In Which Our Heroine Is Obliged to Exert Herself
Mrs. Corvey, upon inspecting the box on the passage floor, discovered a switch on one end. Cautiously, using her cane, she pushed the switch to its opposite position. A humming noise ceased, so faint it had been imperceptible until it stopped.
“I believe we may now pass safely, Mr. Ludbridge.”
“Glad to hear it,” Ludbridge said, wheezing as he tried to get to his feet. “Oh — ow — oh, bloody hell, I’m half crippled.”
“You may lean on me,” said Mrs. Corvey, taking his hand and pulling his arm around her shoulders. “Not to worry, dear; I’m a great deal stronger than I look.”
“As yet I’ve no idea what you look like at all,” replied Ludbridge. “Ha! The blind leading the blind, although in our case it makes excellent sense. Lead on, dear lady.”
They made their way out again into the main tunnel, and hurriedly down it to the laboratory. Ludbridge was able to crawl through the hole in the window easily enough, but was obliged afterward to sit and catch his breath.
“It seems a lifetime ago I went in there,” he said, gasping. “By God, the night air smells sweet! Rather odd nobody noticed the pane missing in all that time, though.”
“In fact, someone did,” said Mrs. Corvey. “It had been replaced when I found it this evening.”
“Really? Well, that’s enough to lend new vigor to my wasted limbs,” said Ludbridge, getting up with a lurch. “Let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?”
Mrs. Corvey led him out through the hedge and around the moat. She had a moment of worry about getting through the portcullis, for Ludbridge was a man of respectable girth. However, just as they came to the causeway the portcullis came rattling up. Someone drove the carriage forth in great haste; the portcullis was left open behind them. Mrs. Corvey looked after the carriage in keen interest, thinking she recognized Ralph gripping the reins. She wondered what might have happened, to send him out at such speed.
“We had best hurry, Mr. Ludbridge,” she said.
“Swiftly as I may, ma’am,” he replied, crawling after her on hands and knees. When they reached the courtyard Mrs. Corvey was disconcerted to see lights blazing in the Great Hall. She endeavored to pull Ludbridge along after her, and was greatly relieved when they tumbled together through the door into her room.
“Forty years I’ve worked here,” said Mrs. Duncan, somewhat indistinctly, for she was now on her third glass of gin. The scullery and parlor maids, all in their nightgowns, were huddled around her like chicks around a hen, in varying degrees of tearful distress.
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“Well, consider: you are now at liberty to travel,” said Jane helpfully. Mrs. Duncan gave her a dark look and two of the maids were provoked into fresh weeping.
“I’ve just remembered,” said Lady Beatrice. “I left something in Prince Nakhimov’s room. I wouldn’t wish to be so indiscreet as to take the front stairs, when the constable may arrive any moment… Are there back stairs, Mrs. Duncan?”
The cook pointed at a doorway beyond the pantry. “Mind you be quick about it.”
“I shall endeavor to be,” said Lady Beatrice. With a significant glance at the Devere sisters, she hastened up the back stairs.
“Lordship’s good name at stake and all…” muttered Mrs. Duncan, and had another dram of gin.
Lady Beatrice ran at her best speed, and arrived at last in the gallery. She paused a moment, catching her breath, listening. She heard Prince Nakhimov telling a long anecdote, to which Sir George, Pilkins, Ali Pasha, and several valets were listening. Creeping to the edge of the grand staircase she beheld them through a fog of cigar smoke, seated around Lord Basmond’s corpse.
Turning, she crossed the gallery and went up to the guests’ rooms. She opened the count’s door and stepped within. The candle still illuminated the room. By its light Lady Beatrice made a quick and thorough search for the levitation device. Opening the count’s trunk, she dug through folded garments. Upon encountering a book she drew it forth and examined it. It was merely a popular novel, but stuck within were a number of papers. One in particular bore an official seal, and appeared to have been signed by Metternich. Lady Beatrice’s grasp of French was imperfect, but sufficient for her to make out a phrase here and there. You will attempt by any means possible to see if his lordship would be agreeable… do not need to remind you of the consequences if you fail…
“I did not know that whores were fond of reading.”
Lady Beatrice looked up. A man stood in the doorway of the antechamber connecting to Count de Mortain’s room. His accent was harsh, Germanic; he appeared to be the count’s valet. He was holding a knife. Lady Beatrice considered her options, which were few.
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“We aren’t,” she replied. “I was looking for the count; did you know there’s been an accident? Lord Basmond is dead.”
The valet had started toward her, menace in his eyes, but at her news he stopped in astonishment. “Dead!”
She hurled herself at him and bore him backward. They fell across the bed. The valet struck at her with the knife. Lady Beatrice experienced then an eerie sense of stepping away from herself, of watching as the patient draft animal of her body bared its teeth and fought for its life. The struggle was a vicious one, as any fight between animals must be. Lady Beatrice was pleased to observe that her flesh had not lost the strength it had drawn upon in the Khyber Pass. She was particularly pleased to see herself wrenching the knife from the valet’s hand and stunning him with a sharp downward strike of the pommel. He sagged backward, momentarily unconscious.
So far sheer instinct had preserved her; now Lady Beatrice picked herself up, poured a glass of water from the carafe on the bedside table, and dropped into it a button torn from her blouse. The button dissolved with a gentle hiss. She lifted the valet’s head, murmuring to him in a soothing voice, and held the glass to his lips. He drank without thinking, before opening his eyes.
“Danke, Mutter…” he whispered. He opened his eyes, looked up at Lady Beatrice, and started. “Filthy bitch! I’ll kill you—”
“Bitch, unfortunately, yes. Filthy? Certainly not.” Lady Beatrice held him down without much effort, as the drug took its swift effect. “And certainly not the sort of bitch who allows herself to be killed by men like you. Yes, you do feel unaccountably sleepy now, don’t you? You can barely move. Just close your eyes and go back to Dreamland, dear. It will be so much easier.”
When he lay unconscious at last, and having verified by lifting his eyelid that he was, in fact, unconscious, Lady Beatrice rose and considered him coldly. She lifted his legs onto the bed, removed his shoes, and moreover made certain adjustments to his clothing in order to suggest the lewdest possible scenario to anyone discovering him later. Then Lady Beatrice retrieved the papers she had dropped from the floor and secreted them in her bodice.
She left the room and closed the door quietly.
SIXTEEN:
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