A Thousand and One English Nights (Book Three of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Fifty Nine: The Last Refuge of the Well-bred Englishman

Danvers was the night-secretary tonight – in charge of the Academy and a bewildering number of keys, which he hoped were all unnecessary because of the ring of gargoyles surrounding the compound.

Securing the place against the gargoyles was another matter. Danvers hadn't slept much the first night they'd been put in place. He hadn't been able to stop himself creeping to the window and watching the still shapes, which had been lithe and steaming only a few hours before.

He didn't have any particular reason to distrust them. In fact, he had seen them working their strange magic to keep intruders out. At least five men had tried to force their way into the grounds in the past few days, and it was quite comical to watch them pawing at the air between the statues, like men suddenly confronted by an invisible wall.

He felt a pang of conscience and corrected himself – that was, it would not be comical if they weren't disreputable fellows who were endeavouring to do Elsie harm. But, since they were, it was.

In any case, he was obsessively careful as he locked up the Academy, circling the building at least three times and rattling every door handle he could find. 

He was on his third circuit when he noticed a woman standing between the gargoyle statues and – crucially – not pushing at the air as though she was struggling with an invisible barrier. She had black hair but, jumpy as he was, Danvers couldn't mistake her for Miss Syal's ghost. She was too well-built and round-faced for that. And she had fingernails, which ruled out the possibility that she was simply a slave-girl he hadn't met. She was wearing a long, shapeless coat – a man's coat, Danvers would have said – and examining the gargoyle-statues with interest.

He approached her cautiously, trying to decide whether she had passed the invisible barrier, or whether it was still in front of her – but the invisible barrier being invisible, it was rather difficult to be sure.

"Good evening?" he hazarded.

The woman looked up, gave him a curt little nod, and resumed her inspection of the statues.

"Um," said Danvers. "If I might enquire... How did you get past those gargoyles?"

"What, these?" She gave the nearest statue a cheerful slap on the rump. "There's gaps between 'em."

"Yes, but you – you have fingernails..." He stopped and tried to pull himself together. "Did someone invite you?"

"Don't get invited to many places, as a rule. I generally just go where I please. Are you Mr Danvers?"

"At your service," said Danvers. "But you appear to have the advantage of me, Miss...?"

"I want to ask you about the man 'oo runs this place," she said, waving away the social niceties.

"Mr Cade?"

"Is that what they call 'im? Kind to the girls, is 'e? The pretty ones, at least?"

Danvers bridled. "What are you implying?"

The woman gave him a closed-lipped smile. He couldn't decide if it was kind or contemptuous. "You could 'ave a guess if you're feeling up to it," she suggested. 

Danvers tried to collect himself. He was reminded of Violet – not just because of the sharp, painted nails, but because this woman seemed to enjoy outraging him so much. There was the same flavour of bitterness too, but this woman was somehow happier about it.

"I assure you," he said, "Mr Cade treats the girls with perfect propriety."

"Suppose I don't know what that means?"