back of his seat. ‘You see, I
have put your idea to good use.’ The cold air within the cabinet rolled out and the atmosphere in the carriage became distinctly cooler.
Edgar nodded.
‘You seem troubled,’ said the man.
‘I am!’ replied Edgar, and gulped down a mouthful of the chilled yet burning liquid. ‘It’s Florian Quince, sir, the interfering old maggot. He says he has some of these
“Depictions” and that they prove I was at the Bonchance Club drinking and gambling.’
‘And this means what?’ enquired the other man.
Edgar hesitated. ‘There’s a condition in the will. I cannot inherit for five years.’
The silence was brief but meaningful. ‘Then we need a new will. What about the Capodel Manufactory? Are you still in charge?’
‘Not if Quince has his way.’
There was another silence, broken only by the sound of liquid being poured into a glass.
‘I’ve been stitched up and left out in the cold,’ complained Edgar bitterly. ‘Expected to live on an allowance, for Aether’s sake. And our plans—’
‘Stop snivelling, you fool,’ hissed the shadowy companion, displaying the first sign of anger. ‘You should have been more careful. You know how Hubert felt about gambling. How
many times do you have to be told?’
Edgar quailed at the rebuke, and noticed, not for the first time, the man’s verbal eccentricity: how he omitted the
b
in gambling, pronouncing it ‘gamling’.
‘I didn’t know what was in the will!’ he protested.
‘Quiet! I need to think.’
Edgar sniffed and drank.
Then the man spoke. ‘This is problematic but not insuperable. But I need you to help with the will.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, just tell me what to do,’ said Edgar. ‘And then there is Citrine. I’ve done what you said, and kept an eye on her, but she still believes that
Hubert might be alive. She won’t rest until they find his body.’
‘Then let them find a body. We cannot allow Citrine to stand in my . . . our way.’
‘But . . . how?’
‘Leave that to me. Dr Ruislip, down at the morgue, owes me a favour or two. First things first, the will. I have a plan that can kill two birds with one stone.’
C HAPTER 10
T HE W HITE H AIR
‘What are you doing in the safe?’
Edgar was kneeling in front of the drinks cabinet which Citrine knew was actually a small safe. He started at the sound of her voice and stood up to see her in the doorway.
‘Nany of your business,’ he retorted, his eyes flicking to her green bag before she could conceal it. ‘Looking into the future again?’ he mocked. ‘I don’t
need the cards to tell me what to do.’
Citrine came fully into the room. ‘They don’t tell me what to do; they guide me . . .’ she began, but she knew not to continue the conversation.
‘Why aren’t you in bed? It’s already Nox. Memories keeping you awake, I suppose.’
‘You woke me, slamming the front door. You’re wearing your coat. Are you going out again?’
‘How perspicacious of you.’ Edgar’s handsome face was easily disfigured by his curled lip. ‘Why, are you going to tell Florian, you little spy?’
‘How could I spy for Florian when I am practically a prisoner in my home? Actually I’m looking for something.’
‘This?’ Edgar reached over the leather-topped knee-hole desk behind him and picked up a brown, boxlike contraption from the chair where it had been out of sight.
Citrine gasped. ‘My Klepteffigium! Give it back!’
Edgar smirked, and before Citrine could stop him he tossed the Klepteffigium into the safe, closed the door and spun the combination lock. ‘There. Now you can’t take any more nasty
Depictions.’
Citrine was fuming. ‘What? Have you gone mad? I haven’t taken any of you. If Father was here, you wouldn’t dare to treat me like this.’
‘Perhaps not, but the fact is dear Uncle Hubert’s gone, and he can’t rule me from the grave.’
‘I think he might,’ said Citrine, unable to help herself,
have put your idea to good use.’ The cold air within the cabinet rolled out and the atmosphere in the carriage became distinctly cooler.
Edgar nodded.
‘You seem troubled,’ said the man.
‘I am!’ replied Edgar, and gulped down a mouthful of the chilled yet burning liquid. ‘It’s Florian Quince, sir, the interfering old maggot. He says he has some of these
“Depictions” and that they prove I was at the Bonchance Club drinking and gambling.’
‘And this means what?’ enquired the other man.
Edgar hesitated. ‘There’s a condition in the will. I cannot inherit for five years.’
The silence was brief but meaningful. ‘Then we need a new will. What about the Capodel Manufactory? Are you still in charge?’
‘Not if Quince has his way.’
There was another silence, broken only by the sound of liquid being poured into a glass.
‘I’ve been stitched up and left out in the cold,’ complained Edgar bitterly. ‘Expected to live on an allowance, for Aether’s sake. And our plans—’
‘Stop snivelling, you fool,’ hissed the shadowy companion, displaying the first sign of anger. ‘You should have been more careful. You know how Hubert felt about gambling. How
many times do you have to be told?’
Edgar quailed at the rebuke, and noticed, not for the first time, the man’s verbal eccentricity: how he omitted the
b
in gambling, pronouncing it ‘gamling’.
‘I didn’t know what was in the will!’ he protested.
‘Quiet! I need to think.’
Edgar sniffed and drank.
Then the man spoke. ‘This is problematic but not insuperable. But I need you to help with the will.’
‘Yes, yes, of course, just tell me what to do,’ said Edgar. ‘And then there is Citrine. I’ve done what you said, and kept an eye on her, but she still believes that
Hubert might be alive. She won’t rest until they find his body.’
‘Then let them find a body. We cannot allow Citrine to stand in my . . . our way.’
‘But . . . how?’
‘Leave that to me. Dr Ruislip, down at the morgue, owes me a favour or two. First things first, the will. I have a plan that can kill two birds with one stone.’
C HAPTER 10
T HE W HITE H AIR
‘What are you doing in the safe?’
Edgar was kneeling in front of the drinks cabinet which Citrine knew was actually a small safe. He started at the sound of her voice and stood up to see her in the doorway.
‘Nany of your business,’ he retorted, his eyes flicking to her green bag before she could conceal it. ‘Looking into the future again?’ he mocked. ‘I don’t
need the cards to tell me what to do.’
Citrine came fully into the room. ‘They don’t tell me what to do; they guide me . . .’ she began, but she knew not to continue the conversation.
‘Why aren’t you in bed? It’s already Nox. Memories keeping you awake, I suppose.’
‘You woke me, slamming the front door. You’re wearing your coat. Are you going out again?’
‘How perspicacious of you.’ Edgar’s handsome face was easily disfigured by his curled lip. ‘Why, are you going to tell Florian, you little spy?’
‘How could I spy for Florian when I am practically a prisoner in my home? Actually I’m looking for something.’
‘This?’ Edgar reached over the leather-topped knee-hole desk behind him and picked up a brown, boxlike contraption from the chair where it had been out of sight.
Citrine gasped. ‘My Klepteffigium! Give it back!’
Edgar smirked, and before Citrine could stop him he tossed the Klepteffigium into the safe, closed the door and spun the combination lock. ‘There. Now you can’t take any more nasty
Depictions.’
Citrine was fuming. ‘What? Have you gone mad? I haven’t taken any of you. If Father was here, you wouldn’t dare to treat me like this.’
‘Perhaps not, but the fact is dear Uncle Hubert’s gone, and he can’t rule me from the grave.’
‘I think he might,’ said Citrine, unable to help herself,
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