The Magician's Dream (Oona Crate Mystery: book 3)

by Shawn Thomas Odyssey

  Oona opened her mouth, meaning to tell her uncle precisely what she had figured out, but something stopped her. A thought occurred to her, a sense that if her uncle knew what she was planning on doing, then he would never allow her to go. But she had to go. She had to be there when her father’s killer was finally exposed. It was she, after all, who had figured out who had done it, and she was determined to see the case through to its end.

  “I just have some business to attend to at the museum,” Oona said.

  “May I see it?” the Wizard asked. “The feather.”

  Oona felt the knot in her stomach tighten. She wanted to get a move on . . . but knew she should do as her uncle asked. She handed the feather over.

  For a long moment her uncle did not say anything, just stared at the feather with a rather wistful expression on his face. At last he said: “Lynette.”

  Oona shook her head. “I beg pardon.”

  Her uncle cleared his throat. “Lynette Abshire. That was her name. The woman I was in love with.”

  Oona’s mouth dropped open, remembering the question she had asked him in the park and surprised that he was now answering it. She was not certain how to respond, and was also a bit frustrated that he would choose now of all times to open up. And yet, she could not hold back her curiosity.

  “What happened to her?” she asked, partly dreading what the answer might be.

  The Wizard turned his gaze from the feather to Oona, almost as if he were surprised to see her there, and Oona wondered if perhaps the feather had some power that was affecting him. The slight sadness that always rested just behind his eyes suddenly looked more pronounced than ever.

  “Oh, she is not dead, if that is what you are thinking,” the Wizard replied. “She is a happily married woman with several grown children of her own. It’s just that . . . well, you see, I had a choice. Give up my apprenticeship to Wizard Flirtensnickle and be with her, or follow my ambition to become the next Wizard.”

  Oona placed a hand to her mouth. “But why? Why did you have to make a choice? I don’t understand.”

  “Because Lynette whished to have a simple life . . . not one that involved the complexities of the Wizard’s life. She told me so when we first began our courtship. I was so enamored with everything about her . . . her beauty, the sound of her voice, her bright and hopeful personality, and most especially the way she looked at me, which made me feel as if I were the most special young man on all of Dark Street. I knew that there were other male suitors eager to charm her . . . and so I led her on, letting her believe that I was going to give up the apprenticeship. I half believed it myself. But finally, when it came time for me to make a decision . . . I chose the Wizardship.” He paused, staring at the feather. “I don’t regret it.”

  His words sounded sincere, but Oona couldn’t help but wonder if they were completely true. His eyes seemed to suggest otherwise.

  The Wizard shook his head and handed the feather back to Oona. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this. I’m sure you are uninterested in an ancient heartbreak, and I can tell you are in a hurry. Won’t you tell me what you are up to?”

  Oona swallowed hard. Her uncle could not have been more wrong about her interest in his story. She would have loved to hear more, but he was right, and she was in a hurry.

  “It’s a surprise,” she said.

  “A surprise?” her uncle asked. “Now I’m curious.”

  “You’ll see,” Oona said, and then turned down the hall. Before she got very far, however, she turned back. “I’m sorry, Uncle . . . that she broke your heart.”

  The Wizard shook his head. “Oh, Lynette did not break my heart . . . I did. But alas, a broken heart is not the worst thing in the world. There are those who might go their entire lives having never been truly in love. It is they whom I feel the most compassion for. Anyway, don’t forget, we have your final battle test today.”

  Oona’s head gave a little jerk in surprise. “But Deacon said you were going to let me sleep for twenty-four hours.”

  “I was, but tradition dictates that the final challenge take place on the same day you awaken from the dream test. Had I administered the antidote tomorrow, then tomorrow would have been the day.”

  “I see,” Oona said, before once again starting down the hall. She felt bad for rushing off just when her uncle was being so vulnerable, but she did not think it could be helped. Remembering the loving face of her father in her dream, she simply could not wait any longer to bring his killers to justice.

  “What time do I need to be back?” she called back to her uncle.

  “We’re meeting here at twelve noon to head to the cemetery.”

  Again she stopped in her tracks.

  “The cemetery?” she asked, thinking of the dream cemetery in the clouds.

  “Yes. It will take us a while to get there by carriage, so don’t be late. We don’t want to still be there after sunset.”

  The Wizard was referring to the fact that, after sunset, the spirits of the dead came alive in the night and haunted the cemetery grounds, along with a regiment of poltergeists who guarded the graveyard entrance, preventing any ghosts or living humans from passing.

  Oona’s throat had suddenly gone dry, and she felt her hands go tingly with nerves, not so much from the thought of ghosts—though the idea was quite disturbing in and of itself—but from something more personal. She thought of the graves of her mother, and sister, and father in the Crate family plot . . . of how she had not visited them since the day of their funerals over three years ago.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” the Wizard asked. “You look pale.”

  Oona did her best to shake the feeling off.

  “I’ll be here,” she said, and quickly began descending the stairs. She glanced at the clock on the wall as she crossed the open antechamber toward the front door. The hour hand pointed to ten o’clock. There was no time to waste.

  ***

  “Perfect timing,” Oona said.

  She peered out the carriage window as Samuligan pulled the horse to a stop in front of the museum. Outside, Oona could see Inspector White climbing the steps and waiving his hands in the air in an attempt to shoo Deacon away. The raven was currently swooping about the inspector’s head, herding him toward the museum entrance.

  Several steps behind them, a uniformed police constable followed, grinning ear to ear and watching the whole scene with open amusement.

  Oona stepped from the carriage and hurried up the stone steps after them, the book of knots tucked beneath one arm.

  “There you are, Miss Crate!” the inspector howled at her. The two of them reached the top step together, and the inspector took one last swipe at Deacon before the raven landed composedly upon Oona’s shoulder.

  “Excellent work, Deacon,” Oona said.

  “I did my best,” Deacon replied, and he puffed out his chest, clearly proud of himself.

  The inspector arrowed a finger at her. “What is the meaning of all of this? That bird of yours nearly pecked me to death!”

  Oona shook her head. “I doubt that, Inspector. He was only making sure you got here in time to capture a deadly criminal.”

  “What are you talking about?” the inspector asked.

  “Follow me, and all will be revealed,” Oona said, and pulled open the thick wooden museum door.

  And there he was, the daytime watchman, Victor McGillicuddy. He stood where he always did, beside the museum registry, which all visitors to the museum were required to sign. Oona had half expected him not to be there—that he would have somehow known they were coming for him and that he would have made a run for it. But no, there he stood, bold as could be, watching them approach as if he had nothing in the world to hide.

  Oona’s hands began to sweat, despite the coolness of the entryway. She felt nervous and angry, and yet she did not feel nearly as frightened as she thought she ought to. She was confronting a killer, after all: the man who had murdered one of the most im
portant people in Oona’s life, the one who had robbed her of anything close to a normal existence. Looking at the man now, it was hard to believe that he was capable of stealing anything, let alone of murder. But Oona supposed that such people were able to hide their secrets deep within their dark well of lies.

  “Mr. McGillicuddy,” Oona said. She came to a stop beside the registry, Deacon puffing himself up menacingly upon her shoulder.

  Inspector White and the constable halted just behind her.

  Victor McGillicuddy looked at the entourage with nothing more than mild curiosity. Surely, he must know that they were on to him. How the man could remain so cool, Oona was not sure.

  “Yes,” the guard said. “Got some more questions for me, do you?” He looked expectedly from Oona to the inspector.

  The inspector crossed his arms and looked sternly at Oona. “Yes, Miss Crate. Why are we here?”

  Oona opened the book of knots and flipped to the page containing the Rose Knot. “See this, Inspector? Do you recognize it?”

  The inspector’s dark eyebrows came nearly together as he leaned forward to examine the illustration. “I believe I have seen it somewhere before.”

  Oona’s face went red as she forced herself to suppress her anger. “Of course you have seen it before. It is the knot that the thieves used to tie up the night watchman. It is the signature of the infamous Rose Thieves. The same thieves who murdered my father over three years ago.”

  Oona glanced at Victor McGillicuddy, hoping to discover signs of guilt, but the museum guard appeared only curious. Her conviction that he was the culprit began to waver.

  She continued: “The person who wrote this book almost forty years ago is the inventor of the Rose Knot. He is also the inventor of this knot as well.” She flipped the book several pages back to a knot named the Shoe Fly. “This is a sophisticated way of tying a shoe.”

  The inspector and the constable let out a collective “Oooooh” sound. The illustration showed a shoelace crisscrossing in a deceptively simple pattern that resembled a double-winged dragonfly.

  “That’s quite beautiful,” Inspector White said. “I’ve never seen anyone tie their shoes like that before. It’s a work of art.”

  “I agree,” Oona said. “And it stands to reason that if the author of this book taught this Shoe Fly Knot to someone, then he might have also taught the Rose Knot to him.”

  “What are you getting at Miss Crate?” the inspector snapped.

  Oona raised an eyebrow at the museum guard, staring at him hard. “Would you please raise your pant leg, Mr. McGillicuddy? So that we might see how your shoe is tied.”

  “I beg your pardon?” the guard asked, looking quite surprised by the request.

  Oona could feel her heart begin to quicken. This was the moment of revelation. “If you have nothing to hide, Mr. McGillicuddy, please show us your shoelaces.”

  The guard looked to Inspector White, whose mouth had pulled into a tight line. He looked quite irritated with the entire affair, but twirled his finger in a let’s-get-this-over-with gesture.

  The guard shrugged, and then hiked the bottom of his trouser leg up, exposing his shiny black shoes. Oona pointed at the place where the string came together in a knot and opened her mouth to utter a triumphant “Aha!” . . . but the sound stuck in her throat.

  The guard’s shoelaces were not tied in any extraordinary way. They looked just like anybody else’s laces. Oona’s face flushed with embarrassment.

  “Are you satisfied, Miss Crate?” the inspector asked.

  Oona threw her hands to her hips. “So maybe he doesn’t use the Shoe Fly Knot to tie his shoes. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know the Rose Knot.” Oona flipped the book to the front cover. “The author of this book is Abraham McGillicuddy, and it seems highly suspicious to me that—”

  “That’s my grandfather’s name!” the guard blurted out.

  Oona took in a sharp breath. “So you admit it.”

  “Of course I do,” he said plainly. “But I didn’t know he had published a book. Can I see that?”

  Oona reluctantly handed the book over.

  The guard began flipping through the pages, his expression growing more and more thoughtful. “Grandfather passed away in New York, just before my family moved to Dark Street, back when I was a kid. And now that I think of it, he did have a hobby that had to do with knots . . . except he never taught me any of them. Not a very nice man, my grandfather. Didn’t care for me much, as I remember. But he loved my older sister, Abigail, he did. Treated her like a little princess.”

  “Your sister?” Oona asked, surprised. She looked at Deacon, wondering why the name Abigail McGillicuddy had not appeared in the Who’s Who.

  Before she could inquire, Victor continued: “I think he taught Abigail quite a few of his knots, come to think of it, but she never showed ’em to me. Then again, I never was much interested in that sort of thing, and we never were very close, she being some nine years older than me. Plus, she got married to that shady character Denis Carlyle. My wife insisted I stop inviting them to dinner because things kept disappearing. Haven’t seen either of them in years.”

  “Carlyle?” Oona said, and looked alarmingly at Deacon. “Is that . . .” She didn’t even wish to finish the sentence.

  Deacon appeared thoughtful as he accessed his reference materials. After a pause, he said: “Oh, dear. Had we inquired further into the Dark Street Who’s Who, we would have seen the connection. But we stopped at the name McGillicuddy. Abigail McGillicuddy changed her last name when she got married to Denis Carlyle—a man with quite a checkered past—and became Abigail Carlyle . . . and she is currently the housemaid at Pendulum House.”

  Oona’s heart sank.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Final Battle Test

  Oona shoved through the front door to Pendulum House so forcefully that the door banged against the inside wall, causing Deacon to jump on her shoulder. Inspector White and the police constable followed her in, with Samuligan bringing up the rear.

  “Where is she?” Oona asked. She peered around the entryway as if expecting to find the maid standing there, waiting for them. But the entryway and the round antechamber beyond stood empty.

  “Tell me again why we are searching for your housemaid,” the inspector said incredulously.

  Oona whirled around. “Because, Inspector, she is the only person we know for sure who would know how to tie the Rose Knot—besides Isadora Iree, that is, but Isadora is too young to have murdered my father three years ago. Whoever did it was in league with Red Martin. He told me so. As you know, my father had been trying to catch the Rose Thieves when he was killed. They tied that very knot to the murder weapon, the gun, and left it behind. It was their signature. And it’s the same knot used on the night watchman at the museum on Monday night.”

  “And you want me to arrest her based solely on the fact that she might know how to tie a knot?” the inspector asked.

  “A unique knot, Inspector . . . but what I suggest you do is take Mrs. Carlyle back to her home and search it for the missing Faerie Carbuncle. That should prove she is one of the Rose Thieves.” Oona turned back to the antechamber, where several hallways branched off in different directions. “Samuligan, can you fetch Mrs. Carlyle for us? Samuligan?”

  She looked around but did not see the faerie anywhere. “Where did he get to?”

  “I have already searched for her. She is not here,” said the faerie, who, to Oona’s surprise, entered the antechamber from the hallway that led to the library.

  “That was quick,” Oona said, quite impressed, though she knew she should not have been. The faerie was almost a part of the house and had a knack for appearing in nearly any room to which he was summoned at the drop of a hat.

  “But that is not all,” Samuligan continued. “There is a book missing from the library. A very old book of spells.”

  “A book of spells?” Deacon asked. “Are you sure?”

  “I know tha
t library like the back of my hand,” Samuligan said. He held up his hand, which presently displayed an intricate tattooed map of the library’s forest of books. “I knew the book was missing the moment I entered.”

  Oona shook her head, confused. “You think Mrs. Carlyle took it? But what would she want with . . .” She trailed off as the answer came to her. It was a terrible answer, one that she wished were not true.

  “Oona? What’s going on here?” came the voice of the Wizard. He was crossing the antechamber toward them.

  “It’s Mrs. Carlyle,” Oona said. “She is one of the Rose Thieves.”

  The Wizard stopped in his tracks. “The Rose Thieves? The ones responsible for your father’s death? Bradford’s murderers?”

  Hearing her uncle say it out loud all at once made her want to burst into tears, and it occurred to her that she had been fighting back her emotions ever since approaching the museum guard. She swallowed hard and forced herself to keep her emotions in check for as long as possible.

  “One and the same,” she said. “Surely the other Rose Thief must be her husband, Denis Carlyle . . . the man she said she met when she was around my age.”

  And suddenly Oona felt a sense of betrayal like she had never felt before. She had confided in Mrs. Carlyle, told her about Adler, and even looked up to her for her thoughts on women’s rights. It was simply wretched.

  Oona cleared her throat before continuing: “They stole the Faerie Carbuncle from the museum, and now she has stolen a book of ancient spells from the Pendulum House library. Most likely, she’s been looking for the spell that is required to activate the carbuncle’s enchantment.”

  The Wizard ran a thoughtful hand down his beard. “That’s why I always found her cleaning the library. I just thought she was being thorough.”

  Oona began to nod, understanding coming too late. “It’s true. I almost always found her there as well. She was pretending to clean the shelves when what she was really up to was looking for a book that contained the spell she would need to activate the Faerie Carbuncle which would—”