Unnatural Issue Page 7

“I know, I am a disgrace, but she won’t go for Garrick, don’t you know,” he said apologetically. “We’re expected up at the house?”

  “Aye, m’lard,” the young man said. “Yur t’ go straight oop.”

  “Thank you kindly,” Peter replied. The young man touched the invisible hat again and backed away from the car. Garrick waited until they were out of earshot.

  “I will be sure to let the staff know that you are the younger son, m’lord,” he said, with a hint of amusement.

  “Ah, yes, of course, all manner of ramshackle behavior is to be expected from a younger son,” Peter replied, and chuckled. “Then, of course, when I start gadding about as an artist, I’ll stop shocking the poor folk, and they can commence to gossip about my eccentricity in comfort.”

  “Quite so,” Garrick agreed.

  It was a very long drive, but the Manor was visible for the entire distance. There were lights in most of the windows on this side—the soft glow, however, told Peter that this was probably candlelight as opposed to oil, gas, or even electricity. Not that he expected electricity. Unless there was a fast-flowing stream somewhere very nearby so that Charles could run a dynamo from that. He couldn’t imagine any Earth magician allowing a filthy generator running within his purview.

  The lamps on either side of the great door were, however, electric. And waiting on the top of the steps was (probably to the horror of his staff) Charles, himself.

  If Peter was—at least in looks—a stereotypical example of the “all nerves and nose” scion of British nobility, Charles was just as much an example of the best the squierarchy could produce. Where Peter was thin and moved with the nervous grace of an antelope and was the sort of fair-haired chap that looked faintly washed out, Charles was tall and brown and looked as if he ought to be leaping from crag to crag on a mountaintop somewhere. Under his voluminous driving duster, hat, and goggles, Peter’s suit nearly screamed “Savile Row.” Charles was all tweed and leather elbow patches, and he’d probably been walking the bounds with the gamekeeper. The only person on the face of it that Peter was less likely to have as a friend was a Cockney thief.

  Which, of course, was another sort of odd duck he was friends with.

  Peter was in no condition after so long a drive to leap from his auto, but he did manage a “dignified exit with haste.” “Charles!” he saluted his friend, as he mounted the stairs, hand outstretched. “Bless you for giving me houseroom! It has been far too long.”

  “Oh, it was an effort, but we managed to find you a closet to stow your tackle in,” Charles replied with heavy irony, clapping him on the back. “And it has been far too long. Are you entirely fagged out?”

  “Not a bit of it,” Peter replied cheerfully, as Garrick directed a small army of servants on the disposition of the various pieces of kit in the boot of the car and the back seat. “I’d be honored to meet your sire and dam.”

  “Well, then, come along, because they are rather interested in meeting you,” Charles, and the way he emphasized that last word made Peter suddenly wary. What was Charles up to?

  His friend led the way through a great entry hall that Good Queen Bess probably would have recognized, and from there, through a warren of passageways and rooms until they arrived at a very pleasant chamber at the rear of the house. It had been furnished very comfortably, with windows open to the night breeze, overlooking the garden. And that was when Peter finally got the joke—when Charles’ father and mother both had the same aura of Earth magic about them that Charles had.

  And when the introductions were over, and they were all settled, Peter acknowledged that he’d been rather less clever than he’d thought he was.

  “Well, I feel about as thick as two short planks,” he said, with a sigh. “Here I should have been talking to you about why I’ve been sent up here, and not just to Charles. I apologize most profoundly.”

  Michael Kerridge, who looked like an older, slightly more dignified version of his son, waved the apology off. “Quite all right,” he said, looking at Peter over the top of his wire-rimmed spectacles in a kindly fashion. “Charles told us about your mother and brother. Deuced thing, when you have to keep half your life a secret from half your family.”

  Elizabeth Kerridge, as tweedy as her husband and son, and the slender sort Peter expected made a fine showing at hunt weekends, nodded. “I should also add that we have a most unlikely situation here. Virtually everyone on the staff is a minor magician of one sort or another. You needn’t worry about hiding your powers from any of them. So, perhaps you can make up for this faux pas by telling us why in heaven’s name Alderscroft thinks there’s a necromancer somewhere about.”

  Peter blinked. “The entire staff?” he said incredulously, ignoring, for the moment, the question of the putative necromancer.

  Charles nodded. “It’s been that way for donkey’s years,” he said proudly. “I can’t think of any other place that can say as much. Makes things deuced convenient, I can tell you that.”

  “Charles, you have a positive genius for understatement,” Peter said fervently. “You just might find me here so often that you’ll regret making my acquaintance. By Jove, this is practically paradise!”

  “Don’t be a silly ass, Lord Peter,” Elizabeth chided. “This place is a barn, and we rattle about in it. You’re welcome to take up a little corner of it as often as you like. Now tell us about this necromancer.” The last was clearly an order and Peter took it as such.

  “That’s the problem, y’see,” he said apologetically. “The Old Lion hasn’t got any direct evidence. Only indirect. A few Elementals telling him ‘things aren’t right’ here. More nasty Elemental customers round about here than there should be. There’s been nothing overt, certainly no walking dead or bound spirits that we know of, only a sort of ‘Things are not right’ sense. Whoever this fellow is, he’s clever, and he knows how to cover his tracks and shield what he’s doing.”

  “Assuming he exists at all,” Charles said, skeptically. “You seem to be describing what I can only call a hunch on the part of the Huntmaster. And if I didn’t know better, I’d say Alderscroft had some ulterior motive for sending you on what might be a wild goose chase.”

  Peter pulled a face. “There is a great deal of nastiness brewing on the Continent. And he doesn’t want me there. I’m sure that plays a part in it. But I cannot imagine the Old Lion sending any Master out after something that doesn’t exist.”

  “I can,” Elizabeth grumbled. Her husband chuckled.

  “My dear,” he said fondly, “You do not merely hold grudges, you cherish them. Seriously, I agree with Lord Peter; I cannot imagine Alderscroft wasting the talents of any Master, given the current dark clouds on the horizon.” He turned to Peter. “I have had word passed up to me by some of the local hedge practitioners that at least one of the Great Powers has warned that this business overseas is going to be more than merely nasty. It’s possible Alderscroft wants to keep you here in case he needs you for some worse situation.” Michael shrugged. “In any event, we’ve not seen any sign of a necromancer, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one slinking about here. There is a great deal of Yorkshire, much of it sparsely populated. People and animals go missing all the time. The Elementals here are as shy as moor ponies. A clever necromancer would be very difficult to detect.” His brows furrowed. “The last time I heard of one . . . well, that was something old Whitestone dealt with. The vile creature had been very clever indeed, no one had any notion he existed until he was extremely powerful. Whitestone was one of the strongest Earth Masters I ever knew, and even he was caught off guard.”

  “Yes, Whitestone.” Peter pinched the bridge of his nose a moment, then looked up as a bit of movement in the door caught his eye. “Ah, Garrick, please, join us.”

  As Peter’s valet moved diffidently into the room, Peter grinned. “No standing on ceremony, Garrick, we’re all just magicians here. Garrick, this is my old chum Charles, and his mother and father. Michael, Charles, Elizabeth, th
is is my right-hand man, Garrick, without whom I would be utterly lost.”

  “Sirs, milady,” Garrick said with a little bow.

  “Elizabeth, Charles, and Michael,” Elizabeth insisted. “Garrick, our entire staff is talented or gifted in magic, though we have no Masters here. They all know about us, so you needn’t waste energy and effort trying to hide anything.”

  Garrick looked visibly relieved. “That will simplify matters a great deal mila—Elizabeth,” he said. “I trust Lord Peter has given you the reason we have imposed ourselves on your hospitality?”

  “So he has, and in full,” Michael told him. “Not that this helps us a great deal, since we have seen nothing.”

  “To be honest, I’d have no idea where to look or what to look for,” Charles admitted.

  “Is there any chance of winkling this Whitestone fellow out of his hole?” Peter asked hopefully. “He’d be deuced handy.”

  “Even if we could . . .” Michael shook his head. “The likelihood of him doing anything to help once he learned Alderscroft sent you is roughly the same as the likelihood of the Kaiser inviting some of those Balkan anarchists to tea.”

  Peter was startled. “Good heavens, I had no idea . . . Alderscroft said nothing about that.”

  “Alderscroft probably isn’t aware,” Elizabeth said tartly. “Whitestone’s wife Rebecca was with child when Alderscroft dragged him off to London to help with a rogue Earth Master. Whitestone was on his way back when she miscarried and died of it; he arrived mere hours after she was dead. He blames himself for not being there, and he blames Alderscroft for taking him away. I think he would as soon see Alderscroft at the bottom of the Thames as help him with anything, no matter how dire it was.”

  Michael nodded. “He hasn’t been seen outside his house since he buried her, and he has cut off all contact with every mage he ever knew. I think the only people who set eyes on him these days are his estate manager and his housekeeper. There will be no help coming from that quarter.”

  “Alas,” Peter sighed. “Well, Alderscroft graced me with this thing, so like the patient donkey, I shall bear my burden. I’d very much appreciate it if I could impose a bit more on you. Could you, would you, nose about and ask about? See if anyone has gotten a hint of the more subtle forms of the black arts? I suspect that even with your backing, they’ll be more reticent with me than they are with you.”

  Michael laughed. “You don’t know your Yorkshire lads and lasses very well. They’re more apt to tell you bluntly to your face ‘Eh, you-ur th’ worst young nowt as ever was! Now get thee gone an’ use you-ur eyen! ’ ”

  Peter laughed. “Well, then, look at it this way. You’re the squire, and it’s your duty to tend to their troubles. If someone has gotten himself into dark magic, they are more likely to tell you, once they know you know about it, than they are a stranger. You’ll try to put it right. I’d just haul up the miscreant before the Law—in this case, the White Lodge.”

  “A very good point.” Michael nodded. “We can certainly start making concerned noises and see who responds.”

  “For that, I am in your debt,” Peter replied. “Now, for pure investigative purposes, Garrick and I are going to haul artistic kit all over the moor. It’s a wonder how much you can do when you’re pretendin’ to paint. Especially when you are pretendin’ to paint bad Impressionist work. You can slap up anything at all, and as long as you’re sufficiently enthusiastic, people will shake their heads and tell each other that it’s a good thing you’ve money, for you surely don’t have talent, and they’ll look no further than that.”

  “Oh, very clever, Lord Peter,” Elizabeth exclaimed in admiration. “And every good, practical Yorkshireman knows artists are mad. It won’t matter what you do out there; they’ll put it down to harmless insanity.”

  “I’m counting on that,” Peter replied solemnly. “Now, I take it that no one will mind if I set up my own Work Room somewhere about?”

  “I put you in the Green Suite,” Elizabeth told him, with a hint of pardonable smugness. “It already has a little Work Room specifically for Water mages. Branwell Hall has been playing host to mages and Masters for two hundred years, Lord Peter. We’re quite prepared to have the entire White Lodge housed here, should the need arise.”

  “May it never arise,” Peter replied fervently. “First of all, the only thing I can think of that would need the entire Lodge would be an arcane invasion of England. And secondly, Owlswick would send you mad in white linen within a week. I wouldn’t wish Owlswick on the Kaiser himself.”

  “On that note, m’lord, I came to advise you that all is in readiness,” Garrick put in diffidently.

  “We keep country hours, Lord Peter,” Elizabeth advised, before he got a chance to respond. “Mind, if you choose to loll in bed until the sinful hour of ten, you certainly can, but breakfast will be but a memory by that time.”

  Peter laughed. “My dear lady, I had scarcely a day in London before being sent off here. Before that, I was at the tender mercies of my grandmother, the dowager duchess, who keeps country hours and does not believe in bed-lolling. This is probably why my mother escapes to the city as much as possible.”

  “Or your grandmother keeps country hours to keep your mother in the city,” Elizabeth observed shrewdly. “Well, good. I should also point out that to preserve your character of an artist, you naturally will want to take advantage of all the light.” She paused and looked puzzled. “I’m not sure what that means, exactly. When I’ve had occasion to talk with Sebastian Tarrant, he raved about light for at least an hour, and on the few occasions I have been to a gallery, there was quite a lot of talk about light . . .”

  “I’ve had a thorough groundin’ in artistic palaver,” Peter assured her. “I can babble about light with the best of them. And you are correct, it would look deuced irregular if I didn’t wander about at dawn a few times, at least. And if I recall my fakery instructions correctly, a ‘dawn’ paintin’ would be a vague pinkish blur with some gold-colored streaks runnin’ across it, above a vaguely purplish blur. That’d be dawn coming up over the heather, don’t you know.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” chuckled Michael.

  “Well, with your kindly permission, Garrick and I will take our leave and take full advantage of your hospitality,” Peter said, rising.

  Goodnights were said, and with an inclination of his head, Garrick conducted Peter to his suite.

  For suite it was. Most country houses afforded their guests a bedroom, with perhaps a shared bath. Peter was now the inhabitant of a five room suite: a sitting room, a bedroom, a bath, a Work Room, and a room for Garrick. And it was clearly decorated to soothe a Water Master’s mood; everything was in greens with a touch of blue, with watery motifs and decorations everywhere. Peter stopped dead in the middle of the sitting room just to stare and admire.

  “Well!” he said, finally, “They certainly do the thing handsomely, don’t they?”

  “They do indeed, m’lord,” Garrick replied, making no attempt to conceal his admiration. “Oh, I took the liberty of gaining you a brief repast. You will find it waiting in the bedroom. Is there anything else I can arrange for you, m’lord?”

  “Most estimable Garrick! No, not a bit. Toddle off to your own well-deserved rest.”

  “Very good, m’lord.” With a faint smile, Garrick withdrew to his little room, and Peter passed on into the bedroom.

  He was immediately struck with envy. And then struck with the determination that, no matter what he had to put up with back at the familial estate, his own rooms in his town house were going, by god, to be modeled after these. He had never felt so relaxed on entering a room in his life. The level of sensitivity to a Water Master’s comfort was extraordinary.

  “You know, Garrick!” he called.

  “Yes, m’lord?” Garrick immediately came to the door.

  “Make sure we introduce the Scotts. It’d do Maya good to come out here now and again, and it would do our hosts good to have
a Master who is also a physician about once in a while.”

  “Very good, m’lord. I quite agree.”

  Garrick knew his master very well after all this time. There was a little toast, a little smoked salmon, tea. The decanter of Peter’s own single-malt had been unpacked but the box remained unopened; Peter would not touch anything strong until after he had discovered whether or not the tale he’d been sent to investigate had any truth to it. And the food was such that it would keep until after he had conducted a little preliminary Work.

  As he expected, the Work Room was on the other side of the bedroom, beside the bath. It had probably once been an enormous closet; now a brace of handsome wardrobes served to house the clothing of any guests in this room. He passed through the chamber and into the Work Room with scarcely a glance at the waiting food or the comfortable bed; to linger for even a moment would be to invite temptation. The Work Room was all ready; Garrick had brought his valise of Tools in and left a lamp burning.

  In short order he had cleansed the room, sealed it (temporarily) to himself, and set up his shields and wards. Now, should the need arise, he and Garrick could take shelter here from the worst arcane attacks. Although he did not for a moment suspect his old friend, it did not do to be too complacent. There were too many times when treachery came from the source least suspected.

  Only when that was done did he return to the bedroom.

  While he had been busying himself, a bat had flown in through the open window and was chasing moths around the ceiling. He smiled, finding that quite reassuring. Bats were very sensitive to the arcane and avoided places that had been contaminated with evil.

  “And unlike me,” he told the little creature, who had managed to catch all but one of the moths in the time he’d been watching it, “you work for a living.”

  Well, at least he didn’t require his manservant to undress him, as if he were a powdered and periwigged seventeenth-century dandy, like some of his acquaintances. And while he missed the electric lighting of his flat, the oil lamp on his bedside table was quite good enough to allow for a little bedtime reading.