Chapter Eight

It's difficult to have a conversation when you're riding in a hansom cab that's threading through city streets at top speed, but it's one of many skills I've perfected over the past three years. "I suppose," I begin, raising my voice over the rattle of the cab wheels, "one of the things you did on your outing last night was find out the schedules for passenger ships to Calabria, and a few minutes ago you phoned the Adelphi and learned that Miss Romanelli had checked out. Which explains our destination. And of course you alerted the police," I add as we narrowly avoid a collision with an omnibus going in the opposite direction.

Simon nods, maintaining perfect composure and balance despite the bumping, rattling and swaying of the cab. "Since you know who we're after, I take it you've cracked the case on your own." He doesn't sound impressed, but he doesn't sound as if he expected any less of me, either. I suppose I should take it as a compliment.

"I think I've got it." I am convinced that one of the many bumps on our ride shook something loose in my mind and made all the pieces come together. It's not a theory I plan to share with Simon. "We shall just have to see if I'm right." Our cab swerves left so sharply that I think one of the wheels has lifted off the cobbles.

We reach the waterfront in a little over ten minutes. Upon seeing the crowds around the pier, Simon tells the driver to stop about a hundred yards away. He would only do this if he wanted to observe the situation before involving himself in it, which means that events may be taking a course different from what we expected. Or, at least, he suspects as much. Simon and I fling open the doors the moment the hansom comes to a stop, Simon with the driver's payment already in hand. He hands the promised guinea to the driver as I hurry toward the pier. Though I have a good head start on him, it takes him no time at all to catch up.

We slow our pace as we get closer to the curious crowd, which is held back by a cordon of police ringing the pier. Instead of pushing his way through, Simon hangs back, not calling attention to himself. It's easy for him to watch the events transpiring on the pier by looking over other people's heads, but I am not nearly tall enough, and I can't hear what's going on. I insinuate myself into the crowd and quietly make my way closer to the row of constables holding back the observers, a process that requires a judicious mix of pushing, dodging and apologizing.

I find the scene before me to be somewhat alarming, because it includes Iain Crombie and Charity Wyndham, who have gotten here before us. They are standing not a stone's throw away, at the edge of the pier. I glance at the ship moored there, a steamer called Lucca. Passengers and sailors are gazing down from the deck. On the pier, not quite halfway between the waterfront and the steamer's gangplank, stands Helena Romanelli, her dark blue travelling dress blowing in the wind off the water and her thin, pale face on the edge of a snarl.

Crombie's stance suggests that he is afraid Miss Romanelli might charge at him – a fear that does not seem at all irrational to me, considering what I know of the woman's temper. "I found the thief earlier today," he is saying. "He did me the courtesy of confessing everything. Apparently he has been stealing from the hotel for weeks, but I am most concerned with what he stole from your room only yesterday." He nods at Charity Wyndham, who takes something out of her handbag. Though I can't see the necklace clearly from this distance, I recognize the sheen of silver and the glint of mother-of-pearl.

"How exactly does this concern me?" Romanelli snaps. "That's not mine."

"I should say not," Crombie agrees. "It belongs to Miss Danielle Verinder." This sets off astonished murmurs in the crowd around me. I am as unsettled as they are, but for a different reason – I'm wondering how much Crombie knows about the whole business.

Crombie takes the necklace from his assistant and slowly advances on Helena Romanelli. "I am very interested in learning how this got from the Verinders' mansion to your hotel room in the space of a few hours."

"You might as well tell him, Miss Romanelli." Simon slips through the police line to the right of me, ignoring all the wide-eyed stares turned upon him as he strides casually to the pier. "If you don't, I will."

You certainly know how to make an entrance, Simon. I slip through the police line myself, hearing a brief protest cut short when the constables recognize me, and manage to catch up with Simon without seeming to hurry, although I think I owe some of that accomplishment to his relaxed pace. Miss Romanelli's eyes are wide as saucers behind her spectacles, Charity Wyndham blinks at us as if she is not sure of her own sanity, and Crombie's expression is one of pure, gaping shock.

Miss Romanelli regains control of her countenance as Simon and I draw even with Crombie and Charity, who are too flabbergasted to object. After a few seconds a blood-chilling smile spreads across her face. "Ah, so you have figured it out, yes? Getting away with this would have embarrassed you, but it would not have been as interesting. I was afraid you would disappoint me – after all, certain people have been saying that you have been, how goes the saying, 'off your game' lately…."

Simon's expression hardens almost imperceptibly. Otherwise he does not acknowledge Miss Romanelli's jab at him. "I was mistaken about the timing," he says in a low voice. "Brother Mallory was not knocked unconscious by the gargoyles. You knocked him out, and perhaps made it look as if he had been pushed." Charity and Crombie are utterly bewildered, but I am quite satisfied at hearing my own speculations confirmed. "Then you took the amulet. I wonder, did you slip out of the vespers service, or did you use it while you pretended to pray?"

It occurs to me that there are scores of gargoyles around the docks. I hope Simon knows what he's doing, because under these circumstances provoking the Viscontessa is also courting disaster. "The second one," she says casually. "Now that you know how and when, would you be interested in knowing why?"

"You are obviously set on telling me, and I have no objection to hearing it."

Helena Romanelli's contorts into a vicious expression. "I knew the amulet was in the Museum Obscura. I also knew that by using it this way I would be sure to get your attention. The money and jewellery is just a side benefit. I want revenge for your humiliation of my family, Archard," she snaps, "not mere baubles."

"You chose a rather baroque method for your revenge," Simon remarks. "Melodramatic, even. And if you do it now" – he gestures at the line of police behind us – "it will only worsen your troubles. Just give yourself up and spare us all the inconvenience."

The Viscontessa scoffs at him. "Sparing myself I do not care about. Sparing you would defeat the purpose of my whole endeavour."

I realize that I have inadvertently stepped closer to Simon, perhaps for protection. Miss Romanelli thrusts a hand into the satchel at her side. There is no doubt in my mind as to what she's reaching for.

"Everyone take cover!" Simon shouts. I hear cries from the crowd behind me, and from the ship's deck, which is rapidly clearing as the passengers and crew heed Simon's warning. Miss Romanelli pulls something out of her satchel, a bizarre construction of ivory so misshapen and strange that it hurts even to look at. The thing is carved with runes and designs that seem to crawl like insects over the surface of the yellowed bone.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice that the nearby gargoyles are turning their attention to us, and the ones flying out over the sea are turning in our direction. There are quite a lot of them. I wish I still had my power, then I could do something….

Simon grabs my arm. "Run," he orders me.

"But what about…."

With a push and a shake of his head Simon sends me in the direction of some stacked crates a stone's throw away. I find Charity running alongside me. Looking over my shoulder, I see Crombie charging Miss Romanelli with his cane held up as if to strike her, and the glint of a pistol in Simon's hand. That unaccustomed sight frightens me as much as the massing gargoyles, which are diving at Simon, Crombie and myself. Amidst their shrieks and caws I can barely make out Simon yelling for Crombie to get out of the way.

A griff swoops at Charity Wyndham with a savage cry. She manages to evade it but in doing so loses her balance. I halt to grab her shoulders and haul her to her feet with a strength I didn't know I possessed.

"Look out!" she cries, pointing over my shoulder. I turn in time to see a trio of rakes bearing down on us. Without thinking I drop to the ground, taking Charity with me, and roll out of the way, feeling the breeze of the creatures' flapping wings as they barely miss us. Together Charity and I scramble on all fours for the relative safety of a nearby stack of crates. We take shelter between it and an overturned fishing boat.

Though I may lack my powers, I am by no means helpless. I find a loose board nearby and grab it, ready to defend myself against any winged attackers. When I turn to ask Charity if she's all right, I see, much to my horror, that she is peeking over the crates. "Iain!" she cries in a desperate voice.

"Stop it!" I hiss as I grab her and pull her back down and glare into her terrified eyes. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?" Charity shakes her head frantically and huddles against the crates. A shim appears in the gap above us, bearing its teeth, but a sound thump with my board sends it rolling down the other side of the fishing boat's hull. I startle at the cracks and whistles of gunshots, realizing as I do that they had actually started when Charity and I had taken shelter here. With all the excitement, and the cries of humans and gargoyles, I hadn't noticed them before. Judging by the direction the sound is coming from, it's the police who are doing the shooting, not my partner.

At this thought terror hits me in a freezing, sickening wave, all the stronger for its delayed arrival. My pounding heart, which until now felt like it belonged to someone else, fills my ears above the cacophony around me. I look around the edge of the crates to see Simon and Crombie, forced back from the pier and out in the open, beating back the attacking gargoyles with their canes. Simon seems to have lost his pistol. From here I can just get a glimpse of Miss Romanelli, standing where the pier meets the waterfront with the amulet in her hands and a terrible grin on her face.

A gargoyle drops from the sky as a constable's bullet finds its mark. Several dead and injured creatures litter the docks, but for every fallen one there are ten swirling about in the air.
I cannot see the policemen, so I cannot tell if any of them have been injured or killed by the maddened gargoyles.

This can't go on for much longer. We're severely outnumbered.

A peck notices my exposed head and dives at me, but I duck behind the crates and out of the way. It rises into the air again, flies directly above and tries to attack me from that angle, only to be knocked out of the air by Charity, who has armed herself with a lath. She smiles almost sheepishly at me. "She doesn't seem to be concentrating so much on us," Charity observes. "Perhaps we can use that to our advantage?"

"I can't think how," I say. "Any ideas?"

"We have to get that amulet away from her," Charity suggests, her eyes flicking in Romanelli's direction. A snarling gronk clambers over the hull of the fishing boat. Charity and I smash it in the teeth and send it rolling back the way it came, along with a piece of my board, which snapped in two when it hit the gargoyle's skull.

"She's too far away – we wouldn't make it five steps." I cast about for something we might be able to use, something to give me divine inspiration, but I find nothing. My best course, it seems, would be to call to Simon and Crombie and tell them to wrest the amulet from their tormentor. No, Simon would have thought of that already. If he hasn't done it by now, he must not be able to.

I risk another glance round the corner of the crates to assess the situation. They have fought their way closer to the Viscontessa, but the gargoyles prevent them from advancing further. Three lines of red stand out on Crombie's cheek where a peck scratched him. Simon appears unscathed. Both are obviously growing weary, and it will not be long before one of them makes a fatal mistake.

A shim charges at Simon, head down and horns bared like a belligerent goat. I shout a warning, but to no avail – the shim collides with Simon (I can almost feel the impact jarring my own bones) and sends him sprawling. He loses his grip on his cane, which rolls across the cobbles towards me. Crombie manages to help him to his feet while fending off the shim and says something to him that I can't hear. A pair of griffs bear down on them, and other gargoyles surround them on all sides, pinning them to the spot.

Simon's cane is just on the other side of the crates, within arm's reach of me. I look at Miss Romanelli, who is savouring the moments before the kill. Charity and I haven't been attacked for a while now, so I assume we are out of sight and out of mind.

In my mind's eye I see Brother Mallory, torn to ribbons because he stood in the way of another person's avarice. I am not going to let that happen to my partner.

Fuelled by a mix of anger and desperation, I spring from my hiding place and throw aside the broken board I had been using as a weapon, snatching Simon's cane off the ground in passing. I grip it in both hands and prepare to swing it like a club as I close the gap with Helena Romanelli, who does not notice me until it's too late. She steps back to avoid my blow, which was not well-aimed in any case, but does not avoid it entirely. The cane hits her hands, causing her to cry out as the gargoyle-bone amulet arcs into the air and breaks into pieces when it hits the ground. She turns a murderous glare on me, which sends me staggering backward even though I am armed and she is not.

At that moment I become aware of the sudden quiet and a distinctly malicious sort of attention turned toward us – when you're a detective, you develop an acute sixth sense for that sort of thing. Then I hear the cry of a gargoyle, which is soon joined by others, as they fly at the one who was until lately controlling them. She looks around at the gargoyles, and then at me, this time with fear in her eyes, just before the gargoyles overwhelm her.

Something grabs me and I am half-dragged, half-carried in leaps and bounds back to where I was hiding with Charity. I cry out in panic before I realize that it's Simon. He whisks me behind the crates, where we huddle together to ride out the strange and terrifying storm around us. I cling to Simon, grateful for the comfort of his arm around my shoulders, though I know it can provide me with no real protection.

At any moment, I fear – I am almost certain of it – the gargoyles will finish with Helena Romanelli and come for us. I squeeze my eyes shut as her screams and the creatures' shrieks overwhelm my senses. Even in my terror I ask myself, did the spell just backfire when I broke the amulet, or are the creatures furious for having been used?

After what seems like the longest minute of my life the terrible sounds fade. The gargoyles calm down and return to their usual squawking and calling. I hear one of the policemen shout and run across the cobbles, sending the startled gargoyles flapping away. The crisis is over, but I can't find it in me to move, or even to open my eyes.

"You haven't fainted, have you?" Simon asks in a near-whisper. I can't tell if he's being serious, or whether he is more concerned or annoyed by the possibility.

As for me, I'm annoyed at him for even suggesting it. "Yes I have. Fainted dead away," I say, finally opening my eyes to glare at him. "The shock was too much for my delicate nerves." I realize that we are closer to each other than is really appropriate at the moment, but if I move away, it would be like backing down.

Simon responds with a "spare me" expression. "Just checking," he says, and gets to his feet. He steps past me so that he can see around the crates. I notice for the first time that his cloak is torn in a few places, and his arms are crisscrossed with claw marks. Before I can stand up and ask him if he's all right, he looks back at me with a grave expression and puts a hand on my shoulder. "The police have covered up what remains of Miss Romanelli. You probably don't want to see what's under the sheet."

"I'll take your word for it," I say, accepting his offered hand to pull me to my feet without really thinking about it. Only afterwards do I worry that I might have aggravated his injuries. "You look a mess."

"Speak for yourself," Simon remarks. I perform a quick examination of myself and see that, though I'm mostly unscathed, my dress is so dirty and torn as to be beyond hope. Even a beggar or a ragpicker wouldn't want it.

I notice that I'm still holding Simon's cane, and I'm surprised that he hasn't asked for it back. "Here," I say, offering it to him. "Sorry I used your cane."

He takes it back from me. "I suppose it was acceptable, under the circumstances. Just try not to make a habit of it." Simon smiles at me, one of his genuine smiles, and I return it, knowing that I have just been paid a great compliment.

We come out of our hiding place into the open and almost collide with Iain Crombie and Charity Wyndham. Charity is in a better state than I am, but Crombie looks much the worse for wear. I feel a creeping nervousness – which I see reflected in Charity's countenance – as Simon and Crombie face each other.

Crombie takes it upon himself to break the silence. "Sir," he begins, preparing to do something very difficult, "I know we have had significant differences in the past, but after what has happened today, I hope to…." he pauses, swallowing a lump of nervousness in his throat, caught between pride and conscience. "That is…I believe I owe you an apology." His bow looks like an aborted collapse.

I watch to see what my partner will do, or say, in response. For a span of heartbeats he does nothing; then a subdued smile appears on his face, and he nods, offering his hand to his former rival. Crombie blinks at Simon for a moment before clasping the proffered hand with his own and shaking it, first with extreme caution and then with enthusiasm. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

While our respective partners exchange handshakes, Charity Wyndham and I exchange covert smiles of pride.

Of course Simon wanted to make a report to the police instead of going directly to a doctor for his injuries, and I had to persuade him otherwise. I pointed out that while his wounds may not have been serious – adding that I was sure they were worse than he said in any case – he knew as well as I did the places where those gargoyles' claws might have been and that there was a very serious risk of infection if he left them untreated for too long. Simon couldn't argue with such reasoning, although it didn't stop him from trying.

In the end he gave in and got himself taken care of while I went to the police. Since I had been right about Simon's theory concerning the case, I had little trouble making a full report to Commissioner Thornton – though I asked him to keep quiet about the robbery of the Museum Obscura and the provenance of the amulet as long as possible. It would not be long before the full story got out, but at least the Ephiphanic Church would have time to prepare first.

There are many loose ends of this affair that need tying up. Only some of the things Miss Romanelli had stolen were among her belongings. Most of her ill-gotten gains were nowhere to be found. Theopolous was sure that she'd hidden the artefacts and jewellery, intending to retrieve it after things had calmed down so that she could sell it elsewhere. He hoped that Simon would help his men track down the items. A long and arduous business, he said.

Another detail – one that I felt obligated to bring up – was the question of my responsibility for Helena Romanelli's death. It was not the first time a criminal in one of our cases had ended up dead instead of jailed, and I knew that when that happened, someone had to answer for it. Theopolous assured me that the Viscontessa was more to blame for her demise than I was, and that what had happened was clearly an accident. True though that may be, and though Helena Romanelli may have been a wicked person, it still weighs on my conscience.

Finishing up with Theopolous takes longer than I thought it would. Simon will already be back at the Residence and awaiting me in the study, as we arranged. I hail a hansom to take me home. On the front steps I pause to consider whether I should see my partner immediately or make myself presentable first. I decide on the latter option. Simon will just have to be patient.

After taking a bath and changing my dress, I go to the kitchen to prepare a tray of tea, sliced bread and butter, in order to atone for the sin I have committed by keeping Simon waiting. With the help of a dumbwaiter I transport my offering to the upstairs study, where my partner is working at his desk. Writing some concluding notes for the case, no doubt, or something he wants me to include in the report. With a fresh set of clothes and a stubborn refusal to acknowledge pain, Simon betrays no sign of his injuries – except for his shirtsleeves, which are not pushed up to his elbows as usual because he is concealing bandages beneath them.

"How are you feeling?" I ask as I make my way down the curving staircase.

Simon finishes whatever he was writing, folds it and pushes it aside so I can put the tray down on the desk. "You saw what happened," he says, turning his chair to face me. "What do you think the answer is?"

There's a second chair nearby that I stood on when taking stock of the contents of the bookshelves earlier this week. Once carried a short distance to the desk, it can serve its intended purpose as a seat. "Like you were clawed by a flock of frenzied gargoyles?" I guess as I sit down and pour us both cups of tea.

"Precisely," he says, taking a cup and sipping from it.

I sigh and drink a little of the tea myself. "One thing I'm curious about – well, two things. What were you planning to use that pistol for, and what happened to it?" Though Simon has a shooting range beneath the Residence, I have rarely ever seen him use a gun. He seems to think it beneath him.

Simon picks up a slice of bread and starts spreading butter on it. "I considered the possibility that she might set the gargoyles on us. Under the circumstances, carrying a pistol was the best preparation I could make against such an eventuality." He sighs wearily. "As you saw, that hasty preparation was inadequate, to say the least. A peck sent the pistol to the bottom of the harbour."

I swallow the bite of bread I was chewing. "You didn't have much time to plan. Of course things went wrong. But consider the silver lining: if everything had gone off without a hitch, you wouldn't have received an apology from Crombie." Smiling, I add, "You handled that very well, by the way. I'm proud of you."

My partner suddenly becomes very interested in his teacup. "He as good as admitted that he was in the wrong. Who am I to disagree with him?" He puts the teacup down, takes up the buttered slice of bread and proceeds to eat it with deliberate concentration.

"Who indeed?" I say wryly. Since I have made Simon suffer enough for the time being, I spare him by changing to a less touchy subject. "I spoke with Theopolous, of course. He says he wants your help tracking down most of the things Miss Romanelli stole. We need to speak to Cardinal Invictus as well."

Simon puts his partially eaten slice of bread back on the tray. "In other words, we will be forced to face the embarrassment of not being able to answer many questions he is likely to have." I request some elaboration by way of a raised eyebrow. "I have no idea how Helena Romanelli learned of the amulet, or how to use it," he continues, "nor do I know what happened to the inventory for the Museum Obscura: she may have taken and possibly destroyed it, or perhaps it is simply lost. Those are questions only she could have answered. Although some careful searching may uncover those items, if they are to be found."

I know how much it bothers Simon to be left with unanswered questions, and it vexes me too. "Do you really believe that she did all that just to get revenge on you?" Having finished the last of the tea in my cup, I put it down and refill it. "Perhaps she really was only interested in what she stole, and at the last, when she couldn't get away with it, decided she might as well take us down with her. If she'd wanted to kill you, it would have made more sense to rob only the Museum and set the gargoyles on us directly, or not even that…"

"Implicit in that statement is the assumption that every crime comes from a clear and well-articulated motive." Simon interrupts. "After all this time you should know better than that. Humans have an astounding capacity for doing rational things for irrational reasons." He takes a sip from his teacup. "Of course, she may have engineered it so that she would have something to gain whether I confronted her or not. Remember that necklace Crombie showed her – the one that ended up in his hands by way of a burglar?"

"Yes. You said it belonged to her mother."

"I will have to see what else she had among her belongings, but I would guess that all the stolen valuables she kept with her also belonged to the Romanellis. Her choice of targets is also telling: the Verinders are one of the wealthiest families in the city, and the Eismores are not."

"They just had some of her old jewellery?" I guess.

Simon nods. "To satisfy her warped sense of fairness, I suppose. The other things she took would do for any money troubles she had – and I don't doubt that she did – or for simple avarice." Taking a bite from his slice of bread, he chews it thoughtfully and swallows. "I don't know how she discovered that the Eismores and the Verinders had some of her family's former treasures, though I can think of a few ways…." Simon trails off and finishes the last of the bread and butter, probably not tasting it at all. "I took longer than I should have to solve this case, and I have more missing details than I can be easy with," he says, gazing simultaneously at the portrait above the desk and a million miles away. "I may have found and thwarted the culprit, Emma, but this does not number among the best examples of my work."

I almost tell him to correct the first person singular to the first person plural, as I am accustomed to doing, but the shadow of dejection cast upon him tells me that he is saying "I" to take all the blame on himself. It's both frustrating and painfully touching. "You did all you could do. How could you have reasoned out something like that amulet? That's rather strange and unexpected even by our standards. By the way, is there anything aside from the usual that you want me to put in the case file for this one?"

For a few seconds my partner remains silent and still. Then he turns to me with a deadly serious and very unnerving look in his eyes. "The case file can wait until tomorrow. There's something more important that needs attending to."

Trying to seem more composed than I feel, I nod for him to continue and lift my teacup to my lips to drink the last of its contents.

"I want to know what you've been so preoccupied with these past two days."

Danik! Oh, bloody hell!

I almost choke on my tea.