A Scandal in Battersea (Elemental Masters #12)(80)
“Liberty’s? I’ve heard of that, and I need to go visit,” she said in somewhat nasal tones and that curiously flat American accent. “How can I get there?”
Before the clerk could reply, he sidled up to her. “Beg pardon for intruding, miss, but my carriage is just around the corner, and I myself was planning on shopping at Liberty’s. I would be happy to offer you a ride there and back, if you feel comfortable accepting one from a stranger.”
And the moment she looked into his face, he felt it. The cold, quiet hand of the entity, reaching out through him, as it had outside the theater.
“I’d be delighted,” she said, and blinked in surprise, as if that had not been what she intended to say at all. But it was too late; he extended his arm, she took it, and the entity assumed complete control of her. They strolled to the lane where Alf had parked the coach; he assisted her inside and into the rear-facing seat.
And there she stayed. As still as if she was already one of those mindless dolls the entity called a “witness.” I have her. Obtain the next, the thing said in his head.
The Berkeley was the next hotel, in Knightsbridge, just off Hyde Park. This one was even easier. He followed a horsey-looking young woman who was clearly on her way for a walk in the Park. “Pardon me, miss, but I think you dropped this,” he called out, extending a filmy, lacy handkerchief to her—she met his eyes, and took the handkerchief, and his arm, and they walked mere feet to the coach, where she joined the first, who was sitting like a statue on the far side of the seat. The new girl took a seat next to her, and sat there, still as a stone. Except for her eyes, which were full of terror. He glanced at the first girl. Her eyes, too were wide with fear. He couldn’t help but smile. This was going splendidly.
The last hotel was the farthest from the other two, the Great Eastern. Once again, he waited in the lobby, perusing a newspaper, until he heard a very loud young lady asking the desk clerk if there were “. . . any interesting old churches around.” The clerk directed her to the nearby St. Botolph’s and off she went, with an impressive and athletic stride.
He followed, and arrived just in time to be witness to her voluble disappointment. “Say!” she was telling the rector, “This’s no nicer than the First Presbyterian in Denver! I thought England was supposed to be thick with fancy churches!”
He strolled up to the two as the ancient rector sputtered a little in indignation, plainly at a loss for words. “If I might be so bold, young miss, my carriage is nearby and I was just on my way to St. Paul’s Cathedral. I’m sure you must have heard of that—”
“Say!” she replied, turning to him. “You just bet I have!”
“Then allow me to offer you the comfort of my carriage, so you need not avail yourself of a hansom,” he said warmly, meeting her eyes.
And before the rector could interject anything, she had all but seized his arm and was hauling him out the door, chattering loudly about how nice English gentlemen were. Or she chattered until she was well outside, at which point she shut up in the middle of her sentence. He had never been more grateful for silence in all his life. Within five minutes, she was on the seat next to him, as statue-like as the other two girls.
“We’ll have to drive around until it gets dark,” he said aloud, when they were well away from the hotel, getting further from the possibility of discovery with every passing minute.
I am aware, the thing said in his mind. This will be of no difficulty.
Following Alf’s plan, they crossed the Thames on Tower Bridge and, now well out of any range of hue and cry, joined the slow-moving traffic as they headed toward Battersea. It had been about teatime when he had acquired the third girl, and by the time they arrived in the lane behind the flat, it was dusk.
He and Alf hurried all three of them inside and down into the basement, and arranged them in a circle around the void in the floor. Then he and Alf brought the three remaining boys down as far as the kitchen. Once there, Alf fed them brandy mixed with cherry juice until they were tipsy, then half led, half carried them down into the basement, arranging them with the girls. They couldn’t even stand up at that point, and sat on the floor, staring about them with bemusement, while the girls wept silently, tears pouring down their otherwise expressionless faces.
The entity did something different this time; the void became a pillar of darkness, as usual, but the pillar suddenly expanded outward, engulfing them all at once, and contracted just as suddenly, leaving only a single pink ostrich plume on the floor.
Alexandre waited patiently; he’d left his heavy winter coat on, but it didn’t help much; the basement was so cold that by the time the three girls came shuffling out of the pillar, one after another, he could scarcely feel his toes. He glanced at Alf.
“Naow back in th’ coach,” Alf said, “Quick, afore someone notices hit’s been standin’ there awhile.”
They had to physically guide each of the girls, leaving one in the kitchen while they took the first two out to the coach. And Alf had a good plan; a flawless plan, in fact.
They drove into Battersea Park; the road was heavily used, even in winter, and even in winter there was enough activity around the bandstand that it would be impossible for anyone to tell their tracks from anyone else’s. They left the three girls standing passively inside the shelter of the bandstand. Then Alf brought the things he’d piled on top of the coach while Alexandre had been inside waiting for the entity to finish what it was doing—a huge amount of wood, a tin of paraffin oil, and a lot of rags. He and Alexandre made a bonfire with paraffin-soaked rags in the center, then he left a long wick leading into the rags and lit it. They ran for the coach. They were well away, and actually out in traffic, when the flame finally met the rags, and there was soon a bonfire merrily ablaze, attracting attention from all over.