The Dark Archive (The Invisible Library Novel) Read online

  The heavy fibres of the cable were rough under her hands, and the narrow bridge was harder to manage than she’d expected. She forced herself to focus on the cable in front of her rather than the drop below.

  Then a bullet whistled past her.

  Irene relaxed her death grip on the cable and slid herself forward as fast as she could, letting the guide rope glide through her fingers as she forced herself along the bridge. And then she was tumbling over the railing and onto the roof in an ungainly sprawl.

  But she wasn’t safe. Not yet. Not so long as she was standing here in plain view. She stumbled through the crowd, trying to find cover. The yawning flight of stairs that led inside beckoned her, and she ran for it.

  Sterrington joined her moments later, wiping smears of ash from her face, and they drew aside from the people streaming downstairs. “You’ve brought trouble to my door,” she said sourly.

  “I thought you’d decided you were the target.”

  “Maybe. But nothing happened until you arrived.”

  Irene worked on staying calm. She couldn’t afford to alienate her fellow treaty representative. Her day was bad enough already. “I arrived less than an hour ago. Nobody could have predicted my movements to set this up.” Then she paused, thinking. “How long have workmen been painting downstairs?”

  “Several days. Why do you ask— Oh.” Sterrington frowned. “I see. It would be the perfect cover for arranging the arson, wouldn’t it? Flammable material, access to take the lifts out of service . . . I’ll have someone look into it.”

  Irene thought privately that it was a little late for that. And decided not to mention the bullet either—it would only encourage Sterrington to blame her again. Instead she said, “There was a murder attempt on you a couple of weeks ago, so after today, you’re definitely on the hit list. It seems they are aiming for all the treaty representatives.” Though that left the question of why Vale had been targeted. Because he was an associate of Irene’s? Or simply as a gesture of revenge from Lord Guantes? After all, he’d helped rescue Kai from the Guanteses’ kidnap plot. “Assuming someone else here wasn’t the target?” She glanced at the flames roaring from the nearby building. They really needed to move.

  “I doubt it, but that’s what I’ll be telling the police,” Sterrington said briskly. “I can do without the attention. Listen, Irene, I have to assume my apartment’s been compromised, and you should presume the same for your lodgings. I’ll take a room at Claridge’s. Leave any messages for me there, or with my solicitor Sallers at the Middle Temple. We can use him as a dead drop—I’ve kept my link with him secret. Let me know when you have more on that laptop.”

  For once, Irene was grateful the Fae was a professional schemer. But she could also spot an opportunity. “And on your side, can you check up on Lady Guantes—and see if any other Guantes enemies have been murdered recently? I’m assuming the Cardinal will know.”

  “He’s extremely busy,” Sterrington hedged. “You don’t want the details.”

  “Much as I sympathize with keeping a mess from one’s boss until it’s sorted out, he might be a target as well. Do you want to be the one who didn’t warn him?”

  “Now you’re exaggerating. Nobody on their level has even the slightest chance of assassinating the Cardinal.”

  The roof was nearly empty now and firemen were escorting stragglers downstairs. They needed to hurry if they wanted to lose themselves in the crowd. “Look,” Irene said, “whether we’re facing Lord Guantes, Lady Guantes, or both—and whether they want personal revenge or to trigger another war—they’ve tried to assassinate all three peace treaty representatives. The Cardinal needs to know.”

  “Oh, very well. I suppose some sort of memorandum might be in order. But I don’t expect this plot to stay hidden for much longer. This London isn’t the Guanteses’ home ground. With your Vale and the police after her, him, or them, they’ll have to retreat—and we’ll be ready next time.”

  Behind Sterrington, the whole building was aflame now. It was a warning that it could have been so much worse. Sterrington didn’t seem to realize just how close they’d both come to death.

  “All right,” Irene said, moving towards the stairs. “I’ll be in touch. Just . . . be careful. We’ve been lucky so far.”

  They needed to resolve this. Or their enemies would destroy even more of London in their desire for vengeance. When it came to Fae feuds, human lives were incidental damage.

  The air was thick with smoke as Irene emerged from the building that had been their salvation. The street was packed so full of observers, bystanders, coffee vendors, and bookmakers that she had to shove her way through the crowd. Fire engines were spraying thick gouts of water into the lower parts of the blazing building, but it didn’t seem to be doing much good. Though Irene admitted she knew more about fires from the running-away-from-them perspective than from putting them out. At any rate, it wasn’t her problem any more.

  “Hold it!” Several people stopped in their tracks, Irene included, and there was a general turning of heads to see Inspector Singh approaching, trailed by policemen. His gaze fixed on Irene. “Mrs. Parker? I’d like a word with you.”

  That was interesting—and worrying. Inspector Singh knew perfectly well that Irene’s identity in this world was Miss Winters and not Mrs. Parker. He also knew more about the Library, the dragons, and Fae than Irene would have liked. If he was trying to have a private word without identifying her publicly as Irene Winters, then Irene Winters was in trouble.

  Irene let herself be escorted into a waiting police van. One of the policemen—a sturdy fellow with a moustache—climbed in, along with Inspector Singh. The harsh electric light inside the closed cab brought out every smut and smear on Irene’s clothing. In contrast, Inspector Singh, sitting on the opposite bench with his attendant policeman, could have attended a public parade. From his polished boots to his turban and green sash—a token of his secondment from the Imperial Police in India—he looked pristine.

  But at that moment, Irene didn’t even care why he’d brought her here. The fire was too fresh a terror. Even though she’d managed to control herself while they were escaping, now that she was safely out of danger her subconscious was sending messages. Apparently it would like to lie down and gibber for a few hours. “You wanted to speak with me, Inspector?” she asked curtly.

  “Actually, Miss Winters, I wanted to thank you,” the inspector said. “I don’t have all the details yet, but I understand you managed to organise the evacuation. Nice work.”

  It made a pleasant change to have someone actually congratulate her for something. “I’m glad I could help,” she answered. “What I’m more worried about is why it happened.”

  “Always to the point. Under normal circumstances I’d call the fire terrible misfortune, but as things stand we were lucky that nothing worse happened . . .”

  He glanced sideways to the other policeman, who somehow relaxed. His shoulders loosened and a new light came into his eyes. “Forgive me for not removing this disguise, Winters.” It was Vale’s voice, unmistakable. “We all need to be careful about showing ourselves in public right now. I have very little doubt that Sterrington—and possibly you as well—was meant to die in that fire. Though I have yet to determine whether your presence triggered the attack, or whether your involvement was accidental.”

  Irene resigned herself to the fact that Vale’s disguises really were that good. “If I was an intended target, then someone must have waited until I visited to set the fire,” she said. “If it was just meant for Sterrington, then my timing was indeed . . . unfortunate. But the plan must have preceded our trip to Guernsey—the ‘painters’ in the building had been there at least a couple of days.”

  “Painters?” Singh asked.

  Irene gave them a brief summary of events. “So if this was the backup plan in case I survived Guernsey,” she finished, “what�
�s Plan C?”

  “Precisely why I’m avoiding my lodgings,” Vale agreed. “For the moment, our interests—and London’s—are best served by us staying out of sight. You sent Strongrock to get that computer analysed?”

  “I did. You know Lord Silver’s left London?”

  “Of course. What do you propose to do with his niece?”

  “I’m still working on that,” Irene admitted. “I have a set of rooms in Croydon, leased under an alias. I could leave her there with some good books.”

  “Probably the best solution,” Vale agreed.

  “So where will you go next, Miss Winters, if you’re keeping a low profile?” Inspector Singh asked. “I can have the van drop you off somewhere.”

  “Whitehall, please. I’ll get Catherine to safety. Then I have another trail that might be worth following.”

  “Really?” Vale asked.

  “The books. I want to know if someone leaked information about that copy of La Vie de Merlin. Maybe it was bait to get us to Guernsey.”

  “Probably an area that you’re better qualified to investigate than I,” Vale said. Generous of him, Irene thought wryly. “In the meantime, I will be investigating the presence of the Guanteses in London—and whether or not this has anything to do with my criminal mastermind. I smell conspiracy and intrigue. I also intend to find this Professor that Lord Guantes mentioned.” Even beneath his disguise, the lines of his face were suddenly hawk-like—a hunter on the trail, a duellist looking for his opponent.

  “Be careful,” Irene said.

  Vale raised a brow. “Surely I should be telling you that, and with far more cause. London is my home, Winters. I need no warnings to watch my step.”

  But Irene wasn’t afraid—well, wasn’t just afraid—for his safety. She was afraid for his personality—his soul, if you cared to put it that way. Once, he’d been infected by chaos, and it had come close to destroying him. It had tried to twist him into an archetype, rather than a human being, drawing on a strain of Fae blood in his family tree. The pull of this Great Detective archetype had tempted him to lose himself in the thrill of the chase, the lure of a puzzling crime. And what greater temptation than the presence of a “master criminal” in London? There was a new gleam in Vale’s eye, a controlled urgency in his posture.

  Irene had realized how much she valued Vale as a friend when she’d almost lost him. She didn’t want to risk that again.

  “I think we all need to be extremely careful,” she said. “That may include you, Inspector Singh. Whether we are facing Lady Guantes, Lord Guantes, or some other malefactor entirely, if our aggressor knows you’re a friend of ours, they could target you too.”

  “I assure you I’m being prudent, Miss Winters,” Inspector Singh said. His sideways glance made it clear that he was more concerned about Vale. “Whether criminal masterminds are present or not, I always watch my step. Besides, if anyone cares to take a shot at me, they’ll need to be quick about it. My appointment book’s a little overfull at the moment. The upcoming Hungarian state visit, the Grand Technological Exhibition—”

  “Which reminds me, I need to look into Dr. Brabasmus and his work,” Vale interrupted. “The cerebral controllers, you recall? Even if the doctor himself is dead, his inventions are clearly on the market, and it may be possible to find out who’s been buying them.” The carriage rumbled to a halt. “Your stop, I believe. Send any messages for me to my sister, Columbine.”

  “What if you need to contact me?” Irene asked.

  “I’ll find you,” Vale said, with a somewhat irritating certainty.

  * * *

  * * *

  St. Henrietta’s Hospital was reassuringly quiet, clean, and safe after the wilds of London. The layers of security that surrounded it were also a safeguard from any immediate attempts at assassination. Irene wondered briefly if she could leave Catherine here for the next few days. They probably didn’t take lodgers, but maybe if she promised a sufficiently high donation . . .

  Then she walked into the bedroom where she’d left Catherine. It was empty.

  Panic rose as she contemplated various horrific scenarios. But she took a deep breath and forced herself to look around the room with clinical detachment, as Vale would have done. No bloodstains, no obvious signs of a struggle. But equally, no Catherine . . . and the suitcase containing the Merlin book was gone too.

  The nun outside was happy to answer Irene’s questions. “Why, yes, the young dear checked herself out. Since she was healthy and in her right mind, we didn’t have any problem with that.”

  “Did she say where she was going?” Irene asked desperately. “Or leave a note?”

  “No, nothing like that. But . . .”

  “Yes?” Irene said hopefully.

  Other nuns had quietly closed in. “She did say that you’d be paying the bill,” the first nun said with a flinty smile. “We have the full accounting here. I do hope there won’t be any problems.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Fortunately the nuns took cheques.

  But none of the others knew where Catherine had gone either. And no, she hadn’t said what she planned to do. But she’d only been gone for an hour at most—so she couldn’t have ventured far.

  Irene left with a polite smile pinned to her face, but behind it, she was furious. What did Catherine think she was doing? She’d been poisoned, just like Kai—the only thing stopping Irene from accusing her of betrayal. And she should know the current situation was dangerous.

  Outside the city still stank of smoke, and drizzling rain made the air clammy and depressing. Irene drew her veil across her face and considered how best to hunt down an ungrateful, unthinking, idiot apprentice.

  Catherine had left an hour ago, but the convent’s entrance was deliberately unobtrusive and unwatched. There wouldn’t be any witnesses to her vanishing act.

  Of course, it was always possible that Catherine had just gone back to their shared lodgings, without bothering to leave a message. Possible—though unlikely. But Irene reluctantly decided she should check first.

  Fortunately she and Kai had taken a few “simple” precautions when they moved house—such as renting the basement flat next door (doing so under another name) and installing a hidden entrance to their own cellar. After all, one never knew when one would have to sneak into one’s own house. And if one had installed a secret entrance, for fear of assassination, so much the better.

  Their house itself was quiet, with the slight patina of dust that came with several days’ absence. The front doormat seemed untouched—but the back doormat revealed recent footprints. Small feet, narrow shoes, and a couple of traces where muddied skirts had brushed the skirting-boards. Catherine had indeed come in this way.

  There were no bombs—no obvious ones, at least. No giant spiders. No assassins hiding behind curtains. Irene prowled silently through the house, looking for traces of someone trying to kill her. Her heart jumped into her throat at every noise from the street outside. Finally she had to admit that either the house wasn’t primed to murder her, or the trap was so well prepared that she couldn’t find any infernal devices.

  Perhaps I’m looking at this the wrong way. If Lord Guantes is back, and given what a devious, gloating, overly intricate plotter he is, what would he do?

  When she put it that way, the answer was obvious.

  Her private study was as quiet and apparently undisturbed as the rest of the house. But as she’d partly expected, there were two letters on the desk, in sealed envelopes. One was in Catherine’s handwriting. The other . . . wasn’t.

  Gripped by a sense of urgency, she ripped open the letter from Catherine first. The peace treaty could be over if Catherine walked into a trap and ended up dead. But her first concern was for the safety of her apprentice. Catherine knew the situation was bad. She didn’t know how bad.

  The scrawled note inside—clearly wri
tten in haste, using pen and ink from the study desk—was brief. Irene, I’m going to check out Kenneth and Ruthcomb, the bookseller which helped arrange the Merlin sale. I’ll meet you back at the hospital. Catherine.

  Irene suppressed her urge to tear up the missive and throw it in the bin. She forced herself to be fair. Catherine might be ridiculously careless of her own safety, but this was a reasonable line of investigation. The Fae had potential—if Irene could keep her alive long enough to realize it. And right now, Catherine couldn’t be that far ahead of Irene.

  But there was also the second envelope.

  She drew on her gloves as an extra precaution and carefully eased it open with a paper knife.

  The letter inside was written on expensive notepaper, in a distinguished hand. She glanced at the end and was rewarded by the signature—Guantes. Irene suppressed pleasure at this useful confirmation of her fears and continued reading.

  My dear Miss Winters,

  You will have realized by now that I intend to bring down irretrievable ruin on you, your loved ones, your friends and associates, your workplace, and anything else that comes to mind. Please don’t feel obliged to thank me. It is my pleasure entirely.

  That was certainly Lord Guantes’s style—as grandiose as ever. She read on.

  You have always struck me as an understanding woman.

  Pure sarcasm. He hardly knew her. Besides, any discussion that began with how understanding she was, was likely to end with what she could do for them.

  So I’m sure that you can appreciate quite how unpleasant it was for me when you foiled my plans and stabbed me. It also caused my wife a great deal of unhappiness. (She sends her regards.)

  Irene felt the back of her neck crawl as she read, and suppressed the urge to check that nobody had crept up behind her. These sentiments were usually expressed over the point of a dagger, or immediately after a target had drunk poison, or when the victim thought she was alone . . .