Take Flight, page 60
The door was unlocked and opened to reveal Miss Matilda Murcutt accompanied by the two men who had captured Bridget. The absence of Vincent was interesting—did it mean they felt she wasn’t such a threat as to require supernatural force? Or was it just because there wasn’t a lot of fabric lying about the cellar?
“Oh, please, don’t get up,” said Murcutt. “Or we’ll kill you.”
Despite herself, Bridget was a little intimidated as the woman swept in. She was wearing a magnificent blue silk dress, was again beautifully made up, and her hair was set immaculately. She held a glass of red wine in her hand and looked as if she had just stepped away from one of Lady Carmichael’s dinner parties. One of the men put down a chair for her, and she sat easily.
Having been patted down and hustled about and then having done a fair amount of nervous sweating as she made her weapon, Bridget, sitting on the floor, couldn’t help but feel like a grubby, recalcitrant child about to be lectured by a society dame. Her untucked shirt didn’t help. She didn’t get up, though.
“So you survived last night,” said Murcutt, unconcerned by Bridget’s failure to stand.
“Just,” said Bridget coolly.
“And where’s your naked friend?”
“He didn’t survive it.”
Murcutt gave her a long, level stare. “Pity,” she said finally. Bridget couldn’t tell whether the woman believed her. “We need more fine-looking young men running around without anything on.” Her eyes took in Bridget’s clothes rumpled state. “You look a mess.”
Bridget spread her hands to take in her surroundings. “It’s hardly the Ritz.” She shrugged.
“Hmm.” Murcutt’s gaze turned to the disheveled wig lying on the floor. “That is what you were wearing?” She sniffed. “Absolutely preposterous—you do not have the coloring to be a blonde, and it would have made your head look enormous.”
Is this how you talk to your prostitutes? wondered Bridget. Tillie Murcutt had a certain undeniable command about her, an authority, but to one who shared a house with Lady Sara Carmichael and Usha Khorana, it was hardly worth noting.
“So, young Miss Caswell with the jeweled palms, who are you?” Murcutt asked, but she clearly didn’t expect an answer, which, in any case, wouldn’t have been forthcoming. “I’ve had our men looking out for a woman with gloves acting suspiciously. They’ve been checking outside the pub, outside my house, and outside my brother’s house. I described your naked young man as well, as best I could, but I thought he’d be either invisible or harder to identify.” She smirked. “I wasn’t looking at his face terribly much.”
Ugh, thought Bridget. You two would deserve each other.
“But you?” continued Murcutt. “Well, you’d have to be covering up your hands, wouldn’t you? Here’s the thing, though. The fact that they picked you up over by my house means you’ve got access to information about me. Now, if you’d been following me, I like to think I’d have noticed. And if you’d been asking around, word would have gotten back to me. Especially in my neighborhood, people know enough to be afraid. Which means that you got my address from somewhere else. Police records? Is that what you are? The magic police?”
“I’m not with the police,” said Bridget coldly.
“No, maybe not,” mused Murcutt. “We keep in close with the local filth. I’ve got a few of them on the take, and they’d have let me know about the likes of you, especially if you were going to come sniffing around.” She wrinkled her nose.
“You know what I think? You’re probably somehow connected to the men who used to come around to my mum and try to get her to report any strange babies or unusual happenings. They never actually said magic, but she knew what they meant, and she wasn’t having a bar of it. Oh, she’d nod along and smile, but if there’s one thing the damn government can stay out of, it’s the birthing room.” Bridget said nothing, and Murcutt’s eyes narrowed.
“And then Simony is dead, and you come around looking to buy some magic. And it turns out you’ve got your own magic, bred in the bone.” She smiled, and Bridget tensed, unsure where this was going. Murcutt had proven entirely willing to have her killed last night, but now she was interested in talking.
Is it the wine? Bridget wondered. The woman’s speech was unslurred, but she did seem far more open than when they’d met the night before. Or is it the magic that she’s so interested in? Maybe it’s both.
The two women regarded each other.
“They said you were a bit surprised by our new guest,” said Murcutt finally. Bridget’s brow wrinkled in confusion until the woman nodded over at the bomb.
“Do you seriously think it won’t explode?” asked Bridget despite herself.
Murcutt shrugged. “These things don’t seem to be much of a problem. If it can fall from thousands of feet up, punch through the roof and a couple of floors, and lodge itself in the ground without blowing up, I don’t expect it’ll do anything if we leave it alone. They can be quite useful, actually—everyone’s so afraid of them. One of our salesmen has taken up residence in a very nice house over in Winchfield Road that’s been evacuated because of a UXB in the pavement outside. He says the whole neighborhood is deserted, so he’s living like a lord. It’s a bloody mansion he’s holed up in.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t turfed him out and taken it yourself,” said Bridget sourly. “Since UXBs don’t appear to bother you.”
“Bad for morale.” Murcutt shrugged. “Everyone in the firm knows he’s in there. You don’t want to be a tyrant to your people—it breeds disloyalty. But he knows who’s in charge. Pays his dues. A couple of months back, he brought over a Rothschild ’26 from the cellar.”
“You do enjoy the high life, don’t you?” said Bridget. “Gorgeous clothes, a taste for good liquor. I noticed your bar upstairs.”
“And a selection of pleasant company whenever I want it,” said Murcutt carelessly. She finished the glass of wine and put it carefully down on the floor next to her.
“Wartime restrictions don’t really apply to you.”
“I don’t let them. Gethings, do you have any of that chocolate?” The man produced a bar and handed it to her. “Ta,” she said, unpeeling the wrapper. She turned her attention to Bridget on the floor. “Fancy some? It’s the good stuff. Swiss.”
“Thank you, no.”
“Suit yourself,” said Murcutt, breaking off a piece and popping it into her mouth. “I don’t know why anyone would deny themselves.”
“Self-discipline?” suggested Bridget, and Murcutt snorted.
“I think a lot of what we call self-discipline is just following the rules that others make for us,” she said. “We don’t let ourselves be as free as we could.” She regarded Bridget thoughtfully. “You don’t strike me as a useless girl who follows all the rules of good society.”
“I suppose I’m not exactly what people expect,” said Bridget carefully.
“Damn right!” exclaimed Murcutt. “You interest me, and not just because of your magic—although that’s pretty bloody interesting. You’re like me, you don’t fit on the strict little path that everyone thinks women have to follow.” She appeared to be weighing a decision, and then she made it. “Gethings, fetch her a chair, would you? And get me another glass of wine.”
And so our conversation shifts, thought Bridget. She stood, smoothly but carefully so as not to risk her dagger dropping onto the floor and into the conversation. Once settled, she declined to join Murcutt in a glass of wine but accepted the offer of some water. The two of them regarded each other over the rims of their respective glasses.
“When I was growing up,” Murcutt began, “my mum was determined that I should be brought up proper, a lady. Different from her and her mum and her mum’s mum. No daughter of Agnes Murcutt was going to be called out at all hours to deliver babies or do abortions on some local girl or on one of the tarts upstairs from the pub who’d gotten herself in trouble. Oh no! I was going to be respectable. Do her proud.
“So, while the boys were running wild in the streets, playing with the local kids, I was in the parlor learning how to play the piano and do cross-stitch. While the boys were learning Dad’s business and sampling the goods upstairs, I was expected to sit up straight in a pretty dress with starched petticoats, serve tea to the vicar, and make nice conversation in the hopes that he’d marry me.”
“Sounds frustrating,” said Bridget. To someone who’d been brought up by the Checquy to be a warrior-bureaucrat, it sounded like an enormous waste of a human intellect. Seeing the drive and the passion in Murcutt, she couldn’t help but pity the little girl she’d been.
“You have no idea. As far as my mum was concerned, pleasure was something that proper ladies didn’t partake in,” said Murcutt. “No playing, no toys. No dessert—I’d get fat, and what self-respecting man would want me then?”
“Ridiculous,” said Bridget, who’d been trained to be a soldier from the age of two but had been allowed desserts.
“I had to be the good girl,” Murcutt continued grimly. “And I was. But all the time, I promised myself that when I got the chance, I wouldn’t deny myself anything. One day, I’d do and learn everything that interested me. I’d taste every delight in the world. Dad died, and Mum was still a holy terror, but then she dropped dead too.” She didn’t appear overly upset by the loss of her mother. “After that, I was free. I sat down with my brothers and we had a good long chat about the family firm.
“I told them straight up that I was going to live life as I wanted. Eat and drink what I wanted. Read what I wanted. Do what I wanted. Fuck who I wanted.”
“And how did your brothers take their sister’s abrupt shift from virtuous young lady to gourmand and voluptuary?” asked Bridget warily.
“They were fine with it. Because I have vision.” Bridget started a little. “Oh, no, not second sight. I don’t need second sight. All I need is to see the world without the limitations everyone else sees. All the little rules society treats as sacred. If you can see those for the imaginings they are, then you can do anything.
“I told my brothers we were going to eat the whole world,” continued Murcutt dreamily. “Nothing was going to stop us. Not the law. Not some war. Every opportunity, we would snatch it.” Bridget found herself nodding along. It was not too dissimilar to the things Usha sometimes said. “And that included magic. And wine.” As she spoke, she finished her wine and threw the glass carelessly across the room. Despite herself, Bridget flinched when it shattered on the bomb.
Bloody hell!
“You’re absolutely petrified of that thing, aren’t you?” Murcutt said with an air of amusement. “I’m a bit surprised that you haven’t tried coating it with your shiny pearl paste. Would it hold in an explosion, do you think?”
“No.”
“So, it’s not absolutely unbreakable, then,” mused Murcutt.
“Unbreakable enough,” said Bridget. I think I see where this is going and why she hasn’t had me killed right away. “Human skin and bone will be destroyed before that stuff is.”
“Hmm, we’ve had a bit of a try at getting your handprint off our Johnny’s face. Spent a few hours scraping at it. Nothing made a scratch. Not knives, not chisels.” Despite herself, Bridget winced. “Not even fire,” said Murcutt ruefully. “And we washed it down with everything from carbolic soap to seawater to brandy. Even tried a bit of the Rothschild.”
“Not the ’26!” exclaimed Bridget in mock horror.
Murcutt gave her a look. “Our Johnny has not had a pleasant night of it.”
Good, thought Bridget.
“And when he woke up this morning and it was still there . . . well, you’re lucky we didn’t have you then.”
Bridget wasn’t surprised that the Murcutts hadn’t had any luck in dislodging the pearl from their Johnny’s face. As she had told Wattleman, the Checquy had spent a great deal of time testing the limitations of the pearl and found it was mighty tenacious stuff. The only thing that they’d found that would break it down was a constant flow of well-heated hedgehog urine.
“I don’t mind telling you,” said Murcutt, “when our Johnny heard we’d picked you up, it took all my persuasion to keep him from coming down here and taking it out of your hide.”
“You know, I can get it off,” said Bridget casually.
“Oh?” said Murcutt, equally casually.
Here we go, thought Bridget. “Mm-hm. It’s not easy,” she said in as rueful a tone as she could muster. “Much trickier than laying it down.”
“So you think you could clean up John’s face, then?”
“Yes.”
“And how long would that take?”
“Oh, at least several hours,” lied Bridget. Buy yourself as much time as you can. Time for the others to figure out what’s happened and come. “It’s very finicky work. Do you know, if my concentration is broken or jarred, I can actually end up laying down more of the stuff instead of dissolving it.”
“Really,” said Murcutt dryly.
“Absolutely.” So no knives or guns or threats or abuse. Not unless you want your brother’s whole head encased. “But I’d like to talk about what would happen afterwards.”
“Afterwards?”
“Well, let’s talk about what we each want,” said Bridget.
“I want my brother to be able to go out in public and use both his eyes. I expect you want not to be killed or hurt. And you want to be able to leave.” There was something about her expression that suggested such an outcome was by no means guaranteed.
“For a start.”
“A start?” As far as Murcutt was concerned, Bridget’s being permitted to leave with body and mind intact already represented an unheard-of concession.
“Let me make a couple of things clear,” said Bridget. “I’m not the only one like me. There are others, and they will come. But we don’t care about your knocking shop upstairs. We don’t care about any other little illegal pies you’ve got your fingers in.” Murcutt’s eyes were thoughtful at her words. “But we do care very much about where you got those antiques.” Murcutt opened her mouth. “Yes, the magic antiques. They cannot be out on the streets.”
“They’re good business,” said Murcutt.
“I’m sure they are,” said Bridget grimly. “I know how much you were selling them for. But it’s unacceptable. I need to know who sold them to you, and I need you to stop selling them and turn over anything you still have. You’ll be paid an amount commensurate with what you’d have made for them.” She wasn’t entirely certain that she had the authority to make this sort of deal or spend the sort of money they might be talking about. But it was the only thing she could think of.
“All this for undoing something you did,” said Murcutt in a sour tone.
“I didn’t start the fight,” said Bridget. “And my friend is dead because of you.” She sighed. “Miss Murcutt, I think you can understand why it needs to be this way. It looks like you’ve got at least a lick of sense. Maybe several licks. After all, your man Vincent isn’t out on the streets conquering the world by yanking on their vests. You understand why this needs to be kept quiet.”
Murcutt nodded. “You’ll pay the full value of the pieces?” she said at last. “We’re talking hundreds of pounds, you know.”
“How many hundreds of pounds?” Bridget asked, hesitating. Murcutt named a figure, and Bridget winced.
“That’s for seven pieces, mind,” said Murcutt.
“Seven?” said Bridget, aghast at the idea of that many more artifacts lifted from Checquy custody. She couldn’t decide if they were woefully overpriced or woefully underpriced. “That’s a lot of money.” Murcutt nodded. “And you’ll give me the source?” countered Bridget.
“Yes,” said Murcutt grudgingly.
“Then you’ll get your money.” This idea had just come to her, but contacts within the Murcutt criminal empire could prove very useful to the Checquy. “Your people and my people might be able to come to some sort of profitable arrangement in the future.” The other woman held her gaze with new interest. “And you yourself might be able to learn a great deal from us about the world. About our world.” Murcutt’s obvious fascination with magic might prove an even more powerful lure than money. “But I’d want some sort of guarantee that I can trust you,” Bridget said.
“I will give you my word,” said Murcutt.
“Very nice,” said Bridget with a hint of sarcasm. Despite herself, she grinned a little. She was finding that she liked this woman. “I suppose the only question is how I could possibly take the word of a family of criminal pimps who have already demonstrated a willingness to kill people and traffic in dangerous goods?”
“My dear, you wound my feelings,” said Murcutt, grinning back. “I’m not going to break my word. I see all sorts of interesting possibilities if we can get along.”
I don’t know if the money will keep me alive, Bridget thought. But the lure of learning something about magic might.
23
It is extremely late,” said Mandy when she opened the door. “It’s already tomorrow.”
“I really am sorry,” said Lyn. She was absolutely knackered.
After the lightning battle with the blond woman, she’d staggered away and wandered vaguely through the streets. She’d been so dazed that at one point, she had actually managed to fall into a bush, where she’d stayed for several soothing but scratchy minutes as she pulled body and mind together.
Eventually, she’d found a brightly lit street, bought a kebab, and eaten it in the gutter next to a couple of students who’d been out clubbing and who thankfully didn’t feel the need to have a conversation. The three of them had watched police car after police car race by with lights flashing and sirens whooping heading in the direction from which she’d come, but she’d been too exhausted and the students had been too drunk to muster up any comment. It had taken all her strength and intellectual resources to call Mandy and let her know that she would be coming back to the house as soon as she could. The American hadn’t sounded pleased on the phone, but Lyn lacked the emotional energy to be concerned.
