Peppermint and Pentacles_A Steampunk Fairy Tale Read online

  I knocked on the door. “Bonjour, Grand-mère.”

  The singing stopped, and a moment later, the door opened wide. “Clemeny, oh Clemeny, oh Clemeny, oh Clemeny, oranges and lemons, come in, girl,” she said, hugging me so tightly that I could barely breathe. “Good lord, you’re skin and bones. Come inside.”

  Grinning, I entered behind her, then closed and locked the door. I took a moment to check the locks. I had additional security installed on her flat after the incident with Fenton. I doubted anyone would ever try to bother my grand-mère again, but just in case. After all, wolves had uncanny noses and sharp minds when it came to hunting for advantage against their enemies. Fenton had gambled and lost. But still.

  “I was just thinking about you this morning. I will go to the chocolatier and get some good French chocolate—even Belgium is okay, just not this English sawdust—and make us a Bûche de Noël for Christmas. And what do you want? Oysters? Ham? You know, I hate that disgusting English plum pudding, but you like it, so I can make some and choke it down just so you can have it, if you want. But you need to eat. Clemeny! Oranges and lemons. You’re too thin. I don’t like this work you are doing. You’re not eating. Please, tell me you have found a man. Have you? And what is this?” she asked, looking at my bags.

  Chuckling, I handed her the parcels. “Claret, bread, and cookies,” I said.

  “No cheese?”

  “I forgot.”

  “It’s no matter. I have some Brie cheese—not much mind you—but I will go today and get us some nice Camembert. When will you be coming for Christmas? Why don’t you come stay with me? Your room at Missus Coleridge’s is too cold. Unless you have a man wooing you. Then you must attend to that. Sit, sit,” she said, leading me to a seat at the table.

  She sat down across from me then and looked pointedly at me, lowering her reading spectacles to the bridge of her nose. Her sharp blue eyes looked piercingly at me. “Tell me about this man. Who is he? Tell your grand-mère.”

  Unbidden, the image of Agent Hunter in his perfectly tailored suit crossed my mind. “A colleague at work,” I blurted out, hoping to end this line of questioning.

  Grand-mère nodded. “So, Eliza kept her world then. Mmmm,” she mused, pursing her lips so tightly together it looked like it hurt.

  Every night, I hunted werewolves, chased them across the rooftops of London while firing silver bullets and wielding a silver blade. I never felt rattled. But sitting here, under Grand-mère’s steely gaze, my hands started to shake, and my heart slammed in my chest.

  “Very well,” she said, her eyes softening, her lips re-forming into a smile. “Bring him here. I will decide.” She patted my hands. “Now, I will make some tea and prepare us something to eat, and you will tell me why you are here.”

  I exhaled deeply.

  Grand-mère chuckled, her back turned to me.

  “What have you heard about the disappearances? Two children from Saint Clement’s Orphanage? Then, another boy, Tobias Brown. And a girl, from further down the Strand, Emily Stratton.”

  “Oh, yes. That’s big news around here. All the parents have the children practically locked in the house like prisoners, especially after what happened to Harry Alperstein.”

  Harry Alperstein? Digging in my bag, I pulled out the dossier and looked through my notes. There was no mention of Harry Alperstein. Thus far, there had been four abductions, but Harry was not on the list.

  “And who is Harry Alperstein?”

  “Harry Alperstein is the bank clerk’s son. He was abducted from a locked room without a window right under his parents’ noses. The Bow Street Runners have been looking into it, but nothing so far. Clemeny, are you on this case? Is that why you’re here? They don’t think those werewol—”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Thank goodness,” she exclaimed, her hand to her heart. “It’s bad enough thinking someone abducted those children, but to think it might have been those…creatures. That’s more than a person can handle.”

  “True,” I said.

  “The Browns’ flat is just up the Strand. Their child was the first to go missing. You should start with them. And Pastor Rosenberry will see you, I’m sure,” she said as she set a plate in front of me. Her voice did not sound so confident. Pastor Rosenberry, who was there when I’d been discovered that cold morning twenty-five years ago, had never cared for me.

  I looked down at the plate. Freshly baked bread, Camembert, sliced apple, thin-sliced salted ham, and a handful of nuts.

  My heart warmed, I smiled at my grand-mère. “Merci,” I told her softly.

  “De rien,” she replied, pinching my cheek.

  Pushing her own plate aside, set her elbows on the table, and leaned in. “Now, tell me more about this man.”

  Chapter 3: Tidings of Comfort

  Someone was striking the keys on a pianoforte sharply when I arrived at the door of the Browns’ flat. I tried to shake off the terrible sense of guilt I felt having just concocted an entire relationship between Agent Hunter and me for the benefit of Grand-mère Louvel’s curiosity. If Agent Hunter ever got wind of the elaborate love affair between him and me that I’d just invented, I’d die of humiliation. But for now, the tale had done the job. The only problem that remained was she’d invited him to Christmas dinner and would not take no for an answer. But that was a problem for later.

  “Again,” a woman’s voice called.

  From inside, the soft voice of a young lady intoned:

  God bless you merry, gentlemen,

  Let nothing you dismay,

  For Jesus Christ our Saviour

  Was born on Christmas day.

  To save poor souls from Satan's power,

  When they had gone astray.

  O tidings of comfort and joy

  The singer had such a sweet voice, I hated to interrupt. Hearing a hesitation before the songbird restarted after striking the wrong note, I knocked on the door.

  A moment later, a harried-looking woman answered. Her clothing was disheveled; her brown hair, which had been pulled back into a bun, had loose strands that flew all over the place. When she opened the door, she gave me a hard look, eyeing my bright red cape. Her eyes narrowed. Most people in London had at least heard rumor of the Red Cape Society. Whenever something unusual occurred in the city, we were not far behind. My red cape often made people eye me warily, as if by seeing me they were admitting to something they’d rather not acknowledge. In truth, most Londoners wouldn’t want to know what was really creeping around in our city. But they suspected something. The look on the woman’s face spoke volumes. It was that same mixed look of alarm, denial, and fear.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Hello. Would it be possible for me to speak to Mister or Missus Brown?”

  “I’m Missus Brown.”

  “Very good. I’m here about your son. I have just a few questions. Can I come in?”

  Someone banged on the keys of the piano then footsteps retreated from the room.

  “And you are?” she asked, eyeing the red cloak once more.

  “Perhaps you will remember me. I’m Clemeny Louvel. I used to live near here. My superiors at the agency”—usually a vague enough description to get people to talk—“asked me to look into your son’s disappearance.”

  “Clemeny Louvel? Madame Louvel’s granddaughter?”

  “Uh, yes. Since I’m from the area, the agency thought it would be best to send me.”

  Missus Brown nodded then stepped aside. “Please. Come in.”

  The little room was tidy and decorated for the upcoming holiday. Since Queen Victoria had started the fashion of decorating a spruce tree and keeping it in the house—a tradition I still didn’t quite understand—many commoners had copied the fashion. A tree decorated with candles, gold and silver balls, and red bow, sat in one corner. The room smelled…woodsy. But it was also hot inside for which I was grateful. My fingers were still freezing.

  “Have a seat, Miss Louvel,”
Missus Brown said. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  She retreated to the back of the house, where I heard her instructing someone to prepare tea. I eyed the room as I waited. A modest income afforded them some luxuries. The furniture was relatively new. The décor leaned toward the fashionable. As I eyed over the coatrack in the entryway, I spotted coats for a young lady, an adult female, and a young boy.

  Missus Brown returned. “It’s quite chilly outside. My daughter will prepare us some tea.”

  “Thank you. I know you have talked to the local authorities, but would you mind telling me about your son? When did he go missing? What happened?”

  “It was a week ago. We had returned late in the afternoon. We’d gone to church, stopped by a friend’s home for lunch, then made a stop at the grocer. When we returned, I asked the children to attend to their chores. My daughter, Arabella, was in the dining room setting the table for dinner. I was in the kitchen. Toby…well, he was in the room he shares with his sister. We heard a commotion in the back, and when we got there, the window was open and Toby was gone. Arabella crawled out the window, thinking Toby was playing on the rooftop again, but there was no one there. Someone took him through the window.”

  “And how old is your son?”

  “Seven.”

  “Does he often play on the rooftop?”

  Missus Brown shifted nervously. “He is a very spirited child. We have trouble keeping him from climbing on things.”

  Just then, a pretty girl entered. She carried a tray upon which sat two steaming cups of tea.

  “Sugar?” she asked.

  “No, thank you. Honey and lemon, perhaps?”

  The girl nodded, her head full of blonde ringlets bouncing along with her. She set the tray down, added a slice of lemon and a dollop of honey to my cup, gave it a good stir, then handed the drink to me in the most mannerly of fashions.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She bobbed a little curtsey, served her mother, then sat down beside Missus Brown.

  “Was anyone else at home at the time?” I asked then took a sip of tea. The blend was delicious, tart with flowery undertones, and perfectly brewed.

  Missus Brown shook her head. “My husband had gone to visit a neighbor who was feeling ill. My husband is the apothecary, you see.”

  “Ahh,” I said then nodded. “And your son…do you know what he was doing in the room? Napping? Reading?”

  Missus Brown looked into her teacup. She took a deep breath then said, “He was sulking. I didn’t permit him to eat cake before his dinner, so he’d worked himself up into a tantrum and then went off to sulk.”

  I smiled gently. “All children behave so at times. As do many adults.”

  It sounded to me like Tobias Brown was a bit of a handful. Of course, he was only a handful, not a hellion like Princess Helena, Her Majesty’s youngest child. The princess’s bad temper was the gossip of London. If one wanted to see a picture of devilry, there was no better place to look. But Tobias sounded simply like a spirited boy. No wonder his mother looked half-guilty. She’d probably wished someone would take the rambunctious boy off her hands for a moment.

  “May I see the room?” I asked.

  Missus Brown nodded then led me to the back, Arabella following discreetly behind us.

  The little room had two neatly made beds, matching trunks at the end. Arabella’s bed had a pretty doll sitting on it. On the other bed sat a wooden duck with wheels. Suspended from the ceiling was a model of the airship Stargazer. I smiled when I saw it. It was a good likeness. From what I could tell, nothing was out of place. The window faced the side of the building. The building next to it was lower. Someone could have climbed into the window, snagged the child, then went back out. Or, the child had climbed out, and something had happened.

  Bracing myself for the cold, I opened the window. I slipped outside and onto the rooftop. I walked to the pinnacle of the neighboring roof and looked down the Strand. I scanned the rooftops. Some of the clay tiles on the roof were cracked as if something heavy had passed this way. A large man, perhaps? I frowned then looked over the side of the building. Too high to jump. Nothing to climb down. Whoever had taken the boy had carried him. But to where?

  “The grounds all around were checked?” I called back to Missus Brown who was leaning out the window.

  “Yes. The rooftops and the ground below. No sign of him.”

  I turned and stared across the city. How many nights had I chased the packs across these rooftops? I cast a glance toward Tinker’s Tower which loomed large on the horizon. Even now someone was probably planning mayhem, and I was not there to keep them in check. Instead, I was chasing a kidnapping, a job better suited for a different branch of Her Majesty’s law enforcement.

  I crossed the rooftop then climbed back in through the window.

  Once inside, I smoothed down my clothes. In my line of business, it didn’t pay to go around wearing a dress. I was, in fact, wearing the same leather pants favored by female airship jockeys. My attire, it seemed, was not lost on Arabella, who stared at me in fascination.

  I closed the window. “I have some other people to talk to. Is there anything else you noticed that day? Someone following you? Does your husband have any enemies, perhaps? Anything odd?”

  Missus Brown shook her head. “No, no one. And my husband is beloved in this neighborhood.”

  “Very well then. If you don’t mind, I’ll show myself out.”

  Missus Brown nodded. “Of course. And thank you.”

  I headed back down the hallway. I needed to let Hunter know this was a dead-end. This assignment needed to be pitched back for another division to look into. This was not our beat.

  “But Mother, shouldn’t we tell her about the pear?”

  Oh, hell’s bells. Here we go.

  I looked back at the girl who was standing in the hall. “Pear?”

  “It’s nothing, really,” Missus Brown said.

  I looked at the girl.

  Arabella cleared her throat, took a deep breath to firm her resolve, then said, “After my brother was taken, we found a pear on his bed.”

  “A pear?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Like the kind you eat?”

  “Yes. It was yellow-colored. Golden, even. Like it had just been picked. It may be nothing. We’d been to the grocer earlier that day. Tobias may have lifted it without us seeing. He has a terrible habit of picking up things that do not belong to—”

  “Arabella!”

  “Well, it’s true, Mother. If there is anyone who might understand that it’s unusual, it’s her,” she said, glancing at the red cloak. “Maybe he picked it up from outside. I don’t know. But still. It was strange.”

  I raised an eyebrow at her. “Indeed. That is noteworthy. Thank you for telling me.”

  Arabella cast a satisfied sidelong glance at her mother then bobbed a curtsey toward me.

  “I’ll call again soon,” I said then headed back out.

  A pear. A pear? Now, a pear might be a nothing—something little Tobias filched—or it could be a something. Odd indeed.

  With that, I headed back outside and headed toward the grocer.

  Time to go pear shopping.

  Chapter 4: Saint Clement Danes

  As I walked down the street, the bells on Saint Clement Danes let out their familiar chime. Though the nursery rhyme that had the lines, “oranges and lemons say the bells on Saint Clement’s” referred to the other Saint Clement’s church in the old City of London, Saint Clement Danes had also adopted a similar chime. Oranges and lemons, Grand-mère’s favorite proclamation, filled the air.

  Having left the grocer, who assured me he’d not had any pears this last month, I headed toward the Saint Clement Charity School and Orphanage from which two children had also gone missing.

  I walked up the chapel steps, the feeling of dread filling my belly. Grand-mère Louvel had taken me in the moment she’d found me on the steps of the church that col
d winter morning, and I’d spent my life attending Saint Clement Danes. But walking up those steps, knowing my mother had left her infant child right there in a basket, always filled me with terrible loathing and sadness. I inhaled deeply then pushed my breath out. I needed to finish this case as soon as possible.

  I pushed open the door to the church and entered. The domed ceiling was white and trimmed with gold fixtures, including the faces of cherubic angels. Light poured in from the tall domed windows. The pews were polished to a gleam and had been decorated with pine boughs and red velvet bows. The area around the altar had been similarly decorated for the holiday season. The place smelled of pine, old books, and aged upholstery. I cast a glance at the pipe organ on the balcony above the entrance. I had spent most of my youth sitting beside that organ, listening to Grand-mère play.

  Pastor Rosenberry, who had been at the front of the church near the altar, looked up when I entered. His brow furrowed. He turned and walked to meet me.

  “Miss Louvel,” he said quietly so not to disturb an older woman and a gentleman who sat praying. “It’s good to see you.”

  Civil as always. Fake civil, but civil. “You too, Pastor.”

  “What can I do for you? Is Madame Louvel well?” he asked. His eyes scanned my mangled face. Didn’t he know it was rude to stare? Usually, such a gaze made me feel self-conscious, but with Pastor Rosenberry, I just felt annoyed.

  “Oh yes, and in full form today. I am here, in fact, at the request of my agency. They have asked me to investigate the disappearances.”

  Father Rosenberry’s eyebrows shot up so quickly that I thought they might fly off his brow. “You? They’ve sent you to investigate?”

  I clenched my jaw. Pastor Rosenberry’s belief that women should be gentle, meek, prayerful, and silent had never set well with my general nature. I recalled him being less than impressed when I’d joined the society. Seems he was still of the opinion that I might have better served the world bearing children and singing hymns. “Yes. Me,” I said, hoping he didn’t miss the sharpness of my retort.