The Weeping Lore (Witte & Co. Investigations Book 1)

by Gregory Ashe

  Perhaps the man who brought the coal had forgotten to shut the cellar.

  Perhaps he was still down there.

  Irene waited another minute in the freezing afternoon. The sky had darkened steadily to steel.

  The man—if there was a man—didn’t emerge.

  Irene shut the cellar door.

  The kitchen door was unlocked, and Irene let herself into the house. Warmth, the smell of nutmeg and dried rosemary, and shadow. The pots winked in the afternoon light that slipped through the windows. Irene wondered if her parents had already found another housekeeper. They probably had—Mother would be helpless, and Father would want dinner on the table when he got home. The thought felt sacrilegious. This was Sally’s place.

  Irene found a bar of chocolate in the pantry, in Sally’s usual hiding spot, behind a jug of vinegar. She broke off a piece and chewed it slowly.

  The house was quiet.

  Irene set off deeper into the house. The chocolate was waxy and clung to her teeth and throat. She regretted eating it. The lamps were off, and the afternoon light pale and gray, giving everything the sterilized, ethereal air of a museum. Mirrors caught the image of a slender woman buried in a fur coat, her cheeks bright, her eyes shadowed, her hair a wreck. Irene gave the woman a smile and got a smile in return.

  From under the door to Father’s study came the warm glow of the gaslights. Irene tapped and opened the door.

  Father sat in an armchair near the fireplace. A stack of documents sat on the hearth in front of him, and he was feeding the paper to the blaze. On the table next to him lay an overturned pipe, an empty glass, and a bottle of Scotch. The smell of wood-smoke and pipe-smoke was warm as a wool coat.

  “Irene,” Father said. He stood, dislodging a sheaf of papers to the floor, and stumbled towards her. “God be good, Irene.”

  “Father,” Irene said.

  Everything forgotten. Everything forgiven.

  She ran towards him.

  He stopped her, though, grabbing her arms before she could embrace him. His fingers pinched her, even through the heavy fur coat. When he spoke, the Scotch on his breath was thick and peaty.

  “Where is it, Irene? Tell me you’ve brought it with you.”

  “What?”

  He shook her. “No games, Irene. I was wrong. I admit it. There was a box. Tell me you’ve found it. Tell me, and I’ll take it all back.”

  “Father, I don’t—”

  “I know you have it. I know you and your new friends have it, Irene. I’m not blind. I’m not deaf. I’m not stupid. Where is it?”

  “Father, you’re hurting me.” Irene twisted, trying to pull free. “Mother. Where’s Mother?”

  For a moment, she wasn’t sure her father had heard her. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his breathing like frayed velvet. “Your mother is gone, girl. I sent her away. Somewhere safe.” He squeezed his eyes shut. His hands tightened. “Fucking Jesus, Mary, and Martha, Irene. Where is the fucking box?”

  Irene went still.

  Father’s eyes flashed open. “You won’t tell me.”

  “I don’t know, Father. So much has happened, I was worried, I came back to—”

  “Worried. You stupid bitch. You stupid, pathetic cunt.” He shook her. Irene’s teeth clacked together. “The thief then. Where is he? We know you took him from the house. Tell me, right now, and maybe I can pull this wreckage from the fire.”

  “You were at the house,” Irene said. Her eyes felt hot and huge. She said each word slowly, as though saying them would delay the truth. “You and Mother. You knew. All this time. And you lied to me. You made me think I—”

  “Where is he, Irene?”

  She shook her head.

  His slap knocked her to the ground. Irene lay there a moment. The study had turned on its side. The fire hung above her, ready to race down and lick the heat from her face.

  She stared up. Her father stood over her, his belt in one hand.

  And just like that, Irene was a child again. She got onto hands and knees and tried to scramble away.

  The first blow caught her at a diagonal, across one shoulder and running down her back. In spite of the padding of the coat, the blow raised a line of fire, and Irene cried out. The next blow was wild, crossing her hips, and then another that caught the back of her head. She pitched forward onto the carpet as the blows continued to rain down, a storm of pain. Her father shrieked and swore.

  It lasted a long time. It lasted forever.

  But eventually it was over. Irene sobbed into the rug. The crackle of the fire, her father’s heavy breathing, and then the dull clank of the belt buckle striking the floor. Her father’s steps rustled the papers, then quieted against the carpet, and then he was gone.

  Cian sat in the lobby of the Louisiana Grand. He was certain people were looking at him. The bellboys, for example, studied him as they rolled the carts of luggage. They knew a man without a dime in his pockets when they saw one. The officious little man at the front desk, in a neat black suit, stared over at Cian from time to time. How long before they asked him to move on? They couldn’t have vagrants filling up the lobby of the Louisiana Grand.

  And unfortunately, vagrant was painfully close to the truth.

  It was easier to think about empty pockets and bellboys, easier to look at the arrow-straight lines of brass and dark wood and gold-filigree, than think about what he had seen in the Patch. So Cian rubbed his thumb across the embroidered upholster of the sofa, studied the wrought-iron curves of the heating registers, and thought about money.

  And about Irene.

  His head ached. It was only half from the dead man’s punch.

  Four o’clock dragged itself around the lobby and finally disappeared into the street. Five o’clock came in like a man with a pocketful of cash. Cian sat up straight, wishing he’d had a chance to wash up, running fingers through his hair, and generally feeling like a total fool.

  Five-fifteen and still no sign of Irene.

  At five-thirty, he was picking the embroidery from the sofa with his thumbnail and ignoring the nasty look of the concierge.

  The man, though, wasn’t dissuaded. He crossed the hall towards Cian, his heels ringing on the marble floor, and planted himself in front of the sofa. He had a speck of lint on one lapel and looked as strong as an old tire.

  “Excuse me,” he said.

  Cian glanced up and gave the loose embroidery a vicious yank.

  The man’s mouth puckered. “May I help you? Are you waiting for someone?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A guest? May I have his name? I will be sure to tell him you came.”

  Cian gave him a smile and stood up. He had at least a foot on the man, and the concierge blinked up at him. His sundial-nose didn’t drop.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll tell her myself,” Cian said. He pushed past the man, sending him stumbling. Petty. Satisfying.

  Instead of leaving the hotel, though, Cian headed for the elevators. He took it to Irene’s floor and marched to her door.

  Maybe she was napping.

  If she weren’t here, he’d go to her house.

  Cian stopped. Blinked.

  Now where in the hell had that idea come from?

  He knocked on her door.

  No response. He knocked again, rattling the door in its frame.

  Cian waited. A minute, then two. As he was about to leave, he heard the rustle of cloth from inside the room. Then silence. The silence dragged out.

  “Irene, open the damn door. I know you’re in there.”

  The silence was a held breath. That was when he was certain she was in there.

  He pounded again.

  “Irene. You can sleep later. We need to get back to Harry’s.”

  Still silence.

  Cian let out an explosive breath and started hammering on the door. “If I break this thing, I’m going to have them put it on your tab, Irene Lovell. Now open this door before I—”

  The door opened a crack. />
  “Well. That’s better.”

  “Cian, I’m not feeling well,” Irene said. He couldn’t see her through the crack in the door, but her voice was dead, like smoke from a cold fire. “Just go by yourself. I’ll see you in a day or two. When I’m better.”

  “What’s wrong?” Cian pushed the door open, ignoring Irene’s protests.

  The room was dark, with the gaslights turned down and the drapes drawn. Cian raised the lights and started swearing.

  Irene stood in front of him, wearing nothing more than a camisole, bloomers, and stockings rolled to her knees. Part of his brain swallowed every detail and stored it for later: her shoulders, her breasts, her legs. The other part noticed the important details.

  A red mark in the shape of a hand darkening on her cheek. Bruises marking her arms and collarbone. Red eyes and nose.

  And the way she stood. Arms loose around herself, as though she hurt too much even to touch herself.

  “Who did this to you?”

  “Cian, I’m not dressed. You need to—”

  He stepped towards her, and she stepped back, until he pinned her against one of the walls. She flinched as she bumped into it. Then she stood there, staring up at Cian, her breath like a windstorm.

  “Who did this to you? I’m going to tear him apart.”

  She shook her head. It took him a minute to realize she was crying.

  This close, he could smell the faint perfume she still wore, and her sweat, and the lingering scent of her coat. Through the thin camisole, the fresh bruises across her back showed. Cian swallowed. His hands ached, and he realized they were clenched. He uncurled his fingers and took Irene’s arms the way he might have handled a sparrow with a broken wing.

  The bruises covered the inside of her arms. She had tried to defend herself.

  He had to take slow breathes to keep his grip light.

  “You need a warm bath,” he said. His voice was coming from somewhere far away, from someone calm, someone who wasn’t boiling over with rage. “And aspirin. And something to sleep.”

  “Cian, I want you to go.”

  “Sit down, Irene,” he said, guiding her to a chair. “I’ll start the water.”

  She slapped his hands away. For a moment, her breath was furious. And then she slapped him. Twice, both times hard enough to spark stars in his vision. When she brought her hand up again, he caught her wrist.

  Like catching a falling leaf.

  “Please go,” she said. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

  And then she started sobbing.

  He didn’t dare embrace her. Not with all those marks to her body. But he wanted to. Every inch of him wanted to fold her in his arms, to wipe away her tears, to protect her.

  Instead, her rubbed the sting from his cheeks. In a voice that was practically a growl he said, “Damn it, Irene. I know you’re strong. And I know you’re smart, and independent, and all that. But just let me take care of you once. Tonight.”

  He didn’t know if she heard him, but she didn’t resist as he helped her to the chair. He got the bath as hot as it went. Then he helped her to the bathroom.

  His fingers were shaking as he took the hem of the camisole.

  With a trace of her old spirit, Irene said, “I can undress myself, thank you very much, Cian Shea.”

  He laughed. It came out raw and wrong, but at least it was a laugh. “I’ll run to the pharmacy.”

  “There’s money in my clutch.”

  And that was a kick to a man’s balls. So much for taking care of her.

  He left her in the bathroom. He took money from her clutch. There was plenty of it. More than he’d ever seen in one place in his life. He ran to the pharmacy and got what he needed, and then he ran back to the hotel. In spite of the cold, he was hot and sweating by the time he reached Irene’s room. He let himself back in and locked the door.

  The gaslights had been lowered again, and the room was almost pitch black. It took him a minute for his eyes to adjust, and then he went into the set of rooms, moving carefully through the sitting room and into the bedroom. Irene lay on her stomach on the bed, wrapped in a fluffy white robe. Her camisole lay on the floor like a flag of surrender.

  He found a glass, mixed up the sleeping powder, and carried it to the bed with the aspirin.

  Irene looked up at him. Her eyes were wet and shining in the ambient light. Damp hair clung to her neck and cheek. She didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  Cian brushed a curl of hair behind her ear and proffered the glass.

  With Cian’s help, Irene managed to sit up long enough to drink the mixture and swallowed the aspirin. Then she lay down again, still on her stomach, her head turned away from Cian.

  “Thank you,” she said. The words were so quiet they might have come from the moon.

  “I’ll be in the other room,” Cian said. “If you need anything.”

  She nodded.

  There should have been something else he could do. Something to take the pain away, something to pour life and light back into her face, something that would make everything right again.

  Helplessness sat in Cian’s stomach like a knife.

  When her breathing evened out into sleep, Cian moved back towards the sitting room. On his way, in the dark, he caught the corner of a tower of boxes. He fumbled with them, trying to catch them before they fell. They were all flat, rectangular boxes—the kind he’d seen in the windows of stores like Famous-Barr and Stix.

  She’d been shopping.

  He managed to quench a smile before he made it out of the room.

  In the sitting room, Cian kicked off his boots, took off his coat, and stretched out on the sofa in his shirtsleeves and trousers. One big toe stared back at him from a hole in his sock.

  The sofa was too small. That was starting to become a pattern in Cian’s life.

  It took a long time before Cian could sleep. When his eyes finally shut, though, he had decided—in perfect detail—what he was going to do to whoever had hurt Irene.

  The next morning, Cian woke to the smell of coffee. And bacon. And something warm and buttery. He heard muffled voices at the door, and his eyes popped open. It took him a moment to orient himself: the gold leaf decorations, the dark wood, the elaborate ironwork.

  The Louisiana Grand. Irene.

  Cramped and aching from sleeping on the too-small couch, Cian tried to stand up, only to have pins and needles sweep out his legs. He ended up lying on the floor next to the sofa, groaning and trying to work feeling back into his lower quarters.

  With a rattle of china, Irene pushed a cart into the room. She still wore the bathrobe, but there was color in her face again, and she had taken time to comb her hair. The cart itself was almost as interesting as Irene. It held several covered trays which were giving off the most wonderful smells.

  When she saw Cian on the floor, Irene smiled, and Cian almost forgot the bruises.

  “I would have sworn you were on the sofa a moment ago,” she said.

  “I’m built a bit big for your furniture. I thought I’d try something else.”

  Irene raised an eyebrow. “It didn’t keep you from sleeping, if the snoring last night was any evidence.”

  Cian flushed and got to his feet. He fought the urge to cover the bare toe and the hole in his sock. In any event, it was too late—Irene would have already noticed.

  Her eyebrow quirked again, and Cian thought he saw her struggling with a smile, but all she said was, “Hungry?”

  They ate sitting on the sofa. Irene had outdone herself—pancakes and bacon and eggs with runny yolks and crisp toast with butter. Real butter. The last time Cian had had that was in France. There was even a carafe of milk, beaded with moisture.

  When they’d finished—which was to say, when there was nothing left but crumbs and a smear of yolk on the plates—Cian settled back into the sofa and let out a contented breath.

  “Full?” Irene said.

  “What?”

  “What do
you mean what? I just asked if you were full.”

  “Yes, but the way you said it—” He cut off when he saw her smile. “Thank you for breakfast,” he said.

  “Thank you. For last night.”

  “Irene—”

  “No, Cian. I’m not going to say another word about it.”

  She stood up, and the robe slipped, revealing an expanse of her back that was already starting to purple. Cian sucked in a breath, but by the time he had stood up, Irene had pulled the robe back into place. She eyed him with a cool, challenging look.

  He held up his hands.

  “Just let me dress and then you can have a bath and we’ll—”

  “No,” Cian said.

  “Fine, you don’t have to bathe.” She wrinkled her nose. “But—”

  “I meant no, you aren’t going to get dressed. You’re spending the day here. Resting.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Irene, I might be big and dumb, but I’m not that dumb. You can barely walk, even with that cart holding you up.”

  “I don’t need you or any man telling me what I can or can’t do, Cian Shea.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Go ahead. If you can walk to your room without falling down or clutching at the walls for support, I’ll shut my mouth.”

  “If you were wise, you’d shut it anyway.”

  He grinned. “No one ever said I was wise.”

  Irene muttered something under her breath. If Cian caught it correctly, there were some shockingly vulgar expressions in the mix.

  She took two steps, shaking like an old woman in a high wind.

  Cian took her arm, one hand cupping her side, and helped her the rest of the way.

  “Bed,” he said.

  “Perhaps for an hour or two. And if you’re wearing one of those big, dumb smiles, Cian, I’ll—”

  “No smiles. Promise.”

  When he’d settled her in bed with more aspirin, Irene gestured at the pile of boxes.

  “You were busy,” Cian said, stacking the boxes on the bed. “Did you leave anything for anyone else?”

  “Very funny.” She peeked in one box, set it aside, and then checked another. When she’d found the ones she wanted, she passed two of them to Cian. “Open them.”