A trial of the knob revealed that the door was locked, but this didn’t seem to thwart Major Harnett. He pushed and pulled the door several times, observing the travel, and said, “Not barred. Good. Mmmm . . . you may care to look the other way, Chevalier. I fear that I will have to open this door in a way that may prove disturbing to a gentleman of France and a potential priest.”

“Of course,” replied Truthful stiffly. She was actually rather interested. Surely he wasn’t going to break it down? However, she dutifully turned her back and steeled herself for the sound of smashing wood — but heard only a scraping sound and several clicks. When she turned back, she saw the flash of something metallic being returned to Harnett’s pocket, and the door was ajar.

Harnett pushed it open, and walked in. Truthful, following close behind, saw his right hand tighten on the pistol he held by his side. She felt a brief urge to take his left hand into her own, but repressed this instantly with a quick memory of his scornful comments about women. That memory made her angry, and the anger fuelled her courage.

They advanced cautiously through the kitchen, but it was clearly not in use. Everything was put away, and the cooking range was cold, as was the old-style fire-pit that looked as ancient as the house. Harnett ran his finger along the table and looked at it.

“No dust,” he said. “This has only been vacated in the last few days.”

“Shouldn’t we go back ?” asked Truthful. “If no one is here, I mean.”

“No,” replied Harnett. “We must look for any evidence that may indicate Lady Badgery is correct in assuming that Plathenden is reponsible for the theft of the Emerald. Sorcerous paraphernalia of a malignant kind, for example. Upstairs!”

Truthful sighed, and followed him up the kitchen stairs. But there was no sign of habitation in the upper rooms. All the furniture was under covers, all the cabinets were locked, all the candelabra empty. Harnett looked methodically in every room, then gestured to the main staircase. Truthful sighed again, and followed.

But on the next landing, they did hear something — a muffled laugh or cry that sounded quite familiar to Truthful. It came from behind a door farther along the corridor, to their right

“Truthful’s maid! Agatha!”

Harnett nodded, and slid forward. The laughter continued and someone else spoke in low tones, the words unclear. Harnett hesitated before the door for a moment, then flung it open.

It was Agatha laughing, but the laugh died in her throat, turning into a sick sort of whine as the two men entered the room. But there was another woman there, who was unfazed by the sudden invasion.

Tall, imperious, and still striking-looking despite her age, Lady Amelia Plathenden set down the book she had been reading aloud, turned to face the intruders, and glared. But neither Truthful nor Harnett noticed her glare, because their eyes were caught by the Newington Emerald that shone on a necklace on her bosom, the jewel sparkling in the light from the dozens of candles burning in the silver candelbras on the table and on the mantelpiece of the room’s single fire.

“Who are you, and how dare you enter my house?” demanded Lady Plathenden, her pallid cheeks reddening. “I shall have you thrown out at once. Agatha, the bell!”

“Stop!” cried Harnett, as Agatha moved towards a red plush bell-rope. He raised his pistol and pointed it squarely at Lady Plathenden. “My name is Major Harnett, milady, and my companion is the Chevalier de Vienne, cousin of Lady Truthful Newington. We have been charged with the recovery of the Newington Emerald.”

Lady Plathenden’s eyes narrowed, and she raised her chin disdainfully. “What, pray tell, has that to do with me?”

“You happen to be wearing it,” replied the Major dryly. “Please take it off and give it to the chevalier. We shall then disturb you no longer.”

Lady Plathenden’s chin lowered. She took a step forward, faltered, and leaned against the book-lined wall, as if she was going to faint. Truthful, stepping forward to catch her, suddenly stopped as the old woman snatched a pitted, evil-looking bone wand from a hidden alcove and levelled it at her. The motion was so fast and unexpected, that she had no chance to lift her own pistol.

“Don’t raise your hand, my handsome Chevalier,” hissed Lady Plathenden. “You, Major, place your pistol on the floor!”

Truthful stood completely still, her heart thumping wildly. Though she had little native sorcery, the bone wand emanated malignancy, she could feel the power in it, power that wanted to be released. She could now well believe that this woman had poisoned her uncles.

“You can only curse one of us,” said Harnett calmly. He put his pistol on the table nearby, rather than on the floor. “Then the other will shoot you.”

“Then I shall curse the larger,” snapped Lady Plathenden, moving her aim to Harnett. “The effete Frenchman would never shoot a woman. Would you, little one?”

“I would shoot you with a glad heart,” replied Truthful slowly. “As would our companions outside. They will charge the house if they hear anything untoward.”

Lady Plathenden smiled, but her cold eyes did not alter, not did the wand move. Truthful had hoped she would look out the window, but the witch did not even look away for a moment.

“Agatha,” she said. “Stop ringing. They will have heard. Look out the window. Carefully, you dolt! See if you can see anyone watching the house. Bow Street Runners or the like.”

Truthful watched the hunched-over Agatha peer through a gap in the drapes, and felt a surge of anger and distress. How had she failed to notice Agatha’s treacherous nature before?

“There’s a hackney and a driver opposite, milady,” Agatha reported. “The curtains are drawn. And there’s a man on horseback at the end of the street.”

“I shall have to be careful, won’t I?” muttered Lady Plathenden, apparently to Truthful, though her eyes never left Harnett. “Perhaps a transformation would serve better than a curse. Equally painful, of course.”

Truthful watched her eyes flickering between the two of them, and felt the weight of the pistol in her hand. If only she could raise it swiftly enough, but that terrible wand was as steady as if it were held in a vice . . .

The shelves behind Lady Plathenden creaked. One entire bookcase swung open and a damp, musty smell rolled out from the dark passage behind it. Lady Plathenden’s head turned slightly, and both Truthful and Harnett acted.

Truthful tugged the pistol from her pocket, clumsily cocked the lock and opened the pan, priming powder spilling as she rushed to level it at Lady Plathenden. As she did so, Lady Plathenden released the malevolent force of the wand and Harnett snatched up his own pistol and cocked and fired it in one well-practiced motion.

Two shots and the snake-like hiss of the wand sounded at almost the same time, wreathing the room in gunsmoke and eldritch scintillations. Harnett staggered back as Lady Plathenden shrieked and clutched at her arm. Truthful, throwing the spent pistol aside, picked up a candelabra and dashed forward, waving it in the air.

“You’ve killed him!” she screamed at Lady Plathenden, who retreated against a bookcase and stared at this suddenly berserk Frenchman.

“No she hasn’t!” cried Harnett, drawing himself upright, his waistcoat smoldering in several sections, the silver wires of a protective charm sewn within revealed through many tiny, smoking holes. “Look out!”

Lady Plathenden slipped through the secret door as two very large and roughly-dressed men emerged from it and advanced, their fists clenched. Truthful stepped back and raised her candelabra, and Harnett levered himself up next to her. Seeing her worried glance, he grinned and said, “Curse-ward held it. You fight well . . . for a French monk.”

“A monk?” said one of the ruffians, lowering his guard. “I’m not crossing no man of the cloth.”

“I ain’t so particular,” grunted the other, fixing his rather piggy eyes on Truthful. “You take the big cove.”

“Perhaps we could discuss this,” said Harnett, signalling Truthful to retreat. He continued to talk as they backed off towards the door. “No sense in all of us getting knocked about. Why don’t you let the . . . er . . . monk go, and I’ll take on both of you, one at a time.”

“We ain’t gentlemen,” grunted the piggy ruffian, smacking a meaty fist into an opposite palm. It made a sound rather like a stone dropping in the carp pond back home, thought Truthful, and was probably just as hard.

“And neither is we,” said another voice, this time from behind.

Truthful whirled around. There were two more thugs behind them now, and both of them carried long cudgels.

“Back to back!” cried Harnett. “If you have any sorcery, use it now Chevalier!”

Truthful moved to press her slight back against Harnett’s broad one, and raised her fists. One of the thugs moved forward, laughing, and was confounded by a sudden crackling of sparks from the signet ring on Harnett’s fist, that set the rogue’s hair alight and sent him screaming from the room shouting for water.

But the other three attacked, all at once. There was a hurried exchange of blows, Harnett was borne to the floor by two of the thugs, and Truthful’s guard was demonstrated to be merely decorative. Two seconds later, a scientific jab to the chin sent her reeling to the floor. She tried to get up, was hit again, and everything went black.

* * *

When she regained consciousness, Truthful awoke to an aching jaw and complete darkness. A few attempts at movement also conveyed the fact that she was bound hand and foot, and tied around her middle to some large object. When it groaned and shifted, she realised the object was Harnett, and they were tied back-to-back. A few more foot taps then told her they were in a cupboard, albeit a strange cupboard, with curious rounded walls and a very strong stench of some strong spirit . . .