Timeless

He was about to creep out and gather together some acid and a metal slate when the receiving chamber activated, the metal particles between the receiver panes shifted about, and a message appeared.

“Ruffled Parasol. Conall upset. Primrose kidnapped. Uproar.”

Biffy recoiled. What interest could Egyptian kidnappers possibly have in Mr. and Mrs. Tunstell’s daughter? The child of thespians. How odd. He awaited further information but nothing more came through. He moved next door, dialed in the appropriate frequensor codes, and sent his message back.

“GBP center is Hatshepsut’s temple, Nile River, Luxor. Wingtip Spectator.”

Silence met that and after a quarter of an hour, Biffy supposed his message had been received and there was nothing else to relate. He shut down the aethographor, made certain his own missive was tucked securely away, and ate the scrap of paper on which he’d scribbled Lady Maccon’s. He’d witnessed Lyall do so in the past with delicate information and figured it was a werewolf tradition he’d better uphold. Then he went to find his Beta, not certain he was authorized to relay either bits of information.

It was in thinking about this, and wondering who might kidnap Primrose and how Lady Maccon might be coping with this new crisis—violently, he suspected—that Biffy came upon another realization. Following that realization to its inevitable, horrible conclusion, he detoured toward the servants’ quarters.

Floote was sitting alone at the massive table in the kitchen, polishing the brass candlesticks, a sturdy apron tied about his waist. His jacket was off and draped over the back of a nearby chair. The moment he saw Biffy, he made a move toward it, but Biffy said hastily, “No, Floote, please don’t trouble yourself. I simply had a question.”

“Sir?”

“When Mr. Tarabotti traveled in Egypt, did he visit Luxor?” Biffy came casually over to Floote’s shoulder, standing a little too close, pretending to inspect the polishing. He bent down as though particularly interested in one of the candlesticks and with one hand behind his back, quick as any vampire, snaked the tiny little gun out of the inside pocket of Floote’s jacket.

Biffy tucked the gun up his own sleeve, wondering that there weren’t more werewolf and vampire conjurers; sleight of hand was easy when one had supernatural abilities.

Floote answered him, “Yes, sir,” without looking up from his polishing.

“Well, ahem, yes. Thank you, Floote, carry on.”

“Very good, sir.”

Biffy escaped to his own room where he locked the door and immediately took out the gun.

It was one of the smallest he had ever seen, beautifully made with a delicate pearl handle. It was of the single-shot variety popular some thirty years ago or more, outdated in this age of revolvers. It must be sentiment that urged Floote to keep it, for it wasn’t the most useful of weapons. Difficult to hit anything at more than five paces and it probably shot crooked. Biffy swallowed, hoping against hope he wasn’t about to find what he predicted. With a twist, he opened and checked the chamber. It was loaded. He tipped the bullet out into his hand. Such a small thing to damn a man so utterly. For that bullet was made of hardwood, capped in metal to take the heat and caged in silver. It was not quite the same as the modern ones, of course, but still undoubtedly a sundowner bullet.

At first Biffy didn’t want to believe it, but Floote had been at liberty the night that Dubh was shot—with all his employers out of the house. Floote had access to Lord Akeldama’s dirigible, for no drone would comment on Lady Maccon’s butler coming and going from Lord Akeldama’s house. Floote owned a gun that was loaded with sundowner bullets of exactly the kind with which Dubh was shot. Then later, when Lady Maccon rushed in with the injured man, Floote had been left alone with Dubh, and Dubh had died. Floote certainly had the opportunity. But why? Would the butler really kill to protect his dead master’s secrets?

Biffy sat for a long time, rolling the bullet about in his hand and thinking.

A polite knock disturbed his reverie. He stood to open the door.

Floote walked quietly in, his jacket back on.

“Mr. Rabiffano.”

“Floote.” Biffy felt strangely guilty, standing there holding Floote’s gun, which was obviously very precious to him, the damning bullet in his other hand.

Biffy looked at Floote.

Floote looked at Biffy.

Biffy knew, and he knew that Floote knew he knew—so to speak. He handed the butler his gun but kept the bullet as evidence, tucking it into his waistcoat pocket.

“Why, Floote?”

“Because he left his orders first, sir.”

“But to kill a werewolf on a dead man’s orders?”

Floote smiled the tiniest of half smiles. “You forget what Alessandro Tarabotti was, sir. What the Templars trained him for. What he trained me to help him do.”

Biffy blanched, horrified. “You have killed werewolves before Dubh?”

“Not all werewolves, Mr. Rabiffano, are like you, or Professor Lyall, or Lord Maccon. Some of them are like Lord Woolsey—pests to be exterminated.”

“And that’s why you killed Dubh?”

Floote ignored the direct question. “Mr. Tarabotti gave his orders, sir,” the butler repeated himself, “long before anyone else. I was to see it through to the end. That was my promise. And I’ve kept it.”

“What else, Floote? What else have you been keeping in motion? Was Mr. Tarabotti responsible for the God-Breaker Plague expanding? Is that what he was doing over there?”

Floote only moved toward the door.

Biffy went after him, hand to his arm. He didn’t want to use his werewolf strength and was horrified by the idea that he might have to, on a member of Lady Maccon’s domestic staff! A longtime family retainer, no less—the very idea!

Floote paused and stared at the floor of the hallway, rather than at Biffy. “I really must see that carpet cleaned. It’s disgraceful.”

Biffy firmed up his grip.

“He left me with two instructions, sir—protect Alexia and protect the Mandate of the Broken Ankh.”

Biffy knew from the way the butler’s face closed over that he would get no more out of Floote that evening. But Biffy also could not afford to be wrong. Even knowing that it would disrupt the smooth running of the household, even knowing there was danger both at home and abroad, even knowing that Floote was elderly, even knowing that there would be werewolves traipsing around with badly tied cravats as a result, Biffy stuffed down his scruples. He drew back his fist and with supernatural speed and strength, tapped the butler on the temple hard enough to knock him senseless.

With a very sad sigh, the dandy flipped Floote’s limp body easily over one well-dressed shoulder and carried him down to the wine cellar. There he removed the man’s guns—there were two, as it transpired—from his pockets, searched for anything else of interest, and locked him in. It was ironic that the wine cellar had originally been fortified as a prison to hold Biffy only two years ago.

Biffy didn’t feel victorious. He didn’t feel as though he had solved some great mystery. He was simply sad. He was also grateful it would be up to Lyall to sort this mess out. His dear Beta would have to decide whether to tell Lady Kingair or not. Biffy did not envy him that conversation. With the heavy heart of a man burdened with unpleasant news, Biffy went looking for Lyall.

Alexia didn’t want to awaken Conall—he was catching up on a few hours of sleep after a very hectic day—but she had news to relate and she was near to dropping from exhaustion herself.

She’d been awake over twenty-four hours with no trace of poor Primrose. No ransom note, no trail, nothing. The sun would set in less than an hour, and Alexia felt like she’d been at her inquiries for an age.

“Conall!”

He snuffled into the pillow.

She reached out to touch his bare shoulder with her bare hand, turning him human. Even that didn’t awaken him. He was knackered. Lord knows what he had been up to, gallivanting around angry and then tracing the baby and dealing with politicians. He had probably expended a lot of energy. And the sun was very hot and bright in Egypt.

“Conall, really. Wake up.”

The earl blinked tawny eyes open and glared at her. Before she could react, he gathered her in against him in a warm embrace. Always amorous, her husband. Then he seemed to remember that not only was there a crisis, he was still angry over her siding with Professor Lyall.

He pushed her away petulantly, like a small child. “Yes, Alexia?”

Alexia sighed, knowing he needed time to forgive her, if he ever would, but finding it hard not to be able to hold him under such nerve-wracking circumstances. “I’ve just had a message from Biffy. Or, better said, I remembered at the last minute my standing aethographor appointment. I managed to relay to him the current crisis, not that he could do anything, but I thought home ought to know. He sent a note back. Then I had to stop. The transmitter was booked and they booted me off. Me! Now, of all times! You know, I tried to extend the time, but the little old lady behind me in the queue had a terribly important message for her grandson and would not be reasoned with!”

“Someday, Alexia, you will be that little old lady.”

“Oh, thank you very much, Conall.”

“The message?” her husband prodded.

“Biffy says that he has traced the epicenter of the God-Breaker Plague to one particular bend in the Nile River, near Luxor.”

“And this relates to Primrose how?”

“It might. Because I managed to, well, um, bribe a few of the dahabiya captains down at the dock.”

The earl raised an eyebrow.

“Madame Lefoux definitely hired a boat, one of the fastest and best on the line, to take her upriver. But not to Cairo, only by way of Cairo. No, her fare was for Luxor, or that’s what one man said, based on the amount of money he observed changing hands. She had a mysterious bundle with her and she asked a lot of questions. So what do you think?”

“Very suspicious. I think we should go after her.”

Alexia bounced slightly. “Me too!”

“How are Mr. and Mrs. Tunstell?” Lord Maccon switched topics.

“Coping tolerably well. Tunstell, at least, has been responding to direct questions. Ivy is difficult but then that is Ivy for you. I think we can leave them for a few days and follow Genevieve up the Nile.”

“Right, then. The sooner we set out the better.” Conall lurched out of bed.

Alexia tried to be practical. “But, my love, we both need rest.”

“Still mad at you,” he grumbled at her using an endearment.

“Oh, very well. But, Conall, we still need rest.”

“Ever the pragmatist. We can rest on the train to Cairo. I think we can still catch one. It won’t be as fast as Madame Lefoux, not if she hired one of the new steam-modified dahabiyas. But it will put us only a day behind her.”

Alexia nodded. “Very well, I’ll pack. You tell the others. And get Prudence, please. She’s asleep in the nursery. I’m not leaving her behind with a baby snatcher on the loose.”

The earl lumbered from the room, shirt hanging loose about his wide frame and his feet bare, before Alexia could stop him and make him dress. She supposed Ivy and Tunstell would be too distraught to take umbrage. She began a whirlwind of packing, throwing everything she could think of into two small cases. She had no idea how long they might be but figured they ought to travel as light as possible. Prudence would have to leave her mechanical ladybug behind.