Glamours and Gunshots: Whitney and Davies, #2

E.L. Bates

Glamours and Gunshots

First published by StarDance Press 2024

Copyright © 2024 by E.L. Bates

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Second edition

ISBN: 9781393871118

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

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Contents

1. Dead Man Walking

2. A Shot on the Street

3. A Plan of Action

4. Books and More Death

5. Shadows and Light

6. Speculations

7. Maia Uses Her Head

8. Shadow Spell Again

9. The Pieces Start to Fit

10. A Suspicious Invitation

11. Stars in Their Courses

12. All is Well …

13. … That Ends Well

Acknowledgments & Author’s Note

About the Author

Also by E.L. Bates

1

Dead Man Walking

Merry birdsong filled the air on that bright April morning when the dead man stumbled into Aunt Amelia’s front hall.

Technically, he was dying, not dead, else he couldn’t have stumbled anywhere; corpses in general being no longer animate. There was just enough time for Maia, passing through the hall on her way to the Rose Parlor for a magic lesson with Aunt Amelia, to drop her books and papers and dash forward, catching the man in her arms beneath the butler’s outraged nose.

Call a doctor! she cried, but it was too late. The man’s eyelids fluttered and he breathed a single word:

"Beware."

Then he sighed and expired.

It was so ridiculously like something out of a dime novel that Maia couldn’t believe it was real. She looked up, half expecting a beautiful foreign adventuress in furs and jewels to next appear in the hall, followed by a leering, greasy-haired scoundrel waving a gun.

All she saw, however, was the sagging jaw and round eyes of Mr. Lorde, her aunt’s ever-so-dignified butler. That, and the limp weight in her arms, convinced her this was no hoax. She’d seen dead bodies before—held men as they died, in her time in France—and recognized the reality of the situation, however absurd it seemed.

Mr. Lorde, she said in a soft voice most unusual for her. I believe you should fetch my aunt. At once. She set the man down on the polished floor, careful not to disturb him more than necessary. Her decorous side wished to close his staring eyes; her practical side warned her the scene should be as little disturbed as possible.

Yes, miss, the butler said, closing his mouth and swallowing hard. And the doctor, miss?

No need for one anymore, she said, not taking her eyes from the dead man’s face. The police are more likely—or Domestic Protection—but Aunt Amelia first.

The butler positively scurried out of the room, a sight which would have delighted Maia at any other time, and Maia set to work. The light was poor in the entryway, thanks to the stained-glass windows above the door preventing sunlight from properly entering, so she murmured a spell to assist her task. Aunt Amelia did not approve of apprentices using magic unsupervised, but Maia had mastered this particular spell before she had even begun her apprenticeship. Besides, this was an emergency.

"Lux fiat," she said, and a ball of steady silver light sprang to life above her open palm. Maia directed it to hover over the body while she began her examination. Aunt Amelia wouldn’t approve of this either, but some tasks Maia preferred not to entrust to others.

With steady hands, she patted him down, checking his pockets and examining his body. It didn’t take long; he was a short, sturdy man, dressed in middle-class clothing consisting of unkempt trousers and a collared shirt, though missing a coat and tie. No identification on him, no incriminating papers, nothing helpful at all. After she had finished, she sat back on her heels, frowning.

"Finiatur," she said absently, and the silver light vanished.

In her experience, people who died of illness were not usually waltzing around London immediately before so doing, and there were usually telltale signs of said illness left behind. On the other hand, people who died from violence generally bore the traces of their wound. This man was unmarked and appeared in perfect health, aside from the fact that he was dead.

Maia did not believe in jumping to conclusions. Still, she thought it a reasonable assumption that magic was most likely behind this. After all, he had come to Aunt Amelia’s house to die. Amelia Rawlings was well known throughout Europe—the magical population thereof, at least—as one of the finest magicians of her generation.

The front door swung, causing Maia to jump and search her mind for a defensive spell. She relaxed when the newcomer proved to be a young lady of African descent dressed in the very latest spring fashions, her dark curly hair covered with a chic cloche and her black eyes sparkling.

Hope you don’t mind, she called as she sashayed through the doorway. It was open … The words died in her throat as she took in the incongruous tableau.

It must have been an absurd sight. The brown-and-gold papered walls of the entryway, Maia in her plain but practical working costume of blue cotton dress with pleated skirt, the second housemaid frozen in the background with her mouth open in a silent scream, and the dead body on the spotless floor.

Good morning, Helen, Maia said.

Aunt Amelia, trailed by a still-shaken Lorde, popped out of the Rose Parlor at that exact moment. Old woman and young both opened their mouths and said,

Maia Whitney, what have you done now?

It was the now that really irritated Maia. It wasn’t as if she made a habit of collecting dead bodies and stirring up general mayhem. True, there had been that one occasion, but that was nearly four years ago, and none of it had been her fault. Well, maybe one or two bits of it, but …

This is none of my doing, she said, rising to her feet and striving to keep her voice from sounding petulant. She wasn’t certain she entirely succeeded. He came in and dropped dead at my feet. Aunt, it’s your house. Do you recognize him?

Aunt Amelia came closer and peered down at him. No, she said. Mr. Lorde?

The butler didn’t move. Madam? he said. Maia detected a note of pleading under that stiff word.

Oh, don’t be such a coward, Lorde, Aunt Amelia said. Come here and look at the fellow and tell me if you know him. He’s dead, he’s not going to jump up and bite your nose off.

When Lorde had reluctantly obeyed and disclaimed any knowledge of him, to be thankfully dismissed, Helen approached to take her turn as well.

You’re not likely to know him, Aunt Amelia objected.

You never know, Helen said. I made no secret of my intentions to spend the morning with Maia. Maybe it was me he was trying to reach! She stood next to Maia and looked down. Is he really dead? He looks so peaceful. She sighed. No, I don’t recognize him, either. What do we do now?

I think he might have died of a magic spell, Maia said. There’s no sign of injury or illness on him.

Aunt Amelia pursed her lips. Checked that already, did you?

I did, Maia returned.

Her aunt did not speak, but Maia thought she saw some approval beneath the surface frown. Though it might have been wishful thinking. Her aunt seemed to approve of independent thought and deed in everyone but her niece-apprentice.

Helen backed away from the body a few steps and made a faint noise in the back of her throat. The sparkle in her eyes dimmed. Sorry, she said weakly when the other two looked at her. Don’t mind me. I just … it suddenly struck me that this is real.

I know, Maia said, smiling at her friend with sympathy. Helen was twenty-one, four years younger than Maia, who had lied about her age to get into the VADs when she was seventeen. This was likely the first time her energetic, effervescent friend had ever seen a dead body outside the cinema. It seemed unbelievable to me at first, too.

Aunt Amelia turned her frown on Helen. Why are you here anyway, Miss Radcliffe?

The Magicians’ Ball is at the end of the week, remember, Miss Rawlings? Maia and I were going to go shopping for new gowns today.

When the two ladies had met for tea last week, Helen had said, Oh Maia, we must get new frocks for the Magicians’ Ball, and Maia had said, I don’t think so, Helen, and Helen had said, Good, I’ll pick you up Friday morning and we can visit Mme. Julie’s. Maia had protested that she had lessons with Aunt Amelia every morning, and Helen had waved that objection aside as breezily as she did everything else.

It wasn’t that Maia despised the thought of a new gown, by any means. It was rather that she had entered her fourth year of magical apprenticeship to her aunt and was determined to not let it go into a fifth. She had discovered her magical ability much later in life than most, and while she was deeply thankful to have use of this extra sense at all, she was beginning to chafe under her aunt’s rules and restrictions, especially while people younger and—she had to say it, even if it sounded vain—less talented than she were already journeymen or independent magicians. Somehow, gown shopping for her fourth Magicians’ Ball as an apprentice did not appeal. Helen, however, was determined to keep Maia from depression of spirits, as she airily put it, and therefore insisted on regular outings and excursions. Maia appreciated her efforts and at the same time found them maddening.

Aunt Amelia, who never ceased to criticize the fashions of the day and insisted on still dressing as though Queen Victoria sat on the throne, waved her hand. Yes, yes, she said. Excellent idea. Lessons canceled for today, Maia. You girls run along and have fun.

Maia stared. Aunt Amelia seemed unaware of her niece’s scrutiny as she bent closer to the dead man, but the set of her shoulders told Maia a different story. Excuse me, Aunt.

Aunt Amelia looked up, a faint line appearing between her eyebrows. Maia, I am preparing to cast a highly delicate spell in order to find out what killed this unfortunate man, do you mind not making me lose the threads?

Terribly sorry, said Maia, not feeling particularly sorry at all. But don’t you think this is the sort of thing your apprentice ought to assist with?

Or … I’m sorry, but should we be doing anything about this at all? interrupted Helen. She did sound apologetic. Shouldn’t we call Domestic Protection?

That useless excuse for a magical police force? Aunt Amelia said, her bosom shaking with outrage. In my house?

Maia was reluctant to hand such a juicy mystery over to the authorities, but she had to admit Helen had a point. She might be right, Aunt.

To do her justice, Aunt Amelia was stubborn and set in her ways, but she wasn’t stupid. Allow me to diagnose what killed him first. That will give us a better idea of who we need to bring in. She held up a finger. And you girls may watch, but do not interfere. Especially you, Maia! I have no desire to add a house fire to the list of this day’s calamities.

It took all Maia’s self-control to keep from blushing. Just because her powers tended to … explode out of her control at times was no call for Aunt Amelia to make a crack like that. It wasn’t as if Maia was continually setting fire to the furniture, after all. She hadn’t had an accident in at least three and a half months.

It was especially galling to have her master poke at her in front of another magician, even one with whom Maia was so friendly as Helen. Masters were supposed to brag about and defend their apprentices from others’ ridicule, not expose them.

Thankfully, Helen ignored Aunt Amelia’s comment except to move a step or two closer to Maia’s side, as if to show she had no fear of Maia letting loose with an explosion. Aunt Amelia turned her back to both of them, raised her hands above her head, and spoke clearly and crisply in Latin.

"Quid occursum est."

A wave of revulsion so strong it nearly drove her to her knees hit Maia like a fist. Beside her, Helen gagged and doubled over, hands clasped to her mouth. Aunt Amelia stumbled back, face ashen.

"Finiatur!" she boomed.

As though someone had flipped a switch, the revulsion vanished. Helen slowly straightened and pulled her hands back down to her sides.

What … what was that? she managed to choke out.

Aunt Amelia examined her own hands, as though checking for contamination. Maia realized that she herself had not only touched that body, but had held it in her lap. Her skin crawled, and she had to resist the urge to scrub at her arms.

That man died of one of the vilest forms of sorcery I’ve ever come across, and that’s saying something, Aunt Amelia said. That body needs to be burned at once.

No, we mustn’t, Maia said, then bit her lip. If it was bad form for a master to criticize her apprentice in front of others, it was even worse for an apprentice to contradict her master.

Aunt Amelia was never predictable. Instead of scolding Maia, she folded her arms across her ample bosom. And why not? Why should I leave a body leaking the vilest of magics lying in my front hall?

We must know where it came from, what happened, who he is, Maia said. What if it’s not a spell, but rather a magical plague? Or if it is a spell, surely we must find out who cast it, and why, and bring him or her to justice. We cannot do that if we burn the body and lose all the clues it might contain.

Looking for an excuse to play detective, child? Aunt Amelia said, the sarcasm in her voice sharp enough to cut.

Maia clenched her fist, driving her nails into her palm until the desire to scream faded. She was twenty-five years old, hardly a child. And while Aunt Amelia scorned her fondness for detective novels and occasional ventures into solving puzzles in real life, Maia was proud of her deductive abilities. She and her friend Lennox Davies spent many a happy half hour going over newspaper accounts of various crimes and trying to solve them. Len, an undercover agent for Magical Intelligence, had vastly more experience, but Maia’s attention to detail and logical approach to criminology kept the honors about even between them.

Not that Aunt Amelia knew about those clandestine meetings. Len was perfectly respectable, but Aunt Amelia had a personal dislike toward him and considered him a distraction to her niece’s studies. Their occasional tea at Lyons had to be carried out with ridiculous secrecy.

Maia refused to let her aunt dictate her personal relationships. Apprenticeship only went so far.

Before Maia lost her temper and self-control entirely, Aunt Amelia spoke again.

Very well, I suppose we’d better call in the authorities. She heaved an enormous sigh. I shall never live this down—common investigators, in my house!

Miss Rawlings, you know my brother Matthew has just started with Domestic Protection, Helen said. If you like, I can summon him. He might be able to arrange things so that your privacy is protected.

Aunt Amelia eyed her with surprise and rare approval. That is most thoughtful, Helen, thank you.

Helen nodded and withdrew into the Rose Parlor to cast the summoning spell which would let her brother know he was needed urgently at this location. Maia and her aunt were left alone.

This is quite inconvenient, Aunt Amelia said, staring at the body.

Maia raised her eyebrows. Death and black magic were hardly what she would call inconvenient. Deadly, dangerous, and disastrous, yes. A minor irritant, no.

There is trouble brewing between France and England, Aunt Amelia continued, answering the unspoken question. "A scandal involving an English magician and a French non-magical nobleman … the Circle and the French Société are at each other’s throats over this. The Circle has been threatening to send me over to discipline our magician lest the French take it into their heads to do it for us, though given the provocation I find my sympathies are entirely with him."

That is all very interesting, no doubt, but hardly to be compared with a mysterious dead body leaking some sort of vile spell in your hallway, Aunt!

My dear child, it is matters such as this that can lead to wars. Should the French governing body of magicians attempt to imprison or punish an English magician, it would be a breach of agreement between all the magical governments of the world and could splinter us into factions, bringing up long-buried grievances and leading to individual alliances. It could be another worldwide war, only this time between magicians. Compared to that, a dead body in my hallway is indeed a sordid inconvenience.

Put like that, Maia could understand her aunt’s point of view. On the other hand, as she looked at the crumpled figure and recalled the weight of it in her arms in that moment of change between a living human being and an empty corpse, she couldn’t help but think that though his death might not spark a war, he too was important, and he deserved more.

* * *

Within a short time of Helen’s summons to her brother—either he was highly protective of his sister or her summons had had an extra edge of urgency about it—England’s magical police force had arrived at Aunt Amelia’s residence in all its glory. All its glory, in this case, consisted of a worried-looking Matthew Radcliffe and a grey-haired elderly woman with tired eyes who was introduced as Mrs. Taylor, their curse expert.

Matthew was tall and sturdily built, not resembling his sister much beyond the curly hair he tried and failed to tame under a hat, and a shared determination around both their mouths. Where her dark eyes sparkled, his were clouded and grim, and where she seemed to shed light wherever she walked, he seemed under a darkness. Maia suspected it was the nature of his work that did that to him, though he was old enough he might have had a year in the war, as well.

Matthew and Mrs. Taylor gaped in mutual dismay at the corpse. Whatever latent curse Aunt Amelia’s diagnostic spell had triggered had only grown stronger in the time since it had been set off; no one could now bear to go within a five-foot radius of the man.

This is beyond my abilities, Mrs. Taylor admitted in a shaken voice.

Fortunately for you, it is not beyond ours, said a sharp, ice-cold voice from the front door.

All heads turned as a short, thin man with a pinched face and a tall woman stepped into the hall. Behind them, a man so insignificant as to be almost unnoticeable carefully closed the door.

Agent Barry, Agent Marsh, the man said, introducing themselves with a careless wave of the hand. Magical Intelligence.

Aunt Amelia shot a glare at Maia, who spread her hands in innocence. If she had contacted Intelligence, which she hadn’t, she would have gone