“No, I’m suggesting you won’t,” she whispered back.
“What was that?” her father asked.
“Nothing of importance,” Julia said. “I’m anxious to see the exhibit.” When Oliver scoffed, she turned to glare at him. “I enjoy perusing medieval artifacts.”
“Do you?” The inflection in his voice suggested otherwise.
Granted, the main reason—perhaps the only reason—for her interest in this outing was because of her father, but she liked learning new things. While she didn’t really enjoy learning royal lineages, trying to understand what life was like on a daily basis for people who lived in another time was fascinating. The challenge of putting food on the table for a family would’ve been so different than it was today.
Her father led the way into the first gallery, which displayed pieces of Anglo-Saxon jewelry.
“You can see the Celtic influence in the earlier pieces,” Oliver said as he studied the items over her shoulder. “Later pieces are often more ornate and have a Byzantine influence.”
Julia turned to stare at him, surprised he’d offered any insight at all. His expression revealed little. Had he done it to prove her wrong or was he truly attempting to be helpful?
They continued, admiring the ivory carvings from Spain, relic containers, and book covers. Oliver continued to share bits of information as they walked along, all of which Julia found enthralling. His knowledge truly was impressive, yet he only shared what he thought would interest them.
When Julia paused at a piece of stained glass, he asked, “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, admiring the way the light shone through it only to catch sight of his smile. “Why does that amuse you?”
“Because it’s one of my favorite pieces.” He said the words almost reluctantly.
Julia turned to face him, suddenly realizing how close he stood. Her father had already moved ahead, and no one else was nearby. “It truly is beautiful.”
“As are you,” he whispered. Slowly, haltingly, he bent to press his lips to hers before quickly drawing back.
Though the kiss was brief, a mere brush of their lips, the heat it held packed a punch. Each interaction she had with this enigmatic man only confused her more. “Oliver, I—”
“Frost, what is this?” her father asked from a short distance ahead.
Julia turned to walk toward him without finishing her thought, grateful for the interruption. She wasn’t sure what she’d been about to say, but it wasn’t something that should be spoken. That much, she knew for certain.
Oliver followed and answered her father’s question. Julia didn’t hear any of their conversation. Perhaps it would’ve been better if the two men had visited the museum without her. That would’ve simplified things. Seeing Oliver again was only confusing her more. Her growing feelings for him were at odds with her responsibilities.
She tried to keep her distance for the rest of the tour, putting her father between them when possible. After all, the whole purpose of this visit had been to aid her father, not her. And if she had to guess, she thought it did Oliver some good as well. The man enjoyed books far more than people. She couldn’t help but wonder why. What had happened in his past to make him so unhappy, that he preferred those musty, old books over human interaction?
Though tempted to ask again, she refrained. He hadn’t answered when she’d visited him at his home. There was no reason to expect he’d give an honest answer now.
After nearly two hours, Julia could tell her father was tiring. She took the risk of drawing closer to Oliver. “We’ll need to leave soon,” she whispered to him. “I don’t want to overtax him.”
“Of course.” Oliver turned to her father as he approached. “I must be going soon.”
“We need to as well. I want to read a few more pages yet this afternoon,” her father said with a smile.
“No need to press too hard with the text. I’m sure you’re tired.”
“I seem to regain my energy once I begin reading.”
Julia nearly groaned with dismay. She’d hoped he’d take a break from his research.
“Shall I come by on the morrow and assist you? Perhaps we could make more progress together.”
Julia’s heart thumped painfully at Oliver’s offer. Seeing more of him had not been part of her plan.
Once again, her father’s delight at Oliver’s suggestion prevented her from discouraging it. How could she possibly protest when a visit from Oliver so clearly delighted him?
Oliver escorted them out of the museum and to their carriage. “Thank you for inviting me,” he told Julia as her father settled on the seat.
“You’ve made my father very happy.”
“But not you?”
She frowned up at him, not understanding what he wanted. “My preferences don’t matter.”
“That’s not true.”
She wished he was right, but all that mattered was keeping her father occupied, engaged, and enjoying life. That was a task that required all her time and energy. “Thank you for coming.”
“I look forward to seeing you again on the morrow.”
She bit her lip, wishing she didn’t feel the same.
~*~
Hawke paced the prison entrance as they waited to speak with the sergeant, his agitation obvious. “Though the world will be better off without Rutter, he was our best link to Smithby.”
“Do they have any idea who murdered him?” Oliver asked. Hawke had sent an urgent message, asking Oliver to meet him at Newgate Prison. He’d arrived to the news that Rutter had been found dead in his cell.
“Supposedly his brother came to visit late yesterday. The guard on duty didn’t discover his body until supper time.” Hawke’s blue gaze held Oliver’s. “The guards are convinced some sort of dark magic contributed to his death.”
Oliver frowned. “Simply because odd markings were drawn on the wall?”
“You know how superstitious people are. Smithby has done much to build the myth that he has access to powers from that damned book. Rutter filled the guards’ minds with that nonsense, so they had already bought into his lies. Now that this happened, the guards are all too eager to believe it has something to do with unearthly powers.”
Before Oliver could ask for details, a guard arrived. “Right this way, Captain. Sergeant Rollins will see you now.”
Oliver followed Hawke down the corridor to a small office where the guard opened the door.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.” A tall man rose from behind a desk and shook Hawke’s hand. “I’m Sergeant Rollins.” He sent a questioning look at Oliver.
“This is Viscount Frost, a friend of mine who is an expert in medievalism. He might be able to assist us with the drawings on the cell wall.”
“Any help on those would be welcome.” The man scratched his dark beard. “It looks more like a child’s drawing than powerful symbols to me.”
“I’m quite curious to see them,” Oliver said.
“Can you share more details with us?” Hawke asked. “It might help to determine what truly happened.”
From the disgruntled expression on the sergeant’s face, Oliver surmised he didn’t care to ask for help with something that occurred in the prison.
“The markings cover much of one wall. Rutter had rambled on since his arrival about Jasper Smithby and his power, but I didn’t think much of it. As far as we’re concerned, Smithby is nothing more than a professional thief who happens to be organized about it. Unfortunately, we’ve had little success in locating him.”
Oliver shared a look with Hawke. They’d already discussed how little the police seemed to discover about Smithby and his operations.
“But perhaps the drawings will mean something to one of you,” the sergeant continued. “They’ve certainly managed to cause unease among the guards. Rutter’s body was discovered lying in the bed, arms crossed, no sign of entrance into the cell, no sign of a struggle. The guards on duty assumed Ru
tter was sleeping, nothing more.”
“But he’d been stabbed?” Hawke asked.
“Humph. Can’t say for certain. At first, we assumed so as there was a slice nearly ear-to-ear on his neck. But based on my experience, the cut didn’t appear to be more than skin deep. Difficult to tell without a thorough cleaning. There’s enough blood on his blanket and mattress to make one think a pig had been drained there but only the one cut. Yet he’s dead. And posed in an odd position with his hands crossed over his chest. The men don’t like it. They’re muttering about dark powers.” He shook his head. “Heaven knows what we’ll do if the news sheets get wind of this.”
“If you don’t believe his throat was truly slit, how did he die?” Oliver asked.
“We don’t know yet. Perhaps some type of poison? Though the body shows no signs of distress.” The sergeant was obviously done discussing the matter as he rose. “Rutter’s body was removed yesterday, but I’ll show you the cell.”
Oliver and Hawke followed the man to Rutter’s cell where the door stood ajar. The blanket and thin mattress remained, the large brownish-red stain clearly visible on the floor as well.
The metallic stench of blood had Oliver’s nose twitching, dredging up memories he’d prefer to forget.
“Surely Rutter wouldn’t slit his own throat,” Hawke said as he stepped into the cell.
“Seems unlikely, doesn’t it?” Oliver shifted his attention to the white chalk marks on the wall above the cot. At first, they appeared to make little sense. Latin words combined with symbols—circles, crosses, triangles—in random patterns. But as Oliver studied them, he realized they were drawn in columns rather than reading left to right.
“Anything of interest?” Hawke asked.
“Your impatience is showing,” Oliver said as he kept his gaze on the markings. “Give me a few moments.”
Hawke and the sergeant spoke further as Oliver studied the drawings. At a glance, he’d guess the marks were merely there to suggest a dark meaning, to imply some sort of black magic was at work. While he could identify some of them, others were not as familiar.
He withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket and copied some of the letters and symbols so he could research them upon his return home.
Hawke came to his side, holding his silence although impatience vibrated off him.
“I would hazard a guess that this is more for show,” Oliver said. “While there are one or two Latin phrases that make sense such as this one, ‘farewell forever,’ the rest of it appears random. I want to look up a few of these to be certain there’s no hidden message I’m missing.”
“What do you suppose those are?” Hawke asked as he pointed to the corner of the cell.
Oliver looked closer. Several rocks were piled together along with some small pieces of wood and shells. “Fetishes, perhaps.”
“What?”
“Symbols of divine energy. They’re said to have magical properties due to the spirits that dwell in them.”
“Are you certain? They look like something that should be tossed away.”
Oliver picked up one of the pieces of wood. It was carved with a few marks. “If these were true fetishes, they would be permeated with power by a shaman or some other type of holy man.”
“Damn Smithby. He’s doing his best to make this look like he truly has some kind of power.” Hawke turned to where the sergeant was speaking with a few of the guards as though in an attempt to calm them.
Rollins walked over to where they stood. “It seems word of the drawings and Rutter’s death have spread to the prisoners. It’s causing all sorts of unrest.”
Oliver frowned. “I hadn’t considered the problems that might cause.”
“If the papers learn of this and the rumors circulating...” Rollins shook his head. “We’re going to have trouble on our hands.”
“The public will latch onto this, and even more problems will arise.” Oliver glanced at Hawke to see if he agreed.
“Indeed.” Hawke’s eyes narrowed as he watched Rollins move back to his men to answer another question.
“Do you think that is what Smithby intended?” Oliver asked.
“It makes sense, doesn’t it? Why else go to all the work of the markings, not to mention Rutter having died in a locked cell?”
“Clever bastard.”
“Other than having the sergeant speak with the guards and encourage their silence, I don’t know what more can be done.”
“But if visitors come and the prisoners talk of this,” Oliver began.
“There’s no chance of containing it. Word will spread quickly.”
“Unless...” Oliver’s thoughts swirled as he considered an idea that came to mind.
“What?” Hawke asked, impatient as always.
“We might not be able to stop the information from leaking, but perhaps we can control what it is.”
“How do you mean?”
“I’m not sure yet, but if no one here can read Latin or interpret symbols, we could tell them it says whatever we want.”
“As long as it’s believable.”
Oliver smiled, thinking of the possibilities.
“That would certainly anger Smithby,” Hawke said as he returned the smile. “Perhaps I can convince the sergeant to gather any interested reporters for an announcement after you’ve had a chance to study the markings.”
“Perfect. That will give us time to determine a plan.”
“And if we can come up with something to draw Smithby out or at the very least, anger him to the point where he does something rash, all the better.”
“The question is, how much do you trust the police?” Oliver asked as he studied the sergeant. “Will you tell Rollins the truth?”
Hawke mulled over the question. “I don’t believe so. We’ll keep this to ourselves for a time. We already know Smithby has ties to the police. Perhaps by doing so, we’ll be able to ferret out those whom Smithby is paying off.”
“Wouldn’t that be helpful. If so, we might actually make some progress.” He shared the little amount Victor had learned with Hawke.
“Damn. Too bad he couldn’t determine where this Thomas Crawford was going.”
At last, the sergeant joined them. “Any luck?”
“I’ll need to check the meanings of some of these,” Oliver explained. “I should have something for you shortly.”
“The sooner, the better, my lord,” he replied. “Otherwise I’ll have a riot on my hands, and no one will be willing to work here anymore.”
Oliver glanced over at the guards who stood by the door, their uneasiness clearly visible as they stared at the markings. “Let us see what we can do to keep this from helping Smithby.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“‘I am as honest as I can afford to be,’ is an observation common in the mouth of those who really and truly earn their bread and acquire a creditable reputation by the sweat of their brow. It never seems to occur to them that such an admission is equal to a confession of dishonesty...”
~The Seven Curses of London
Julia’s father looked up from his notes as she entered the library that afternoon.
“Anything from Frost?” he asked with a hopeful look on his face. “He said he’d come by today and assist me.”
“I remember, Father, but no, I haven’t heard anything from him.”
The disappointed droop to his mouth and slim shoulders reminded her of a young child who’d been denied a treat, not that she had much experience with children. She pushed aside the tug of regret that such a gift was not to be hers. Her father came before her own wants.
She didn’t care to disappoint him, which was exactly what Oliver was doing. There had been several occasions in the past when such a disappointment led to illness, or at the very least, despondency, and confined her father to his room. That path held danger, as Julia feared he’d decide the next life was preferable over this one. She couldn’t bear that, nor would she allow it to happen. Not until he�
�d reached a ripe old age.
“Shall I send him a message?” Julia asked even as she tried to tamp down her anger. Did Oliver not realize her father had taken him at his word? Did that word mean nothing?
But as an image of Oliver formed in her mind, her anger fell away. She remained convinced that Oliver was battling some issues of his own. She sensed the same despondency in him from which her father often suffered. It had been in his eyes when she’d called upon him earlier this week.
There had to be some reason he chose to lock himself away in that big house for days or even weeks at a time. She couldn’t help but think of the several times he’d seemed so uncomfortable when at a social outing. Why was that?
His behavior must be caused by something that occurred during his time in the Navy. She doubted he’d always suffered like this. A strong, capable man like him wouldn’t choose to go into the military if he despised crowds and people, let alone the Navy where one was confined to a ship for months at a time.
No, his reclusive behavior had to be the result of something that happened during his Navy years. Captain Hawke had come home injured. She’d hazard a guess that Oliver had as well, but perhaps his injuries were internal rather than external.
“No need to send a message,” her father said at last. “I’m certain he’s quite busy.”
Surely his schedule wasn’t the problem. What urgent matter would take the time of a medieval scholar? He studied the past for heaven’s sake. There was nothing pressing about that. Still, she wished she could aid him somehow.
“Maybe he’ll come on the morrow.” The wistful lilt of her father’s voice did not bode well.
“Shall we review what you’ve discovered thus far in your research?” Julia asked. “Perhaps talking it through with me will provide assistance.”
“No need, dear. I don’t believe you’d understand.”
“I’d be happy to try.”
Her father shook his head, not even bothering to look at her as he picked up his pen and shifted his attention to the book once more. She swallowed back her hurt. Why did it still bother her after she’d lived with his dismissal all her life? When her mother lived, his attention had been focused on his wife. She and her brother had only each other during their childhood until Aunt Matilda had joined them soon after her mother’s death.
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