A quill and ink pot sat on the table along with a few pieces of ridged paper. The chunky parchment took to ink, but aged poorly. I sniffed the hunk of gray Spanish wax. It'd been used recently—I recognized the coppery scent it gave off after burning. Mr. O'Dell had written letters today, probably not long before he was murdered. More than one, based on the length of wax missing from the chunk.
"I've already checked in there and found nothing," came the Warden's voice from outside.
Without looking away, I answered, "I'm still looking."
The desk was locked, and I didn't have my picks. I rattled the drawer a few times. It wouldn't budge.
Leaning over the side, I peered through the gap on the warped back. I could see something long and round in the darkness.
Back in the workshop, I retrieved a crowbar. The Warden had moved outside, which suited me fine. I didn't want him seeing what I was about to do.
Using the crowbar, I was able to wedge the back of the desk open, creating a gap to shove my hand in. I was able to pull out a rolled painting tied with a blue ribbon.
Unrolling it flat on the desk revealed an exquisite painting of George III dressed in a patterned cloak, a golden coat, and pantaloons accented in cream furs. I wondered how a simple cooper had come to acquire such an expensive painting until I saw the mistake. The legs looked crooked and unrealistic, unlike the rest of the painting. This had been the first attempt from the painter, one probably meant for destruction, as a man like King George III, who I'd met once, would not stand for unauthorized likenesses.
It wasn't that it was unauthorized that was significant, but rather that it was in O'Dell's drawer. It confirmed his allegiance to the Crown rather than the American government. Which was why the painting was behind a locked drawer.
I slid the painting back into the gap, pushed the desk back against the wall, and set the chunky parchment on the hole so it wasn't noticeable.
Now I knew about the existence of the painting and that he'd written multiple letters recently. What I didn't know was if they were related to the murders.
Was this how the Gamayun operated? By bending events that were already going to happen to their needs? Could it be that the river of blood was already going to occur without their involvement and they just saw the future?
Birds were often harbingers of doom. The Gamayun seemed more than just harbingers. Could it be that they were actually responsible for the murders, that they couldn't see the future and used the killings as a way to stir up further destruction?
Before the Warden got suspicious, I returned to the workshop. He was crouched over the body.
When he saw me, he started shaking his head again. "I wanted to ask if you found anything, but somehow I think you'll only lie to me. But I'm a fool, so I'll ask anyway. Did you find anything in there?"
The way he looked at me, with those no-color eyes, like a boy expecting a bully to break his wooden soldiers again, almost made me tell him the truth. Almost.
"No," I said with what I hoped was an appropriate sigh. "You?"
"I know how he died," said Simon.
He frowned at the dead man, the weight of unwanted responsibility on his shoulders. It made me want to take Simon in my arms. Like a good soldier, he carried on even when his heart wasn't in the job.
"He bled to death?" I said with a half-grin.
Simon couldn't help but smirk. "The dead deserve our respect."
"But not at the expense of the living," I replied. "So what happened?"
Simon, crouched over the body, took a wooden rod and poked it into the bloody hole. The flesh oozed, and I tried to ignore the sucking sound.
"See that?"
I leaned closer. The faint smell of rot hit my nose. "I see something in his neck."
The Warden moved the object back and forth with the wooden rod.
"A piece of metal?" I asked.
"Let us find out." Simon grabbed the object with a pair of tongs. He had to wiggle it back and forth to get it to slide out of the neck.
It was a square piece of flat steel. We both looked to the barrel. The width matched the hoop.
"He was tightening the hoop when it snapped and a piece got lodged in his throat," I said.
Simon wrinkled his forehead. "An accident."
"Yes, it appears that way," I said, not believing it. I didn't know how the Gamayun had done it, but they'd caused the cooper's death. I worried that he might have visited the prophetic birds like Albert Hold had, but there was no sign of it, like a feather or other token.
Unless Albert had told others about the Gamayun. If others had gone into the forest and received their prophecy, then I was working against multiple problems.
Simon was staring.
"Yes?" I asked.
"You're thinking something."
"Of course I'm thinking something," I said.
He gave me a flat look. "Will you share it?"
"The short version is that I'm wondering what the blazes is going on," I told him, which wasn't far from the truth.
He sighed and walked away. "I'm going to have the morgue collect the body and file it as an accident."
"It appears that's what it is," I said.
He turned and squared his shoulders to me, as if we were about to duel with pistols. "Katerina. I'm asking one last time. Is something else going on? You look like you're holding something back. I see those thoughts passing across your eyes. Is this an accident?"
"Yes, it's an accident, as far as I can tell," I said. "I'm just distracted, that's all. Franklin doesn't trust me anymore and it bothers me."
"My apologies, Katerina. I'd forgotten. I know you two were close. I tried to explain what I saw on the Brave Eagle, but it seemed like he wasn't going to believe me no matter what I said."
"Thank you for trying, Simon. That means a lot to me. I've been feeling rather friendless in Philadelphia," I said.
He gave me a comforting nod.
I left, feeling content that Simon believed it was an accident. I thought nothing of the sort. Though I didn't know how, the Gamayun had caused this man's death. I wasn't sure I believed Rowan's explanation that they could see all possible futures, which left more physical methods of murder. But I didn't think I'd be able to figure out how they did it yet.
What I needed to know was what was on those letters and to whom did they go. I assumed that Mr. O'Dell had sent them by courier rather than the city mail. I figured this because if he were an English spy, he wouldn't trust the American mail system. Especially because it was notoriously slow.
I also knew there was a courier stop three blocks from his house, which made it the fastest and most convenient way to send messages. I just had to hope all the letters hadn't been delivered, otherwise I'd never get to see what was on them.
Chapter Thirteen
The boy playing with the spark toy saved me from the Empty Man hiding in the alleyway. The boy was young, barely old enough to wander the streets after dark, but I silently cheered his mother for her ambivalence when I saw him.
I'd seen one of the spark toys before in Franklin's house. It was modeled after the Leyden jar, which collected electricity and spit it back out when released. The toy had a handle that when turned, generated electricity that crackled at the end of three prongs, bouncing from tip to tip. Around the prongs were polished metal mirrors which reflected the sparks, creating a rapid flashing.
Ben had been as giddy as the youngster when he first turned the handle, delighted by the easy demonstration of electrical principles in a pleasing manner. He'd made us all shuffle into a darkened room while he turned the grinding handle with a cackling glee.
The boy had run past an alleyway, one not far from the courier shop, and the reflective light revealed the cloaked man. I knew it was an Empty Man by the way the light reflected strangely from his brass nose.
I flattened myself against the wall and watched until I was certain he hadn't seen me. I'd destroyed the last two Empty Men that had been sent af
ter me, but I didn't think I'd get as lucky this time. This Winged One that had sent the first two really wanted me dead if it sent more assembled-junk assassins. Was it significant that their benefactor was named the Winged One? Everything seemed to be birds, or bird-like. An omen.
Worried that other Empty Men might be lurking in other alleyways, I took the long way around to the courier shop, keeping to the shadows. The shop was still open when I arrived, which was late by business standards, but not surprising for a courier service, since letter writing was quite fashionable and was carried out by all levels of society day and night.
The bell rattled upon entrance. A plain woman in a light blue dress and cream apron was standing at the desk scribbling notes into a ledger, dabbing the quill into the ink with vigor. Behind her was a simple room with three rows of tables, each with a pair of attendants sorting letters into leather satchels.
"Madam, may I help you?" she asked with that stare that said she was quite busy and hoped I was only going to ask about a trivial task.
I swallowed my greeting when I saw a woman from the Brigade Against Tyranny standing at one of the tables. Her name was Myna or something. She'd been the one outside my door looking for Katerina Dashkova. When Myna glanced up, I rubbed my forehead.
"Madam, are you well?" asked the plain woman.
"A tinge of the vapors," I said, fanning myself.
The woman's stern face softened. "It only gets worse with age. May I help you with a delivery?"
Positioning myself so the woman in front of me was blocking line of sight to Myna, I put on airs of sadness.
"I'm afraid I'm still trying to come to grips with the tragedy," I said.
The woman tried to hide her annoyance, and she was gracious enough to inquire when she clearly didn't want to. By the mounds of letters on the tables, they wouldn't be finished any time soon, which boded well if I was to find messages sent by O'Dell.
"What is the matter, Madam?" she asked reluctantly.
"My husband passed this morning, a terrible accident," I said.
She straightened and an exclamation of real surprise slipped from her lips. "My humblest apologies. I'm very sorry."
"No, your apologies are unnecessary, but I could use your help," I said, leaning heavily on the counter, as if I might collapse at any moment.
"You realize this is a courier shop," she said. "I'm not sure how we can help you."
"My husband's letters. He sent them this morning, right before he died. I was hoping to retrieve them so I might know why he died," I said.
"Madam, I'm afraid I cannot help you. It is strict policy not to betray the wishes of our clients. We operate much like the government postal service, though we believe we operate much quicker and our customers are happier," she said.
"The wishes of your clients? My husband is dead. What about the wishes of the living?" I said, raising my voice to an uncomfortable level.
She flinched and held out her hands, as if she were shushing a dog or a child. "Now, Madam. Please. I cannot help you. It's against our policy, no matter what the circumstances. Those letters are sacred and they will reach their destination even if the sender no longer lives, bless his heavenly soul."
I almost felt bad, but I needed the letters more than I cared to spare her feelings.
"Can you do nothing?" I asked, my voice spiking. "Not even for a widow who's just lost her husband?"
The sounds of shuffling and stacking letters ceased as the six women at the tables stopped working. They didn't stare, but froze mid-motion, as if they'd been caught stealing.
The plain woman held out her hands. She looked in pain, but I could see she wasn't going to budge. She had Puritan values, which meant I was going to have to find another way. It only took me a moment to decide how to accomplish it.
I stepped back so I could get a good look at all the tables and started breathing heavily as if I were about to pass out. None of the women at the tables, and especially Myna from the Brigade, had dared look up. Only the poor woman at the counter was forced to keep watch.
"My husband's name was Fale O'Dell. The letters have gray wax with a barrel on the seal. There was more than one letter. Can't you let me see even one?" I begged, my voice booming through the shop.
I got the reaction for which I was hoping. The plain woman was staring at her desk in hopes that I might magically disappear while the women at the tables were glancing at their letters for the exact parcels I'd described.
When Myna's hand unconsciously reached out to caress a satchel to her left, I quickly memorized the markings on the leather before burying my head in my hands with a sob.
Before my ruse could be discovered, I marched to the door and shouted behind me, "Good day to you, Madam. Good day."
Outside, I crossed the street, looking for a shadowy doorway in which to keep watch on the courier shop.
Waiting was painful, as I'd not worn attire suited for early the weather. A cold wind slipped through the streets and my chosen doorway did little to stop it.
A full two hours later the women of the courier shop appeared in the doorway, leather satchels on their shoulders. They chatted like birds beneath the gas lamps before scattering in their respective directions. Myna went to the west with another woman. I couldn't hear their conversation over the chattering of my teeth.
I waited for a minute before following Myna. I couldn't tell if she had the same satchel from this distance, but couldn't get closer without giving myself away.
I skulked through the shadows, simultaneously keeping an eye on Myna and the alleyways in case of the Empty Men. Three streets up, the other woman left and Myna went on alone. She went into a brick front house and moments later candlelight warmed against the curtains.
Standing outside in the cold evening, I wondered how long I could maintain my vigil. My fingers and toes were numb. I moved to the window to listen, to determine the number of people inside, when the door opened.
Myna backed out of the door holding a wooden bucket away from her body. A faint steam rose from the container, along with an odorous scent. To my relief, she turned the other way, holding the privy at arm's length, which made it swing precariously.
While Myna moved to empty her waste into the sewer opening at the corner, I slipped through the door. The inside looked like a war memorial. On the navy blue couch was a pile of knitting in the country's colors. A Continental Army uniform lay across the sturdy oak chair in the corner, rearranged as if someone inhabited it. A rifle lay propped against the armrest. The black metal was polished bright.
Above the couch was a framed newspaper. It was the Boston Chronicle, and on the date of December 1780, the paper listed the numerous deaths from a battle on Kings Mountain. I assumed her husband would be found among the deceased.
I lingered longer than I should have examining the old newspaper. I, too, knew loss. My Mikhail had died when I was only twenty-one and afterwards I dedicated my life to my children and politics, so I knew what Myna Starling had been through.
When the door wheezed open, I threw myself into the back room, cursing myself that I hadn't found the satchel and escaped. It was dangerous for me to be in Myna's house, because she knew my identity.
Myna carried the emptied privy bucket into a side room. After I heard the thud of the bucket, Myna took up position on the couch and began knitting.
I was trapped in her bedroom. The house was one story. I checked the window, but it wasn't made to open. There was a bed, a writing table, and a wardrobe in the corner. To my surprise, I found a stack of my pamphlets on her desk. She'd collected nearly every one of them, which was more than a dozen. I hardly remembered penning that many, but it appeared I had.
A half-written letter to the Philadelphian Evening Post refuting the pamphlets was on the desk next to a pot of ink and a left-handed quill.
Myna's cough warned me in enough time to throw myself beneath the bed. The area beneath it barely had enough room for me to fit. I had to keep my head turned or
my nose scraped the wooden bottom.
Candlelight flooded into the room. I watched her bare feet move around the room as she changed into a nightgown from the wardrobe. After a blown breath, we were plunged into darkness.
Soon I heard snoring. I waited for a while. Though the floor was cold against my back, it was warmer than the outside and I wanted to warm up before making the journey back to my house.
Sliding sideways on my back, I moved out from under the bed. My eyes had adjusted enough that I could see Myna's dim form tangled amid the blankets. Whatever dream she was trapped in appeared unpleasant by the pinched face.
I crept into the kitchen, ducking beneath the hanging iron pots to find the satchel. I wanted to escape with the whole bag, but since I'd been in the courier shop asking to see the letters, it'd be obvious who'd stolen them.
Risking discovery, I found a candle and lit it, blocking the light with my body so it didn't reach the bedroom. Digging through the satchel, I found one of the letters. Using a knife from the kitchen, I pried it open, careful not to break the wax. The letter would be open when Myna delivered it, but that wouldn't be my concern. I could have broken the wax, but at least an intact seal could be explained.
Mr. Jackson,
Forgive my hasty message, but I fear we have been discovered. A Suspicious Woman came to the shop inquiring about the Death of Albert Hold. The manner of his Murder, the Woman's words, remain unknown, though this portends ill-tidings for our Plan. We must have a Meeting soon and decide if our Mission should continue, or we might return Home to England. I will send instructions at a later date.
God Save the King.
Fale O'Dell
The nature of their conspiracy became clearer upon reading the message. This circle of conspirators was made up of Loyalists spying for the English government. I’d suspected as much from the presence of the painting, but the letter confirmed it.
What I didn't know was if these Loyalists had any contact with the Gamayun, for the death of the Mr. O'Dell was somehow supposed to trigger these rivers of blood. Would the Loyalists send back messages that would drag America and England back into war? It didn't seem likely, as the Federalists, who were in power, wanted a closer relationship with their former master.
Birds of Prophecy (The Dashkova Memoirs Book 3) Page 9