The Peculiar. Stefan Bachmann

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СКАЧАТЬ gentleman to his feet and slapping some imaginary dust from his lapels. “A bit clumsy this morning, I’m afraid. Are you all right?”

      Mr. Lickerish gave Mr. Jelliby a withering look, and removed himself from Jelliby’s grip with a faint air of distaste. He was dressed to perfection, as always, every button in place, every snippet of fabric beautiful and new. His waistcoat was black velvet. His cravat was cloth of silver, faultlessly knotted, and everywhere Mr. Jelliby looked he caught a glimpse of leaf stitchery, of silk stockings, and cotton starched so stiff you could crack it with a mallet. It only makes the dirt stand out more, he thought. He had to bite his tongue to keep from smiling. Brown half-moons looked up from under the faery’s fingernails, as if he had been clawing about in the cold earth.

      “Morning?” the faery said. His voice was thin. Just a rustle, like wind in leafless branches. “Young Jelliby, it is no longer morning. It is not even noon. It is almost night.”

      Mr. Jelliby looked uncertain. He didn’t exactly know what the faery had just said, but he supposed it not very polite to be called young. For all he knew, the faery gentleman was not a day older than himself. It was hard to tell, really. Mr. Lickerish was a high faery, and like all high faeries he was the size of a small boy, had no hair at all, and his skin was as white and smooth as the marble under his shoes.

      “Well,” Mr. Jelliby said brightly. “We’re very late, whatever the case.” And much to the faery gentleman’s annoyance, he kept pace with him all the way to the privy chamber, talking amiably about the weather and wine merchants and how his summer cottage in Cardiff had almost been blown into the sea.

      The room in which the Privy Council was expected to meet was a small one, dark-paneled, at the heart of the building, its diamond-paned windows overlooking a hawthorn tree and the court. Rows of high-backed chairs crowded the floor, all but two of them already filled. The Speaker of the Council, one Lord Horace V. Something-or-other (Mr. Jelliby could never remember his name) sat perched at its center, at a sort of podium artfully carved with fauns and sagging clusters of grapes. The Speaker must have been dozing because he sat up with a start when they entered.

      “Ah,” he said, folding his hands across his ample girth and frowning. “It appears Mr. Jelliby and the Lord Chancellor have decided to grace us with their presence after all.” He looked at them glumly. “Please be seated. Then, at last, we may begin.”

      There was much grumbling, much shuffling and pulling in of legs as Mr. Jelliby picked Through his way the rows to one of the empty chairs. The faery chose the one at the opposite end of the room. When they were both seated, the Speaker cleared his throat.

      “Gentlemen of the Privy Council,” he began. “I bid you all a good morning.”

      One of the faery politician’s pencil-thin eyebrows arched at this, and Mr. Jelliby smirked. (It was not morning, after all. It was night.)

      “We have assembled today to address a matter most grave and disturbing.”

      Drat again. Mr. Jelliby sighed and dug his hands into his pockets. Matters most grave and disturbing were not things he liked addressing. He left that to Ophelia whenever he could.

      “I daresay most of you have seen today’s headlines?” the Speaker inquired, in his slow, languid voice. “The latest murder of a changeling?”

      A murmur passed through the gathering. Mr. Jelliby squirmed. Oh, not murder. why couldn’t people simply be nice to each other?

      “For the benefit of those who have not, allow me to summarize.”

      Mr. Jelliby took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow. You needn’t trouble yourself, he thought, a little desperately. It was getting unbearably hot. The windows were all closed, and there seemed not a breath of air in the room.

      “There have been five deaths in the past month alone,” the Speaker said. “Nine in total. Most of the victims appear to be from Bath, but it is difficult to say as no one has stepped forward to claim the bodies. Whatever the case, the victims are being found in London. In the Thames.”

      A small, stern-looking gentleman in the front row sniffed and raised his hand with an angry flourish.

      The Speaker eyed him unhappily, then nodded, giving him permission to speak.

      “Petty crimes, my lord. Nothing more. I’m sure Scotland Yard is doing all they can. Does the Privy Council have nothing more important to discuss?”

      “Lord Harkness, we live in complicated times. These ‘petty crimes,’ as you call them, may have dark consequences a little ways down the road.”

      “Then we shall step over them when they are lying across our path. Changelings have never been popular. Not with their sort, and not with ours. There will always be violence against them. I see no reason to give these new incidences any undue significance.”

      “Sir, you do not know the half of it. The authorities think the murders are related. Planned and orchestrated with malicious intent.”

      “Do they think that? Well, I suppose they must earn their wages somehow.”

      “Lord Harkness, this is not the time.” A trace of unease broke the Speaker’s sleepy manner. “The victims are …” He faltered. “They are all children.”

      Lord Harkness might have said “So?” but it would not have been polite. Instead he said, “From what I hear, there are very few changelings who are not children. They don’t generally last long.”

      “And the method of murder—it is also the same.”

      “Well, what is it?” Lord Harkness seemed to be intent on proving the entire meeting a ridiculous waste of time. Nobody wanted to hear about changelings. Nobody wanted to discuss changelings, or even think about changelings. But nobody wanted to hear how they died, either, and all Lord Harkness got for his efforts was a storm of black looks from the other gentlemen. Mr. Jelliby was tempted to cover his ears.

      The Speaker’s nose twitched. “The authorities are not exactly sure.”

      Ah. Thank goodness.

      “Then how can they possibly claim the murders are related?” Lord Harkness’s voice was acid. His handkerchief was in his hands, and he looked as if he wanted to wring the old Speaker’s neck with it.

      “Well, the corpses! They’re— Why, they’re …”

      “Out with it, man, what is it?”

      The Speaker looked straight ahead, and said, “Lord Harkness, they are hollow.”

      For several heartbeats the room fell completely still. A rat scurried under the polished floorboards and its hurrying feet rattled like a burst of hail in the silence.

      “Hollow?” Lord Harkness repeated.

      “They are empty. No bones or internal organs. Just skin. Like a sack.”

      “Good heavens,” breathed Lord Harkness, and fell back into his chair.

      “Indeed.” The Speaker’s eyes passed over the other gentlemen in the room, as if daring anyone else to disrupt the proceedings. “The newspapers said nothing of that, did they? That is because they do not know. They do not know many things, and for the time being we must keep it СКАЧАТЬ