But she still felt horribly guilty as she tucked her stethoscope into her bag and squeezed past a couple—a nursemaid and her beau—who were craning their necks to see what was going on to cause such an uproar.
Once past the crowd, she and Amelia walked briskly away, unmolested even by those who had been shouting at them a few moments before. Without that white sash branding them as suffragettes, men looked right past them as things of no threat, and hence, no importance.
And perhaps that spoke of their contempt and disregard for all women even more than the shouting. It certainly spoke eloquently of their blindness.
Chapter Fourteen
THE summons came just after sunset and found Peter Scott at his flat; a moment later, he was on a ‘bus, figuring that the odds of finding a cab at that time of the evening in his neighborhood were pretty remote. He only had to change ‘buses twice, when it all came down to cases, and the ‘bus was just as fast as a cab would have been.
He swung himself off the back steps of the ‘bus at the corner as it paused to make the turn, and trotted all the way to the club. He met another of the club members, young Reginald Fenyx, on the steps of the Exeter Club, as a third and fourth climbed grim-faced out of cabs behind him. The summons tonight had come in the person of a human messenger boy carrying an envelope with his name on it, not in some arcane fashion, and it had been marked “urgent.” Only twice since he had been invited to join the White Lodge had he gotten such a summons, and both times the situation had, indeed, been urgent.
“Do you know what this is about?” he asked Reggie Fenyx, holding open the door for the younger man.
“Not a clue, I’m afraid,” the latter replied, with a shake of his head. “I’d only just got to our town house, down from Oxford on the train, when the lad rang the bell. The card was for Pater as well, but he’s down in Devon, and pretty well out of range for something that’s urgent.”
“Whatever it is, they’ve called in every member that’s in London,” put in one of the men who had just arrived by cab. “I’m not certain how the Old Man knew that I was back in town.”
“I think he’s just sending boys around with cards and a list of addresses,” opined the fourth, as they all passed the guests’ dining room, the Club Room, the public dining room, and headed for the stairs that would take them to the second-floor War Room.
The War Room took up half of the second floor, which shared the floor with the private rooms of Lord Alderscroft and Lord Owlswick. Both peers were already in the War Room, along with more members of the Council of the White Lodge than Peter had ever seen before together at once. There was a table here, at which about half of those assembled were seated, with the rest standing behind them. As yet, no one had donned the robes that hung on pegs along one wall, but every member wore whatever mystic jewels he deemed necessary in an emergency situation. In the case of Lord Alderscroft, that was nothing more than his signet ring; in the case of the weedy squire John Pagnell-Croyton, it was two rings, a massive gold necklace with a garnet pendant, and a pair of garnet cufflinks that might once have been earrings. The thin peer looked as if the weight of all that gold would crush him to the floor in a moment.
Peter had never bothered with focus stones or enchanted ornaments; he never felt comfortable wearing even a ring. As a ship’s captain, he had not worn one because it was a hazard he did not need; all too often he had seen fingers torn off or hands mutilated because a ring got caught in machinery that could not be stopped in time. Now that he was a landlubber, he frankly could not afford the only gems that truly called to him—emeralds—and that, combined with his disinclination for anything ostentatious, meant he eschewed jewelry altogether.
That lack made him stand out yet again among the rest of the Elemental Masters. Even Almsley had a ring—though his was far simpler than most of the rest of the members of the Council. Almsley’s ring was a cabochon emerald set in a wide silver band; it had belonged to his grandfather, and had been passed down to the first male who demonstrated Water Magery in each generation since the Roman-British times, for the Almsleys were a very old family. There were similar rings for Fire, Air, and Earth Masters, kept in a locked casket by Almsley’s grandmother. What the female Elemental Masters of the Almsley line received was something Almsley had never disclosed to his “Twin,” but since Grandmama was a Water Master in her own right, there were, presumably, provisions made for them as well. The Almsleys were not only an old family, they were perforce unusually egalitarian.
“Is this the last?” Alderscroft rumbled to Owlswick, who was ticking off names on a list as they all came in.
“Yes, my lord,” Owlswick replied, setting pen and list down on the table before him. “The others are all too far away to be of any service for tonight, and I have seen to it that they shall be informed of the details of the current situation. God forbid—but it may creep beyond London.”
“What situation, my lord?” asked Reggie Fenyx, somehow managing to combine a deferential manner with a bold and unshrinking gaze. Peter had the feeling that Reggie was destined, not for the role of a scholar, but for the military. No matter what his father thinks, that one isn’t going to stay at Oxford past attaining his degree.
“Death!” replied a sepulchral voice, in tones of uttermost gloom, startling Peter, and many others as well. “Death Invisible stalks the streets of London!”
It was not Lord Alderscroft who answered, but Harold Fotheringay, who was, on occasion, given to overdramatization. Alderscroft shot him a look of annoyance, but he did not contradict the younger man. Instead, he merely added, “Something of the sort, at any rate. Please take your seats, gentlemen, and I will tell you all we know.”
“I found the first one,” Fotheringay moaned to no one in particular, as they took their seats. “My man of business. Horrible! Horrible!” Not to belittle Fotheringay’s distress, he really did look deeply shaken; beneath the heavy mustache, his lips were pale, as was his complexion, there were dark circles under his eyes, and his hands trembled as he clasped them together on the table. Whatever he’s done in the past, he’s not overdramatizing now. What he saw has him paralyzed with fear.
“And it is to Lord Fotheringay’s credit that he recognized at once the signs of a magical attack,” Alderscroft rumbled. “If he had not, we would not yet be aware that there was anything amiss at all, for there has been no sign of movement among our enemies, and none of the victims are themselves mages.”
What? Peter was as much taken by surprise as most of the rest of the Council. Mages don’t kill ordinary people by magic!
The details came quickly. “Fotheringay went to pay a call on his man of business today, very early. The man was not yet down for breakfast, which was something of a surprise—” Alderscroft began.
“It was impossible,” Fotheringay interrupted. “Man was always up at dawn.” He shook his head, and Peter saw drops of perspiration on his forehead. “Sent the maid up. Knew there was something wrong. Man was always up at dawn.” He grew paler as he continued the story. “Demned fool woman let out a shriek; I went running up. Demned fool useless woman—standing there screaming—ran off for the police before I could stop her.”
He put his head down on the table, unable to go on for the moment.
“Fotheringay sent for me, of course,” Lord Alderscroft continued. “I’ve managed the situation, which could have been very badly mishandled. What Fotheringay uncovered was the corpse of his man, with all the marks of asphyxiation on him. I think I need not go into details.”