The Burning Page

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.’

‘So why did she take the glasses off?’ Silver asked. ‘Vanity?’

‘I confess I am not yet certain.’ He stepped back from the woman. ‘But the fact that this young woman has simply stood here, without moving or objecting to my examination of her, or protesting at my conclusions, is in itself quite suggestive.’

‘I have my staff well trained . . . ah, thank you, Johnson.’ Silver took the proffered cup of coffee and drained it with a shuddering gasp. His eyes were more focused when he opened them again. ‘Can I offer you refreshments, detective?’

‘Certainly not,’ Vale said. He wasn’t eating or drinking anything from a Fae’s hands. They were prone to claiming it as a personal debt and trying to exercise their glamours over the recipient. ‘As to your maid, the matter’s easily settled. Have her expose her ankles in front of a policeman. While the law permits some concealed weapons, it tends to draw the line at unlicensed guns.’

Silver ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Johnson, I’m going to need a pick-me-up. And take Mary with you, before our great detective can jump to any more conclusions.’