The Changeling's Moon by Nene Adams (page 2)

CHAPTER TWELVE
 

The train journey to Southend was without incident; once arriving in the charming seaside town, Lina took a few moments to consult a willing porter, and soon they were on their way to the Bide-a-While Guesthouse. 

The lodging house proved to be a large, three-story, clapboard home with the roof shingled in slate. The exterior was painted a creamy white accented with brick-red on the shutters, window frames and door. It seemed a nice enough place; wicker chairs were lined up with military precision on the verandah, bright calico cushions adding a cheerful note. 

Rhiannon murmured, "Just smell that sea!" and inhaled deeply, thoroughly enjoying the scent of fresh salty air. 

Lina wrinkled her nose. "Not nearly as odiferous as Billingsgate, however..." 

"Don't tell me you miss that terrible London air!" 

"I confess, I have grown so used to the smells of our fair city - the belching stacks of factories on the Isle of Dog, the sulpher-tinged fog, the spectacular stench of the Thames when the tide runs high - that fresh air seems almost anathema to my London-hardened lungs. Still, I suppose Southend is fair enough," she continued, glancing around at the gaily colored banners and shopfronts that lined the broadwalk, just a few steps across shell-strewn sand to the sparkling sea. 

Rhiannon sighed. "All right. I suppose there's no talking you into taking a little holiday here someday." 

Lina shifted her parasol until it shielded both women from the gaze of passers-by. "My dear, if you wish to take your ease in this place, rest assured I shall accompany you. I will even attempt to enjoy myself, if you insist." She bent and kissed Rhiannon's mouth briefly. 

They climbed the steps to the verandah of the lodging house. Before Lina could ring the bell, the door flew open, revealing a lean, spare gentleman whose blue-black hair was liberally sprinkled with silver. "May I help you?" he asked in a husky voice. 

Lina smiled. "We seek one A.B. Montrose," she replied. "It was given to us to understand that he was the proprietor of this establishment." 

"I'm Montrose," the gentleman said, coming further out into the light and allowing the door to close behind him. In defiance of the fashion of the times, he was clean shaven. His hair was cut far shorter than the current mode, a few bare inches that left his ears well exposed. "What can I do for you, ladies?" 

Rhiannon felt uneasy. There was indeed something strange about Montrose, but she couldn't quite put her finger on it. "I was hoping you could help us," she began. "We've come all the way from London to ask you a few questions..." 

"Questions about what?" Montrose said with a sudden scowl. A bit shorter than Lina and not as muscular, he nevertheless exuded an air of power and control. He leaned a shoulder against the door jamb, unobtrusively but effectively blocking entrance to the lodging house. 

A female voice came from above; someone was leaning out one of the second floor windows. "What is it, Abie?" 

"Nothing, Lucy!" Montrose called loudly in response. "I'll take care of it." 

He took a cigar from his shirt pocket and busied himself snipping off the end and lighting it to his satisfaction. Blowing a cloud of foul-smelling smoke, he said coolly, "I think perhaps it would be best if you ladies took your leave. I can't answer any questions today, tomorrow or any other day, for that matter." 

Lina leaned on her parasol. Her green-and-white checked traveling gown was slightly stained along the hem due to walking on the road from the train station; ruffles concealed her hands almost to the knuckle. 

A wandering breeze tugged at the ribbons on her straw hat as she replied, "Why do you fear questions, Mister Montrose? I assure you that the fact that you are an American, although you have been in this country for quite some time, as well as other trifling observations I have made, are not the focus of our inquiry. We merely wish to see if you have further information regarding a crime that took place in 1870, which you reported on when you were still a journalist with The Times." 

Rather than relaxing, Montrose's posture became even more erect. He stood straight, one hand tucked beneath the opposite arm, his cigar forgotten in the other hand. "What observations?" he asked, ignoring the rest of Lina's statement. His brown eyes narrowed into glittering slits. 

Lina bared her teeth in a predatory smile. "Perhaps you would prefer to discuss such matters within?" she asked. Her tone suggested that this was a command rather than a question. 

Montrose seemed shaken but retaining an air of defiance, stepped aside, opened the door and bowed with an elaborate, almost sarcastic flourish, saying, "Welcome to the Bide-a-While, ladies." 

Rhiannon entered on Lina's heels, wondering just what her lover was about - and hoping she wouldn't alienate someone who might hold key information regarding The Changeling's Moon. 

Lucinda was plump as a pigeon and quite attractive; her hair was a golden-brown reminiscent of cognac and matched the color of her eyes. With rosy cheeks liberally peppered with freckles and a wide, generous smile, she looked and acted like a woman much younger than her acknowledged fifty-three years of age. 

Rhiannon kept her eyes on Montrose; the man had taken off his jacket and now lounged carelessly in an overstuffed armchair, sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows and revealing the edge of an old tattoo on his upper arm, the ink having faded to a dark, blurred gray. She couldn't see enough of the design to make it out but assumed he must have been to sea at some time in his life; sailors commonly sported tattoos, taking pride in the permanent disfigurement of their skin. 

Although he appeared to be at his ease, there was a subtle tension that radiated through his frame, a slight flush of hectic color in his tanned and weather-beaten cheeks. 

"Well?" Montrose finally asked. "You made an observation about me outside, Miss...?" He stopped; contrary to polite convention, neither of the ladies had introduced themselves. 

"I am Lady Evangeline St. Claire," Lina said. "And this is my companion, Rhiannon Moore." 

Montrose inclined his head. "Lady St. Claire... I believe I have heard your name mentioned before in some capacity. In connection with the Ripper murders, perhaps?*" 

"Yes, I admit to a brief involvement with the case," Lina replied. "However, my business here has nothing to do with the Whitechapel killings. I am here regarding a crime that took place twenty years ago. Specifically, the brutal murder of Sir Arthur Moon by his son, Sebastian." 

Montrose opened his mouth to speak, then stopped and he drew a breath. "First things first, my lady. Perhaps you'd care to enlighten me about your strange remark that I was an American... as well as your enigmatic reference to 'other observations' you have made about me." 

Lina leaned back, rubbing her upper lip in thought. After a while, she said languidly, as if she were speaking in a dream, "Your accent - faint but detectable - is more suggestive of the American south than Southwark. Furthermore, judging from the slight roll in your walk, the traces of calluses and faded dark stains on the palms of your hands - from tarred rope, I should say - as well as the tattoo on your arm - although I have not seen it in its entirety, the design seems to suggest a steamboat powered by a paddlewheel - I would hazard to deduce that you once plied the riverboat trade, possibly in Mississippi. Also, your watch chain bears a slug of lead; once used, no doubt, at the end of a leadline, cast into the waters to determine their depth." 

Montrose let out a breath. Rolling up his right sleeve further, he revealed the design of a steamboat engraved on his skin. "You're right. When I was a teenage youth I signed onto a riverboat. I left after a few years; the captain was a brutal devil who switched from carrying cotton to transporting slaves. He treated his human cargo worse than animals and I refused to be a part of it. I came to England when I was twenty, got a job as a freelance reporter for The Times and eventually became a full-time employee." 

"Ah, but that is not the end of my deductions," Lina said with a smile. 

Montrose stiffened a bit but did not try to stop her. Lucinda, with a worried frown, reached out and patted the gentleman's hand. He did not acknowledge her but sat with his eyes trained on the dark-haired woman in front of him. 

"Rest assured, your secret is safe with me." Lina took a sip of tea before continuing, "I realize how difficult it has been for you, keeping up such a masquerade for so many years. I have no intention of unmasking you or revealing that which you have kept hidden so long." 

Lucinda drew a deep breath and looked as if she was about to cry. Montrose bit his lip and turned pale. 

"I refer, of course," Lina said, "to the fact that you are not the man you pretend to be." 

Rhiannon, confused, was about to ask a question but was waved into silence by her lover. 

Lina continued, "A.B. Montrose is, in fact... a woman." 

At this pronouncement, Lucinda Whiteletter burst into tears and buried her face in her apron. 
 
 

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
 

Montrose clutched the arms of his chair convulsively and swallowed. "What... what the devil do you mean?" he sputtered. 

Lina sighed. "Mister - or I should say more properly, Miss Montrose - while your secret may have been able to withstand the casual observation of acquaintances, employers and the general public, my senses are far keener and much better trained." 

"How did you know?" Montrose asked hoarsely. Her eyes swiveled as if seeking escape. "No one's ever guessed, ever!" 

"I do not guess, I deduce." Lina turned to Rhiannon and said, "Please see to Miss Whiteletter, my dear. You have smelling salts if they are required?" 

Rhiannon nodded and went over to the still weeping Lucinda, putting a comforting arm around the woman's shoulders and whispering reassurances. 

"Now then, Miss Montrose," Lina said, her posture and bearing indicating that she was in full command of the situation. "First, it has been my observation that gentlemen of such dark coloring as your own always bear the shadow of  beards upon their cheeks and chin, even after having been freshly shaven. You have no such stigmata. Furthermore, as your shirt is open necked and exposes your throat, I can see that you lack what is termed by the layman as an 'adam's apple' - again, the sole province of the male. Your hands and feet are quite small and delicate for your height, your shoulders narrow, and despite your lean build, you still possess the tell-tale rounded hips and small waist of a woman. I suppose you were corseted as a child." 

"I was," Montrose admitted. "I hated it but Mother insisted. She even made me sleep in it at night. No matter how many times I cut those damned strings, she persevered." 

"Ah." Lina's lips parted in a slight smile. "I see you wear your shirts loosely. Did you stop binding your breasts when you retired from active life?" 

Montrose sighed. "Yes," she replied. "I'm rather less blessed in that area, thank God. But it was still uncomfortable. With my jacket on, no one notices. Even when I remove my jacket and waistcoat, it's still practically unnoticeable." 

"People see what they have been programmed to see, so to speak," Lina said. "A person dressed in male clothing, performing the actions - such as cigar smoking in public - that are traditionally associated with men, will not bother to see beyond the facade. I imagine that such social blindness has been a great help in maintaining your masquerade." 

"It's not a masquerade!" Montrose blurted, her cheeks now flaming with color. "God may have chosen to give me the physical form of a female, but I have always felt myself a man. I left home when I was twelve years old to escape the role that my family had chosen for me, preferring to live the uncertain and dangerous life of a man rather than deny my true self and be bound into the mold of a woman. I have lived so ever since, undetected and happy with my lot. Until now..." 

Lina said hastily, "As I said before, I have no intention of exposing you." She shifted on the sofa until she was facing Lucinda, who by now had stopped crying and was observing the proceedings with slightly bloodshot eyes. 

"Miss Whiteletter, there is no need for upset. Your lover's secret is quite safe, I assure you. As a consulting detective, many secrets come my way and my discretion is a by-word." 

The plump woman sniffled while Rhiannon rubbed her back. She looked imploringly at Montrose. "D'you think it'll be okay, Abie?" 

Montrose studied Lina a moment, her dark eyes seeming black as anthracite in the semi-gloom of the parlor. Finally, she nodded her head as if some inner requirement had been satisfied. "I believe we can trust Lady St. Claire," she said. "After all, she didn't come here for the specific purpose of uncovering that Abigail Montrose has been living as a man for forty years." 

"True." Lina rummaged around in her reticule and withdrew a platinum-and-jade cigarette case. After lighting her cigarette with a lit lucifer provided by Montrose, she continued, "Now that the drama is passed, perhaps we may begin next with the business that brought Rhiannon and myself to Southend. Specifically, the murder of Sir Arthur Moon." 

Montrose relaxed, the wire-taut tension gone. "Why do you wish to dredge up that old business?" 

Rhiannon answered, still absently soothing the sniffling Lucinda, "I bought a painting of Sebastian Moon's and the dealer was able to give us only a few details. I find his story intriguing and wanted to know more." 

"Hmph. Intriguing, that's one way of putting it. How did you come to connect me with the matter?" 

"We visited The Times and reviewed the articles you wrote about the incident." Rhiannon gave the retired journalist a rueful smile. "I suppose you think us terribly forward. I can't explain why I find myself so drawn to Sebastian Moon's tragic circumstances. I suppose Lina and I both have a feeling that there's more to the story than we've been able to find out by ourselves." 

Lina said, "We hoped that you might remember stray facts or some such that your editors did not see fit to print." 

"All stories are like that, my lady!" Montrose said with an ironic laugh. "Anything not suitably watered down for public consumption is deemed unprintable. Let me get my notebooks... yes," she continued at Rhiannon's look of astonishment, "I still have my notebooks. All of them, in fact. Lucy claims I'm a pack rat, unable to throw anything at all away, and she's been after me for months to chuck away the bulk of my precious papers, as they clutter up the place and make her tidy heart palpate with frustration. I suppose she has a point but in this case, I think my miserly nature is more of an asset than a vice." 

Montrose rose and left the room. As soon as she was gone, Rhiannon - her task done - rejoined her lover on the sofa. 

Lucinda wiped her face with her sodden apron. "Well," she said with forced cheerfulness, "I suppose that's all right, then." She glanced curiously at Lina and Rhiannon. "Are you two...?" She hesitated, unsure how to phrase her question. 

"Lovers?" Lina chuckled. "Lovers and in love, Miss Whiteletter." 

Rhiannon glanced at Lina out of the corner of her eye; the other woman's beautiful features were wreathed in curling tendrils of smoke, giving her an otherworldly appearance. She spent a moment rearranging the skirts of her dove-gray traveling costume and then leaned against Lina, careful not to crush the small straw boater that was perched on her strawberry-blonde braids. 

Lucinda said confidentially, "I'm always afraid of the law. Mind you, I love Abie; we met when I was a barmaid down at the Fiddlin' Moggie and he'd come in for a pint after work. When he retired, we come here to run this little house together. I reckon what with Abie bein' known as a man and all we could've gotten married, but I'm a bit too old for white satin and orange flowers. But I'm always afraid some snoopin' constable or something's gonna find out and Abie'll be arrested. I don't think I could stand it, him bein' in gaol!" 

"But I didn't think it was against the law!" Rhiannon exclaimed. "Lina, is it?" 

"What, my dear?" 

"You know..." Rhiannon blushed slightly. "What we do. In private. Is it illegal?" 

Lina's emerald eyes glittered with amusement. "Certainly not!" she declared. "While men loving men is a punishable crime in Britain, the opposite is not the case. In fact, when such a law was proposed, banning women to women relationships, Queen Victoria refused to ratify it." 

"Why's that?" Lucinda asked, and Rhiannon repeated the question. 

Lina laughed. "Because she did not believe such a thing was within the realms of possibility!" 

All three women chuckled, and when Montrose returned, bearing several battered notebooks, they had to let her in on the joke. 

She threw back her head and laughed heartily. "God bless our Queen!" she said, prompting another round of giggles. 

The atmosphere eased into one of good cheer and Lucinda insisted on another round of tea and cakes, but things soon assumed an air of almost unbearable suspense when Montrose eventually opened her notebooks and began to relate to Lina and Rhiannon the true circumstances of Sir Arthur Moon's murder. 
 

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 
 

"I thought I remembered the details, but I wanted to consult my notebooks to be sure," Montrose said. She was sitting in her armchair, slouched down with her long legs crossed over one another in a leisurely way; another cigar burning at her elbow in a battered brass stand. "You're right; there were a lot of things that came out about the whole business that never found their way into print." 

"I thought as much," Lina said. "Please, do go on." 

Rhiannon took out her own little notebook and began to scribe notes as Montrose spoke. 

"According to my interviews with Sir Arthur's secretary - a purse-faced, mincing little cherub named Phillip Smalls - Sir Arthur had been asked by his son, Sebastian, to accompany him on a holiday to Bath. Smalls wasn't privy to all the details but he was able to tell me that Sebastian seemed very nervous; starting with white eyes at every sound and mumbling to himself. Smalls wasn't able to catch anything but the word 'cuckoo' - which meant nothing to me at the time and frankly, still doesn't." 

Rhiannon's brows drew together in a frown. "There may be a connection to something else, but," she added hastily when all eyes turned to her, "I'll wait until you're finished. It probably doesn't mean anything, anyway." 

Montrose continued, "Smalls claimed that Sir Arthur and Sebastian had a spectacular argument - Sebastian insisting vehemently that the holiday take place, his father equally insistent that business concerns warranted his remaining in London. In the end, and much to Small's surprise, Sir Arthur agreed to the trip. I take it that he was unable to make out why; it seems that the secretary was in the habit of eavesdropping on his employer, and this time, the two gentlemen's voices softened to a degree that made overhearing impossible. 

"At any rate, Sir Arthur and Sebastian departed from London on June 9th, taking a first class carriage on the 8:15 morning train. They were expected to arrive at their hotel in the late afternoon." 

"According to your article, the two gentlemen weren't missed until June 14. Why was there such an inordinate delay?" 

Montrose smiled. "The hotel manager came down with a stomach virus and was violently ill for several days. He had recently had cause to relieve his former assistant and had hired a new man, but he was barely trained and overwhelmed by the amount of custom. Reservations were lost, bills neglected, things were altogether a confusion of chaos. When the manager finally felt well enough to take charge, it was another day or so before he realized that the Moon's hadn't checked in. He immediately contacted Sir Arthur's London offices by telegram. When Smalls discovered that his employer was missing, he raised the alarm and the local police began investigating the matter." 

"Inspector Henry Stirling, was it not?" Lina asked. 

"Yes. By all accounts an admirable man, quite experienced and very well respected. The train attendant confirmed that Sir Arthur and Sebastian departed the train in the small village of Starlingate, where they enjoyed a hearty lunch at a nearby pub. Several witnesses came forward to relate that the two gentlemen left the pub at around 2:30 in the afternoon and were last seen walking along a lane, voices raised in argument. Inspector Stirling immediately concentrated the search in this area and on June 18, Sir Arthur's body was discovered." 

"He had been stabbed, I believe?" 

Montrose made a face. "Massacred is more like it, my lady. He had been stabbed so violently and so many times that his chest was practically nonexistent; one could almost see the bones of his spine peeking up from the massive wound. His face had also been almost obliterated; I tell you, I have seen a good deal of violence and bloodshed in my career, but Sir Arthur's death was by far the most gruesome." 

"I can see why such details were suppressed," Lina said dryly. 

"Indeed... one can't have well-bred ladies fainting at the breakfast table." Montrose flipped a few pages in her notebook and inhaled thoughtfully on her cigar. "Bartholomew Moon was summoned immediately in order to make an identification of the body, which he did by recognizing his father's signet ring. The police were inclined to believe Sir Arthur's death was the result of a robbery gone wrong, but Bartholomew..." She hesitated. 

Lina leaned forward, her entire body seeming to quiver with eagerness. "Go on," she said. "What about Bartholomew?" 

"Well, his behavior was one of the strangest things about the case." Montrose puffed on her cigar a moment, tapping out the ash. "From the first, he insisted that his brother, Sebastian, was the perpetrator of Sir Arthur's murder. Inspector Stirling was inclined to put it down to hysteria, but Bartholomew eventually threatened to go over Stirling's head. After spending another day in a fruitless search for Sebastian, Stirling - still not inclined to believe Bartholomew but having little choice - began to cast his net wider, alerting the authorities throughout Britain and France via telegram. On June 24, Sebastian was apprehended in Calais, trying to buy a ticket to Vienna." 

Rhiannon looked up from her writing, appalled. "But why would Bartholomew even believe his brother capable of such a thing, never mind insist that it was so?" 

Lina snorted. "Apparently, brother Bartholomew knew far more about the case than he was willing to admit." 

"I felt the same way," Montrose confessed, "and believe me, I tried to get to the bottom of it. But Bartholomew refused to answer any questions and even complained to my senior editor when I pressed him, so I was forced to drop the subject." 

"And what about Sebastian? Were you able to interview him after his capture?" Lina asked. 

"Not as such. I did gain access to his lodging through the simple expedient of bribing the landlady," Montrose answered with a smug smile. "After seeing his rooms, I could well believe him mad. He lived there for four years; the place was a pigsty, filthy with food scraps, rotting clothing, dried paints smeared on the walls and floor..." She shuddered. "The stench was unbelievable. There weren't any finished canvases among the stacks that were scattered about - nearly ceiling high in some places - but most of them were concerned with a single subject: Sir Arthur. Portrayed as a demonic figure, complete with horns and goat's feet, torturing little children." 

Rhiannon let out a little cry of horror while Lina said, "Torturing children? In what way, pray?" 

Montrose made a face. "The subject is not one upon which I wish to dwell, Lady St. Claire." 

"To be sure," she pressed, "nevertheless, any detail you can relate may be important to our inquiry." 

"Very well, since you insist." Montrose took a moment to compose herself, wiping tiny beads of sweat from her upper lip with the back of her hand. "This devil figure appeared to be drowning children in a bathtub." 

There was silence; at last, Rhiannon shook her head. "The workings of a madman's mind are a mystery," she commented. The strawberry-blonde was feeling a little ill and desperately wanted to change the forbidding subject. "Did you find anything else in the rooms?" she asked. 

"As a matter of fact, I did," Montrose replied. "A curious note pinned to the wall. It contained a list of three names; Sir Arthur's was at the top of the list, along with Doctor Georges LeFevre - the family's physician - and Hermione Middleton, the late Lady Amanda's maid." 

"Was Hermione still employed by the Moon's after Lady Amanda's death?" Lina asked. She appeared to be lounging lazily on the sofa, her eyes half-closed, but Rhiannon knew from experience that this pose was a sham; her lover's incredible intellect was working at lightning speed. 

"Yes," Montrose answered. "In the capacity of housekeeper with a salary of  two hundred pounds a year. Very generous, if you ask me. She retired a few years ago but I have no idea where she ended up." 

"Very well," Lina said. "Your information has been most helpful but I believe that Rhiannon and I have already taken up too much of your time. With your permission, we shall take our leave." She sat up, gathering her reticule and parasol and preparing to depart. 

Lucinda had left the room earlier, pleading a headache. Montrose was puzzled by Lina's abruptness, but rose from her chair, saying, "I cannot state that your visit has been entirely pleasant, Lady St. Claire. On the other hand, it has most certainly been the most diverting afternoon I've spent in some time." 

Montrose escorted the two ladies to the door. Before they left, Lina said, "Again, you have my most heart-felt thanks for your assistance. I apologize for the distress caused by my earlier actions; I hope you will not hold my predilection for exercising my deductive abilities against me." 

"Not at all," Montrose replied generously. "I suppose I'd been getting a bit too complacent; a little shaking up should keep me on my toes!" 

As they took their leave, Montrose drew Rhiannon aside and said, "I'm not sure why you feel Sir Arthur's murder to be of significance... but should you uncover anything new about the case, would you be so kind as to return and visit us again? I may be out of the news game, but my curiosity is as strong as any man's." 

"Of course," Rhiannon replied with a small smile. She shook Montrose's hand and left to rejoin Lina, who was waiting impatiently at the gate. 

While they walked briskly back to the train station, Rhiannon asked, "Where to now, love?" 

Lina's face was set in a grim expression. "To home," she replied. "I wish to examine that painting of yours in closer detail. Also, there may perhaps be answers to the telegrams I sent regarding Middleton and LeFevre." 

Her eyes glimmered darkly as she added, "I fear there are foul deeds afoot, my dear. Sir Arthur's death may very well have been just the final link in a long chain of purest evil." 

Rhiannon tried to pry more answers out of her lover, but Lina refused to explain. 
 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
 

When they returned to Grosvenor Square, Jackson was waiting for them at the door. "A message from Mycroft Holmes arrived, milady," he said. "As well as a great many telegrams." 

"Very well," Lina replied. "I will deal with such matters later. At the moment, I require a hot bath, a change of clothing and something substantial to eat. Rhiannon? Will you be joining me upstairs?" 

"As long as its only bathing that's on your mind," the strawberry-blonde replied sotto voce. "After all that 'business' yesterday, I'm a bit sore, if you know what I mean." 

They started up the stairs. "Did I hurt you?" Lina asked contritely, her earlier and grimmer mood seeming to have passed. "You seemed to be enjoying it at the time..." 

"Of course I enjoyed it!" Rhiannon said. "I'm just a little sore, that's all. It'll pass." 

They went into their bedroom and shut the door. Rhiannon had recently redecorated the room in shades of tobacco brown and dark crimson; the immense four-poster bed from Hong Kong had been gilded in places to bring out the carved details of twisting dragons and poppies on the posts. Tasseled cushions in dark jewel colors littered the floor and the small ebony tables scattered here and there groaned beneath the weight of porcelain and ivory figures. To Lina, the oriental flavor of the decorations Rhiannon had chosen made the room seem like an upper class opium den. 

She went into the bathroom, thankful that this room had escaped Rhiannon's Chinese fervor. "Shall I ask Jackson to bring up the hip bath so that you may soak your pains away?" Lina asked, her voice echoing hollowly. 

"No," Rhiannon answered, pulling pins out of her hair and tossing them down on a dressing table. "I'll just share yours, if you don't mind." 

As she walked into the bathroom, Rhiannon had to repress a shudder at the sight of the tub filled with gently steaming water. She vividly remembered her suicide attempt, and as she removed the wide gold bracelets that hid her scars, she stared at them soberly. 

It's hard to believe I actually wanted to die, she thought. I really believed Lina would be better off without me. 

Lina got into the scented water first, as had become their custom. For a time, after Rhiannon tried to kill herself, the peer had watched her surreptitiously, flinching if she even so much as picked up a butter knife. However, she'd quickly realized that Rhiannon had not only picked up on her surveillance but was extremely saddened by it. So despite her misgivings, Lina had tried to behave as normally as possible. 

That part of their lives was past, of course. The hell they'd endured was over; although they still spoke about it on occasion, neither Rhiannon nor Lina wanted to dwell morbidly on that terrible time. Things were much, much better, they were closer than ever before, and the love they felt for one another had flourished into a thing of absolute joy and beauty. 

Lina watched Rhiannon undress, each layer of her clothing peeled away and carefully folded in a familiar ritual, until finally she was covered only by the glory of her cascading red-blonde hair. Lina's eyes traced every sweeping curve, every line of her wife's body, drinking her in, wanting nothing more than to sink wholly into her essence and drown in her sky blue eyes. 

Rhiannon watched Lina from beneath her lashes as she puttered around the bathroom, ignoring the cool tiles under her feet. Despite her earlier misgivings, the sight of Lina's wet and slippery flesh gleaming in the golden gaslight made a familiar itch begin to tingle between her thighs. 

She deliberately bent over several times, giving her lover an eye-opening look at her delicate pink folds, lightly furred with flaming curls, firm round buttocks and the small puckered opening that peeped between her cheeks. 

Lina couldn't have taken her eyes away if her life had depended on it. 

When Rhiannon finally slid into the tub, Lina's face was scarlet. Whether it was from the heat of the water, or another source of heat entirely, Rhiannon intended to find out. She grinned mischievously; the way her lover reacted to her body was always a source of delight. 

Their lovemaking had become less playful and more intense following Cairo; then it had been non-existent for a while, but after Rhiannon had at last begun to deal with her emotional ordeal, she'd been more willing to try. Lina had been incredibly gentle and patient, never pushing her lover for more than she was willing to give, and always ready simply to hug or hold the woman if that was all she could tolerate. But at long last, and much to Lina's delight, Rhiannon had begun teasing again... 

Now, the strawberry-blonde sat up facing Lina, knees drawn up to her chin, arms clasped loosely around her legs. Blue eyes smoldered as she let them wander down the length of Lina's magnificent body - the smoothly muscled arms and shoulders; full breasts crowned with dusky rose nipples that were already straining at the air; trim waist flaring out to womanly but compact hips. Lina's flat belly flexed down to a flourish of black fur that seemed to shimmer beneath the water. 

Lina let her head fall back and moaned softly. Knowing Rhiannon was looking at her, openly admiring every inch of her body - that intense perusal was an act as erotic as a touch. She kept her eyes open, though, arousal flaring as she watched Rhiannon watching her. 

All at once, a curious look settled over Rhiannon's face. It was pride... no, it was more than that. Pride and a certain cool self-confidence, an expression one might expect to be better suited to a Queen. 

''You may bathe me,'' Rhiannon commanded simply, turning around to present her back to Lina and obviously expecting to be obeyed. 

Lina sucked in a breath. This was new, unexpected - and very, very exciting. Just how far her wife intended to go with this, she wasn't sure, but she intensely wanted to find out.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
 

"Yes, ma'am,'' Lina said with a subservient tilt of her head, indicating acquiescence to her new role. 

She soaped up a sponge and began smoothing the slippery suds over Rhiannon's back, carefully pushing strawberry-blonde curls over creamy shoulders. As she rinsed each area, Lina planted hot kisses on the clean flesh, delicately tracing her tongue in ornate patterns and then kissing the wetness away. 

Rhiannon bit back a moan of sheer pleasure and kept herself still by an act of will. It wouldn't do to surrender too soon. 

Lina finished Rhiannon's back and the smaller woman turned around. Her pale eyes seemed darker, more intensely blue from passion. When Lina leaned in to capture her lips, however, Rhiannon turned her head. It was apparent the game wasn't finished yet. 

Lina sighed, but from pleasure more than frustration, then began soaping Rhiannon's front, paying her shoulders and breasts the same loving attention, sucking her turgid, rose-pink nipples one after the other, flicking her tongue over and over the upstanding nubs while Rhiannon gasped and whimpered. 

When Lina reached for more soap, however, Rhiannon stood up, standing above her, sweetly scented water cascading in a rush over her belly, down her thighs, dripping in shimmering droplets from the thatch of now dark red curls that concealed 
her sex. 

''You may continue,'' she commanded shortly, but bestowed a loving smile on her willing slave, who didn't have to be told twice. 

Stomach... (warm tongue dipping into her navel making Rhiannon twitch)... Outer thighs (lips caressing, sliding)... Inner thighs... (the muscles quivered as Rhiannon fought for control)... but when Lina's mouth hovered over the dripping wet curls of her sex, she slipped a hand under her lover's chin and tilted her face up. ''Save that for last,'' she said imperiously. 

Lina looked as if she wanted to protest, but swallowed it when she considered the glow on Rhiannon's face. It was clear she was enjoying  this... 

And so am I, Lina thought as she obediently began soaping and  rinsing her lover's legs. A great deal, in fact.

Water lapping at her increasingly needy sex as she sat up on her knees made Lina want to reach down and rub her fingers through her slippery  folds, coax the tingling burn into an inferno of release, but she held back, struggling to remain in control. 

Rhiannon lifted each foot from the water in turn, gasping when Lina licked and sucked her toes, one by one. She's never done that before! she thought, one hand on the tiled wall to keep her balance. Ooooh!

As soon as Lina was finished paying homage to her feet, Rhiannon turned around, hands on her hips. ''Wash my back. And mind you do a good job,'' she said, eyes flashing in mock warning as she craned her neck around to look at her submissively kneeling lover. 

''Yes, ma'am,'' Lina replied, a twinkle in her green eyes. She quickly began applying soap to Rhiannon's backside. 

Rhiannon groaned in the back of her throat and leaned against the wall, arching her back to present herself more fully to Lina's attentions. At the first touch of that wet tongue, sliding along the crease of her buttocks, she let out a strangled gasp and fought the urge to bend over entirely, instead straining her hips to push the sensitive flesh more completely into Lina's mouth. 

Well, I hope this does not shock her into insensibility, Lina thought mischievously, but after all, she started this little game!

Lina kneaded the firm ass cheeks a moment before pulling them apart. Before Rhiannon could draw breath to protest, she quickly dipped her tongue inside, swirling in wet circles around the puckered opening, and Rhiannon's hands curled into fists as she slid a little further down the wall, spreading her legs as far apart as she could, feet braced against the sides of the tub. 

Lina's tongue wandered down until she slicked it up into the glistening folds of Rhiannon's sex, laving the heated flesh until the smaller woman felt dizzy. She choked, ''Wait!'' and stood still a moment, trying to catch her breath. 

''Shall we continue this in the bedroom?'' Lina asked, kissing and nibbling Rhiannon's buttocks as she remained kneeling in the cooling water, hands sliding around the other woman's belly to cup her sex and caress her thighs. ''Or would you rather just sit down on the edge of the tub... mistress?'' Her eyebrow cocked as she grinned, thinking she already knew the answer. 

''Take me to the bed,'' Rhiannon said, feeling flushed and breathless. 

Without another word, Lina stood up and turned Rhiannon around, swinging her up into her arms easily and stepping out of the tub. Rhiannon twined her fingers through Lina's dark hair, the ends wet and dripping, and nibbled her earlobe, tongue darting out to lick the curve of her ear, reveling in the strength and power of the woman she loved. 

Lina deposited Rhiannon on the bed, getting up with her in one smooth move and straddling her waist. ''What does my mistress desire?'' she asked, bending her head down to lightly suck the tender flesh of Rhiannon's throat, full breasts pressing and rubbing on Rhiannon's own, erect nipples bumping together. 

It was such a struggle to think. 

''You know what I want,'' Rhiannon said throatily, hands sliding over Lina's back, tracing the curve of muscles that shifted at her touch. 

Indeed, Lina did. And it didn't take her very long to show her panting lover just exactly how much she knew. 

Eventually, Rhiannon lay on her back, legs spread wide and resting on Lina's broad shoulders, moaning, ''Yes... that's it... oh, yes, right there...'' 

Lina nuzzled and planted long, pouting kisses on the swollen source of Rhiannon's desire, finally drawing the nub between her lips and sucking, tongue pressed against the sensitive tip. 

Rhiannon let out a gasp, hands reaching down to tangle in Lina's hair, hips lifting and pushing out, willing her lover to take more of her, all of her, every screaming nerve and shivering inch of liquid flesh. Her shoulders came off the bed as she sat up a little, eyes screwed shut, head thrown back, face beet red... and with a wail she felt herself let go, over the edge and down into pure bliss, shattering, grinding herself on Lina's tongue, shuddering and convulsing, unable even to breathe. 

Finally, after a timelessly heartstopping moment, Rhiannon fell back on the bed, panting heavily, sweat cooling on her body, hands relaxing their grip on Lina's hair as she tried to control the frenzied thumping of her heart. 

Lina slid up on the bed beside Rhiannon, then bent her head and kissed her wife's flaming cheeks, lips wandering to kiss the corner of her mouth. ''I take it that you are pleased?'' she whispered, one hand coming up to gently squeeze Rhiannon's breast. 

''Oh, yes,'' Rhiannon breathed, turning her head a little to press her lips to Lina's, pushing her tongue into wet warmth, tasting her own musky essence in her lover's mouth and shuddering as another tiny wave of pleasure made her toes tingle. She broke off the kiss and opened her eyes, staring into pools of rich emerald fire. 

''You have a rich imagination, my dear,'' Lina purred, kneading the captured breast rhythmically. ''So creative... so inventive...'' 

Having finally caught her breath, Rhiannon suddenly pushed Lina over on her back, rolling on top of her. ''You think so?'' she asked huskily, straddling one of Lina's thighs. ''Well, I certainly like your imagination, love. But I'm so glad you appreciate my many skills.'' 

She bent her head to gently trace her tongue around the dark-rose flesh of a nipple, flicking it back and forth rapidly, then pulled it into her mouth and sucked strongly. Lina moaned, hands gripping Rhiannon's hips. 

''I... I am happy to have been of service,'' Lina managed to gasp out. She could feel hot moisture gathering between her thighs, sliding down to further drench the already damp sheets. She raised her leg, making Rhiannon fall forward... but that hot mouth never lost its grip on her sensitive nipple. The muscles in Lina's arms jumped and bulged beneath the skin as she began sliding Rhiannon up and down, rubbing the other woman's sopping sex against her leg. 

''Oh no, you don't... I've already had my turn,'' Rhiannon murmured against Lina's breast, releasing her nipple. Rising up on her toes, she removed her warm sex from Lina's thigh and shifted up a little. She kissed her whimpering lover deeply, nibbling on her bottom lip as Lina's hands slid between her spread thighs, curling up to stroke her bottom and urge her down. 

Rhiannon swung a leg over, ending up kneeling beside Lina. ''Hands and knees, love.'' 

Lina obeyed hastily, feeling Rhiannon shift on the bed until she was behind her. When Rhiannon said, ''Spread your legs wide apart, Lina,'' she did, hips unconsciously dancing a little in anticipation. 

Rhiannon stayed a moment, admiring the view. Lina's knees were spread so far apart that the tendons in her thighs were taut and quivering. Her sex was fully exposed and the muscles of her backside quivered nervously. As she watched, she could see a tiny trickle of moisture gather at the mouth of Lina's dark crimson core and drip down slowly, drop by drop. Nostrils flaring, Rhiannon inhaled deeply, moving her face closer, reveling in that slightly spicy, musky scent that was uniquely Lina's own. 

A wide grin crossed her face. What's sauce for the goose, Rhiannon thought. 

She scooted even closer and wrapped her hands around Lina's thighs, then began licking and sucking the flesh of her buttocks, tracing her soft, wet tongue up and down the crease until Lina moaned deeply and arched her back, pushing her hips back with a whispered, ''Oh, my... yes...'' 

Rhiannon abruptly thrust two fingers deep inside Lina's dripping core and began pumping in and out slowly. Pressing her face into Lina's backside, she pushed her tongue inside, wriggling the tip around and around the puckered opening, feeling quite lewd as she did so. Lina groaned, hands gripping the sheets convulsively, hips rocking back and forth as the actions of Rhiannon's fingers and tongue sent hot sparks shooting down every nerve in her body. 

Rhiannon slid her other hand around until she had her fingers pressed firmly against Lina's throbbing nub, making the sweating woman shudder. She raised her face up just long enough to say, ''Ride my hands, Lina, that's it... feel me loving you...'' 

Holding the crumpled sheets tightly in her fists, Lina bent her head and worked her hips frantically, back and forth, Rhiannon's fingers sliding in and out of her, other fingers rubbing her increasingly sensitive source, that velvety tongue coaxing its way inside. ''Oh, God...,'' she groaned. 

Rhiannon added a third finger and curled them up a little as Lina moved harder and stronger, faster and faster, feeling her lover's internal muscles quivering, musky scent growing stronger. She worked the length of her tongue through the relaxed muscle and pushed it in deeper, thinking to herself that it wouldn't be much longer now... 

With a high pitched squeal, Lina's climax hit like a hammer, making her explode with sheer sensation, hips spasming, strands of inky hair sticking to her sweat-smeared body, mouth open and eyes rolling up as she grunted and howled, impaling herself again and again on Rhiannon's fingers and tongue. 

When the convulsions began to die, Rhiannon sat up but kept her fingers in place. ''That's it, love...,'' she murmured, ''Now again, come on, you can do it.'' 

She rolled Lina's engorged nub between her fingers then bent back down and lapped at her lover's drenched folds, licking up that sweet musky nectar, until she could feel Lina clenching on her fingers again as she spasmed into another climax, finally collapsing face down on the bed, gasping for air. 

Rhiannon moved until she lay on top of Lina, face pressed against hers. ''Mmmm... I love you,'' she whispered, sliding her hands down Lina's arms and entwining their fingers together. 

Lina's eyes were wide open and she was panting, but she swallowed and said thickly, ''I love you, my dear. I love you so much...'' 

Rhiannon stroked a strand of hair from Lina's face. "Let's take a nap," she suggested. "All of the sudden, I feel very tired." 

Lina shifted a bit, then sighed in complete contentment as Rhiannon's comforting weight, the soft breath against her cheek, the heartbeat she could feel between her shoulders... lulled her into a deep, dreamless sleep. 
 
 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
 

That evening after dinner, the two women retreated to the study to go over the day's correspondence. 

Lina read Mycroft Holmes' note with a scowl. "Bah!" she exclaimed, crumpling up the paper and tossing it into the fireplace. 

Rhiannon looked up; she had been sorting through a sheaf of telegrams and letters. "What's wrong?," she asked. 

"Holmes' brother!" Lina spat. She began to prowl around the room restlessly, the velvet skirts of her dressing gown whispering as she stalked to and fro. "Mycroft has expressly forbidden me from interviewing Sir Bartholomew. The nerve of the man!" 

"I'm sure he has a good reason," Rhiannon said reasonably, putting her head back down and getting on with her work. 

But Lina was in no mood to be reasonable. She muttered to herself - Rhiannon pretended not to hear the salty oaths her lover was savagely mumbling - and continued to pace back and forth. 

The strawberry-blonde sighed and kept sorting. When Lina was in this sort of mood, it was no use trying to placate her. At last, Rhiannon came upon a telegram that made her eyes open wide. "Here it is!" she said loudly. 

Lina stopped pacing and looked at her keenly. "Good news, my dear?" she drawled. 

"Yes! It's from your friend, Inspector Jean-Claude Pannequet of the Paris police. He's located both Hermione Middleton and Doctor LeFevre." 

"Oh?" Lina sank down on the sofa, suddenly as lethargic as she had been energized. "Do please read it aloud, my dear." 

Rhiannon scanned through the message quickly; when she was finished, she said excitedly, "Hermione Middleton is living in Paris; he has included an address. Doctor LeFevre... hmmm. Inspector Pannequet says the doctor is retired and living in Provence but he would gladly ask the local constabulary to hold him for questioning if you require. Rather profligate with his francs, this Inspector. I've seldom seen such a long telegram." 

"The good Inspector is a paramount criminal investigator, however he does tend to become overly enthusiastic. I shall wire him at once asking him to keep his distance from Doctor LeFevre. We do not want our game flushed from the hedge before we are prepared to take aim." 

Rhiannon put down the telegram. "Then I'd better make arrangements for a trip to Paris," she said. 

Lina smiled. "An excellent idea, my dear. However, I would prefer to visit the doctor in Provence first." She slid down into a lazy slouch, elbows propped on tasseled cushions. "We are very close to uncovering key elements in our little puzzle. I smell it!" 

Rhiannon certainly hoped so. 

The secluded villa where Doctor Georges LeFevre had retired was located a few miles away from the town of Vauvert. Lina made arrangements for their lodging at an inn, then hired a trap at the train station. After journeying for an hour along a dusty, pockmarked road, the two women eventually arrived at the doctor's residence. 

Lina descended first, helping her stiff-limbed lover down from the carriage. A few terse instructions and a generous garnishee ensured that the driver would wait for them while they attended to their business within. 

"Why didn't we send the doctor a message?" Rhiannon asked as they walked up the little lane. "What if he's not at home?" 

"Then we shall camp on his doorstep until he arrives," Lina answered. "The francs I gave our driver are sufficient to keep him at our beck and call for some time. Besides, judging from the number of wine bottles he conceals beneath his seat, I suspect he will have no difficulty in passing away the time while he waits." She glanced at her partner. "My dear, I sent no message because I did not want the doctor alerted to our presence." 

"But surely he'll have no idea why we've come!" Rhiannon exclaimed. "Or is he one of those theosophical physicians who can read minds?" 

Lina snorted. "Sarcasm does not become you, my dear," she replied. "I promise that I shall offer my apologies to the doctor for our abrupt arrival. Will this suffice?" 

Rhiannon didn't answer. She shivered suddenly, goosebumps raising on her arms and shoulders. Her stomach lurched; she had a bad feeling about the coming interview. 

The villa seemed deserted; a small garden in the front of the dwelling was overgrown and weedy. They picked their way to the front door; Lina grasped the handle of an old copper bell and rang it briskly. 

In a few moments, the door was opened by an elderly gentleman. Although his hair was still thick and wavy, it had gone almost completely white except for a few faded blonde streaks. A heavy beard reached nearly to the last button on his waistcoat. "Qu'est-ce que vous voulez, mademoiselles?," he asked brusquely, obviously surprised at having visitors. 

"Parlez-vous Anglais?" Lina inquired. 

"Oui," he replied. "You are British ladies? How may I be of assistance?" 

Much to Rhiannon's surprise, Lina smiled and simpered, fluttering her eyelashes. "My companion and I have unfortunately lost our way," she said with a musical giggle. "We were looking for Le Jardin de la Fontaine. For the spring and the temple ruins and such, you know. We were supposed to meet some friends there; Lord Bertrand - Bertie - told us it was only a short drive but we've been going around for hours! Could you help us, please?" 

She removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and mopped her forehead. "I confess to feeling somewhat faint in all this heat," Lina continued in a kittenish little voice. She lowered her eyes and swayed a little, as if overcome. 

Rhiannon was frankly nonplused; she stood and stared blankly at Lina's sudden transformation from a resourceful woman into a feather-headed and helpless socialite. For a dizzying moment, she wondered if the heat had indeed deranged her lover's mind.. 

Then realizing that the doctor was staring and Lina was giving her a warning glare out of the corner of her eye, Rhiannon decided that she'd better play along. She whipped out her own handkerchief and pretended to mop at her throat and temples, saying weakly, "Yes, so terribly hot and exhausted. We're all but done in, I'm afraid." 

Lina batted her lashes at the doctor some more; the gentleman's suspicious attitude changed in a heartbeat. His chest expanded as he held in his prominent stomach and threw back his shoulders. With a charming smile, LeFevre said gallantly, "Please, come inside and refresh yourselves, mon pauvre petites. You poor dears, such an ordeal! Two such lovely ladies traveling alone and unprotected." He ushered them inside, clucking like an overly protective hen. 

Still waving her handkerchief like a miniature banner, Rhiannon entered the doctor's home, closely followed by Lina. LeFevre saw them installed in his little parlor and bustled away to fetch lemonade and cool cloths, saying, "Rest yourselves, mademoiselles. After I have seen to your comfort, I will have a word with that simpleton driver of yours. The gardens you seek are in Nimes, about fifteen miles from here. No more than an hour's drive, I assure you." 

As soon as they were alone, Rhiannon turned to Lina, incensed. "What the... what the hell were you doing back there?" she asked angrily. 

Lina stifled a giggle. "My dear, the reputation of Frenchmen is well earned. Show them a helpless female and even the roughest villain will transform into an exquisitely mannered cavalier." 

"But why did we have to deceive him?" Rhiannon hissed. "I thought we were just here to ask some questions..." 

"I apologize for not warning you before we arrived, but I feared you would have precisely this reaction to my plan. Please, my dear - as an experienced investigator, allow me to have my way in this matter and follow my lead. You have done admirably thus far." 

The doctor's arrival forestalled any chance of Rhiannon replying. 

As soon as LeFevre had finished fussing over them and settled himself down in a patched old rocking chair, Lina gave another musical giggle. "You know, I think I've heard your name before, Doctor," she said. 

"Please, mon petite, call me Georges," he replied. 

Rhiannon watched as Lina pretended to think, putting a finger to her lips and tilting her head charmingly. "Was it at Lady Martingale's moon viewing soiree last year?" 

"I think not, mademoiselle," the doctor said. 

Lina's eyes began to glitter. "Or perhaps it was at the Prince of Wales' hunting party?" 

LeFevre put down his glass and smiled. "Non," he answered in a patronizing tone, just stopping himself from reaching out and patting Lina's hand. His expression spoke as clearly as words; he believed Lady Evangeline to be a beautiful but incredibly empty-headed dilettante. 

Lina suddenly turned her full gaze upon him; the sheer intelligence and forcefulness of that rich emerald glare struck the elderly gentleman like a blow. "I know!," she said with an artificial smile, snapping her fingers. "You were the man responsible for the murder of Lady Amanda Moon... and one of her sons!" 

Rhiannon and LeFevre gasped in unison. 
 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
 

LeFevre recovered from his shock quickly. Assuming a blustering air, he said witheringly, "You are mad, mademoiselle! I insist you leave my house immediately!" 

Lina shook her head. "Not quite yet, sir. I have offered you a challenge; you have yet to answer it." 

"I answer to no one!" LeFevre insisted. He stood up from his chair, eyes flashing with anger... and perhaps a little fear. "Leave now or I will summon the police and have you removed." 

"What do you fear, Georges? Have I struck a nerve?" Lina relaxed; her prey had been flushed from cover and was now struggling in the net. Success was so near she could taste it. 

The doctor's eyes narrowed. "You know nothing, mademoiselle!" he insisted. "Nothing!" 

"Then there is something I should know?" the peer asked. "Monsieur LeFevre, I offer you a chance, one chance to redeem your lost honor - tell me what happened in those long ago days. You are no longer a young man; if you refuse me, I shall have no choice but to continue my investigation elsewhere. However... if any evidence I uncover points to any wrongdoing on your part - however small! - I will do everything within my power to see you pay to the fullest extent of the law." 

LeFevre raised a fist then suddenly, all the anger drained out of him in a rush, as if years of enforced silence and bottled-up conscience were suddenly released and wiped away everything except remorse. His eyes grew rheumy; he seemed to deflate, changing in a twinkling from a vigorous gentleman to a pathetic old man. 

LeFevre sank back down into his chair as if his legs would no longer hold him up. "Who are you?" His voice was heavy, leaden and dull. 

"My name is unimportant," Lina replied seriously. "But know that I am quite capable of making my threats a reality." 

"And if I answer your questions?," he asked, all signs of defiance gone. 

Lina considered. "If you are not directly implicated... well, I can be discreet when circumstances warrent it." 

Rhiannon surreptitiously pulled her notebook from the pocket of her gown. 

LeFevre began speaking slowly, as if each word were being pulled reluctantly from the depths of his suffering soul. "I began working for Sir Arthur Moon in 1852. I had just begun my practice and Sir Arthur's custom was invaluable to me. So you can understand that I was determined to do my best for the boy." 

"Was Sebastian showing signs of madness at so young an age?" Lina asked. 

The doctor looked at her sharply. "I speak of young Bartholomew," he said. "I was a specialist in disorders of the nervous system. Bartholomew was nine years old at the time I first examined him, nor was I the first physician to attend to him. Sir Arthur had consulted numerous physicians regarding the boy's condition; he had high hopes that the new techniques I had developed would cure the child." 

"New techniques? Regarding what?" 

"Bartholomew Moon suffered from a common form of muscular paralysis. He contracted a fever when he was three; afterwards, the muscles of his arms and legs atrophied. He was confined to a wheelchair. While attending a medical conference in Switzerland, I began working with what some regarded as radical techniques aimed at curing the paralysis." 

"Did it work?" 

"Unfortunately, no. Bartholomew was under my care for two years; much to my dismay - and Sir Arthur's extreme disappointment - my techniques did not prove as efficacious as I'd hoped. Then..." He paused and sighed, rubbing a hand across his forehead. 

Lina waited; she instinctively felt that prompting was not necessary. 

After a moment, LeFevre continued. "In September of 1855, I was summoned to Sir Arthur's home. He informed me that he was taking the boy to Switzerland where he'd heard of another specialist who might work a cure. I pressed him for this physician's name - you understand that I did not want him to be deceived by some smooth-talking faker - but he refused. I was relieved when he told me that I would remain as the family's personal physician and so let the matter drop." 

His voice lowered to a near whisper. "Mon Dieu! I wish I hadn't been so complacent." 

"What happened?" 

"Sir Arthur returned six months later, claiming that Bartholomew had been completely cured. I had not been to the house in all that time. When I came a few days after his return to see about some small complaint of Lady Amanda's... well, I didn't know what to believe." 

He rose and went across the room to a small desk that stood against one whitewashed wall. He opened a drawer, continuing, "You understand that I have no proof, mademoiselle. Only suspicions." 

He returned bearing a small slip of torn newspaper. Lina took it from him and read:

MYSTERY CHILD FOUND DROWNED

--March 10. The body of an unknown male child,
aged approximately 12 years, was discovered in the
early hours of the morning in the Thames River near
Southwark. Inspector Charles McDonald has issued
a description of the child and urges anyone who may
be able to identify the victim to come forward.

The boy has dark hair, hazel eyes and a thin build.
Doctor Samuel Forsythe, the police surgeon who
performed an examination, believes the boy may
have suffered from a form of muscular atrophy
common to the children of poorer families.

Anyone possessing information regarding this matter
may contact Inspector McDonald anonymously by
letter or in person at Scotland Yard.

"Perhaps you had better explain your suspicions fully," Lina said finally. "If I understand you correctly, then the implications are horrific to say the least." 

LeFevre sat down again heavily, as if the burden he carried on his conscience had suddenly proven too heavy to carry anymore. "Sir Arthur was desperate to find a cure for Bartholomew. I suspect that hiring me was the final straw. When it proved impossible to cure the boy, I fear Sir Arthur took more direct steps to ensure that his first-born heir was sound in body and able to carry on the family business. 

"You see, Sir Arthur was a very proud man. The fact that a son of his body had proven to be a sickly weakling who couldn't even walk on his own was a source of great frustration and irritation to him. I saw father and son together only a few times; Sir Arthur couldn't stand the sight of the boy and kept him a virtual prisoner, locking him up in an attic room. Please understand, at the time I did not see anything wrong with the gentleman's behavior; Bartholomew was a happy child, inasmuch as he could be, and certainly did not seem to be abused in any way. His attic nursery was decorated gaily, he had plenty of toys and games to occupy his mind, and his mother visited frequently. I never realized until much, much later how very much Sir Arthur hated Bartholomew; in his mind, the child had betrayed him by becoming ill and weak. 

"The fact that Sir Arthur had another, quite healthy son was quite immaterial to him. Sebastian was a mother's boy through and through. Lady Amanda kept him thoroughly spoiled, spending hours combing his curls and stuffing him with sweetmeats. Sir Arthur's opinion was that Sebastian was a lost cause, destined to be nothing more than a wastrel. So to his mind, Bartholomew was the only hope of continuing both the family line and the family business, upholding the proud tradition of the Moon's." 

"What does this have to do with the article?" Rhiannon asked. 

"Mon Dieu! Must I spell it out for you?" LeFevre suddenly exclaimed. He seemed close to tears and sweat beaded his brow. "When Sir Arthur returned from Switzerland, the boy he had with him was not Bartholomew. I'd swear to it! Oh, he bore a good resemblance to the family line and children can change dramatically in appearance after even a very short absence, but I swear that child was not Sir Arthur's son! And then when I saw that article in the paper a week after Sir Arthur's homecoming... well, I feared the worst." 

Rhiannon gulped; she suddenly felt very ill and close to vomiting. "You mean...?" she asked weakly. 

LeFevre nodded reluctantly. "Oui," he replied simply. "I believe that Sir Arthur Moon went to Switzerland for the sole purpose of somehow obtaining a healthy child; when he returned, he somehow killed the sickly Bartholomew and substituted his new, healthy 'son' in the poor boy's place." 

Lina looked grim. "And I suppose that shortly thereafter, Lady Amanda began her descent into madness. And the youngest boy, Sebastian, also began showing signs of instability." 

The doctor sighed. "You are correct, mademoiselle. Lady Amanda's death came as no surprise to me; she had continued to sink further and further into madness. I could do little except keep her calm with drugs. Her maid, Middleton, took care of all her needs. Little Sebastian spent nearly all of his time up in the attic nursery until Sir Arthur had it boarded up; he would cry whenever his 'brother' tried to play with him - he wept so hysterically that sometimes I was summoned to administer a sedative! - so needless to say, the boys were not close." 

"Why did you not contact the authorities with your suspicions?," Lina asked. 

"What could I do?" LeFevre spread his hands wide. "As I said, I had no proof. And to accuse someone of Sir Arthur's caliber without definite evidence was out of the question. After Lady Amanda's death, however, I excused myself from the gentleman's retainer, pleading an overabundance of business concerns and recommending a new doctor for the family. I left England shortly after that." 

There was silence while Lina considered what the doctor had said as well as the implications of his information. Rhiannon used that time to finish writing her notes. 

Lina asked one final question: "Do you remember... was there a bathtub in the attic nursery? Particularly a hip bath?" 

LeFevre thought a moment. He answered slowly, "Yes, there was a hipbath. I remember because it was such a lovely thing; painted with little kittens and cheerful robins. I was especially glad to see it; a child with a disability like Bartholomew stands a great chance of drowning in a regular bathtub because if he slips, he cannot help himself up. The hipbath is so short in length that there was no chance of him slipping beneath the water, but the sides were high enough to ensure sufficient submerging for the necessary cleansing." 

There was more silence; Rhiannon put aside her notes and struggled with her emotions. Like Lina, she now understood the meaning of The Changeling's Moon and her heart ached with unshed tears. She composed herself with an effort. Now was not the time to break down. She had to be strong for the sake of a murdered child and his poor brother, who had tried to tell the world the truth in the only way his madness allowed. 

At last, the peer stood and walked over to the doctor, who waited with a resigned expression on his face. "Monsieur," she said, "I cannot say that you acted with anything approaching honor or even common decency. In fact, I believe you to be a base and villanous coward; if you were not such an old man, I would strike you, I swear! However... I am a woman of my word. You are not directly implicated so I cannot demand that you be punished. 

"But if there is any justice in this world," she continued, her voice strained as she struggled for control, "then you shall be denied a place in Heaven for the crime of your terrible silence all these years... and I fervently hope you are condemned to eternal damnation in the darkest and deepest pit of Hell!!" 

Lina's lips pursed as if she was considering spitting but instead, she made a noise of complete disgust and turned away as if the very sight of the doctor made her sick. 

LeFevre said nothing; his head sunk into his raised hands and his shoulders trembled, but if he wept, it was silently. 

Lina gathered up her things and motioned for Rhiannon to follow her. Before they left, the dark haired woman said over her shoulder, "I hope that poor Sebastian and his mother will be able to rest peacefully when my work is done. I fear, sir, that I cannot say the same for you." 

Together, the two women left the old man alone... alone except for the demons that tormented him, the demons of conscience he had denied for so long. 
 
 

CHAPTER NINETEEN
 

On the way to Paris, Lina remained silent. Rhiannon didn't want to talk about Doctor LeFevre's shocking revelations either. Instead, they sat quietly in their first class compartment, each woman occupied with her own thoughts. 

To Rhiannon, the deliberate murder of an innocent child was an act almost too terrible to contemplate. Oh, when she'd been 'in the trade' in Whitechapel, she'd known about places like The Crib where children were exploited. And factories who hired children as young as five or six to perform dangerous jobs for a few pence a day... and the families who were so desperately poor that they pushed their own sons and daughters into such situations. Then there were the gangs of street arabs who habitually pickpocketed, stole and even attacked their victims with clubs and hobnailed boots - the captains of such gangs were usually no older than twelve or thirteen. 

Beneath the march of London's modern progress there lay a dark, sinister underbelly of vice and crime; however much the upper class might care to deny, it still existed in all its seething, festering glory. And the youth of lower-class families was a large part of it. Victim or perpetrator, the grim shadows of the city swallowed them all. 

But somehow, Sir Arthur's deliberate and cold-blooded murder of his own son was so chilling that Rhiannon could hardly bear to think about it. It seemed so much worse, so much more... evil. 

Rhiannon shivered and checked the watch pinned to her lapel. Another hour to Paris... 

And their ordeal had just begun. 

Hermione Middleton had retired to an apartment in the Rue de Ronsard, a district of Paris that had once been quite fashionable but had now declined into a sort of gentile poverty. The houses were painted in bright yellows and blues, the sidewalks immaculately scrubbed, trees and shrubs beautifully maintained. But the people had an air of quiet desperation that spoke of little money and a lot of pride. These people would never admit that within their houses the furniture had been pawned, they ate the meanest food from cracked plates, their clothes were skillfully patched and their children's faces pinched with hunger. 

After gaining admittance to the building (requiring the 'gift' of a handful of francs to the slit-eyed, mole-speckled landlady), Lina and Rhiannon walked carefully up the rickety, ill-lit steps, three flights in all, until they came to a landing. Wrinkling her nose at the combined smells of boiled cabbage, ancient sweat and an open, fly-buzzing pissoir at the end of the hall, Lina led the way to Middleton's rooms and rapped sharply on the door. 

The door creaked open, revealing little in the semi-gloom except a glittering eye. "Oui?" an old woman's voice croaked. 

"Are you Miss Hermione Middleton?" Lina asked. 

The old woman's eye - the greenish gray of dried moss - took on a hard gleam. "What d'ya want?" she asked suspiciously. 

Suddenly, Lina acted so swiftly that Rhiannon could only gasp. The taller woman shoved her way into the apartment, unceremoniously pushing the old lady out of the way. As soon as Rhiannon scurried inside, she slammed the door closed and stood with her back against it. 

Hermione Middleton was terrified. A wrinkled, liver-spotted hand pressed to her breast, she asked breathlessly, "What... what are you doing? What do you want? I haven't got anything worth stealing..." 

Lina glared at her. In a stern voice she said, "Except a young boy's life." 

Rhiannon was confused. She started to say, "What on earth are you...?" but was silenced by her lover's imperious gesture. 

Lina continued, advancing on the old woman pace by pace, while Middleton retreated further into the apartment. "Cast your mind back many years ago, madame. Did you know how it would end? Did you know Sir Arthur Moon would kill his poor crippled child after bringing home a changeling?" 

The old maid shook her head, her lips moving in protest but no sound emerged save a harsh croak. Lina pressed on, stalking the woman across her rooms. 

"Lady Amanda knew the boy was not her son! She guessed the truth, that the child of her body had been gotten rid of to make way for a healthy pretender. That terrible knowledge drove her mad. Sir Arthur could not afford even the slightest suspicion and so his wife had to die as well. Tell me, Hermione..." Lina's voice sank down to a whisper. "When you pressed her face into the pillows and held on tight, did she struggle much? Did she fight for her life? Did you have to use all of your strength to smother the madwoman who refused to surrender and die?" 

Middleton abruptly fell onto a nearby sofa, gasping for breath. Rhiannon started to go to her but Lina shook her head and continued to speak softly. "Sir Arthur payed you well for your part, did he not? Promotion to housekeeper and two hundred pounds a year are a fairly decent price to pay for murder, I expect. Was the deed a harder task than you expected, Hermione, or were you ripe to take Lady Amanda's life?" 

The old woman looked up; her eyes shimmered with tears and her face was gathered into a crumpled, wrinkled mask; lines of sorrow had etched themselves deep around her mouth and nose. Taking a deep breath, she said in a shaky voice, "You're wrong. It wasn't me." 

Lina opened her mouth but Middleton interrupted. "You can believe what you like, woman, but I'm telling the truth. God knows I've kept it to myself all these long years. I knew, you see. I saw him kill poor Lady Amanda." 

"Who?" Rhiannon asked quietly. 

The old woman rubbed her face and replied, "The boy. It was the boy who killed her." 

Lina and Rhiannon glanced at one another in surprised shock.

CHAPTER TWENTY
 

Lina recovered her equilibrium first. "Do you mean to suggest that Sebastian killed his own mother?"

Middleton shook her head violently. "No!" she exclaimed. "You think you're Miss Clever, don't you, coming here with that old business and scaring an old woman half to death, but you don't know nothing, do you?"

"I know that Sir Arthur traveled to Switzerland and found a male child of the appropriate age to substitute for his sickly son. I know that he then murdered his first born by cold-bloodedly drowning him in a bath. Lady Amanda went mad; she must have found out about her husband's vile act. And so, somehow, did Sebastian. I assumed..."

"You assumed that I killed my lady?" Middleton cackled; the harsh sound sent chills down Rhiannon's spine. "You take too much on yourself, woman. Why not Sir Arthur? After murdering his son, why stop there?"

Lina's face colored a little. "I admit my deduction was rather shaky," she confessed. "However, you did receive an astonishing promotion in importance and position - from lady's maid to housekeeper is a rise of not a few steps! - not to mention the princely sum Sir Arthur paid you yearly. For a woman inexperienced in running a household, such a rise and such a large salary, you must admit, are suspicious in the extreme."

"Well, you're right about one thing," the old lady said. "I was paid off, but not for murder. For keeping my mouth shut. Sir Arthur needed me. I was the only one who could control little Sebastian after my lady died. He didn't want the shame of having one of his children declared mad; I was the only one Sebastian trusted."

"I see." Lina motioned for Rhiannon to join her and the two women seated themselves on a moth-eaten couch opposite Middleton. "Then if you didn't kill Lady Amanda, and Sebastian wasn't responsible..."

"It was the other one," Middleton said with a gleam in her eye. "The Little Bastard, I used to call him privately. Him that Sir Arthur brung back from the mountains. I never knew where my lord found him but the boy was clever enough; acted like a right little lordling, he did. Even called my lady "mum." But Lady Amanda knew this child wasn't her son; she would cry and beg all day to have Bartholomew brought to her and wouldn't touch the Bastard, even hit him once when he tried to hug her. Sir Arthur was furious; he told everyone that she was mad and had the doctor give her laudanum until she didn't know left from right. But it didn't help."

"How did Sebastian find out about his real brother's death?" Lina asked.

"He saw the whole thing," Middleton confessed. "He used to sneak up to poor Bart's nursery and play with him. But when Sir Arthur went abroad, he ordered his manservant Graves to keep Bart locked up and not to let anyone see him or talk to him. Sir Arthur put it about that he was taking Bart to Switzerland with him, but Graves knew different; he kept the boy fed by sneaking food from the kitchens at night and never let it be known that little Bart was still at home. Sir Arthur ordered the door to the upper staircase locked; only Graves had the key."

"Sir Arthur took a great risk, didn't he? Why not take Bartholomew with him and toss the child from a convenient mountain?"

"I expect it was because my lord couldn't be sure of finding a suitable boy and didn't want to trouble himself with a sickly child while he searched. But once the Bastard was installed, he had to get rid of Bart. So he did, drowning the boy one night and then having Graves throw Bart's body in the Thames. Poor little Sebastian saw it all; he was always a curious child, peeping through keyholes and the like. Then Sebastian went and told his mum what he'd seen."

"And she went mad?"

"Only in the way a mother might if she finds out her husband's murdered her son. Lady Amanda had a fearful row with Sir Arthur that night; Sebastian was hiding under the bed. Sir Arthur told my lady that he'd have her declared insane and committed to an institution, if that was what it took. He ordered her to accept the 'new' Bartholomew, telling her that the thing was done and over and she'd better get used to it. After he left, my lady was so upset, couldn't stop crying. I gave her half a grain of laudanum to help her sleep..." The old lady paused. "I must've fallen asleep myself because I didn't hear him come in."

"Who?"

"The Bastard. When I woke up, he was sitting on top of Lady Amanda, pushing her face into the pillows. I couldn't think straight, I couldn't move. His face... it was like a demon's. Pure evil! Oh, the Bastard was a truer son of Sir Arthur's than the lord's own poor little boys. Well, when I finally came to myself, of course I tried to stop him. But it was too late. I roused Sir Arthur, but he just looked at my lady, her beautiful face turned so ugly and purple, and said he'd take care of it. He had that foreign doctor, LeFevre, come in and make up a death certificate, calling it an 'accident.' But Sir Arthur and I both knew it was anything but. The next day is when he offered me the money and the housekeeping position."

"Did Sebastian know the truth about his mother's death?"

"Yes," Middleton answered heavily. It was clear that she was tiring. "He'd been hiding beneath the bed all evening."

Rhiannon was horrified. "How could a child kill a grown woman like that?"

"If the woman was weakened by emotional distress, and further stupefied by the application of laudanum... well, I assume Bartholomew's substitute was healthy and strong. It would have been simple enough," Lina answered matter-of-factly.

"That isn't what I mean," Rhiannon said darkly. She felt sickened by the whole affair and began to wish she'd never heard of The Changeling's Moon, never gone to Blackpoole's art exhibition.

"I know, my dear," Lina said, taking up Rhiannon's hand and squeezing it gently in a comforting gesture. She turned back to Middleton; the old lady sat with her eyes half-closed.

"We will take our leave of you, madame," the peer said. "However, you should know that I intend to confront the man who calls himself Sir Bartholomew Moon with this information and accuse him of murder. Your part in the affair is sure to become public; you had better prepare yourself for a summons from the Crown. Do not consider flight; I have friends in the Paris police department who would be more than happy to keep a keen eye upon you and your activities. Do I make myself understood? Or do you prefer an early arrest and languishing in a jail cell until the trial?"

"No, I won't run," Middleton said. "I'm too old to start a new life and besides, my pension is barely enough to keep body and soul together as it is. I'll testify if it comes to that... be good to see the Bastard get his after all these years."

The old woman stirred faintly. "Is that all you come for?" she asked querulously. "If it is, I'd thank you to leave now and leave me be."

Without another word, Rhiannon and Lina left, the peer offering her silently weeping partner a handkerchief as they walked out into the Paris sunshine.
 
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
 

Once back in London, events began to move with such rapidity that Rhiannon felt almost dizzy.

First, Lina arranged for an interview with Mycroft Holmes, refusing to allow her lover to read it before it was carried away by a messenger. Within hours after sending the cryptic message, Rhiannon found herself riding in a closed coach to an unknown destination, a grim-faced Lina by her side.

When they descended from the coach, Rhiannon was surprised to find that they were in the street just opposite the Diogenes Club - a curious gentlemen's club that was Mycroft's primary headquarters. However, rather than crossing the street to the Diogenes, Lina led her into a nondescript brownstone building.

As they entered, the dark haired woman explained, "This is Mycroft's personal quarters, where he sleeps on those rare occasions when Her Majesty's business does not keep him up at all hours, burning the midnight oil."

The entry hall was small but richly decorated; Persian carpets muffled their footsteps; the walls gleamed, covered with a deep crimson paper whose ornate pattern was picked out in silver and copper leaf. Gilt mirrors reflected their faces as they marched along the corridor; at the end, the hall opened up into an enormous wood paneled room. Standing in the center of the room, his bewhiskered face reflecting grave concern, stood the corpulent form of Sherlock Holmes' brother, Mycroft.

"Lady St. Claire," he said with an acknowledging nod. "And Miss Moore. Do come in; I have been expecting you."

Lina settled herself on a nearby divan, ruffling out the skirts of her severe forest green gown. Without frill or decoration, it made her seem quite business-like. "Mister Holmes," she began, "do you recall that several days ago, you expressly forbid me from interviewing Sir Bartholomew Moon with regards to his brother, the artist Sebastian Moon?"

"I do," he replied, sitting down with a grunt and lacing his fingers across the full-moon prominence of his belly. "But pray tell me, what has that to do with the crisis you referred to in your message?"

At Rhiannon's inquiring glance, Lina said softly, "In my missive, I told Mister Holmes that I had information which could be of the gravest national importance and involved a prominent member of Her Majesty's government."

Rhiannon nodded in understanding. She felt cold, as if a freezing wind was blowing across her flesh, a wind that smelled of death and decay. Involuntarily she shivered, burying her hands into the skirts of her black-and-white houndstooth check gown.

Lina continued, "The business to which I referred is thus..."

For the next three-quarters of an hour, Lina carefully unfolded the entire story, from Rhiannon's purchase of Sebastian's painting The Changeling's Moon to their subsequent investigation, from their interviews with A.B. Montrose and Doctor LeFevre and concluding with a word-for-word account of Lina's interrogation of Hermione Middleton.

Finished at last, the peer settled back, her half-slitted green eyes glittering like cut crystal. "I trust you will now allow me to speak to Sir Bartholomew Moon - or rather, to the man who took that dead child's place."

Mycroft did not speak for several long minutes; when he did, he kept his gaze focused on his folded hands. "I fear that such an action is ill-advised, Lady St. Claire."

Lina was frankly astonished. "What the Devil do you mean?" she asked.

"Sir Bartholomew is one of Her Majesty's senior councilors and serves on the Queen's Privy Council," he replied. He raised his eyes for the first time; they were as hard and cold as gray river stones. "In point of fact, he is one of the Queen's favored gentlemen. This fanciful tale of yours... well, I implore you to observe the facts pragmatically."

"Pragmatically?" Lina's nostrils flared; Rhiannon recognized the signs of impending fury. "I am not sure I take your meaning clearly, sir."

Mycroft's face was expressionless. "Lady St. Claire, you must understand. Sir Bartholomew occupies a position of some importance in government; he comes from a background of wealth, privilege and respectability. He supports a number of charitable institutions and is well beloved by his peers. You ask me to believe a hodge-podge of suppositions and suspicions related by people who have no firm evidence except their own recollections. Pitting one against the other, what would you believe?"

Lina's breath quickened; her eyes began to simmer with anger. "You are being deliberately obtuse!" she cried. "If you refuse to believe the facts when they are placed before you, then let us confront Sir Bartholomew privately. Let him answer my accusations himself; such an action, taken discreetly, can do no harm."

"Harm?" Mycroft seemed to rouse himself, shaking off inertia and revealing his powerful personality, reminding Rhiannon of a sleeping lion suddenly snarling and showing its fangs. "Harm? You ask me to confront one of the most powerful men in Her Majesty's government and accuse him of murder? Soil his beloved late father's memory with accusations of acts so vile I can scarcely comprehend them? Accuse him of being a cuckoo in the nest and therefore unentitled to his inheritance?"

He shook his massive head. "If anyone else were to come here and relate such a wild story, I would be inclined to have them committed. Certainly I would have them removed, by force if necessary. However, my brother holds you in the greatest esteem; in honor of this fact, I will simply ask you to leave and forget about any scheme you may have regarding Sir Bartholomew."

Lina stood up, anger apparent in every line of her body. "I do not require your permission to act, nor do I require your blessing to withdraw," she said in a withering tone. "You may presume that I shall do what my conscience requires; one can only hope that you will do the same."

Mycroft grunted. "I warn you, Lady St. Claire, do not do anything foolish or hasty." 

"You warn me?" Lina curled her lip in scorn. 

"I can be a powerful enemy," Mycroft replied without rancor. "And you may assume that I shall do whatever is required to protect Her Majesty and our government from any hint or trace of scandal or harm. From anyone," he added ominously. 

Lina sniffed. "So you say." She pulled on her kidskin gloves, taking her time to make sure each fitted without a wrinkle. The expression on her face suggested that she had smelled something foul and was determined to ignore the stench with well-bred dignity and grace. 

Rhiannon stood as well; Mycroft's next words stunned her into immobility. "Your notebook, Miss Moore?" he asked although by his tone, it was more of a command. 

"I beg your pardon?," Rhiannon asked, hand diving into the pocket of her gown. Her fingers clutched the little silver-covered notebook and mechanical pencil that had been her lover's gift. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I know from my brother's anecdotes that you always carry a little notebook with you. I require the book, if you please, miss. No doubt you have used it to take down the so-called facts that Lady St. Claire has related here today; I feel it necessary to confiscate such a dangerous document." 

As Rhiannon reluctantly handed over the notebook, Lina asked furiously, "Why? To add insult to injury?" 

Mycroft's response was mild. "No. To prevent you from making a dreadful and disastrous mistake." He tucked the little book into the inner pocket of his jacket, saying, "Good day, ladies." 

It was a clear dismissal. 

Lina swept from the room; after a glance over her shoulder at the silent, still mountain that was Mycroft Holmes, Rhiannon followed. 
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
 

The next few days were tense; Lina secluded herself in the study, smoking cigarette after cigarette, staring broodily into space. On those few occasions when she rose from the couch, she did so only to pace back and forth, fuming and stamping up and down the room until Rhiannon was half afraid she would wear holes in the rug. 

The servants walked on tiptoe; even Rhiannon knew better than to try and jolly Lina out of this black mood. It was her lover's way of venting frustration and clearing her head; besides, she snapped like a wasp-stung lioness at anyone who dared to beard her in that murky, smoke-filled den. Instead, Rhiannon concerned herself with the minutiae of domestic life, taking a long delayed inventory of the linen closets - among other things. 

At long last, the storm passed. After voraciously consuming an enormous breakfast, including two pots of tea, the peer called for her patiently waiting wife. 

Before she entered, Rhiannon pinched her cheeks to make them rosy. She was wearing a morning gown of palest blue accented with azure ribbons and flounces of  fine Irish lace; brocade slippers encased her finely boned feet. She slid aside the pocket door and peeked around the edge. 

"You rang, my lady?" she asked pertly, turquoise eyes sparkling with good humor. 

"Ah, my dear!" Lina replied. "Do come in." 

Cautiously, Rhiannon entered and her nose wrinkled immediately. "Phew!" she exclaimed. "I'm surprised you can live in this stench." In the dim recesses of the study, she could just make out the form of Lina, stretched out on the sofa. 

"Oh? I had not noticed." Lina replied languidly. "Open the windows if you must." 

Rhiannon did just that, even going so far as to thrust her head outside and breath a grateful lungful of fresh, clean air. Well, relatively fresh, she thought ruefully. Although it had recently rained, the familiar scents of London - particularly horse dung and industrial fumes - were still highly evident. 

She turned back into the room. "I heard from Violet," Rhiannon said brightly, referring to her Scottish cousin.* "She says Fyvie is doing quite well, chasing rabbits on the old Duke's estate and generally raising havoc. I'm glad I decided to send her away for a little while; London didn't agree with her. I felt sorry for the poor puppy, cooped up in the house all the time. At least now she'll have a few months of exercise and fun before being confined again." 

Lina snorted. "That pet wolfhound of yours would no doubt thrive in a burning desert. Why, I believe she has gained a stone in weight since you adopted her! And she was far from a prisoner in durance vile, my dear. Solange claims that her many walks with Fyvie never failed to attract the interest of eligible young gentlemen, and has sorely complained of a lack of such now that your hound is in Scotland! Nevertheless, if the dog is happy and this makes you happy, then I am overjoyed indeed." 

Rhiannon walked over to the sofa and unceremoniously shoved Lina's feet off, seating herself with a flounce of ribboned skirts. "I take it you have gotten over your sulks?" 

"I never sulk," Lina replied, sitting up and putting an arm around her lover's shoulders. Her ebony hair had come down from its pins and now curled in an inky cascade over the arm of the sofa. "I have been exercising the processes of ratiocination, considering my untenable position and a number of possible solutions." 

"Oh?" Rhiannon smiled. "I thought you were sitting in here feeling sorry for yourself." 

"Well, perhaps a bit of that as well," the peer said, returning her lover's grin. "However, I have decided what is to be done on the question of Bartholomew Moon." 

"If Mycroft doesn't think you have a case..." 

Lina interrupted impatiently. "I know I am justified in my belief that a stout British jury would bring in a verdict of 'guilty' if the facts - including the testimony of Hermione Middleton - are placed before them. Why Mycroft Holmes refuses to see what a blind man could easily comprehend is beyond me. I have rejected the notion that he has been corrupted by his position of power; Mycroft is no eminence grise, pulling the puppet's strings behind the throne. He has legitimate concerns, of this I am certain; unfortunately, his concerns and my own conscience are at loggerheads. I must do that which I feel necessary and in this case... well, my course of action is clear." 

"What do you intend to do?" 

"I will confront Bartholomew Moon," Lina said. "I will confront him with the evidence we have gleaned and warn him that if he does not come forward with a confession of his own accord, I shall take it upon myself to make the facts public knowledge." 

"Isn't that dangerous?" Rhiannon laid a hand on Lina's knee. "He could sue you for libel and slander, among other things. And what will Mycroft think? He has forbidden you from pursuing the case further!" 

The peer snapped her fingers. "I care not a jot or a tiddle for the commands of Mycroft Holmes," she replied. "He is not my lord and master! My dear, after careful thought and much consideration, I have determined that this thing must be done. However, you need not accompany me... I do not know how Moon may react; many gentlemen respond with violence when they feel threatened." 

Rhiannon leaned against Lina, capturing the taller woman's hand and bringing it to her lips for a lingering kiss. "Of course I'm coming with you," she said fiercely. "Don't be a silly goose! I haven't been taking all those baritsu lessons for nothing! And I'll bring my quarterstaff, too. If Moon so much as looks cross-eyed in your direction, I'll beat him to a bloody pulp." 

 "My doughty knight," Lina murmured with a sigh. She shifted her position until she lay with her head in Rhiannon's lap. Her eyes were half-closed but they gleamed with emerald fire. "Galloping to the rescue of your helpless maiden..." 

Rhiannon's lips quirked up into a small smile. She did so enjoy these little love games. "And after I slay the fire breathing dragon? What reward will you offer your valiant champion?" 

Lina sighed again; her body relaxed into a sensuously lazy pose. "Much, much more than a kiss," she half-whispered, curving up an arm to draw her lover's face down closer to her own. 

Rhiannon resisted that invitation to a kiss. Instead, she bent her head and nipped the hollow of the dark haired woman's throat, making Lina's hips buck a little. "How much more?" she asked huskily. The feel of her lover's pliant body beneath her hands made her heart race in excitement. 

"I am but a weak and helpless maiden," Lina answered, gasping as she felt Rhiannon's teeth once more. "Take what you will, Madame Knight. I cannot stop you from reaping the rewards of your conquest." 

Rhiannon growled in reply. 

It had been several days, after all. 

But before the gallant knight lost control entirely and devoured the luscious banquet that her defenseless maiden placed so generously before her, she had to leap to the defense and take care of one last dragon... 

...the forgotten and wide open door of the study. 

It would be another couple of days before Lina put her plan into action. In the meantime, following her lover's instructions, Rhiannon sent out telegrams to various people, inquiring after the whereabouts of Michael Graves - Sir Arthur Moon's former valet and accomplice. 

At last, Lina said, "The search has proven fruitless, I fear. Mister Graves most likely fled the country long ago and now dwells under an alias in a foreign land. Should it prove necessary, a more concentrated investigation may be successful, but we have no more time. I have learned that Bartholomew Moon is planning a voyage to India on Her Majesty's orders; we must finish our business with him before he eludes our grasp entirely." 

Rhiannon placed the remaining correspondence in a pile to be dealt with later. "Do you think he's really running away, love? Isn't it just a coincidence?" 

"Pleasant as it may be to believe, my dear, I very much doubt that Moon's sudden departure from British soil is a mere happenstance. I would not put it past Mycroft Holmes to have warned the devil." 

The strawberry blonde sighed. "Very well," she replied. "When do we leave?" 

Lina's face seemed to sharpen, the fine bones taking on a razor's edge. She looked at Rhiannon intently; every line in her body thrummed with a mixture of impatience and keen anticipation. She reminded the other woman of nothing so much as a hound, baying and eager for the hunt. "In an hour, Moon will be taking lunch at his club. We shall confront him there." 

"I'll just go and change," Rhiannon said hastily, hurrying from the study. 

Lina followed her up the stairs. While they were changing their clothes in the bedroom, Rhiannon asked with a puzzled frown, "Is that really necessary?" 

The peer looked up; in her hands she held a blunt nosed revolver. Tucking it into the inner pocket of her jacket, she replied darkly, "It may very well be required, my dear. I take no chances with this dangerous individual." 

Swiftly, the two ladies finished dressing. 

In a mere half hour, they were in a hired hansom cab, jolting along the cobblestoned streets to Sir Bartholomew Moon's club. 

Rhiannon prayed that Lina wouldn't do anything foolish. 

The ebony haired woman with the madly glittering eyes looked capable of almost anything.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
 

Lina, dressed in a gentleman's dark gray suit with her hair concealed beneath a bowler hat, gained admittance to the Nautilus League, a club frequented by the higher level servants of Her Majesty's government.

Rhiannon was allowed in after Lina's assertion to the skeptical porter that the petite strawberry blonde was a niece of Sir Bartholomew's and in 'dire straights.' After a few minutes of fervent whispering, accompanied by a subtle exchange of pound notes, the two women entered the club.

Sir Bartholomew Moon always dined in a private room. Having finished the cheese course and engaged in enjoying a brandy-laced coffee, he looked up sharply when two strangers - one of those a woman - barged unceremoniously into his presence.

"What the Devil is the meaning of this?" he asked angrily. "Who are you? And what the Devil are you doing here? This is a private room and I'll thank you to leave at once!"

Lina closed the door and locked it, shooting the bolt home with a click. She removed her bowler hat, allowing a wealth of ebony hair to slither across her shoulders. "I am Lady Evangeline St. Claire," she announced proudly. "My companion is Rhiannon Moore. We have come, sir, to..."

Moon interrupted with a braying laugh. "You're some of those damned suffragettes, I suppose?" He leaned back in his chair, removing the napkin at his neck and flinging it down on the table. "You've wasted your time coming here. I have no intention of interceding in the arrests of your so-called sisters or anything else in a similar vein. Now leave or I shall have you removed with force!"

Lina looked at him narrowly. Sir Bartholomew Moon was quite obese; the buttons of his waistcoat strained to contain his prominent stomach. His hair was dark brown, liberally sprinkled with rusty gray, and his little piggy eyes were slitted in anger, lower lip thrust out in what seemed a monumental pout. A bandaged foot was propped up on a cushioned stool; Lina concluded that the lord suffered from gout.

"While I certainly sympathize with the suffragettes and their mission to gain the rights of individuals thus far granted solely to men, that is not my business here today," Lina replied calmly. "I have come regarding, among other things, the murder of Lady Amanda Moon."

Her next statement cut into the angry Moon's spluttered denial. Tossing her bowler hat onto a nearby table, she said, "A murder committed by you."

The lord was shocked into silence.

"You are mad!" Moon finally hissed. "My dear mother..." 

"But that is the point," Lina said coolly. She took a seat close to Moon, crossing her legs and propping an elbow on the dining table. "Lady Amanda was not your mother." 

Rhiannon quietly sat down on one of the leather banquettes that ran the length of the room. She would let Lina handle this confrontation, but kept her staff near to hand just in case. She also had charge of a package they had brought with them; a square parcel wrapped in brown paper which she laid on the floor near her feet. 

Moon's attitude suddenly changed. He drew himself up as much as his bulk allowed. "I do not understand you, madame." He seemed cool and confident but Rhiannon noticed a tiny trickle of sweat that tracked moistly down the fleshy rolls at the back of his neck. 

Lina seemed equally confident. "Allow me to refresh your memory," she began. "In September 1855, Sir Arthur Moon traveled to Switzerland, supposedly seeking a cure for his sickly first born son named Bartholomew. However, that child remained confined at home, locked away from his mother's care and indeed, from contact with anyone save the lord's villainous valet. When Sir Arthur returned home in March, he was accompanied by a boy - a strong, healthy child - and he proceeded to install this pretender as his heir. Sir Arthur's subsequent murder of Bartholomew, while certainly a heinous act, is not pertinent at this time although I have no doubt that you were aware of the facts in the case. Lady Amanda's death, however... that is another tale." 

Moon opened his mouth to speak. "You are mad," he repeated. 

"On the contrary, I assure you that I am quite sane." Lina started absently tapping her fingers on the tabletop. "You were that pretender, sir. A child gotten from who knows what background or situation... and when you found your new life threatened by Lady Amanda - who very naturally objected over the loss of her own child - you took steps to ensure her silence. Smothering her in her own bed. The maid who witnessed the act was bribed into silence by your new 'father.' But Sebastian, who also saw, who also witnessed the death of his brother, kept silent of his own accord." 

She hitched her chair slightly closer to Moon and continued, "We can only guess what horrors wracked Sebastian's young mind. Inadvertently forced to watch both brother and beloved mother die, his developing psyche sought refuge in madness. When he grew older, although he still could not speak aloud, he revealed the truth in the only way he could... in his paintings." 

"My brother was a lunatic," Moon said hoarsely. "He killed father..." 

"Ah, yes. I concede that Sebastian did indeed take Sir Arthur's life; no doubt he felt this action justified by the hell he had endured for so many years. Knowing the boy who grew beside him to manhood was nothing more than a changeling, a murdering cuckoo who had made its nest safe by killing off any rivals. But you had no reason to fear Sebastian, did you? He was too traumatized, too young, the tale too fantastic to be believed. I wonder..." 

She paused and leaned forward slightly, "How did you know that Sebastian intended to kill Sir Arthur?" 

"What do you mean?" Moon was sweating in earnest now although outwardly, he remained calm. 

"When the police found Sir Arthur's body, and Sebastian was missing, they all assumed the worst - that Sebastian had suffered the same fate as his father but his corpse was somehow concealed. However, when you were summoned to the scene, you immediately concluded that Sir Arthur's murderer was none other than his son. How did you draw such a conclusion?" 

Rhiannon leaned forward, waiting in suspense for the lord's reply. 
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
 

Moon blustered and threatened, but in the end he knew he was well and truly caught. After glancing around, he licked his lips and said, "Are you a witch, madame?" 

Lina replied, "No. I am an intelligent, resourceful woman, sir. Well able to observe even that which is well hidden, even when it is presented to me by a madman's hand." 

At Lina's nod, Rhiannon picked up the mysterious parcel and tore off the paper, revealing Sebastian's painting, The Changeling's Moon. "I purchased this painting at Blackpoole's," Rhiannon said to Moon. "I found it intriguing and was fascinated by Sebastian's sorry tale. Lady Evangeline saw more than I did, however. Look!" 

She pointed to several sets of figures in the painting. "See... here's a pair of boy fairies playing; one of them carries a crutch. Next, the smaller boy is all alone - his crippled friend is gone but he appears again here. Notice how the devilish figure is 'giving' the lame one a bath? Or so it appears. Closer examination will show that the lame fairy is actually being drowned." 

Rhiannon stood up, bringing the painting directly beneath Moon's nose. "The devil figure comes again, this time bearing a bird on his back. A cuckoo, in fact. Then the bird is shown making a comical nest on a lady fairy's face - but again, a closer look will show the scene's more sinister aspects. I could go on but I don't think it necessary." 

She was suddenly filled with anger; one child's life taken in a brutal act, another's wrecked and ruined. Shaking the painting, she exclaimed, "Who are you? As a child yourself, how could you have brought yourself to murder? What sort of monster were you? What kind of monster are you now?" 

Moon was clearly frightened. He threw up his hands and said in a high pitched voice, "She was going to make him take me back! That bitch hated me and wanted me sent back home!" His eyes slewed around wildly. "I wouldn't go! She couldn't make me!" 

"Where is 'home'?" Lina asked. 

Moon replied almost desperately, spittle flying from his lips as he spoke faster and faster, "Mum and Daddy sold me to him. There was never enough to eat, it was always cold, we were so poor, I hated it there but he came, oh God! He was like an angel. He taught me what to say and how to act. Gave me anything I wanted, anything at all! But she didn't want me; she was going to make me go back. I wouldn't! I wouldn't!" 

His voice dropped to a cunning whisper. "So I killed her. But I didn't know the little brat was hiding under the bed. Father said he wouldn't talk but I made sure. I used to lock him up in the attic for hours, whispering to him through the keyhole. I told him what would happen if he told anyone. Then when he was older and left home, he was truly mad. I made him that way. Nobody would believe him. Nobody!" 

"How did you know that Sebastian was going to kill Sir Arthur?" Lina asked gently. 

"I went to see the brat. He had a list; said all the people on it were going to pay. Father wouldn't let me take over the business even though I'd been working there for years - miserly bastard! So I encouraged Sebastian, even gave him an idea how to go about it. I knew he'd be caught - madmen are sly but not very clever! - and I knew that I'd inherit everything. With Father out of the way, I could do anything I wanted and he couldn't complain or carp at me anymore." 

Rhiannon felt sick. Bartholomew Moon was nothing more than a spoiled brat, albeit a dangerous one. Foiled in getting his own way, he resorted to murder and worse at the drop of a hat, thinking no more of getting rid of those who inconvenienced him than if he were cracking a troublesome flea. 

She sidled backwards, trying not to attract Moon's attention. She suddenly felt the need to have her staff closer at hand. 

After a few moments, Moon snapped out of his trance. He wiped his face with a handkerchief and shook himself all over. "You haven't any proof," he said to Lina, voice and bearing indicating he was now completely in control and unbearably smug about the fact. "It's my word against yours. I've heard something of your reputation... you're nothing more than vile tribades, you and that red-headed 'companion.' If you dare to make any of this public, I'll see you in court. By the time my solicitors are finished with you, you'll be lucky to have the clothes on your back." 

Lina shrugged. "Perhaps I will take that chance," she replied. She rose and collected her hat, stuffing her hair under the brim. "It may be that I waste both time and breath imploring you to do the decent thing and own up to your crimes." 

Moon laughed; it was an unpleasant sound. "Confess to what?" His bottom lip thrust out again. "Crimes that come from the overactive imagination of a depraved female? Crimes that cannot be proven by any means? You amuse me, madame." 

"I see that it was indeed a waste to have the slightest hope that you possessed a shred of decency or honor," Lina retorted. 

Before she and Rhiannon left, they heard Moon's voice raised behind them. "Remember what I said, your ladyship. Attempt to harm me and I will surely crush you! Do you hear me? I will crush you into dust!" 

Before the wide open eyes of the porter, Lina and Rhiannon took their leave. 

On their way back home, Rhiannon asked, "What do you intend to do now, love?" 

Lina absently caressed the frame of the painting that had begun the whole sordid business. "I do not know, my dear. Moon is a powerful man with many friends. True, I had only the slightest hope that he would volunteer to come forward... well, you have seen with your own eyes how thoroughly those hopes were crushed." Her lip curled as she said that word. 

"Do we have enough to go to the police?" 

"Unfortunately, no," Lina replied. She spent a moment lighting a cigarette, tossing the spent lucifer out into the street. It was raining again and a spray of tiny droplets came in through the open sides of the hansom, wetting her trousers. 

"Oh, no doubt I could interest them, but Moon's position is such that any reasonable being would hesitate in accusing him of any wrongdoing without ironclad proof. We simply do not have enough. The testimony of one old woman is unlikely to stand up under skilled cross-examination... we need much more before we can hope to see Moon in the defendant's box." 

She smoked moodily for a while; just before they reached Grosvenor Square, the peer said, "There are one or two other avenues of exploration left to us, my dear. Let us exhaust all the possibilities before admitting defeat." 

Rhiannon nodded; snuggling closer to her beloved, the familiar scents of her lover's body - lilac water, talcum powder and tobacco - surrounding her like a comforting cloud, it was almost easy to believe that everything would turn out all right. 

Almost. 
 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

"Still no word from our friends at the Yard?" Lina asked a few days later.

Rhiannon shook her head. "Nothing. They haven't been able to locate Graves. The closest they've gotten is his mother, who claims not to have heard from her son in years. Maybe he's dead and buried somewhere." She felt close to tears of frustration. "And so's our case."

Lina immediately got up and put her arms around the smaller woman. "My dear, you must not give up hope. Some investigations are like this; a great deal of time may pass before a new bit of information reveals itself and the chase begins again. Also, remember that our friends have no idea why they seek Graves; such discretion is necessary when one deals with a delicate subject like this. And withholding information unfortunately hampers their efforts."

"I have a feeling that Bartholomew Moon will never be caught," Rhiannon said with a sniff. "He's too slippery by half."

"Well, I am not willing to wait too much longer before embarking upon my next course," Lina said, giving her lover a squeeze. "Specifically, that of turning to the press. Although I deplore the proliferation of sensationalist literature - particularly those so-called 'news' journals such as The Daily Snoop, I am willing to exploit their eagerness to publish articles on the most scandalous of subjects, so much the better when said scandals involve the aristocracy or those in power." 

"Well, I'm sure Bennie would help you if you asked," Rhiannon said. "On the other hand, The Times doesn't often stoop to the sensational, do they?" 

"These journalist fellows all know one another," Lina replied. She guided her lover to the sofa and sat her down gently, taking a place beside her. "Mister Salt may be able to recommend a fairly decent gentleman of the Fourth Estate." 

Jackson, the tall and leanly-fleshed butler, entered the study with a discreet cough. "A gentleman to see you, milady," he intoned. "Mister Benjamin Salt." 

"Bennie!" Rhiannon jumped up from the sofa. 

Benjamin Salt sauntered inside. "Sugarbaby... had I known you'd come up so far in the world, I'd have touched you for at least a tenner," he quipped. 

Rhiannon threw her arms around him for a hug. Lina suppressed a twinge of jealousy and smiled at the newcomer in welcome. "Good morning, Mister Salt," she drawled. "What brings you to our humble establishment?" 

Benjamin took a seat in a leather chair, one leg propped over the arm, foot swinging nonchalantly. Rhiannon returned to her seat but not before giving the young gentleman a quick kiss on the cheek. "I just wandered by to see if you'd made any progress in your investigations." 

Lina shot Rhiannon a warning glance. "Not as such," she answered cautiously. "We are in a state of abeyance at the moment." 

Rhiannon wrinkled her nose; she'd wanted to tell Benjamin about the affair but Lina had convinced her otherwise; of all the issues at stake in such a complex and delicate case, discretion was paramount. 

"What have you been doing?" Rhiannon asked, changing the subject. 

Benjamin laughed, pushing a lock of blonde hair out of his eyes. "The usual. Chafing at the reins, wishing I were out in the line of fire, so to speak. Lord, but I do sometimes miss the excitement of being a journalist in the field!" 

"What? Toiling mightily in the pursuit of news to earn your little crust, only to be told by an editor that they're cutting your story for lack of space!" Rhiannon giggled and Benjamin chimed in. 

Lina made a face. "I confess some ignorance in the field of journalism, Mister Salt. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me on the day to day workings of a newspaper?" 

For the next three-quarters of an hour, Benjamin regaled the ladies with a number of diverting stories, mostly involving the interaction between newsmen and the subjects they wrote about. 

"...and so Perry Bonham-Deering asked Baron Schopenhaur - I mean Helmut the ladykiller, not Arthur the philosopher (who is no relation, by the way) - 'Is it true, sir, that you keep a horseplow in your schloss?'... to which the baron replied, 'It's not a horseplow, you ignorant swine. It's a hausfrau - my wife!'" 

They all laughed, Lina the hardest because she knew the Baron in question. In fact, he and his wife Sophie were well known to her; they had a 'marriage of convenience' - so termed because Baron Helmut, despite his reputation with the ladies, actually preferred young men in his bed. And Sophie had a predilection for opera girls. 

The hypocrisy of our society never fails to amaze me, Lina thought, watching Rhiannon serve Benjamin with tea and cookies. Quite a number of the gentlemen who present a faultless image to the public behave quite differently in private. Hmph. I could tell Mister Salt a story or two myself.

"Oh, my lady!" Benjamin exclaimed. "I actually did have a reason for visiting you... besides enjoying the company of two such lovely and delightful ladies," he added, waggling his sandy brows. 

"You're such a terrible flirt!" Rhiannon said, smacking his hand lightly. "Go practice your deathless charm on that policeman of yours, Bennie. It's wasted on us." 

"Flattery is never wasted," he retorted with a twinkle in his blue eyes. "Besides, I need to keep myself in shape when it comes to gallant gestures. I must attend a little gathering given by the wife of one of our senior editors... no doubt I will be paired with her odious daughter Odette. Ugh! All elbows and spots, afflicted with the worse case of overbite I have seen since I quit the horse racing circuit. Still, one must endure these things if one is to rise in one's profession." 

"Well, just be your usual lovely self and I'm sure the odious Odette will fall head-over-heels." Rhiannon's eyes sparkled as Benjamin mimed gagging. 

"I won't take up any more of your time today, ladies," Benjamin said, brushing his trouser legs free of crumbs. "Oh! Damn me for an feather-head! I completely forgot!" He quickly walked out of the room and returned with a folded newspaper. 

"Is that this morning's issue?," Lina asked. "We have it delivered, but thank you for..." 

Benjamin waved his free hand to shush her. "No, this is a special afternoon edition," he said. "Fresh from the press. So fresh, in fact, that my poor gloves were covered in ink, a incident which will surely earn me a scolding from my valet." 

He unfolded the paper with a theatrical gesture. "Read all about it!" he cried in a fair imitation of the corner newsboys. 

Lina peered at the paper, then snatched it from his hands and began to read avidly. 

Rhiannon hadn't been near enough to see. "What's all this about, Bennie?" she asked. 

He patted her on the shoulder. "You'll see, Sugarbaby." 

In a few moments, Lina stopped reading. The paper slowly sank from her hands as she said in a dazed voice, "I do not believe it. It cannot be true." 

"I assure you it is true," Benjamin replied. "Happened just this morning. By sheer coincidence, Joseph Tannersby - one of our best men - was at the scene. Saw the whole thing happen right before his astonished eyes. He scribbled the first draft on the back of an envelope and sent it down to the offices. Created quite a stir when it arrived." 

"Lina?" Rhiannon resisted the urge to shake the obviously shaken woman into sensibility. "What is it? What's wrong?" 

"Read for yourself." 

Lina offered the paper; Rhiannon took a look at the headlines and gasped in surprise.

"Do you really think that...?" Rhiannon started to ask. Lina shook her head, indicating silence. 

Benjamin frowned. "Isn't this a ripping coincidence? I mean, only the other day you were down in the morgue looking for information on this fellow, and this morning he gets run over by a runaway carriage." 

"Is that what it was?" Rhiannon said slowly. 

"Well, yes!" Benjamin exclaimed. "Look, it's all right here. He - by that I mean Sir Bartholomew Moon - had just left Number 10 Downing Street. He was apparently attending some hush-hush secret meeting of some kind. Just as he started to step out into the street, a runaway carriage plowed him over and kept right on going. The police have issued a description of the coach and driver but really, there were so many conflicting descriptions that the peelers could probably arrest half of London and be sure of getting a match. 

"At any rate, by lucky chance there was a doctor in the crowd. He attended to Sir Bartholomew right there in the street, claiming it was too dangerous to move him, and gave him an injection of stimulant. After working on the man for a few minutes, he said his office was around the corner and he was leaving to fetch some supplies. He never returned so a resourceful policeman whistled up a carriage to remove Sir Bartholomew to hospital. He was dead before he arrived, unfortunately." 

Lina and Rhiannon exchanged another glance. This time, Benjamin caught the furtive signal. 

"Do you two know something about all this?," he asked peevishly. 

"No, nothing at all," Rhiannon said hastily. "Only what we've read." 

"Hmph." Benjamin eyed the two women suspiciously. "I suspect you know more than you're admitting, but I'll let it pass. Just remember your old friend Bennie if you care to unburden yourself someday." 

After giving Rhiannon a hug and bidding Lady Evangeline good-bye, the young gentleman took his leave. 

Once he had gone, Rhiannon gulped and asked, "What do we do now, love?" 

Lina shook her head, emerald eyes glazed. "Nothing." 

"Nothing!" At Lina's warning growl, Rhiannon lowered her voice. "But Mycroft... didn't he... I mean, he was the only... well, surely you don't think Moon's death is an accident, do you?" 

The peer shook her head. "There are some dark passages that even I hesitate to explore," she answered. 

Rhiannon looked at the painting, The Changeling's Moon, hanging in a place of pride in the study... 

Remembered the lives that had been taken and ruined because of one man's pride and another's greed... 

And shivered. 

"Lina? If he did... if he somehow ordered it to be done..." 

"If Bartholomew Moon's death is not an accident, then let us call it an act of providence. The wheels of justice have ground slowly in this case, but in the end, I believe that the changeling received precisely what he deserved." 

The two women quietly contemplated the implications of their suspicions. 

And in a small room of the Diogenes Club, the most powerful and secretive of Her Majesty's servants - the brilliant man who was not above the law but was the law incarnate - marked a file with a crimson stamp - "Secret!" - and placed it carefully in an iron clad safe, tucking the little brass key into the pocket of his bulging waistcoat. 
 
 

(*Author's Note: See Black by Gaslight for the full story.)

<~~~~~ Return to the Library