“Excellent.” She smiled at him. “Then I’ll be seeing you in a few hours.”
He smiled back, his face surprisingly warm for a moment, then turned and headed briskly down the street, shoulders squared for action.
She’d known him for only a few hours, but there was something reliable about him. And she had to admit that the way that he’d said he’d do “his share” of the work was a well-balanced way of putting it. No attempts to do her share as well as his own, no trying to wriggle out of it . . .
Was she actually starting to like him? It wouldn’t be hard. Kai was likeable. She’d enjoy sharing a mission with someone she liked. It’d make a nice change.
Irene drew her veil partly across her face to shield her mouth and nose from the smoke and steam in the air. Most of the other women in the street wore veils across the lower parts of their faces too, ranging from filmy drifts of silk for the better off to thick wads of cotton or linen for the poor. Men wore their scarves drawn up over their mouths. She wondered what they did in summer.
She scanned the newspaper’s front page.
LATEST DEVELOPMENTS IN WYNDHAM MURDER CASE, it read.
Our correspondent informs us that the police have made great progress and expect an arrest at any moment.
So the odds were that the police were still baffled. Good. It’d be difficult to extract the target document from a police station, if they did manage to catch the cat burglar and lock her up.
Irene rolled the newspaper up, scanning the street. The local type of taxi-cab was black and small and seemed to be a combination of old-fashioned hansom carriage and electric car. With some determined waving she managed to signal one over, and directed the driver to take her to the Hyde Park Corner Underground railway station, a couple of streets away from Lord Wyndham’s residence.
Her target was in an expensive street, with marble frontages and clean-scrubbed gutters, unusual in this grime-stained London. The place stood dark and empty, in contrast to the houses on either side, both already lit up against the afternoon dimness. With practised experience, Irene made her way round to the servants’ entrance at the back.
It was locked.
She flicked a quick glance behind her. Although this back alley was far more active than the wide front street, nobody was currently in view—or, more important, within earshot—of her. She put her lips next to the lock and commanded in the Language, “Servants’ entry door-lock, sealed and closed, now open!”
The tumblers of the lock shivered and clicked open with gratifying vigour. The door shuddered and the latch came undone, letting the door swing open into a dark passage.
Irene walked through the servants’ corridors into the main part of the house. The marks of the police search were obvious: drawers still hung open; there were piles of discarded linen and clothing everywhere and dirty boot marks on the luxurious crimson carpets. The place hadn’t been tidied, either, after the “rude interruption” to the dinner party. Dirty plates and glasses were piled in stacks or left lying on polished tables, and ashtrays were full to overflowing with discarded cigar and cigarette ends.
Despite searching with a certain horrified curiosity, she couldn’t find any secret torture chambers or rooms containing strange vampiric devices. She did find that the books displayed prominently in every chamber had been dusted, but the spines were pristine and uncreased. They had the sad, untouched air of literature paraded for display purposes but never actually used.
It was profoundly depressing.
Wyndham’s study was a large room with far too much pseudo-Degas artwork on the walls; a whole dozen pictures of women in ballet skirts showing off their legs. Thick crimson curtains matched the thick crimson carpet and the dark wood panelling. Her footsteps were silent.
The heavy oak desk was bare of papers, and all the drawers were locked. She could open them later if she had to. A deep score mark marred the desk’s surface. Probably from the removal of Wyndham’s head. Bloodstains had soaked into the wood, spilling outwards from the line of the cut. She didn’t think they’d come out. The big chair behind the desk (ebony with black leather cushions—how vulgar) had been pushed over at some point. It had been repositioned but had clearly been lying long enough to leave a dent in the plush carpet.
Blood had soaked into the carpet too, but it was barely visible, a slightly darker brown amid the rich, thick crimson.
The glass display-case in the corner could have held the Grimm book, Irene decided. For one thing, the case was sealed with all manner of complicated locks, catches, and alarms. For another thing, it was now empty.
Irene turned thoughtfully, looking around the room. Wyndham was the sort of man who would have needed a safe, and where better to keep it than in his study. She would have bet money on it. Now she just had to try to find it.
Unsurprisingly, the biggest pseudo-Degas hid the safe.
She swung the painting back and examined the heavy iron door. Combination lock. Well, she could always talk it open, but . . .
She heard quick approaching footsteps on the main stairs. It must be a man; a woman wouldn’t stride like that, not in these skirts. But there wasn’t supposed to be anyone in the house! Perhaps another burglar? What marvellous timing.
She quickly concealed the safe and retreated behind one of the thick curtains. She needn’t fear discovery within its folds. Merely suffocation.
The door swung open with a heavy creak. Clearly the intruder wasn’t bothering with caution. She waited until she heard the sound of the painting swinging back before she carefully peered round the edge of the curtain.
The man had his back to her. He was of above-average height, with well-squared shoulders
