Wesley looked up from his desk, over the reading glasses perched on his nose.
“The earl’s car has arrived,” said Ned. “I’ve readied your coat.”
“A light fall one?” Wesley said dryly. “Or are you still angry about the painting, and chose something heavy and stifling so I’ll be sweating like a pig?”
“That would be beneath your footman,” Ned said, lofty and probably lying.
A few minutes and much snapping later, Wesley had an appropriate coat and was approaching the Rolls Royce idling at his curb.
Blanshard’s driver opened the backseat door for Wesley. “The name’s Mercier, sir.” The man was shorter than Wesley, with dark brown hair and pale skin, a French surname but an English accent. “Jack, if you prefer. At your service.”
“I just want quiet,” Wesley snapped, climbing into the backseat, which was unusually warm.
“Of course, sir—”
“It’s not quiet if you’re speaking, is it?”
Mercier opened his mouth, then closed it with a snap and shut the door, mercifully without saying anything more.
Wesley stretched his legs out behind the passenger seat and folded his arms, watching as the driver walked around the car. A moment later, Mercier was behind the wheel, and the car glided away from the curb and headed out of Kensington.
Sebastian spent several hours at Molly’s boarding house. The matron had relaxed theno menhouse rule for the day to allow the police officers in, giving him a chance to talk quietly to Winnie, Ada, Nellie, and Violet, the women who rented the rooms near the victim. None of them had much to add, unfortunately. It seemed Olive was often forced to work late for Lord and Lady Thornton, and sometimes grudgingly stayed overnight in the servants’ quarters. No one had realized anything was amiss when she didn’t return—at least, until her body was found in the alley after midnight.
It was fully dark by the time Sebastian took the train back to Liverpool Street Station. He hunched his shoulders against the night’s already-dropping temperatures as he bought some scraps for the strays from the meat man’s cart.
The two young orange-and-white cats were sniffing the pub’s trash cans when he arrived. This time, they followed him down to the gallery’s back door. Sebastian put the food out and lingered in the alley, talking soft Spanish to the half-grown strays until they came over to eat. The bolder kitten even wove between his calves, letting Sebastian pet her as he voiced his grief and frustration that a paranormal killer was still loose and he didn’t know where to find them.
Finally, Sebastian straightened. He’d eat something himself, then go back out, maybe back to Kilburn, to sweep the alley with magic if it was finally empty in the night, or to the train stations to investigate, but at least he’d go out somewhere to do something.
Upstairs, he lit his stove to warm the room, and began heating the contents of a can of spaghetti in a pan that needed a better scrubbing than he could give in a bathroom sink.
He’d just gotten it bubbling when he heard Zhang’s voice. “Sebastian, are you here? Please be here, I have no idea where else you might be if you’re not.”
Sebastian looked over his shoulder. Zhang’s glowing astral projection was in the middle of the room, and he was addressing Sebastian’s table, a few feet over.
“I’m here,” Sebastian said, even though it was pointless and Zhang’s astral projection couldn’t see or hear him.
“It’s that idiot, Lord Fine.” Zhang was still talking to the table. “He just got in a car with Jack Mercier.”
Sebastian’s eyes went wide.
“They’re in a Rolls Royce passing Fenchurch Street Station, and the car is slowing,” Zhang continued. “Jade and I are on our way, but there’s too much traffic. You can get there in minutes, if you leave now. If you run. If you’re even here,” he added mournfully.
Sebastian swore. He set the hot pan to the side—there would be enough fire when he got to Mercier, he thought, slightly hysterically—and thundered down the stairs on his way to Fenchurch.
The Rolls Royce was far too hot. Sweat had beaded on Wesley’s forehead and between his shoulder blades. “Christ, turn down the heat. It’s roasting in here.”
“My apologies,” said the driver, Mercier, almost mockingly. “I forget I like things hotter than other people.”
Wesley narrowed his eyes. The Rolls had passed Fenchurch and turned down a narrow side street that seemed oddly deserted for central London. “Where are we going?”
The car slowed to a crawl. “We’re nearly there,” said Mercier.
Wesley leaned forward. “That wasn’t an answer to my question.”
“Where did you expect we were going, the Ritz?”
“I haven’t been told what to expect,” Wesley said testily.
