It was while he was waiting alone in that tiny attic room that he came upon the missing piece of the puzzle. All signs pointed to the fact that the epicenter for the God-Breaker Plague was near Luxor, at one prominent bend in the Nile River close to the Valley of the Kings. His books said very little on the archaeology of the area, but one report indicated that the bend housed the funerary temple of the expunged and vilified Pharaoh Hatshepsut. He had no idea how this might tie into the plague, but he resolved to send Lady Maccon the information, should she contact him that evening.
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.