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She had a plan. And it was beginning to come together.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the assistant who’d come bustling up to greet her. ‘My fiancé and I have been invited unexpectedly to a party tonight, but I haven’t a thing to wear. My friend Ludmilla said her friend Greta always recommended your shop. And I know you don’t do evening wear yourself, but could you direct me to somewhere that does?’
Five minutes later they left, with directions to a tailor a few streets away, who could provide suitable clothing at short notice – and, more importantly, the police had gone past without spotting them.
‘Are we going to talk our way into the reception disguised as guests?’ Kai asked.
‘Not exactly,’ Irene said. ‘I can’t forge an invitation without seeing one, and we won’t get to see any. Plus, if I try to alter their perceptions, the guards on the door will realize what’s going on before we get inside, given how badly that tactic’s working here.’
‘Then what?’
‘I’ve seen your uncle call a storm simply by losing his temper,’ Irene said thoughtfully. ‘Can you do that?’
Kai tilted his head, considering. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Well, a small one, at least. Why?’
This was shaping up nicely. It was a drastic plan, yes, and not the sort of operation that could be repeated, but it was manageable. ‘Good,’ Irene replied and smiled. ‘We’re going to come at this from a different direction.’
INTERLUDE – VALE AND SILVER
‘You may tell him that Peregrine Vale is here to see him.’
The Liechtenstein Embassy was always difficult to penetrate. Of course Vale had entered it before on multiple occasions, but he had generally been in disguise. This time he was present as himself and had barely managed to penetrate the front lounge. The place scarcely did its duty as an embassy for its country. Would-be visitors to Liechtenstein could barely make it through the front door.
One might even think, he reflected sourly, that they had something to hide.
‘And I must inform you that Lord Silver is not available.’ The words came out like honed icicles. Johnson was Lord Silver’s manservant, factotum, and general dogsbody. He’d lasted for five years now, longer than any previous holders of that position. But, like all of them, he’d developed a fanatical devotion to Silver within a week of signing on.
Vale inspected the fellow carefully as he spoke. While Johnson’s clothes were cut like an upper-class servant’s, the fabric was unusually high-quality and the shoes shone with a blackness that suggested champagne had been used in the polish. His voice had been neutered of anything resembling an accent – Fae-induced, to make him the ‘perfect servant’, or a deliberate choice on his part? Johnson didn’t have a criminal record, but more suspiciously there wasn’t any record of his past before taking this post. He quite obviously (well, obviously to Vale) wore a concealed pistol beneath his coat. Vale raised an eyebrow. ‘Really. Unavailable. I take it that he is unaware of ongoing events, then?’
That made Johnson pause. He stared back at Vale, as if he could somehow force information out of him just by glaring hard enough.
Vale could track the calculations behind the man’s eyes: if Vale was bluffing and managed to trick his way into a meeting with Silver, Silver would make Johnson regret it. However, if something important really was going on and Silver missed out on a chance to meddle, he would really make Johnson regret it.
‘You’ll have to wait,’ Johnson said abruptly. ‘His lordship hasn’t yet risen.’
‘I suppose it is barely four o’clock in the afternoon,’ Vale agreed drily. ‘No doubt he needs his sleep.’
Johnson’s lips pursed to a thin line of suppressed rage. He neatly inclined his head, refusing Vale the courtesy of a bow, and stalked out of the lounge.
Vale took the opportunity to inspect the room. The carpet and wallpaper were cheap and plain, hardly worthy of an embassy: it was a room to repel callers and persuade them to leave as quickly as possible. The only decoration was the oil painting of the Queen over the fireplace, which was poorly executed and badly dusted. Two chairs, no desk or table. One of the chairs was a comfortable armchair. A thread of silver hair, caught in the antimacassar, betrayed its usual occupant. The other chair was a more rigid specimen, designed to make the sitter uncomfortable. The fireplace hadn’t been cleaned out since last night, and had apparently been used to incinerate a number of handwritten documents. Vale itched to take a closer look.
The door behind him creaked open, and he turned to see that Silver had indeed arrived – being upright, if not particularly aware. The Fae sagged against the door frame, hands fumbling as he tried to tie the sash of his black silk dressing gown, still in his nightshirt and slippers underneath. His silver hair was tousled from sleep. And though he attempted to narrow his eyes menacingly at Vale, they were blurred and out of focus.
‘My dear Vale,’ Silver yawned, ‘I was told you were here. I didn’t think you’d come to rifle through my fireplace.’
‘I was curious about what you’ve been burning,’ Vale answered. ‘Far too many mysteries in London have their roots under your roof.’
‘Johnson, fetch me some coffee, for the love of God. It seems Mr Vale is going to be witty, rather than actually getting to the point.’ Silver swayed across the room to his chair and collapsed into it with a sigh of relief. ‘You mentioned something about current events, I believe?’
‘I suggest you drink your coffee first,’ Vale said. The traces of last night’s dissipation were plain on Silver’s face – and the marks on his neck suggested one or more partners. Although Vale might extract more truth from the Fae while he was still half-asleep, that approach risked missing some vital bit of information.
‘You’re unduly concerned for my welfare. I should probably be worried.’ Silver yawned again. ‘I hope you won’t make me regret getting up at this ungodly hour. Amuse me, detective. Tell me something interesting while I’m waiting for my coffee.’
‘Very well.’ Vale nodded to the maid standing by the door. ‘The woman over there is one of your private assassins.’
‘I have private assassins?’ Silver said, frowning. ‘I’m sure I’d remember if I had such a thing. Though they would be useful.’
Vale walked over to the maid, who had frozen in position. ‘This woman is apparently low-ranking in the embassy staff, as demonstrated by her ill-fitting cuffs.’ He tapped her wrist. ‘And the concealed darns at her elbows. Higher-ranking servants would have better-fitting clothing and would receive it first-hand, rather than having it passed down. And yet you’ve brought her to a meeting with a guest, rather than keeping her in the kitchen or upstairs. Her tendency to peer and the hunch of her shoulders suggest far-sightedness.’ The words came tumbling out, each link in the chain of evidence clear and certain. For a moment Vale’s malaise lifted and he was able to focus on his deductions. He leaned in more closely to examine her face. ‘The bridge of her nose shows that she does normally wear glasses or pince-nez. When she entered this room, her gait betrayed that she is carrying a gun secured to her left leg, under her skirts. What sort of agent carries a long-barrelled gun, has darns at her elbows from positioning herself to aim her weapon and would have long-sightedness as an asset? A sniper.’
