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Authors: Kj Charles
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and nearly died in the process. Then there had been the long months of recovery, and then Crane had landed in his life like a falling star. He hadn’t found the time after that. In truth, he hadn’t thought about Beamish at all.
Rickaby was watching his face, obviously seeing the guilt there. “Yes, your lot broke Fred Beamish’s nerve. Broke his nerve, broke his mind, then you killed him.”
“Now wait,” Stephen said. “Underhill, the man who did those things last year, he’s dead. I killed him myself. His accomplices too.” At least, Sir Peter Bruton was dead. Lady Bruton, the third of the warlocks, had escaped, and Stephen’s efforts to have her tracked down had faltered, failed, and never restarted. The memory jolted him with a stab of shame. It was yet another important task that he’d delayed acting on, day by day, until it had somehow come to seem less important by virtue of having been undone for so long, and had been buried by a torrent of other tasks.
He really ought to do something about Lady Bruton. He had, after all, promised Crane he would.
He didn’t intend to share any of that with Rickaby. Stephen shoved the guilt back, speaking briskly. “There’s no reason to suppose there’s any link between that business and this.”
Rickaby nodded. “No, that’s true. Maybe it’s two lots of murdering practitioners, not one. Three, even, what with Superintendent Raphael lying dead by practice too. Just tell me, how many killers do you have in your ranks, Mr. Day? How many dead policemen do you think I’ll stand for?” He jabbed a finger at Stephen’s face as he spoke, leaning into him. Stephen set his jaw and stepped away, to the head of the bed, feeling the etheric currents wash around him. There was a lot of blood and pain.
“Five dead on Ratcliffe Highway, this summer!” Rickaby bellowed. His face was deep puce with anger. “Two in Limehouse, and one out Tower way and two more bodies in a cellar in Holborn—ten unlawful deaths, all down to your bloody rotten murdering lot, and did anyone stand trial?”
“The guilty men were dead,” Stephen pointed out, keeping his voice level. “You can’t put corpses on a stand.” There was nothing useful coming to his hands through the air. He was not looking forward to touching the body.
“So you say.” Rickaby’s voice dropped, so he sounded unconvincingly calm. “Strange, that. It always turns out that there’s a dead man to blame, or someone’s left the country. Or the matter isn’t to be pursued, and two weeks later I see the culprit walking the streets bold as brass. There’s never a conviction. There’s never a punishment.”
Stephen stopped bothering with the corpse. “Are you really suggesting you want to take things like this in front of a judge and jury? ‘An invisible man stabbed him, Your Honour’?”
“I want to know what’s going on,” Rickaby said. “I want punishments. Eight months I’ve been working with you people, and not a single case brought to trial. Well, I’m not having it. There’s two dead policemen now, murdered by practice, and I’ll damned well see someone swing for this, do you understand?”
“I do, actually. I understand, and I sympathise, and you have my word that I will— we will find the culprits here. I’m not going to promise you a public trial because, well, you know how it is. But I swear to you, whoever did this will pay for it.”
Rickaby shook his head. “I’ve been taking your say-so long enough. Taking your word, walking away, and watching more people die.”
Stephen breathed deeply, keeping his temper. Rickaby might want a shouting match, but giving him one would scarcely help, and God knew the man had a point. “I don’t set the rules. I just try to make sure justice is done, much like you.”
“One man’s judgement isn’t the same thing as justice. Justice happens within the law, and it’s seen to be done. That’s what I want for Fred Beamish and
Rickaby was watching his face, obviously seeing the guilt there. “Yes, your lot broke Fred Beamish’s nerve. Broke his nerve, broke his mind, then you killed him.”
“Now wait,” Stephen said. “Underhill, the man who did those things last year, he’s dead. I killed him myself. His accomplices too.” At least, Sir Peter Bruton was dead. Lady Bruton, the third of the warlocks, had escaped, and Stephen’s efforts to have her tracked down had faltered, failed, and never restarted. The memory jolted him with a stab of shame. It was yet another important task that he’d delayed acting on, day by day, until it had somehow come to seem less important by virtue of having been undone for so long, and had been buried by a torrent of other tasks.
He really ought to do something about Lady Bruton. He had, after all, promised Crane he would.
He didn’t intend to share any of that with Rickaby. Stephen shoved the guilt back, speaking briskly. “There’s no reason to suppose there’s any link between that business and this.”
Rickaby nodded. “No, that’s true. Maybe it’s two lots of murdering practitioners, not one. Three, even, what with Superintendent Raphael lying dead by practice too. Just tell me, how many killers do you have in your ranks, Mr. Day? How many dead policemen do you think I’ll stand for?” He jabbed a finger at Stephen’s face as he spoke, leaning into him. Stephen set his jaw and stepped away, to the head of the bed, feeling the etheric currents wash around him. There was a lot of blood and pain.
“Five dead on Ratcliffe Highway, this summer!” Rickaby bellowed. His face was deep puce with anger. “Two in Limehouse, and one out Tower way and two more bodies in a cellar in Holborn—ten unlawful deaths, all down to your bloody rotten murdering lot, and did anyone stand trial?”
“The guilty men were dead,” Stephen pointed out, keeping his voice level. “You can’t put corpses on a stand.” There was nothing useful coming to his hands through the air. He was not looking forward to touching the body.
“So you say.” Rickaby’s voice dropped, so he sounded unconvincingly calm. “Strange, that. It always turns out that there’s a dead man to blame, or someone’s left the country. Or the matter isn’t to be pursued, and two weeks later I see the culprit walking the streets bold as brass. There’s never a conviction. There’s never a punishment.”
Stephen stopped bothering with the corpse. “Are you really suggesting you want to take things like this in front of a judge and jury? ‘An invisible man stabbed him, Your Honour’?”
“I want to know what’s going on,” Rickaby said. “I want punishments. Eight months I’ve been working with you people, and not a single case brought to trial. Well, I’m not having it. There’s two dead policemen now, murdered by practice, and I’ll damned well see someone swing for this, do you understand?”
“I do, actually. I understand, and I sympathise, and you have my word that I will— we will find the culprits here. I’m not going to promise you a public trial because, well, you know how it is. But I swear to you, whoever did this will pay for it.”
Rickaby shook his head. “I’ve been taking your say-so long enough. Taking your word, walking away, and watching more people die.”
Stephen breathed deeply, keeping his temper. Rickaby might want a shouting match, but giving him one would scarcely help, and God knew the man had a point. “I don’t set the rules. I just try to make sure justice is done, much like you.”
“One man’s judgement isn’t the same thing as justice. Justice happens within the law, and it’s seen to be done. That’s what I want for Fred Beamish and
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