A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(64)
So, he should definitely change his hunting ground, and possibly his style. Alf had suggested the opera, and it occurred to him that although young ladies were unlikely to be allowed to attend the theater at night unchaperoned, they were very likely to be permitted to attend a matinee, which were usually Thursdays and Saturdays. Armed with that, the day after the second hunt, he perused the theatrical advertisements.
There were, on offer, only two productions he thought likely to attract the sort of prey he was hunting: the latest Gilbert and Sullivan production, and a production of Hamlet. Of the two . . . he rather thought Hamlet was the better choice. For one thing, it was likely to attract Very Serious People, and judging by the favorable reception the entity had given the odious Cynthia, the hunting would probably be very good there. The entity had so far preferred a hideous wench with pretensions to intellect over a pretty girl of ordinary intelligence. For another, having passed himself off as a man in the trades on the last hunt, it was time to put on a different guise, and he was, after all, an actual poet with a published book. He just had to remember not to mention the name of the book to anyone but the potential victim.
And to clinch things, there were plenty of tickets still available for the Shakespeare; not so many for the operetta.
So, now he had a hunting ground and part of a plan. Things were going very well.
The second day after the last hunt, he got a note from the solicitor that he opened over breakfast, thinking it was some trifle about his mother’s estate.
Instead, it was a note congratulating him. The solicitor had caught Alexandre’s landlord in a moment of weakness. The note informed Alexandre of the speedy purchase of the house entire, and at an exceptionally good bargain. The key to the flat upstairs was enclosed.
He now owned the property. He would never again need to fear a landlord’s inspection, or someone spying on him from the flat above. Potentially . . . potentially if he was able to round up more than two victims, he could store them in the flat above. Or . . . he could outfit the flat above to suit his particular fantasies, and never again concern himself that a casual visitor to his flat might stumble over something incriminating.
Alexandre stared at the note in astonishment. Alf noticed his slightly stunned gaze after a moment. “Wuts that, guv?” Alf asked at last.
He uttered a shocked laugh. “It’s the key to the upstairs flat. I own the entire house!” He reread the short note, shaking his head. “This is . . . well frankly hard to believe. I didn’t even know it was possible to purchase a house in so short a time. It seems—”
“Loik magic?” Alf asked shrewdly. “Moight be. Thet ald toad wut use’ta come check up on yew’s gone. An yer old mum popped off. Ever think hit moight be—” Alf nodded at the floor, and emphasized the nod with the poke of his fork downward. “Ye niver know.”
“I . . . suppose it could be . . .” If so, the entity was granting what he needed even before he could ask for it, which, on the one hand, was extremely gratifying, and on the other . . . a bit worrisome. How had the thing been able to influence his mother, or that solicitor, or the landlord? It couldn’t physically move beyond the basement—and as far as he knew, it couldn’t exert any mental control if he wasn’t the medium for it.
“Or, could be co-inky-dink,” Alf continued with a wink. “Landlord ain’t bin hable t’rent thet flat fer over a year naow, an’ we both know ’e’s got a weakness fer gin, ’orses and ’ores. Yer mum coulda popped off any time, wut with all the patent medi-cines. Them things is ’alf poison. An thet old toad coulda been robbed an’ rolled inter Thames. All perfukly normal, aye?”
“True enough.” He shook off his feelings of vague alarm. “Alf, I want you to scout out the Palace Theater for me for the next couple of days. That will be our next hunting ground. I want you to find a place to park the coach where it won’t be out of place but also won’t be easy to see. We’ll be hunting at the afternoon matinee, so like the gallery, we can’t count on shadows to conceal what we’re doing.”
“Sure ’nough, guv,” Alf said agreeably. “What say to I bring back a couple girls?”
Alexandre grinned, all concerns about the entity forgotten. “I’d say you were reading my mind.”
Alexandre had carefully dressed in his best “poetic” clothing; a velvet brown jacket, shirt with a soft, floppy collar rather than the stiff, starched object so de rigueur for a businessman, a soft garnet-colored silk scarf instead of a tie, brown corduroy trousers, and a hat with a wide brim, as Tennyson was known to wear. Over it all, instead of a coat, he flung a beaver-lined cape. And off he went to the theater.
He had Alf let him out about a block from the theater and strolled the rest of the way, making sure he looked unhurried. It occurred to him, as he attempted to survey the faces of his fellow theatergoers without looking as if he was staring, that it would not be a bad idea to invest in some false moustaches and beards. Perhaps even a wig or two. The more he changed his appearance, the easier it would be to elude scrutiny. And of course, there were several starving young actors among the habitués of Pandora’s Tea Room; it would not be hard at all to get them to talk about roles, lead that into a discussion of preparing for the role, then laughingly ask them where they found such things as moustaches and wigs, as if one were more likely to find a roc egg or a phoenix feather than false hair in this city.