The Serpent's Shadow

He also climbed into the passenger compartment without difficulty; more evidence of the doctor's work. 'Exeter Club,' he ordered shortly as the cabman peered down through his hatch for orders, and sat back in a seat still smelling faintly of the cigar of its last occupant, to finish his thoughts.

She's hiding from something, or trying to. Something occult. What in heaven's name it could be, he had no clues. But if she had been hiding from something that wasn't arcane, she certainly wouldn't have the all-too-visible profession, the prosperous establishment in a slightly shabby street, or be spending part of her time doing charitable work at the Fleet Clinic, which had to be in one of the worst areas of London. Physical danger to her there would pass unnoticed in the general nastiness of the neighborhood.

It was clear, clear as the crystal sphere he kept in his own sanctum, that he didn't have nearly enough information about her to even make an educated guess as to what it was she was hiding from. But much as he found her a pleasant, highly intelligent, potential companion, and much as he would like to further their acquaintance, duty came before pleasure, and his duty was to first report to the Council and then to get back to his own shop. The lovely doctor could wait; he had a higher loyalty to the White Lodge and the Lodge Master that came before any considerations of a stranger. He also had a business to take care of, if he wished to continue eating and enjoying his current all-too-material lodgings.

The cab stopped directly in front of the club, which in the light of day was hardly distinguishable from the ordinary upper-class townhouses on either side of it. Enjoying the fact that he could, he took the stairs two at a time, earning himself a raised eyebrow from the daylight version of the Dragon of the Door.

'Good morning, Cedric. Been to see a new sawbones,' he said by way of explanation. 'She's done me a world of good. You ought to have a look in on her.'

'I think not, sir,' Cedric replied with his usual dignity. 'I don't approve of these woman doctors. It's unnatural, sir.'

Peter laughed, when he considered just what Cedric guarded from the intrusions of the outside world, and gave him a mocking little salute as he passed within.

The Council would not be meeting at this moment, of course, but Lord Alderscroft seldom left the premises. Rather than keeping a house in town, he kept a luxurious little set of his own rooms here, and as a consequence, needed only his own personal man, for all his other needs were attended to by the servants attached to the club. Peter sent his card up to Alderscroft's rooms with the cryptic message, 'I've found what you were looking for,' scribbled on the back, and it was a matter of moments before a boy came down with an invitation to dine with His Lordship in one of the private rooms.

The boy conducted him to what was less a 'room' and more of a silk-papered alcove done in unobtrusive mellow blue, a pair of overstuffed leather chairs tucked in beneath a sturdy mahogany table. It earned the name of 'private' because of a pair of blue-velvet curtains that could be drawn across the entrance to conceal the diners within, but so seldom were that there was a hint of dust along the top edges of the heavy velvet bands that tied them back to either side.

Alderscroft was already there but, from the presence of the waiter beside him, had not yet ordered. 'Pork cutlet and new peas, Jerry,' Peter said as he slid into the unoccupied seat. 'Have to get back to the shop before that replacement Almsley conjured up for me frightens off all my customers.'

Alderscroft chuckled, recognizing the joke for what it was, and said only, 'Wellington and the rest, Jerry,' before turning his attention to Peter. The waiter vanished with the discretion of all of the Club servants, leaving behind only a decanter and a pair of glasses. It was too early by Peter's standards for a whiskey, and Alderscroft never touched the stuff so far as Peter knew, but toying with quarter-filled glasses made their conversation look casual and ordinary, should anyone unexpected come past them. Alderscroft poured, and they both toyed, neither raising the glass to his lips.

'Your source . . . isn't what any of us expected,' Peter said, in a quiet voice that only Alderscroft's ears would be able to pick up. 'I'm not sure what to make of her.'

'Her?' Alderscroft's mustache twitched.

'Her. Doctor Maya Witherspoon. Eurasian, and a physician and surgeon.' Quickly, he passed over every scrap of information that he'd managed to glean, both openly and arcanely, from the moment he'd passed through the surgery's front door. Alderscroft didn't interrupt him a second time; he sat back in his chair, with his eyes fixed on Peter, until the narrative, what little there was of it, was over.

At that point, with the Club's usual impeccable timing, Jerry appeared with their luncheons. Neither of them said anything until after Jerry had finished arranging the plates to his satisfaction, and whisked the decanter and covers away.

'A pretty little puzzle,' Alderscroft said at last. 'One wonders what brought her here, when her— race—as well as her profession would have been more acceptable in her own homeland, or on the Continent.'

'She's a British citizen; her father was an Army surgeon. She has every right to be here,' Peter countered, covering his annoyance.

'As you say. Still. Why here? She'd go unremarked in France, or even in America.' Alderscroft paused for a few deliberate bites of his luncheon, as Peter wolfed down his own food in a matter of moments. 'And why now? And why, in the name of heaven, is she so abominably trained, as you claim she is?'