“Barely. Have you seen the way my hair is behaving of late? Practically scruffy.”
They hailed a hansom cab and slung themselves inside. “Fenchurch Street, please, my good man, the Trout and Pinion Pub.”
The fly got them there in good time, and they alighted before a questionable-looking establishment. For this part of town, near the docks, being more of a mind to cater to the daylight folk, it was quiet late at night. Nevertheless, the pub looked unfortunately popular.
The locals quieted at the advent of strangers, especially one dressed as flawlessly as Biffy. A murmur of suspicious talk circulated as they made their way to the bar.
The barmaid remembered Biffy. Most women of her class did. Biffy was a good tipper and he never groped or expected anything. Plus he dressed so well he tended to make a favorable impression on females of the species.
“Well there’s my fine young gentleman, and ain’t it been an age since I clapped eyes on you last?”
“Nettie, my dove”—Biffy put on his most extravagant mannerisms—“how are you this delightful evening?”
“Couldn’t be better, ducky. Couldn’t be better. What can I get you boys?”
“Two whiskeys, please, my darling, and a little of your company if you have a mind.”
“Make that three and I’ll sit on your knee while we drink ’em.”
“Done!” Biffy slapped down the requisite coin, plus a generous gratuity, and he and Lyall made their way over to a small side table near the fire.
Nettie hollered back for a replacement barmaid, then joined them, carrying the three whiskeys, sloshed into tumblers. She settled herself, as threatened, on Biffy’s knee, sipping her drink and twinkling hopefully at both men. She was a buxom thing, perhaps more round than Lyall favored, if Biffy was any judge of the man’s taste, but of very pleasant disposition and inclined to chatter once steered in the correct direction. Her hair was so blond and fine as to be almost white, as were her eyebrows, giving her an expression of uninterrupted wonder that some might have taken for stupidity. Biffy had yet to determine whether this was actually the case.
“So, how’s the pub fared since I visited last, Nettie my dove?”
“Oh, well, let me just tell you, love. Old Mr. Yonlenker—you remember, the bootblack down the block?—tried to clean his own chimney just last week, got himself wedged right proper for two days. They had to use lard to get him out. And then…” Nettie chattered on about all the various regulars round the neighborhood for a good twenty minutes. Biffy let the wave of gossip wash over him. Professor Lyall paid dutiful attention and Biffy asked enough questions to keep her going.
Finally he prodded gently, “I hear there was a bit of a flutter at the station the other night.”
Nettie fell obligingly into the trap. “Oh, wasn’t there ever? Gunshots! Young Johnny Gawkins round Mincing Lane said he’s sure he saw a man taking off by private dirigible! Round these parts, can you imagine? And then of course there was the fire, same night. Can’t say as how the two are linked, but I ain’t saying they’re not, neither.”
Biffy blinked, confounded for a moment. “Young Johnny say anything about the man’s looks?”
“Gentlemanly, think he said. Though nothing up to your standards, of course, me young buck. You sure ain’t half curious about it, aren’t ya?”
“Oh, you know me, Nettie, terrible one for scandal-mongering. Tell me, has Angie Pennyworth had her baby yet?”
“Not as how! Twins I tell you! And her without two pennies to rub together, and no da never did come forward. Crying shame, that’s what I say. Though of a certainty an’ we’re all thinking it’s you know who.” The barmaid gestured with her pale head at a skinny lad lurking in the far corner, nursing a pint.
“Not Alec Weebs? Never!” Biffy was appreciatively shocked.
“Oh, believe it.” Nettie settled herself in for another round.
Biffy gestured at the replacement barmaid for more whiskey.
Professor Lyall nodded at Biffy imperceptibly in approval. A gentleman in a private dirigible wasn’t much to go on since the recent upsurge in dirigible popularity, but it was better than nothing. And at least there were records of dirigible sales. That narrowed their suspect list.
CHAPTER SIX
In Which the Parasol Protectorate Acquires a New Member
Lord Akeldama was back from his walk, Prudence was down for her nap, and Tizzy and the nursemaid were relieved of their duties for the moment. The vampire was holding court in his drawing room with a small collection of drones arrayed around him, a bottle of champagne on the end table, and the fat calico cat on his lap. Truth be told, Lord Akeldama had transformed into rather a homebody since becoming a father, much to London’s surprise. This was because home had become, under Prudence’s influence, even more exciting than the social whirl of the ton. Besides, Lord Akeldama had nothing but time; he could afford a few decades to play at parenting. He had, after all, never indulged in such an experience before. When one was a vampire as long-lived as he, new experiences were hard-won, difficult to find, and treasured—like good-quality face powder.
“Alexia, my dearest custard cup, how are you? Was it a perfectly horrid night?”
“Pretty much horrid, yes. And how was your stroll in the park?”
“We were the statement of the hour!”
“Of course you were.”
The drones amicably made room for Alexia to sit, standing prettily while she did so. They then returned to their own chattering, leaving their master and his visitor to carry on together. However, Alexia was very well aware that ears were perked. Lord Akeldama’s drones were trained in such a way as to suit their own intrinsic natures, and in the end, one could never take the love of gossip out of a soul once embedded there. They were as much interested in Lord Akeldama’s secrets as they were in everyone else’s.
“Lord Akeldama, do you think we might have a little word, in confidence? I have had a rather interesting summons and I could use the benefit of your advice.”
“Of course, my dearest girl! Clear the room, please, my darlings. You may take the champagne.”
The drones rose and trooped obligingly out, closing the door behind them.
“Ah, the dears, they are probably all pressed in a huddle with their collective ear to the jamb.”
“Prudence and I have been summoned to visit Queen Matakara, in Egypt. What do you make of that?”
Lord Akeldama was not as awed as Lady Maccon might have hoped. “Ah, my dearest sugar drop, I am only surprised it has taken her so long. You aren’t actually considering going, are you?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, but yes. I’ve always wanted to see Egypt. There is also a pack matter Conall wishes to investigate there. I have even devised a cover story.”
“Oh, Alexia, my rose hip, I really wish you wouldn’t. Not Egypt. It’s not a nice place, so hot and smelly. Full of tourists in muted colors. The puggle might be endangered. And I, of course, could not accompany you.”
“Endangered by bad smells and muted colors?”
“Not to mention local dress. Have you seen what they wear in that country? All loose and flowy, abominable concessions to comfort and practicality.” Lord Akeldama’s hand floated up and out in the air in a simulation of the flutter of robes worn by exotic tribesmen. He lowered his voice. “There are too many secrets and too few immortals to keep them.”
Alexia pressed further. “And Queen Matakara, have you ever met her?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
Lady Maccon looked at her friend sharply. “What manner?”
“A very long time ago, my dearest pudding drop, you might say she was responsible for everything.”