‘Definitely!’ Alice called after her.
A sudden cheer reverberated around the campus, and a distant voice yelled, ‘House Mielikki takes the trophy!’
Bea wasn’t in the library the next morning. She’d left a note explaining that she’d be gone for a few hours. All members of House Mielikki’s governing committee had been summoned to an urgent morning meeting. Bea wasn’t a committee member, but she took the minutes during the monthly governance meetings.
Alice examined the two books Bea had left for her alongside the note: The Craft of Carving by Bridie Walsh and Mary Lynch, and Eradicating the Uninvited: Weeding Out Pests Permanently by C. Carrasco. Bea had highlighted the pages she wanted Alice to read before Monday. There were a lot. She tucked the books under her arm and headed off to the lab, wondering what it meant that there had been an urgent meeting at House Mielikki.
Alice’s boots crunched over broken glass and she paused in the doorway. It was a scene of total devastation. Face slack with shock, she peered around the room and stepped further inside, allowing the door to fall closed behind her. The brittle crunch of glass echoed in the empty lab.
She trudged to her desk and laid Bea’s books on it. Then she turned back to examine the room, her breathing shallow. Reid’s desk had been upended and was lying in pieces. Her polished hematite blackboard was cracked in two. The shelves had been pulled down, their skeletal frames smashed, and the books scattered around the room, their pages missing and covers torn. Plaster from the walls crumbled over everything, a fine mist of grey dust and thick, broken chunks. Reid’s chair had been flung on its side, the legs snapped off. Everywhere was shattered glass, shards of wood and fragments of masonry. Torn papers blanketed pockets of the chaos.
What had happened here?
The door was shoved open, scraping the glass across the floor, and Alice turned slowly, expecting a horrified Vivian Reid. It was the janitor, Eugene Reilly – he always reminded her of an old sea captain, with his white beard and the navy cap pulled down over his fluffy hair.
‘I’ve phoned the Runners,’ he said. ‘They’re going to send someone. You’d best come away.’
‘Who did it?’ she asked blankly.
He shrugged. ‘Vandals, probably. Too extreme for a student prank. I’ll clear it up once the Runners have gone.’
‘Does she know? Has she seen it yet? The woman who works in here with me?’
‘Professor Reid? No. I think we’d have heard the shouting a mile away if she’d walked in on this,’ he said with a knowing look.
‘Probably,’ she agreed, looking around at the carnage.
It looked like someone had been searching for something, smashing the office in a rage when they hadn’t succeeded. Then another thought came to her. The look in Lester’s eye when he saw the name of the institute on the folder she’d carried in the library. He knew where she worked. But if this was aimed at her, what was the point of it? She looked around. Was it just an attempt to spook her?
Alice frowned, lips pursed. If Reid suspected the lab’s destruction was linked to Alice she’d fire her; there was no doubt. Fucking Lester. The man must be deranged. Her jaw clenched.
‘It’s not safe in here,’ said the janitor. ‘Come to the staffroom and we’ll have a hot drink while we wait for the Runners.’
Alice flinched. She didn’t want any contact with the Runners. She hadn’t even reported her own attacks to them. ‘I’ll . . . just get my stuff,’ she said, forcing a smile. He nodded and trudged out, leaving her alone.
Alice hesitated. What if something had happened to Reid? It was so unlike her to be late for work. Out of the corner of her eye, Reid’s glass and marble cabinet caught Alice’s attention. It had once sat beneath her desk but now lay exposed. A crack ran down its centre and the drawers were out of alignment. Reid kept her research notes in it. Someone – Lester? – had been interested enough to search the drawers. But why? Reid had always kept it unlocked.
She stepped carefully through the mess to reach the cabinet and bent to examine it. The damage had wedged the drawers shut so it was impossible to know if Reid’s papers were still inside. She yanked at the handles, but the drawers wouldn’t give. Casting around for something useful to jimmy open the narrow gap, her eyes alighted on one of the wooden shards on the floor. She shoved it into the space and forced it down, but the wood snapped off in her hands.
A quick glance at the door, to check for the Runners or Eugene, and she hurriedly studied the ruptured wood. She broke off a splinter from the end and rolled it between her palms. Warm tingles seeped from her hands, up her arms, as she held the image of the tiny wooden shard in her mind. She held out her palm, and the wood seemed to vibrate like a grain of boiling rice. Eyes narrowed in determination, Alice tipped the splinter through the gap, into the cabinet’s middle drawer, and quickly moved aside.
She counted out the seconds, her palms still tingling. With one sharp exhale, the middle drawer exploded open as the splinter inside it grew larger. Like an exploded bomb, its growth burst inside the drawer and jolted it open with such force the cabinet expelled every drawer. Heart pounding at the possibility that Reid’s research – which Alice had failed to copy for her – had been taken, she bent and peered inside.
It was empty.
Alice felt sick. If she’d just copied the research when she’d been asked . . . She swallowed, searching desperately for something she could salvage. A few scraps of paper littered the bottom of the last drawer and something was wedged into the corner. She picked at it, trying to gain some purchase, and managed to pull it out. It was an envelope. She turned it over. A very old envelope, the writing on the front faded and illegible. Alice slid a finger inside and pulled out two photographs. One was familiar. It was an exact copy of the photo on the front of Cecil’s book. An elegant woman in an oval frame, the very model of cool composure. Why would Reid keep a photo of Leda Westergard stuffed in a drawer?
Alice frowned and studied the second photo. A group of women and girls sat on a picnic blanket in a garden, their smiling faces tilted towards the sun. Alice paused on one of the figures in the image. She was little more than a child, but with the shark-like eyes there was no question who it was: Marianne Northam. She looked again, lingering over the slightly older teenager with curls next to Marianne, her arm around a wet Labrador. Was that . . . Reid? Turning it over with trembling hands, she could just make out a faded message written in pencil:
Left to right: Helena, Leda, Emmi, Catherine, Marianne, Hanna, Florens and Tilda.
23rd August – Annual Jarvis Fundraiser. Look at Tilda’s wet dress! She told me she’s banning either dogs or pond-dipping next year! I almost told her I’d rather she banned herself but I bit my tongue to keep Mother happy!
Alice frowned, a tightness in her chest easing just slightly. Not Reid then – there was no Vivian listed. But she’d been right about Marianne. As for the others . . . She turned to peer at the faces, squinting to sharpen the camera’s slightly unfocused blur. Second from the left, according to the list, was Leda. She glanced at the official portrait of Leda Westergard. Marianne had known the Mielikki chancellor. How deep did her scheming run? Marianne had her claws into the Runners – had she once held more sway with the Council too? Alice looked around the room, taking in the destruction, and was acutely reminded that Marianne also wanted to get her hooks into the university.
Footsteps and mumbling voices outside the window caused Alice to flinch. She snuck out from behind the cabinet and moved to peer outside. Eugene was leading two Runners along the gravel path by the side of the Cavendish Building. He stopped to point at the lab window, and Alice ducked.
Reuben Risdon. Reuben fucking Risdon had come. Wasn’t vandalism a bit beneath his pay grade?
He hadn’t changed. Even his burgundy waistcoat, overlaid with a worn blue greatcoat, was the same as she remembered. Tall and lean, in his early fifties, his tangle of grey hair glinted in the sunlight. Slate-grey eyes examined the outside
door – no doubt checking for signs of forced entry to the building itself. His eyebrows slanted fiercely as he studied the frame.
She hated him.
Every cell in her body burned with her hatred. She had never, really and truly, hated anyone before. It was strange to think she was capable of it. She’d thought, after Jen’s death, that it might lessen with time, or that she might become more understanding of his reasons. But she had surprised herself by nursing her contempt until it grew roots in her heart. He had murdered her best friend in the world. She didn’t care that he had done it to save the city. She didn’t care that he had done it to save her own soul from the burden of massacring the Rookery. It wasn’t rational, she knew that. But hating Risdon was the only thing that had made it possible to live with herself after Jen’s death. Hating him meant she didn’t have to hate herself.
His eyes tracked in her direction and she drew back sharply.
Time to go.
She grabbed her two books and the envelope of photographs and scrambled to the door. Without a backward glance, she darted into the corridor and hurried away. She needed some fresh air and time to think.
There was a bouquet of flowers on the floor outside her apartment. She froze at the flash of colour wrapped in hessian and tied with ribbons. Sympathy flowers for Holly left in the wrong place? She glanced down the corridor, to Holly’s empty apartment. No doubt they’d have a new tenant in there any day now.
She scooped up the bouquet, wondering whether it might be coincidence that flowers had appeared the day after Sasha’s visit. Either sent to cheer her up, or . . . perhaps they were from someone who’d just been told there was no relationship between Alice and Tom. Crowley wasn’t the type for flowers, but . . .
A small rectangle of white card nestled among the blooms, and her stomach tightened at the possibility of seeing Crowley’s familiar angular scrawl.
‘Miss Wyndham?’
Alice started, and almost dropped the bouquet. It was Reuben Risdon, followed by a uniformed younger man in a blue tunic.
She tensed as Risdon strode the length of the corridor, his regal bearing at odds with the shabbiness of his greatcoat.
‘Could I have a moment of your time? I’d like to discuss what you know of the vandalism in your workroom.’
Her mouth thinned and she looked away. She’d have preferred an ambush from Lester.
‘No, sorry, I need to get these in water,’ she said, waving her flowers in explanation.
The card tucked inside floated to the ground. There was no sign of Crowley’s handwriting on it. The message printed on the card was simple and direct: Murderer. She gritted her teeth.
With a swift glance at Risdon, who was fast approaching, she retrieved it and shoved it into her pocket. Examining the flowers, she frowned into the bouquet as realization struck. Purple foxgloves, calla lilies, hydrangeas, oleander and hemlock. Poisonous flowers, all wrapped in hessian like a gift. But it was too late: she must have accidentally touched them when she’d reached for the card. She turned over her left hand. Her palm had turned an angry red; it swelled at an unnatural speed. The creases in her skin tightened, smooth and shiny, and itchy.
‘Damn.’
She flexed her hand and the skin cracked, exposing the tender flesh underneath. Her palm burned with hot agony and she couldn’t stifle a soft moan. Water. She needed water.
‘That looks nasty,’ said Risdon, his expression serious. ‘Let me take you to the medical bay.’
The university nurse slathered a dollop of cream that smelled heavily of eucalyptus across Alice’s hands and smiled down at her.
‘You’ve been very lucky to have avoided serious side effects . . . and death,’ she said, shaking her head and bustling over to the sink to wash her hands. ‘Come and see me again tomorrow.’
Reuben Risdon was watching from the door, his arms folded and a concerned expression on his face. ‘Could you give her something for the pain?’ he asked.
Alice stared at him. She didn’t need him to speak for her, and she certainly didn’t want him offering his false kindnesses.
The nurse spun round, apologetic. ‘Would you like something?’
‘No thanks,’ said Alice. Her hand was tender and swollen, but at least the signet ring wasn’t so loose any more, she thought grimly.
She flexed her fingers, examining the redness, and smiled. The sting was already fading. Maybe the so-called ‘rise of House Mielikki’ had given her some additional protection.
‘Might I have a moment with the patient, if you’re done?’ asked Risdon, and Alice became very still.
‘Oh,’ said the nurse, and paused. When Risdon raised an impatient eyebrow, she said, ‘Of course, Commander,’ and left her office looking taken aback.
Risdon closed the door carefully behind the nurse and the young Runner who’d accompanied him.
‘I spoke with Beatrice Pelham-Gladstone earlier,’ he said. ‘Would you like to report the other attacks you’ve suffered?’
Alice stilled. Bloody Bea. ‘No.’
The room fell silent, but she was very aware of his studious gaze. He knew who and what she was – both that she was an aviarist and that her soul was infused with death.
‘Given this afternoon’s events,’ he said, ‘I’m willing to extend an offer of protection to you. An officer, stationed here at the university to—’
‘I don’t need your spies,’ she said, looking up at him for the first time.
There was a steely glint in his eye and his jaw tensed. ‘You are a citizen of my city,’ he said, ‘and I have a duty to ensure your safety equal to any other.’
She tried to calm the tremble of anger in her voice. ‘Or maybe,’ she said, ‘you want to protect the other citizens from me?’
Their eyes locked and his expression softened. ‘Would you like to discuss the events of Marble Arch?’
‘No thank you,’ she said in a clipped tone. ‘When the commander of the Runners can murder an innocent and walk away without a blemish on his character, that says more to me than words ever will.’
His forehead creased, the fierce eyebrows slanting. ‘Defence of the city is not a crime,’ he said. ‘Many lives were saved that night.’
A blush rose on her cheeks and she glanced away, gnawing guilt chipping away at her. She wanted to hold on to her anger.
‘Nothing was put on record that night,’ he said. ‘I have kept your confidences, and respect your right to privacy.’ He paused. ‘But a watchful eye over you—’
‘How about opening that watchful eye to the corruption under your nose,’ she said offhandedly. ‘I told you that the Runners were infested with Marianne’s Fellowship. Her followers are wearing your uniforms. Maybe you should be dealing with that first.’
‘I am,’ he said quietly.
Her mouth snapped shut and she graced him with a suspicious look.
‘I’ve engaged one of her ex-members to help root them out,’ he said. ‘Someone who knows the signs.’
Alice frowned, and then understood. ‘August?’ she asked in surprise. August’s top-secret job was ratting out the Fellowship?
Risdon nodded, a conciliatory look in his eye that threw her. ‘I took your information seriously. I won’t accept corruption in my ranks.’
Alice stared at him, suddenly torn.
‘And I will take the allegation given by Miss Pelham-Gladstone seriously too,’ he went on. ‘I can assign a Runner to you, one with an unblemished record, so that—’
Her expression hardened and she shook her head. ‘No. You can send your spies to watch me, claiming it’s for my own protection all you like, but don’t expect me to be grateful to you.’
The card shoved in her pocket poked her thigh and she hesitated. Murderer. Well, Risdon was the murderer in this room.
‘I think I would like something for the pain after all,’ she said, rising from her chair. ‘Nurse?’ she called, opening the door. ‘Do you have something for an irritating headache?’
The next morning Bea was in a foul mood, and Alice’s was no better.
‘I can’t believe that corrupt, venal bastard is using us for a photo opportunity!’ seethed Bea, sprinkling black pepper on her poached eggs.
They were sitting at a long table in the Arlington dining hall, newspapers spread out among the plates of hash browns, toast, jam pots and teacups. The corner of The Rookery Herald was sitting in the milk jug and the print was slowly bleeding from the front page. It was just as well: the article announcing that Chancellor Litmanen was cutting the ribbon at the Midsummer Festival had not gone down well with the librarian.
‘Geraint Litmanen. What an absolute shit.’ Bea slammed the pepper pot down and knocked the marmalade into her green tea. ‘He came here two years ago,’ she said, reaching for her teacup. ‘They gave him an honorary doctorate in political science. Can you imagine? And in his speech, he claimed he was related to the Welsh Picton family and wore a sash with their coat of arms on. My mother plays bridge with the Dagsworth-Pictons once a year, so I double-checked the genealogy books after he’d gone and they don’t even have a coat of arms!’ She sipped her tea and pulled a face. ‘Don’t drink the green tea. It tastes of oranges.’
‘Not a fan then?’ asked Alice, eyes travelling over the soggy front page and the chancellor’s face. In his early forties, with sparkling green eyes, slick dark hair on the verge of receding and a dazzling smile thanks to porcelain veneers, he was wearing a waistcoat pulled tightly over the early stages of a paunch.
‘Some men,’ said Bea, stabbing her poached eggs with a fork, ‘are the type you’d take home to your mother. And others are the type who’d sleep with her.’
Alice contemplated her over her slice of buttered toast, watching the obliterated yolk ooze across Bea’s plate.
‘I want to go to House Mielikki,’ said Alice. Bea paused at the sudden change of subject. ‘If Lester’s been going there, then I want to find him and—’
Bea shook her head. ‘He isn’t. I reported him to Cecil – Whitmore wasn’t there. Cecil’s suspended his membership. I spoke to Cassie Mowbray, too – Holly’s sister – and they think he’s gone to ground because they’ve put a solicitor on his case.’
The Rookery Page 17