Take flight, p.45
Take Flight, page 45
“Thank you,” she said. I hope Wattleman has gotten back from the cellar. She didn’t relish the idea of going upstairs without some backup. She would even have welcomed an invisible hand on her shoulder or a tap on her wrist to let her know. The girl led her through a door marked PRIVATE and up a flight of narrow, creaking steps that probably dated back to the Conquest. Alarmingly, there were no extra creakings on the staircase behind them, which suggested that Wattleman was not present. The lights burned dimly, and she was uncomfortable. She discreetly checked her switchblade in its sheath on her forearm. There was another knife on her shin.
Then they were in a hallway lined with doors. Bridget could faintly hear noises and voices behind them, but she very deliberately focused on the swaying form of the girl, who led her to the very end of the hall and then up a flight of stairs.
That’s an odd design, Bridget mused. Stairs on opposite sides of the house from each other? It slows down the entrance.
And it means no quick escape. She increasingly felt like a rabbit being led into a wolf’s den.
“May I ask, where do you get your lipstick?” she said, if only to break her own tension. “It’s lovely, and it’s so difficult to get any cosmetics now.”
“Oh, thanks,” said Maudie. “It’s from cooked beetroot.”
“Ah,” said Bridget.
“Yeah, and then you rub some Vaseline over it to seal it in. Works a treat, don’t you think?”
“I do. I will definitely try it.” If I get out of here alive.
“We were keeping all the ends of our lipsticks,” said the girl, “and melting them down in a cup. You know, use every little bit—but then it all ran out.” On the landing at the top of the second set of stairs was another door. Maudie knocked and they heard “Come.” She opened it, gestured Bridget through, and then, without entering, shut it behind her.
The Murcutts’ parlor did not look at all like it belonged in a brothel, and Bridget resisted the urge to remark upon this fact. It took up almost the entire third story and was brightly lit, with no coy red shades over the lamps. A plush, intricate Afghan rug covered the floor in the center of the room. There was no art on the walls, but they gleamed with white paint. A table stood off to the right with an array of decanters and bottles, a startling variety of liquors. A couple of plump overstuffed sofas were at the other side of the space, inviting one to lounge. There was no desk or chairs. It did not look like an office and certainly not like the nerve center of a black-market operation in supernatural artifacts.
There were three people in the room—a lean man standing by a side door, a large man busying himself at the table with the bottles, and, standing up from one of the sofas, a sharp-featured blond woman a couple of years older than Bridget. She was striking and drew the eye away from the men. Wearing a dress of light green silk almost shocking in its newness and delicacy, she, too, had on makeup, but it was not garishly applied like Maudie’s, and it was definitely real cosmetics. She had a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in a holder in the other.
The hair on the back of Bridget’s neck prickled—the woman’s bearing, her self-assurance, somehow put her in mind of Lady Carmichael. Matilda “Tillie” Murcutt held power and knew how to use it. She regarded Bridget with cool eyes, taking in every detail. Bridget could feel herself being itemized and evaluated.
“Miss Murcutt?” said Bridget. She did not step forward to shake hands.
“Yes.”
“I am Miss Caswell. Thank you for seeing me.” She paused, but there was no introduction to the two men, who were watching her curiously.
“And what have you come to see me about?” Tillie Murcutt asked. “I understand that you are not seeking employment?”
Bridget flushed. “No, I’m not. Your name was mentioned to me as a potential source for some unusual antiques.”
“Antiques?” said Tillie, raising an eyebrow. “That’s hardly our stock-in-trade, but we have connections throughout the community. We might be able to find you something appropriate. Who referred you?”
“A Mr. Simony,” said Bridget carefully. This was a gamble—would Simony have pointed a customer to the Murcutts? She’d discussed it with Wattleman, and they’d agreed to try the story out. But they’d also assumed that Wattleman would be in the room to step in if things turned sour. “He didn’t want to tell me at first, but he said he wouldn’t be able to fetch anything for a couple of days, and I wouldn’t wait. So I paid him off. I paid him a great deal.”
“Simony,” said Tillie musingly. “So you’re interested in magic.” Bridget stared at her, wide-eyed. “Don’t look so innocent. That was Simony’s trade, at least when it came to us, so let’s not be coy. Now, please, have a seat.” Bridget allowed herself to be ushered to a sofa and sat cautiously. “Can we press you to a drink?”
“Lemonade?” asked Bridget. She had no intention of drinking it.
“I expect we can get some,” said Tillie. Apparently the gleaming array of bottles on the table did not include anything soft. An instruction was passed to someone outside the door while Tillie settled herself on the couch opposite Bridget. She took a long draw on her cigarette, regarding Bridget thoughtfully.
“And so you believe in magic,” said Tillie. “Tell me, how did that come to happen?”
“A friend of mine had an item from Simony. She showed me.”
“What item?”
“A seashell,” Bridget said. That had been the only item that didn’t kill its user straight out. “The things it did . . .” She did her best to let a look of awe come over her face. Sell it, she told herself. Make her believe. She spoke with all the passion she could muster. “It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in my life. She wouldn’t let me buy it from her, of course. No matter how much I offered.” Let this woman think that I have significant money to spend. “But she told me where she’d gotten it. So it’s not a case of believing in magic. I know it’s real, and I want it.”
The woman regarded her levelly for a few moments, then nodded.
“I’ve always known about magic,” said Tillie. “My mother was a midwife, and her mother before her. They attended women in the tenements and the rookeries and the slums, and they told me about what they saw. There were all sorts of heartwarming stories about mothers and babies, but when they got in their cups, sometimes they’d tell me the other stories. The strange ones.” Almost despite herself, Tillie took a long drink, finishing the cocktail. Her eyes had a faraway look.
“Sometimes they saw things that weren’t normal at all. Mum remembered a baby born in an attic, a birth that thirty-odd people had crowded in to witness, singing the whole time. She said that when she cut the cord, there was a spark of light. That little babe was wrapped in a silk blanket—God knows where they got it—and carried away. Never heard any more about it, but it was damn odd.
“Gran swore she’d been at a birth where she could hear the sound of the ocean coming out of the mother, and the baby was washed out onto the mattress on a stream of seawater. Another time, there was a woman tried to pay with a little clay flower that she swore would keep you warm if you held it in your hand, even if you were naked in a winter street. And there were others.
“You see people as they really are in a birthing room. Mothers and babies and fathers. And when I say strange, I mean inhuman. Maybe even what you might call monstrous. Sometimes when a baby came out and my mother saw what it was, the only appropriate tool she could use was a pillow. Sometimes it was a hammer.” Her eyes were distant, and Bridget found that she was holding her breath.
“They weren’t flighty women, our mum and gran,” said Murcutt finally. “Were they, Johnny?” She looked over at the blond man by the bottles and he shook his head. Despite his muscular build, he had the same sharp features as Tillie.
So that’s John Murcutt, thought Bridget. And who’s the other man? Thin, Mediterranean-looking, with olive skin and black hair, he didn’t look like a relation.
“No,” continued Tillie Murcutt. “Not the sort to make up ghost stories. They didn’t have a lick of frivolity in them. I knew it was real, so when my brothers and I took up the business, I kept my eyes open. Magic sounded like an opportunity. And there’s a lot more of it about than you’d expect.”
Bridget started as the sound of the air-raid siren keened through the wooden shields over the windows. How much time had passed while she was waiting downstairs, lost in a reverie? And how long had she been listening to the Murcutt woman tell her stories?
“The sirens are early tonight,” said Bridget. “We should go, shouldn’t we? I can come back another time. Tomorrow. I have money.”
“No hurry,” said Tillie. She finished her cigarette and lit another. “This place hasn’t been hit yet, so I don’t expect it will be hit now.”
What kind of demented logic is that? thought Bridget nervously.
“So, you want to buy some magic,” said Tillie. “Like your friend, hmm? You want to do your bit?”
“Something like that,” said Bridget vaguely. She had no idea what Tillie was talking about.
“Well, we do those sales through Simony,” said Tillie. “That’s been our policy. And he knows to never, ever give our names to anyone.” Bridget blinked, then felt herself pinned, her limbs locked in place. She looked down in bewilderment and saw that there was no one holding her, but her clothes were furled tight about her. She tried to move but couldn’t.
“What’s going on?” Bridget said, her teeth gritted as she strained against her own sleeves. “What the hell is this?”
“This is Vincent,” said Tillie, gesturing to the man who wasn’t her brother, who’d been silent the whole time. “Known him all my life. My mum delivered him in a little place over in Seven Dials, and as soon as she cut the cord, all the bedclothes started rustling about madly. A bit unsettling. So she kept an eye on him, and it turned out that Vincent can actually control cloth with his mind. That magic you want? It’s literally inside him.”
Yeah, amazing, thought Bridget dryly. And then suddenly she was being forced to stand, her clothes pushing her up out of her seat. Her coat had her arms pinioned against her sides, and her gloves had forced her hands closed. Her skirt was clamped about her legs. Her heavy woolen stockings wouldn’t let her bend her knees. She was trying with all her strength to push against the material, even to rip it, but the force of the grasp had her caught like a fly in amber. She teetered a little, but the clothes actually held her upright, a rigid shell enclosing her.
“When we started this business, I thought people like Vincent would be useful. I like to have aces in the hole,” said Tillie. “When one is uncertain of the situation, it’s best to be subtle. Especially on one’s own premises. No sense in having thugs smash up the furniture when it’s your furniture.” She accepted a fresh cocktail from her brother. “Thank you, Johnny.” She turned back to Bridget. “Oh, yes, he’s very, very good at what he does.” She lifted her glass in a toast to Vincent, then took a thoughtful drink.
“Bill Simony is the link between us and the street when it comes to magic wares. We take that very seriously, and we made sure that he would take it very seriously. Now, maybe you could pay him more than we do, but you can’t put a greater fear in him than we do.”
Want to bet?
“So the only way you could have gotten him to talk is through some extremely hard questioning.” She pursed her lips and regarded Bridget coldly. “If we send someone around to Bill’s flat, what will they find?”
A notable lack of Simony, thought Bridget. If they look closely, they’ll probably find traces of blood on the table. And some of his wares missing. But unless they start burrowing through tons of rubble nearby, they won’t find him.
“Vincent,” Tillie called over her shoulder, “is she carrying any weapons?”
The slim man wrinkled his face for a moment, and Bridget felt a ripple go over her as her clothes tightened and loosened a little. It was unpleasant, intrusive, like someone briskly running his hands over her entire body.
“Knife on her right arm,” he said. “And her left shin.”
“I’ll get those,” said Johnny, the Murcutt brother. He ambled over, drink in hand, and carefully unstrapped the weapons from the furiously immobile Bridget. “Hello, got a very nasty flick knife,” he said, opening her switchblade. “Not what I’d expect from a sweet young thing looking to buy antiques. Not even magic antiques.” He tucked her other blade away in his coat but continued to examine the modifications to the switchblade.
“Now, we want some more information,” said Tillie. “Who are you really? And what do you want?”
Maybe I can still work this situation, Bridget thought. “I didn’t kill Simony,” Bridget said truthfully. “I would never. I could never.” That was much less truthful. “I just want to buy an antique. A special antique.” She paused, then put a tremble in her voice. “A magic antique, yes. And I didn’t feel safe coming to a place like this without some protection. That’s why I had the knives.”
“The sheath is worn,” said the brother, looking up from it. “It’s seen a fair bit of use.” He peered closely at the switchblade. “Can’t tell if this has been used recently. Don’t see any blood in the join.”
“You’re not the kind of person who has been buying these items,” said Tillie. “You need to start telling us something that makes sense unless you want things to get much more unpleasant. Do you want Vincent to start stripping off your clothes? There’s men downstairs who would appreciate the show.”
“There’s also something on her palms,” said Vincent suddenly. “I don’t know what’s going on there.”
“Interesting,” said Tillie. “Show us, please.”
Against her will, Bridget’s coat bent her arms up, and her gloves turned her palms up and spread her fingers. The cloth of the gloves shivered and then tore open, splitting at the center of her wrist and peeling back to the base of her middle fingers. The rainbow shimmer of her palms flared in the bright light of the room, and everyone was silent for a moment.
“What is that, jewelry?” asked Tillie. The gloves peeled back a little more and twisted her hands about so that everyone could see that it was actually her skin.
Shit, thought Bridget. Well, the die is cast now.
“So,” said Tillie finally. “There’s more to you than meets the eye. Although, really, there would almost have to be.”
Bridget rolled her eyes. “Do you have to be rude on top of everything else?” she asked. Her tartness was probably ill-advised, but restraint hadn’t gotten her anywhere good, and the revealing of her palms meant a shift in the dynamic. “I mean, it’s not enough to be a pimping black marketeer trafficking in dangerous relics. You’ve also got to be a snotty bitch?”
Tillie raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You are quite the feisty one, aren’t you? It must be the magic in you. Honestly, magic people are just coming out of the woodwork suddenly,” she mused. “So who are you? What are you? What do you want?”
“I just want to buy some antiques,” said Bridget. “It’s not too late to make this just an easy, profitable transaction.”
“Yes, you just want to buy some antiques. And kill some antiques dealers,” said Tillie scornfully. “You already know more than you should, and you’ve added more to the equation than I like. You’re interesting, but I think we need to end this development. Now.” She stubbed out her cigarette firmly in a gilt ashtray.
“What, you’re just going to kill me?” asked Bridget. It was clear that they were just going to kill her and that they were eminently capable of it. Talking bought her time. Where was Wattleman? The door hadn’t popped open, and there’d been no chance for him to follow her in. Was he still wandering about the pub looking for her? Had he fallen afoul of something in the cellar? Hell, was he just ogling the women in the parlor? Should she scream or would that alert them?
“It’s a pity, it really is,” said Tillie. “I spend a lot of effort and money seeking out magic and people with magic. I have people on the street keeping their eyes out for anything unusual, any opportunity, because they know I’ll pay for it. And then you just come walking in with your lovely rainbow hands.” She shook her head regretfully. “But you’re touching on a subject that’s very delicate, so I really do think that killing you would be best. Vincent, take care of her, please, and see if you can slice off her hands. There’s that taxidermist that comes to visit with Peg, maybe he can do something with them, and we can sell them on.”
Vincent nodded, and Bridget felt her clothes begin to draw themselves in all around her, most tightly at her wrists and her throat. She gasped, and then the collar of her blouse was cinching itself in around her windpipe, cutting off her air. Panic exploded in her, but she couldn’t struggle—her garments held her too closely. Her chest heaved as she tried frantically to draw breath, but all she could do was make choking noises. Her wrists were agony as the cuffs of her coat pinched tighter and tighter.
The wailing of the air-raid siren in the background suddenly seemed louder through the wooden shields on the windows. Bridget’s knees were jelly, but her clothes held her up rigid. As the room wavered in front of her eyes, she could feel her heart punching in her chest, and almost as a counterpoint, she thought she could hear the distant crump of bombs landing on the city.
And then the table with all the bottles flung itself across the room in a horrendous burst of shattering glass and breaking wood, narrowly missing everyone and crashing into a wall. All the people in the room screamed, even Bridget, who managed an explosive gurgling exclamation out of sheer fright. In the shock of the moment, though, she felt the fabric around her relax as one of the flying bottles clipped Vincent and distracted him. She gasped.
“Was that you?” the brother asked Bridget uncertainly.
“I don’t think it was her,” said the sister, looking around, her eyes narrowed. “She screamed as well, genuine shock.”
“And she didn’t move a muscle,” said Vincent. “I would have felt her flex.” As if recalling her, the material abruptly tightened about Bridget again, but this time to restrain, not to throttle.
