The agents demon, p.4
The Agent's Demon, page 4
Monaghan displays no surprise. “Show him in, Miss Locke, thank you. And you may as well stay. I imagine Agent Turner will want a debrief of this conversation, when she returns.”
I step aside and take up a position in the corner, as unobtrusive as possible. The Secretary gives me a look as he enters, one that says he’s not happy about the audience. He ignores Tiberius.
“Please have a seat, sir.” Pemberton is settled before the sentence is over. The fabric of his jacket pinches over his wide middle. “I assume you’re here to discuss the recent developments in Whitechapel,” Monaghan continues.
“That’s one word for it. I call it cold-blooded murder,” the man says, in disgust. His whiskers practically quiver with the force of his words.
Monaghan had stood at our entrance, and he remains standing, his arms clasped behind his back. “I don’t disagree. How is the department handling the murder?”
“In the normal way,” Pemberton replies. “If you can call anything about this case normal. The CID are working under the Home Office with Commissioner Warren. They’ve begun interviewing the witnesses, but trouble is, there aren’t that many witnesses.”
“I understand the inquest will begin on Monday?”
“That’s right. Baxter’s our coroner.”
The name means nothing to me, but Monaghan nods. “Good man.”
Pemberton snorts. “If he stops complaining long enough to get the job done. As if we can afford a new morgue in the East End. Really, Monaghan, you wouldn’t believe the letters he sends.” He goes on for a while, listing the Coroner’s evidently sensible complaints.
I let my gaze wander. The Legal Secretary grips the chair’s armrest, his thumb moving back and forth against the fine grain of the wood. Nervous, perhaps. Uncomfortable, certainly. I don’t know if that’s because of the topic of conversation, or because Tiberius stands in the opposite corner, staring at the man.
“Look, Monaghan,” Pemberton says, finally. “The Secretary of State has concerns.”
“Concerns?” the professor repeats. I think he does well not to colour the word with disbelief.
“The CID think this murder is related to that other woman.”
“Martha Tabram.”
“Yes, that one. There’s no proof yet, but it seems clear that someone—or some people—are targeting these unfortunates. The Prime Minister wants to ensure that the Home Office are doing as much as possible to assist in the investigation. You know. The usual drill.”
“Of course,” Monaghan replies, politely.
I glance at the brass-plated clock on the far wall. It’s been fifteen minutes and Pemberton still hasn’t come to the point. I stay silent. Just because Monaghan invited me to stay does not mean that he wants or needs my contribution.
“Of course, the Minister asked about your agency,” Pemberton continues. “I told him that you’re assisting the CID in whatever capacity they need. That you will have agents on the case by the end of the day.”
The professor inclines his head. “I will put my best investigative agent on the case.”
“And that—that Hound agent, you still have her?”
My skin prickles with awareness and I hold myself still so as to better hear the answer.
“I will put Agent Turner back on the case immediately, sir.”
“I hope I don’t have to tell you, Monaghan, that your agents need to behave with the utmost discretion. Most of the junior officers in the force have no idea about…” He makes an expansive gesture that incorporates Tiberius and most of the adjacent bookshelf. I think the latter is by accident, although the majority of shelves in this room are laden with lexicons on demons and the paranormal. “Whatever creatures your agents take in with them need to stay out of the public eye.”
“I will ensure that my agents are discreet,” the professor says in a hard, level voice. “It would not assist our investigation if our true nature were discovered.”
Pemberton stands and shakes the professor’s hand. “I’ll leave you to it, then, Monaghan.” He brushes his hand on his trousers as he leaves, less discreetly than he thinks.
I wait for the door to click shut before I speak. “Your orders, sir?”
“Talk to Rayne,” he says. “Have him and Cassius attend the police station tomorrow. And tell me when Turner reports in; I want to know as soon as she’s back.”
“Yes, sir.” I hurry out to find Rayne.
Turner will want my Coldstream Guard report when she returns. As I search, I mentally run through my notes, checking for holes or inaccuracies. I can’t find any, but I resolve to go over them again tonight, to be sure.
I find Rayne in the morning room, a neat little parlour set up to entertain less formal guests. He lounges by a lit fire, smoking. His demon sits in an armchair, flipping through a book.
“Excuse me, Agent Rayne,” I call, stopping in the doorway.
“Yes?” he asks, without getting up.
Cassius abandons whatever book he was pretending to read and watches me. I keep my gaze on Rayne’s face. “There’s been another murder in Whitechapel. The professor would like you to investigate.”
“It’s about time.” He discards his pipe and stands. In his sleek suit, checked in the same colours as the professor’s, he looks as tall as me. He keeps his distance, as if reluctant to test that theory by getting any closer. “Where’s Turner?” he asks.
“She’s in Whitechapel. I’m…not sure where,” I admit, and hate the flush that heats my cheeks. “She had me investigate a lead among the Coldstream regiment. I have a report. I could make you a copy—”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” he interrupts. “What I want you to do is compile a list of brothels in Whitechapel.”
I tilt my chin, regarding him in surprise. “Brothels?”
“And lodging houses, for that matter. Once we have the victim’s identity and whereabouts for the last week, I want to know which of those are closest and which have been operating the longest.”
It’s not a bad idea, but that kind of research will take time, and it’s nothing the police aren’t already doing. “But the regiment—”
“We can’t afford to waste time pursuing vague leads.” Rayne gestures to Cassius, who stands and lopes after him. “You’ll have that report to me by tomorrow?”
That’ll take me all night. I check my irritation and respond in the affirmative.
“Monaghan said you were good,” says Rayne, his brows rising at my response. “I admit I didn’t believe him. Tomorrow, then.” A nod, and he and Cassius are gone before I can react to his backhanded compliment.
I wonder what Turner will think of Rayne dumping her theory for his own and wince. If I start now, I should be able to make a copy of Turner’s report anyway, and still compile the information Rayne needs. I’m used to late nights. I make my way to the library, inwardly drafting a few requests to the Department of Records as I walk.
Chapter five
Someone shakes me awake. I rub my eyes. It’s dark; the oil lantern on my desk is burnt out, without even a wisp of smoke to say it died recently. A piece of paper sticks to my cheek. I must have fallen asleep in the library.
“Hazel-ji.” It’s Maia; her hand is warm on my back.
I scrub my face. “Maia.” My voice is rough. She hands me a glass of water and I drink it gratefully. “What time is it?” I ask, my throat clearer after the drink.
“A little after three.”
I glance at the window: the sky is pitch black. “What’s going on?” I ask, sitting upright.
Maia hesitates. “A body has been found in the West India Docks.”
“Another murder?” The docks are in east London, but not in Whitechapel. What does that mean for our killer?
“Yes, but…you need to go,” Maia says. “You need to help identify the body.”
“Why me? Who do they think it is?” A sick feeling explodes in my stomach. I know the answer. It’s written in the lines of Maia’s face. “It’s Turner, isn’t it?”
Her lips go white where they press together. She nods. I put my fist to my mouth. I saw Turner a few days ago, more alive, more vibrant than ever. She can’t be dead.
“Will you go?”
I nod unsteadily. “What about Lavender? Is she here?”
“I do not know. She has not returned. The professor waits downstairs. Can you—will you come?”
I shake myself. All we know at the moment is that a body has been found. Whether it’s Turner or not is something we’ll have to determine. Then I can worry about what happens next. I just need to hold myself together until we have the facts.
“Yes. Yes, I’ll come.” I get up and straighten my blouse. Maia has a jacket for me, my navy wool with its close-fitting sleeves. I slip it on, grateful for the warmth; even in early September the nights are cool. At the workhouse, I was lucky to find a scrap of blanket to wrap myself in.
Maia leads me downstairs and waits while I relieve myself and splash water on my face. My eyes, when I look at them in the mirror, are red-rimmed, and the freckles dotting my nose and cheeks stand out in coffee-coloured constellations against my pale skin. I do what I can with my hair, pulling the thick blonde strands into a tight bun, and pinch my cheeks for colour. The overall effect is still a woman who’s had far too little sleep, and my broad face reflects my grimace back at me.
We reach the entrance, where Monaghan is standing by the door in a formal black suit and top hat. He must have returned late from his dinner. His arms are straight at his sides, but he rubs his fingers together. Tiberius murmurs something to him and he looks up, sees me.
“Locke,” he says. “I’m glad you’re here. This isn’t going to be easy, if it’s true.”
Maia hands me a bonnet and I jam it on over my bun. “Who found the body?” I ask, trying to think in terms of what and how and why. Not who. Not yet.
“The dock workers.” Monaghan holds the door open for me and I emerge into a chilly breeze. Smog sits above the streets despite the wind, blanketing the city. A coach is waiting, and I spare a thought to be grateful that Monaghan has handled all of these details. I couldn’t, not with the way my brain seems untethered from my body.
I climb in first, and Monaghan follows, then Tiberius. I try to think of questions, of what I need to know. My mind is blank. It’s all I can do to grip the door of the coach and watch the cobblestones roll by as we make our way east through the city. The streets are quiet save for the occasional shout or loud conversation. As we move further east, the noise increases, and lights spill onto the street from pubs that are still open. We turn off a main road and drive towards the soft rush of the Thames.
The closer we get to the docks, the more I think this must be a mistake. Turner is too quick to be surprised by some thug in the middle of the night. Lavender is too experienced to let her agent be caught by some demon. This isn’t Turner’s body. This is another Whitechapel victim. It’s someone with Turner’s hair, or a woman who shares the same name. It’s not my Turner.
I hear the clang of metal and the cries of the dock. We pull up next to a large warehouse on the bank of the Thames. Black water ripples against the dock walls.
I don’t wait for the driver to open the doors. As soon as we stop, I jump out, taking a deep breath. The air is rife with the stench of fish and fuel and the smell of metal.
A handful of policemen loiter at the doors to the warehouse, barring the way against a group of workers. Monaghan gets out of the coach, moving slowly. He sees the police and exhales.
“Come, then,” he mutters. “Let’s see what needs to be seen.” He strides towards them, his greatcoat fluttering behind him. I follow him, my gaze on the warehouse.
“Sir,” one of the policemen says, touching the brim of his helmet. “You’re the professor?”
“Yes, I’m Monaghan.” In the surroundings of the dock warehouse, the professor’s shiny top hat and spotless white cravat should look out of place, but somehow, he manages to look as though he spends every evening striding through the dark alleys of London. “You’re the officer in charge?”
“Aye. One of the workers found the body and called us in. We found this on her person.” The man holds out a thick leather wallet and my breath escapes me.
Monaghan takes it and opens the bifold to reveal a slip of white card. The writing on it is blurred, washed out, but the stamp of the agency and the Home Office seal is stark on the white paper.
“Thought it best to wait until you got here, sir, before alerting the station,” the officer says.
“Yes. You did the right thing, Constable.” He puts it away with shaking hands. “Can you show us to the body?”
The man hesitates and looks at me. “I don’t think it’s a sight for a lady, sir, with respect.”
“Miss Locke will accompany me to identify the body. If you please, Constable. The night is growing late, and I have much work to do.”
The tone in his voice has the constable snapping to attention. “This way, sir.”
He leads us into the warehouse. Behind us, the dock workers mutter amongst themselves, a mixture of English and Mandarin. I don’t catch much, and I don’t try to. I don’t want to know what the body looked like when they found it, especially if it is—
But it won’t be Turner. It won’t.
We weave between huge crates and thick coils of rope. The river runs into inlets inside the warehouse, each one big enough to house a large chug or a small steamer. Lamps dangle from wooden beams far over my head. Their light illuminates a flash of movement as a rat scurries across my path.
“I should warn you,” the constable says, over his shoulder, “my boys had to fish the body out of the water. And it looks like it rolled along the bottom of the Thames for a mile or two first.”
God. Please let it not be Turner.
We make our way to a shadowed corner of the warehouse next to an inlet of dark water. The constable’s steps falter, and he rolls his shoulders before continuing. I tuck my fingers into fists, squeeze hard.
The officer steps to one side, and the body’s there, lying beside the water. I gasp, throttling the sound quickly. It’s torn up, legs ripped from feet to thighs, and one arm bent so unnaturally it has to be broken. Black ink marks her collarbone with a small flower I don’t recognise. Its face is turned towards us, towards me. I put my hand to my throat, will myself not to vomit. One of her eyes is partially eaten and oozing blood, and the other stares out of a face scarred by jagged tears. But even broken, I recognise it.
“That’s her.” Monaghan’s voice seems to come from a great distance. “Doctor Phillips, I assume?”
I drag my gaze from the body and see a man I hadn’t noticed before. He wears a thigh-length coat and a tall hat. He and Monaghan shake hands.
“What can you tell me about the cause of death?”
“I’d say she hit her head and fell into the river about three days ago,” the doctor replies, glancing down at the body—at Turner. “No obvious signs of attack, and nothing like what we’ve seen in the East End. She probably fell.”
“That’s impossible,” I say, quietly. “Not Turner.”
The doctor looks at me, frowning, then at the constable. The officer shrugs, a non-verbal, I warned her.
“Is it possible that someone could have pushed her?” Monaghan asks.
“I’ve only been here twenty minutes,” the doctor replies, sharply. “You’ll know more once I’ve done the autopsy. Until then, anything’s possible.”
“I understand. I’d appreciate it if the autopsy could be held discreetly. I don’t think we need reports of another body in the papers, especially if the death is accidental.”
“I’ll have the body taken to a City morgue,” Phillips replies. “It won’t be connected to the Whitechapel murders.”
“Thank you, doctor.” There’s another shaking of hands and a glint of silver crosses palms.
The constable rubs the back of his neck. “The cart is outside, doctor. I’m sorry to rush you, but we’ve got a freighter due in from Hong Kong any minute.”
“We need a few minutes alone with the body.”
They stare at him. “Excuse me?” the officer asks.
Monaghan gazes at them coolly. “My colleagues and I need to make our own examination. We won’t be long.” His tone doesn’t leave room for argument, and Tiberius circles up behind them, escorting them towards the doors. When they’re underway, he returns to us.
“Can you sense anything?” I ask the demon. “Any traces of her killer?”
He gazes at me. “That is not my skill,” he replies, in his low, gravelly voice.
“Right.” Even if Tiberius was a Hound, the time Turner’s body has spent in the river would have washed away any traces of a demon.
“What about the spell?” Monaghan asks him. “Is Lavender still alive?”
Another icy shock. Lavender. If she isn’t here, or dead alongside Turner, then could she be all right?
“I cannot tell,” he says. “The spell is broken, but I don’t know if she lives.”
“She’d go back to the agency, wouldn’t she?” She must, it’s the only place she could go.
“If Turner’s been dead for three days,” Monaghan says, glancing at her body, “Lavender should have returned by now.”
Trembling, I wipe my mouth. “So, what do we do? How do we find her?” I pray she’s alive. I can’t lose Turner and Lavender in the same night.
Monaghan looks at me, and the swooping feeling in my stomach goes cold. “If she is alive, we can pull her back by recasting the summons ritual.”
When an agent dies and the demon does not, a transfer ritual has to take place. It’s cast by the agent’s apprentice as part of the ceremony to make them a full-fledged agent, just like Jacob did for Maximus.
“Sir.” I have nothing else to say, and just stand, dumbly, waiting for orders.
He turns to face me. The only sounds for a moment are the murmur of the water and the scuttle of rats. “Miss Locke,” he says. I straighten. “You have been an apprentice for five years and an agency member for nearly seven. But I’m obliged to ask: are you sure that becoming an agent is what you want?”
