Winterblaze (Darkest London 3)

Win touched his throbbing head. “Pardon, sir… I am a bit… muddled.” He took a deep, clearing breath. “Do I know you?”

Again came that smile, curling and dark with promise. Again the eerie flash of white in his eyes. “No. But you will.”

Chapter Twenty

Come with me.” Winston waited impatiently at his dressing room door as Jack Talent put aside a pair of boots he’d been polishing.

“Where are we going?” Talent asked as they traversed the long, wide upper hall.

“As Mrs. Noble proves elusive for the moment, we are going to question one of the other guests.”

“Wouldn’t you rather question the servants?” Talent asked.

Most guests were preparing for dinner, and the light of the day was fading fast. Around them, maids were lighting the lower gas lamps as tall footmen attended the upper sconces. A golden glow began to rise through the house. Drinks were being served in an hour, but Poppy refused to dress with Win in the room—another change that chafed his nerves—so he had dressed first.

“Not now. No servant likes to be questioned during the busiest hour of the day.” He’d track them down mid-morning, in that slim hour between breakfast and luncheon. “Besides, I’ve heard tell that a Colonel Alden has just arrived.” Five bob to the lower footman had done the job.

“Don’t see what an old colonel can do for us.”

“Ah,” Win stepped lightly down the center stairs, “but he is reputed to be an art collector. As was the demon Isley.”

Talent’s nostrils pinched as though scenting something foul. “Bloody demons. I hate dealing with them.”

“You can always go back to your room.” Win fought a smile as he glanced at the library door where the footman had told him Colonel Alden was taking a solitary drink. Winston tapped a finger against his walking stick and considered how best to approach the man. He looked Talent over. “How good a dog can you be?”

The corners of Talent’s eyes creased. “You’re attempting to flush a supernatural out, Inspector?”

“I gather most supernaturals would detect a shifter in their midst as opposed to a mere dog?”

Something dark flickered over Talent’s eyes then was gone. “Not all. But a demon ought to.”

“Then we’ll be sure to pay close attention to the colonel’s reaction.”

Winston expected Talent to find some privacy to change, but the man merely glanced about and, finding the corridor they’d stopped in empty, turned back to Winston with a devilish grin. The air about Talent suddenly shimmered, or perhaps it was Talent himself that shimmered. Whatever the case, it happened in the blink of an eye, too quickly for Winston to study. One moment Talent stood before him, the next an enormous dog looked up at him, panting as if it were laughing. By its side lay a pile of clothes and Talent’s boots.

Winston eyed the grey, shaggy beast with appreciation. “A wolfhound, eh? Cheeky.” He gathered up the clothes and stuffed them behind a potted palm. “Come along then, Felix.”

A low growl had him glancing down. “Too bad,” he said. “I’m keeping the name. Always wanted a dog named Felix.”

Winston entered a large library that looked much like any other manor library, filled with the ubiquitous leather couches and imposing portraits of ancestors past. It smelled of books and wood polish.

A man sat, half hidden by the wings of the red leather armchair he occupied. Blue coils of smoke drifted in lazy tendrils just above the chair. When the scent of tobacco hit Winston, he tensed. Jones’s cigarettes. Was it Jones?

The occupant of the chair stirred, and the firelight caught the reflection of one polished steel arm. Curious.

“Good evening, sir,” Win said as he came farther into the room.

The man gave a small start then leaned forward. Alert eyes watched Winston from beneath a set of white brows.

“Evening.” The man tapped out a line of ash in the crystal tray by his side. The action brought Win’s attention back to his false arm, which started at the elbow. From there, a true work of metal art was attached in the form of a forearm and hand, currently resting upon the leather arm of the chair. “Impressive beast you have there.”

Winston had almost forgotten about Talent. “He is my most loyal companion.”

Talent thumped rather hard against his leg on the way to find a patch of warm sunlight on the gleaming oak floor. He settled down with a grunt and promptly lowered his head.

“Lovely breed,” said the man. “Rare, though. I know of a Captain Graham who is attempting to revive it.”

“Admirable work,” Winston said.

The man’s keen gaze raked over Win’s face. “Hell of a set of scars.” The man said it with appreciation rather than disgust. “Didn’t think there were many wolves left to hunt. Seems you found one, though.”

Winston blinked. Strangely enough, most people did not ascribe his scars to a wolf attack. Most assumed they were the work of knives. “In this instance, it was a case of the wolf hunting me.”

“Good thing you had the dog.”

Winston ignored Talent’s amused huff and took a seat on the couch perpendicular to the man. “Are you Colonel Alden, sir?”

The man’s massive frame twitched just a bit. “Yes. And you are?” Not defensive, but cautious.

“Mr. Snow of London. In my earlier days, I was an Inspector First Class of the Criminal Investigation Division.” The lie flowed from his lips like wine from a bottle.

Colonel Alden made a sound of amusement. “Mouthful of a title, young man.” He sat impossibly straighter, his legs braced before him. “How can I help you?”

Winston had expected to ease into his interrogation. If only all the people he questioned were so accommodating. However, he would not mistake accommodation for truthfulness.

“I’ve been working on a case, by way of helping out a friend. I have heard that you are a collector of art, as is the man in question.”

“ ’Tis true. I admire art. Save, I am but a dilettante.” Alden’s remaining hand lay relaxed against his thigh. “Nor can I think of how I might be of service to you, but ask your questions.”

“Do you know of a Lord Isley? I believe he is old friends with Mrs. Noble.”

Alden’s hard gaze turned inward, a slow rotation that spoke of shock one tried to process quietly. “Well, well,” he said at last, “I’ve not heard that name in a while.” His stiff shoulders eased a touch as he looked down at his artificial limb. “Look here.” He lifted the limb and pushed back his coat sleeve. “Have you ever seen its like?”

Winston inspected the limb. Made of stainless steel and forged in the exact replica of the human skeleton, it actually appeared quite delicate. The only deviation from anatomical correctness was found in the palm of the hand. There, a flat surface made up a palm, upon which a long, undulating snake had been carved out. Thin wires ran from each finger joint, up past the wooden cap that attached the limb to flesh and under the colonel’s coat.

“Never.”

Alden grunted. “Nor will you, I gather. Observe.” His biceps bunched and, to Winston’s shock, the steel fingers curled inward. “The wires,” Alden explained, “are attached to a brace at the muscle.” He lifted his sleeve higher to reveal a rather large and intricate brace made of leather and webbed with wires. “When I flex, the hand reacts.”

“It is brilliant.” Winston wasn’t sure where the colonel was going with this demonstration but trusted that he’d get there eventually. People either answered questions directly, avoided them with belligerence and counter questions, or told him stories.

The colonel let his sleeve drop. “My father was the Marquis of Danville. He wanted me to become a soldier. Go to war like all other good third sons did. After all, the heir had produced his fair brood, and the spare had done the same, leaving our line stocked with plenty of fallbacks. Thus for what use was I if not to fight for England? And if there wasn’t a war, why, we’ve plenty of colonies to keep in line.” He sat back in his seat. “I might have defied him but he held the purse strings.”

How well Winston knew that predicament.

“So a soldier I became, even though I detested the thought. I wanted to be alone with my books, truth be told. Didn’t give a fig for following orders or barking them out, as the case may be.”

Alden extracted a cigarette from the slim gold case on the side table. “Have one?”

The image of a serpent was etched upon the fine gold case. Winston tore his gaze from the case and peered into Alden’s eyes. Nothing stirred, save mild curiosity as to why Winston was staring. Upon the floor, Talent noticed his querying look. His dog brows twitched as he too glanced at Alden then he grunted, not bothering to lift his head from the floor. Presumably, not threatened by the colonel in the least. So not Jones then. Or another demon. Winston centered his attention back on Alden, who waited for an answer. “Thank you, no.”

Alden paused to fiddle with his matches and lit the cigarette, a rather neat trick for a man with an artificial hand. The familiar perfume of fine Turkish tobacco filled the space, a blue cloud of it floating past a rather fine Leighton portrait of a girl. “Do you know what happened upon gaining my commission?”

Winston gave him a small smile. “I could not begin to fathom.”

“I fell in love with the army.” He took a deep draw and let out a trail of smoke. “Loved the order of it. The simplicity. Found it soothed my mind.” He laughed, a rather rattling sound deep within his chest. “Took to it like a duck to water. And then this happened.” He lifted his artificial limb. “Ridiculous thing. A paper cut, if you can believe it. A deuced paper cut that turned gangrenous and had to be chopped off.”

The colonel frowned down at his limb as if remembering the indignity of it.

“Bad luck,” Winston said.

“Cursed luck is what it was!” The steel fingers curled slightly as the colonel rested his arm upon his bent knee. “They sent me home. Where I was useless. Away from my men.” He cleared his throat. “You were an officer of sorts, an inspector at least. You know what it is to be among your comrades. They understand your life. Not like those at home.”

Winston ducked his head in agreement. He was as cast off as the colonel had been. It left one unmoored and aimless.

Alden did not seem to notice Win’s disquiet. He took another draw at his cigarette before peering thoughtfully at Winston. “That’s when Isley came in. Met him at some party given by Mrs. Noble. An art exhibit for that painter who died this spring… Manet. Heard of him?”

“Yes,” Winston said, shifting uncomfortably. “Quite talented, I believe.”

The colonel waved his cigarette in a lazy fashion. “It was Isley who found me this hand. He took me round the next day to a tinker, of all things, although I suppose it’s about right. Who else could fashion such a thing?”

“Did you ever meet a woman named Moira Darling?” Winston asked.

The colonel shook his grey head. “Never heard of her.” He stared at his steel hand again, as if discovering it anew. “Clever thing. Saved my life, really.”

Winston was losing the colonel. Soon he’d be on a different track, and it would be impossible to get any further information about Isley out of him.

Idly, Alden tapped a finger against his gold case again but did not open it. His long, weathered fingers stroked the thing with a sort of meditative reverence. An action, Winston suspected, that was habit.

“Did Isley give you that case, sir?”

The colonel stopped. “This? No. I bought it…. That is to say someone…” The colonel’s expression went blank as if he were trying to catch a memory or perhaps one had tickled the corners of his mind, but then he harrumphed and his intense focus returned. “Tell you the truth, I am not sure where I picked this up. But it wasn’t from Isley. Couldn’t have been…”

“Merely curious,” Winston said.

“Isley was the one responsible for my returning to the army, you know.” Alden’s big body seemed somehow frail in the setting sunlight as he squinted at him. “I mentioned my distress at being sent home and the man made a few inquiries. The next week, they called me back in.” Alden frowned, looking off into the distance. “I’d forgotten that. Can’t imagine how I could…” He shook his head slowly.

“Must have simply slipped your mind,” Winston said. Or someone put the thought back into it. The question was why? And what was another of Jones’s victims doing here?

“Might I ask, sir, what it was that brought you to this party this weekend?”

The colonel’s bushy brows lifted. “Damnedest thing, really. I hadn’t thought of Amy Noble in years, then my butler brought in the mail and an invitation was there. Figured, why not?”

Indeed. Win studied the colonel anew. There was obviously something about this man that Jones wanted Winston to discover. Usually, Win enjoyed games of wit. But today, he barely stifled the urge to curse. Or perhaps try to shake the truth out of the colonel.

But the colonel’s attention had drifted to the window, his keen eyes tracking a lady as she strolled along the terrace with the other female guests. Winston’s muscles clenched. He was staring at Poppy. Poppy, who looked utterly breathtaking in a gown of deep silver satin.

“Do you know her?” he asked the colonel without taking his gaze from his wife.

Alden shook his head. “She simply caught my eye. The way a fine piece of art might, you gather?”