Timeless

repasts.

Biffy had never really looked at Floote before. One didn’t, as a rule, examine one’s domestic staff too closely. They might think it interfering. Floote was the perfect servant, always there when needed, always knowing what was desired, sometimes before the sensation registered in his employers.

Professor Lyall said softly, “Mr. Floote, might we have a moment of your time?”

The butler looked up at them. A nondescript man with a nondescript face, he could outdo Professor Lyall at his own game. Biffy noticed for the first time how weather-beaten Floote’s skin was and that there were deep wrinkles about his nose and mouth and the corners of his eyes. He noticed that the butler’s shoulders, once ramrod straight, were beginning to curve with age. Floote had acted as valet to Alessandro Tarabotti, so far as Biffy knew, since Alexia’s father first appeared in the Bureau’s official registry. Floote had worked for Alexia after that. He must be, thought Biffy, well over seventy years of age! He’d never even thought to ask.

“Of course, sirs,” said Floote. There was some wariness in his tone.

They adjourned into the back parlor, leaving the cook and the housekeeper to finish the menu without Floote’s input. Floote did not seem happy with this arrangement.

Professor Lyall gestured with one of his fine white hands, his vulpine face pinched. “Please, take a seat, Mr. Floote.”

Floote would do nothing of the kind. To sit in front of his betters? Never! Biffy knew the man’s character well enough to know that. So did Lyall, of course, but the Beta was trying to make the man uncomfortable.

Lyall asked the questions while Biffy simply crossed his arms and observed the butler’s behavior. He had been trained in just such a skill by Lord Akeldama. He watched the way Floote’s eyebrows moved slightly, the dilation of his pupils, and the shifting of weight in his knees. But very little changed about the butler during the course of the questioning, and Floote’s responses were always abbreviated. Either the man had nothing to hide, or Biffy was in the presence of a master whose skills far exceeded his own powers of observation.

“Sandy was in Egypt at least three times, according to his journals, but he makes few comments as to his business there. What happened the first time?”

“Nothing of consequence, sir.”

“And the second?”

“He met Leticia Phinkerlington, sir.”

“Alexia’s mother?”

Floote nodded.

“Yes, but what else did he do in Egypt? He can’t have gone merely to court a girl.”

No response came from Floote.

“Can you tell us who he was working for, at the very least?”

“The Templars, sir. It was always the Templars, right up until he broke with them.”

“And when was that?”

“After you and he… sir.”

“But he went to Egypt after that. I remember his going. Why? Who was he working for then? It wasn’t us, was it? I mean, England or BUR. I know Queen Victoria tried to recruit him. She offered him the position of muhjah. He turned it down.”

Floote blinked at Professor Lyall.

The Beta began to get a little frustrated.

“Floote, you must give us something. Unless… Are you, too, sealed into silence under the Clandestine Act?”

Floote nodded the tiniest of nods.

“You are! Of course, that would make perfect sense. You couldn’t talk to any of us, not even Lady Maccon, because we are all enemy agents under the terms of that act. It prevents supernaturals and their associates, including preternaturals, from access to certain scientific information. Or that’s the rumor. I don’t know the particulars, of course.”

Floote only gave one of his little nods again.

“So Sandy discovered something in Egypt so severe it was included under the act even though it was outside the homeland. For the good of the Commonwealth.”

Floote did not react.

Professor Lyall seemed to think they would get nothing more useful out of the butler. “Very well, Floote, you may return to your menu planning. I’m certain Cook has made a botch of it without your supervision.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Floote with a hint of relief before gliding quietly out.

“What do you think?” Lyall turned to Biffy.

Biffy shrugged. He thought that Floote still had more information. He also thought that Floote didn’t want to tell them, even if he could. He thought there was something else going on—that it wasn’t just acts of parliament and games of politics and science. He thought that Lyall would want to believe the best of Lady Maccon’s father, no matter how unworthy the gentleman. If Alessandro Tarabotti had been doing good deeds during any one of his visits to Egypt, he, Sandalio de Rabiffano, would eat his own cravat. Under the Templars, the OBO, or his government, Mr. Tarabotti was a nasty piece of work.

Instead of any of these things, Biffy said, “Mr. Tarabotti broke with the Templars out of love, not principle. Or so I thought. But you would understand the man’s character far better than I.”

Professor Lyall hung his head and looked like he might be hiding a small smile. “I see your point. You think that something more than a major act of parliament would be required to influence Sandy.”

“Don’t you?”

“So while Floote may be obeying the law, something else was keeping Sandy silent about Egypt for those few years we had together before he died?”

Biffy only raised his eyebrows, allowing the Beta time to think through what he had known of his former lower.

Lyall nodded slowly. “You are probably right.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN Wherein Alexia Loans Mr. Tumtrinkle Her Gun

The Tunstells had been encouraged by Chancellor Neshi to perform an encore of The Death Rains of Swansea at a local theater for the benefit of the public. The theater was open air, much in the manner of Ancient Rome. Alexia was persuaded to attend and endure a third viewing of the dratted spectacle in an effort to distract her from her worries. Lord Maccon was still off in his huff when they departed for the theater.

The play was as much admired by the masses as it had been by the vampire hive. Or at least Lady Maccon believed it was much admired. It was difficult to determine with any accuracy, when praise was heaped upon the theatricals in a tongue entirely alien to all. However, the approbation did seem genuine. Lady Maccon, patroness, waited for Mr. and Mrs. Tunstell afterward, but so, too, did a collection of excited Egyptians, eager to touch the hero and heroine of the play, press small gifts into their hands, and in one extreme case kiss the hem of Ivy’s gown.

Ivy Tunstell took such accolades in stride as her due, nodding and smiling. “Very kind” and “Thank you very much” and “Oh, you really shouldn’t have” were her pat responses, although no one understood her any more than she them. Alexia thought, if she was reading body language properly, that the locals were convinced that the Tunstells’ Acting Troupe a la Mode represented some species of prophesiers of the American tent-preacher variety. Even the secondary actors, like Mr. Tumtrinkle, seemed to have gained unexpected notoriety and companion acclaim.

Alexia congratulated her friends on yet another fine performance. And, since it looked like otherwise they might never leave, the group wended their way back to the hotel on foot, followed by a collective band of