family have been in the . . . less conventional occult circles for quite some time.”

  Mary began to laugh. So did Nan and Sarah. “‘Less conventional’? Half of them are deluded, a quarter of them are outright mad, and the remainder I’m not quite sure of,” said Nan, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Still, if you think there’s a sane one, by all means. That’s a good idea.”

  “Excellent.” Watson pulled out his pocket watch. “As it happens, I know exactly where she will be at this hour.” He rose. “Care for tea, ladies?”

  “Perishing,” said Mary. “Let’s get out of this stuffy room and into the air. What there is of it. It is London, after all.”

  • • •

  This was not a tearoom tha
t Nan had ever been to before, nor likely would ever have found. It was in Chelsea, a district where she and Sarah almost never went, despite the fact that they had adopted the dress of the female artists who lived there. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the sign on the door that said it was a tearoom, she likely would not have taken it for one, because most tearooms catered to ladies and only the occasional gentleman, and this place was crowded with both sexes. And in this tearoom, the Ladies’ Rational Dress she, Sarah, and Mary Watson were wearing was absolutely unremarkable. In fact, the gowns worn here actually included bloomer suits, as well as Artistic Reform gowns, gypsy-like ensembles layered with fringed shawls and masses of bead necklaces, and even an Indian sari or two. Some of the men were almost as colorful, in paint-stained smocks, velvet coats in jewel tones, or scarlet cloaks.

  There was hardly any wall showing. It was all paintings, and it was impossible for Nan to tell if any of them were any good, because having every square inch of wall populated by paintings just made everything confused, at least for her. She couldn’t concentrate on any one of them, feeling overwhelmed by the visual cacophony.

  As John led them past crowded tables and people sitting or occasionally standing and chatting at the tops of their lungs, Nan noticed that the tea services themselves were as . . . eclectic . . . as the customers. That was putting it kindly. To put it unkindly, it looked as if the owner of the shop had gone to every jumble sale in London and bought up every odd teapot, teacup, napkin, and tablecloth he or she could find.

  At the back of the shop, there was a table set a little apart from the rest—or as much as a table could be, given the crowded conditions. There was a middle-aged woman there, holding court, it seemed, among a small group of incredibly serious-faced and fantastically garbed people. But when she spotted John coming toward her through the shop, she made shooing motions at them.

  “Off you go, my chickens,” she said genially, although their faces betrayed their disappointment at being sent away. “John and I have something serious to talk about.” She looked from one to another of them with bright, sharp eyes. “Well, sit, sit. You never come to me, John Watson, unless you’ve questions to ask.”

  All of them took the motley assortment of vacated chairs. It appeared the jumble sale habit of the teashop owner extended to the furnishings. Nan took the opportunity to examine this person that John had brought them to see. She didn’t look particularly prepossessing; late middle-age, plump, with a good-natured, round face, black hair put up in an untidy chignon under a black hat a-dance with jet ornaments. Her gown was black as well, an odd sort of outfit that seemed to be designed as an Artistic Reform tea gown, but instead of being made in fabrics of jewel tones with heavy embroidery, it was in black satin and velvet with jet bead embroidery.

  “Number 10, Berkeley Square,” Watson said without any preamble.

  The woman pursed up her lips, and shook her head. “You’re a brave boy, you are. You couldn’t get me next or nigh that place if the last dollop of Devon Double Cream in the world was just inside the threshold.”

  Watson looked around at the four of them. “I think we can at least find out what’s in there, and discover a way to lock it up before it kills anyone else.”

  The woman looked at each of them in turn, eyes narrowed. Sizing us up, Nan thought. I think she’s a magician of some sort.

  “That may be,” the woman replied. “But I know when I am outmatched, and whatever is in there, it’s too much for the likes of me.”

  “Beatrice, if anyone knows anything more than I’ve been able to discover, it’s probably you,” Watson said flatly. “We’ve determined that the hauntings didn’t start until after the owner went on some expeditions to dig up Roman ruins and brought back artifacts. But that’s all we know.”

  She tapped her index finger against her lip, her eyes lost in thought. “Well . . . there’s a great deal of anger and hunger there, more than I’ve ever seen in a haunt in London.” She glanced over at Nan and Sarah. “Ghosts don’t do well in London; all the friction of so many living souls about tends to thin them out and they go to tatters.”

  Sarah nodded understandingly.

  “Spirits anchored or bound to something, however, are another story. So it does make sense that your devilish thing is bound to something physical.” She pursed her lips. “I do have a thought, Johnny. Buy me some teacakes, like a dear.”

  John Watson didn’t even blink. He got the attention of a passing waitress and ordered the teacakes, and for good measure, some sandwiches and scones, for which Nan, for one, was very grateful. “I think we can take the time for a proper tea first, unless you can think of a reason for us to hurry, Beatrice.”

  “I can never think of a reason to hurry through teatime,” she countered, and kept the conversation going on a lighter note, telling John and Mary stories about her circle of friends, which seemed to include everything from artists to gypsies, but mostly held occultists whose names were vaguely familiar to Nan, but only vaguely. Nan didn’t mind being only partly involved in the conversation; she was too busy eating ham sandwiches and scones with currant jam.

  But Beatrice did not touch the teacakes that Watson had ordered specially for her. Instead, she wrapped them in her handkerchief and put them in an enormous handbag, almost the size of a medical bag. Watson didn’t seem at all surprised at this.

  John paid the bill, and they all got up to leave. “Off to Berkeley Square, then,” Beatrice said, with a sigh of resignation. “It’s every bit of ten miles. . . .”

  “Cab there, and I’ll put you in a cab home,” Watson promised, and went out to hail a vehicle that could carry all of them. Beatrice looked a bit more mollified.

  “Well,” the older lady said, when they were all settled inside an old-fashioned hackney carriage of the kind that had brought the four of them to Chelsea. “I suppose I should explain to you two youngsters that I’m a witch.”

  “Earth Magician,” Watson said, with a weary sort of inflection as if he was used to making that correction.

  “You call it what you want, dearie,” Beatrice said, patting his hand. “I’ll call it what my mam, and my great-grandmam, and her great-grandmam, and so on back to Ireland called it. We’re witches. It runs in the family.” She gave him a stern sort of look, silently admonishing him not to correct her anymore. “Now, the problem Johnny and dear Mary have is that nothing they can summon is going to be able to give them any advice about what’s inside Number 10. But the creatures I can talk to might, if they’re not too frightened. And Berkeley Square has enough clean ground in the park there should still be some in residence.” She lifted her bag off her lap slightly. “I can’t summon them, but I can call them, and they’ll come for teacakes.”

  “Earth Elementals don’t stray much from their homes, do they?” Mary asked.

  Beatrice shook her head. “Not unless they are forced to. The ones there will have been there for several centuries at least, and the thing in Number 10 can’t seem to go outside those four walls, so it’s likely that while they are afraid of it, as well they should be, they won’t have been forced to flee. They’ll simply avoid Number 10 and the area around it for a good distance.”

  Nan knew enough about the Elementals by now to realize why neither John nor Mary had summoned their own creatures to give them information about Number 10. There wasn’t enough water in or near the house for John to get any information from his, and the Air Elementals that Mary could summon were . . . flighty. They easily forgot things that had happened a mere month ago, and as for decades, well, that was out of the question. But Earth Elementals prided themselves on their long memories, and generally were happy to share information if they knew it.

  “The thing in Number 10 didn’t seem able to leave the four walls of the building,” Sarah offered. “At least when we encountered it, once we were outside, we were safe. And I think if it could have followed us, it certainly woul
d have.”

  Beatrice glanced at Sarah sharply. “Oh . . . so you two were those little girls.” She paused for a long moment, biting her lip.

  “Neither we nor Memsa’b and Sahib ever found out who was behind luring us to that place, either,” Nan said crossly. “Though it might be just as well. I think Karamjit or Selim might have taken the law into their own hands if they had.”

  “Well . . . it was a long time ago,” Beatrice said slowly. “And there’s a lot that isn’t mine to tell. But I can promise you that the person responsible for putting you children in deadly peril never got the opportunity to do that again with anyone, child or adult.”

  All four of them fixed their gazes on Beatrice, who just shrugged. It was clear she wasn’t going to say anything more about it, so although Nan was curious, she decided that she wasn’t that curious. It’s enough to know that nobody else fell victim to him. And when she told them, it would satisfy Selim and Karamjit, who were still brooding over the incident.

  Mary Watson immediately, and tactfully, changed the subject to the crowd that had been around Beatrice when they had first arrived at the tearoom. “I didn’t recognize any of them,” she said, tilting her head at Beatrice in invitation to say something about them.

  So for the rest of the ride, they got a very entertaining description of the gaggle of young poets, artists, writers, and musicians who were “courting” her.

  “They want me to introduce them to the occult, of course,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I do my best to keep them occupied harmlessly without getting themselves into trouble.”

  “Better you than some,” John Watson said darkly, and Nan nodded.

  “Sahib and Memsa’b have extracted a few dilettantes from things they . . . regretted,” Nan added.

  “They’re harmless little ducks for the most part. A few are terribly earnest, most are only terribly earnest as long as their interest lasts, which isn’t long. They all want to see things, of course, and have delirious visions of things they can paint or write about, and when that doesn’t happen, they go on to some other enthusiasm. Usually it’s the Lake District. I try to encourage that.” Beatrice shrugged. “Not a speck of our sort of Talent among the lot of them, of course, which is just as well. One never knows when the next fad might be hashish, opium, or cocaine parties, and mixing the occult and drugs is as dangerous as waltzing with tigers, if you don’t know what you’re about.”