“Of course, sirs,” said Floote. There was some wariness in his tone.
They adjourned into the back parlor, leaving the cook and the housekeeper to finish the menu without Floote’s input. Floote did not seem happy with this arrangement.
Professor Lyall gestured with one of his fine white hands, his vulpine face pinched. “Please, take a seat, Mr. Floote.”
Floote would do nothing of the kind. To sit in front of his betters? Never! Biffy knew the man’s character well enough to know that. So did Lyall, of course, but the Beta was trying to make the man uncomfortable.
Lyall asked the questions while Biffy simply crossed his arms and observed the butler’s behavior. He had been trained in just such a skill by Lord Akeldama. He watched the way Floote’s eyebrows moved slightly, the dilation of his pupils, and the shifting of weight in his knees. But very little changed about the butler during the course of the questioning, and Floote’s responses were always abbreviated. Either the man had nothing to hide, or Biffy was in the presence of a master whose skills far exceeded his own powers of observation.
“Sandy was in Egypt at least three times, according to his journals, but he makes few comments as to his business there. What happened the first time?”
“Nothing of consequence, sir.”
“And the second?”
“He met Leticia Phinkerlington, sir.”
“Alexia’s mother?”
Floote nodded.
“Yes, but what else did he do in Egypt? He can’t have gone merely to court a girl.”
No response came from Floote.
“Can you tell us who he was working for, at the very least?”
“The Templars, sir. It was always the Templars, right up until he broke with them.”
“And when was that?”
“After you and he… sir.”
“But he went to Egypt after that. I remember his going. Why? Who was he working for then? It wasn’t us, was it? I mean, England or BUR. I know Queen Victoria tried to recruit him. She offered him the position of muhjah. He turned it down.”
Floote blinked at Professor Lyall.
The Beta began to get a little frustrated.
“Floote, you must give us something. Unless… Are you, too, sealed into silence under the Clandestine Act?”
Floote nodded the tiniest of nods.
“You are! Of course, that would make perfect sense. You couldn’t talk to any of us, not even Lady Maccon, because we are all enemy agents under the terms of that act. It prevents supernaturals and their associates, including preternaturals, from access to certain scientific information. Or that’s the rumor. I don’t know the particulars, of course.”
Floote only gave one of his little nods again.
“So Sandy discovered something in Egypt so severe it was included under the act even though it was outside the homeland. For the good of the Commonwealth.”
Floote did not react.
Professor Lyall seemed to think they would get nothing more useful out of the butler. “Very well, Floote, you may return to your menu planning. I’m certain Cook has made a botch of it without your supervision.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Floote with a hint of relief before gliding quietly out.
“What do you think?” Lyall turned to Biffy.
Biffy shrugged. He thought that Floote still had more information. He also thought that Floote didn’t want to tell them, even if he could. He thought there was something else going on—that it wasn’t just acts of parliament and games of politics and science. He thought that Lyall would want to believe the best of Lady Maccon’s father, no matter how unworthy the gentleman. If Alessandro Tarabotti had been doing good deeds during any one of his visits to Egypt, he, Sandalio de Rabiffano, would eat his own cravat. Under the Templars, the OBO, or his government, Mr. Tarabotti was a nasty piece of work.
Instead of any of these things, Biffy said, “Mr. Tarabotti broke with the Templars out of love, not principle. Or so I thought. But you would understand the man’s character far better than I.”
Professor Lyall hung his head and looked like he might be hiding a small smile. “I see your point. You think that something more than a major act of parliament would be required to influence Sandy.”
“Don’t you?”
“So while Floote may be obeying the law, something else was keeping Sandy silent about Egypt for those few years we had together before he died?”
Biffy only raised his eyebrows, allowing the Beta time to think through what he had known of his former lower.
Lyall nodded slowly. “You are probably right.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Wherein Alexia Loans Mr. Tumtrinkle Her Gun
The Tunstells had been encouraged by Chancellor Neshi to perform an encore of The Death Rains of Swansea at a local theater for the benefit of the public. The theater was open air, much in the manner of Ancient Rome. Alexia was persuaded to attend and endure a third viewing of the dratted spectacle in an effort to distract her from her worries. Lord Maccon was still off in his huff when they departed for the theater.
The play was as much admired by the masses as it had been by the vampire hive. Or at least Lady Maccon believed it was much admired. It was difficult to determine with any accuracy, when praise was heaped upon the theatricals in a tongue entirely alien to all. However, the approbation did seem genuine. Lady Maccon, patroness, waited for Mr. and Mrs. Tunstell afterward, but so, too, did a collection of excited Egyptians, eager to touch the hero and her**ne of the play, press small gifts into their hands, and in one extreme case kiss the hem of Ivy’s gown.
Ivy Tunstell took such accolades in stride as her due, nodding and smiling. “Very kind” and “Thank you very much” and “Oh, you really shouldn’t have” were her pat responses, although no one understood her any more than she them. Alexia thought, if she was reading body language properly, that the locals were convinced that the Tunstells’ Acting Troupe a la Mode represented some species of prophesiers of the American tent-preacher variety. Even the secondary actors, like Mr. Tumtrinkle, seemed to have gained unexpected notoriety and companion acclaim.
Alexia congratulated her friends on yet another fine performance. And, since it looked like otherwise they might never leave, the group wended their way back to the hotel on foot, followed by a collective band of sycophants and admirers. They made quite the raucous crowd through the otherwise quiet streets of Alexandria.
It was only a few hours before dawn, but Alexia was not surprised to find, when she inquired after her key at the hotel, that Lord Maccon had not yet returned. Still angry, she supposed.
They were making their farewells for the evening, Mrs. Tunstell solicitous in her care for Lady Maccon’s low spirits, particularly in light of the buoyancy that admiration had given her own. The hotel was busy trying to eject the legion of Tunstell devotees, when a vision of horror came down the stairs and into the hotel reception area.
No one would have described poor Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk as attractive, even at the very best of times. The Tunstells’ nursemaid had not been selected for her looks but for her ability to tolerate twins plus Mrs. Tunstell, while not crumbling under a strain that would have felled lesser females. She was old enough to be mostly gray, but not so old that her limbs had been sapped of the strength needed to carry two infants at once. She wasn’t particularly tall, but she was sturdy, with the arms of a boxer and the general expression of a bulldog. Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk, Alexia supposed, had some species of hearty leather armchair somewhere in her ancestry. However, the Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk who came down those stairs that early morning was far from sturdy. In fact, she looked to have cracked at last. Her face was a picture of horror, her normally tidy pinafore was wrinkled, her cap was askew, and her graying hair fell loose about her shoulders. She clutched Percival to her breast. The baby boy was crying, his face as red as his hair.
Upon catching sight of Lady Maccon and the Tunstells’ party, she cried out, raising her free hand to her throat, and said, on great gulping sobs of terror, “They’re gone!”
Alexia broke free of the crowd and went up to her.
“The babies, the babies are gone.”
“What!” Alexia brushed past the distraught nursemaid and charged up the stairs to the nursery room.
The chamber was in an uproar, furniture overturned, probably by the distraught nursemaid in her panic. The Tunstells’ two bassinets were empty, as was Prudence’s little cot.
Alexia felt her stomach wrench up into the most tremendous knot and a cold, icy fear trickled through her whole body. She whirled away from the room, already calling out instructions, although the hallway was empty behind her. Her voice was hard and authoritative. Then she heard, from behind her, a querulous little voice say, “Mama?”
Prudence came crawling out from under the bed, dusty, tear-stained, but present.
Alexia ran to her, crouching down to wrap her in a tight embrace. “Prudence, my baby! Did you hide? What a good, brave girl.”
“Mama,” said Prudence seriously, “no.”
Alexia let her go slightly, grabbing on to her shoulders and speaking at her straight on. Grave brown eyes met grave brown eyes. “But where is Primrose? Did they take Primrose? Who took her, Prudence? Did you see?”
“No.”
“Bad men took the baby. Who were they?”
Prudence only tossed her dark curls, pouted, and burst into unhelpful tears. Partially a response to her mother’s frantic behavior, Alexia supposed, trying to calm herself.
“Dama!” the little girl wailed. She broke free of her mother’s grasp and ran to the door, turning back to look at her mother. “Dama. Home. Home Dama,” she insisted.
“No, dear, not yet.”
“Now!”
Alexia marched over to her daughter and scooped up the child’s struggling form. She strode back down the stairs into the hotel reception room, where all was still chaos.
Mrs. Dawaud-Plonk began to weep openly upon seeing Prudence clutched safely in Lady Maccon’s arms and dashed over to coo over the toddler.
“Prudence hid under the bed, but it does look as though they took Primrose,” announced Alexia baldly. “I am so very sorry, Ivy. Who knows why or what they want from a baby, but she is definitely gone.”
Mrs. Tunstell let out a high keening wail and fainted back into her husband’s arms. Tunstell looked as though he, too, might be in favor of fainting. His freckles stood out starkly against his white face and he stared at Alexia with desperate green eyes.
“I don’t know where my husband is,” replied Alexia, guessing at the nature of the plea in those eyes. “Of all the times for him to be off in a huff!”
The Tunstells were well loved by their troupe, so this misfortune threw all the other actors into sympathetic paroxysms of distress. The ladies fainted or had hysterics, whichever better suited their natures. Some of the gentlemen did the same. One ran out into the night with a fake sword, determined to track down the dastardly culprits. Mr. Tumtrinkle began stuffing his face with those little honey pastries and blubbering into his mustache. Percival was busy screaming his head off, only pausing to spit up all over anyone who came near.