It’s then my luck changes. Behind one of the paintings on the wall, a tiny, glossy corner peeks out. I slowly tug it out from beneath the brown paper covering the back of the artwork and discover a photograph of a woman with dark hair, her eyes closed as she lays upon a knoll of green grass. I quickly remove all the rest of the paintings in the room, but this is the only item of its kind in the room.
I find Mary rooting through the kitchen. Several bottles of ale and a take-out box sit within the refrigerator. The food in the cupboards consists of individually wrapped pieces of beef jerky.
I hold the photograph out. “This was behind one of the paintings.”
Her eyes widen in shock. Before I can ask why, she yells, “Jack! Get in here!”
The A.D. quickly appears, a gun in his hand. When he finds us in the kitchen, he scowls. “Don’t scare me like that, Mary! I thought maybe—”
She pays his posturing no heed. “Look at what Alice found.”
He edges closer, peering at the photograph. And then, his own eyes widening, he shakes his head. “Impossible.”
“What is it?” I ask. “Do either of you know this woman’s identity?”
Mary lets out a rather loud breath. “I’d say we do.” She takes the photograph from me. “This is Sara Crewe. She used to work at the Society.”
Sara Crewe . . .”As in Finn’s previous partner?”
She nods warily.
“Why would Sara’s picture be here?” the A.D. asks. “This place is wiped clean of anything incriminating. I’ve searched in all the places I would stash secrets.” His frown deepens. “Where did you find this, Alice?”
I motion toward the sitting room. “Behind the painting hanging over the sofa.”
We make our way into the room. The A.D. leans forward, staring at the artwork in question. “That’s London.”
I hadn’t even really bothered to pay much attention, but now that I really look at it, he’s correct. It’s not modern London, however. No, this is a London that Mary, the A.D., and I are more familiar with. It’s—
“Grosvenor Square,” Mary announces. “Look at the circle in the middle. And it’s not a recent painting, either. That’s how it appeared in the nineteenth-century.”
She’s right. The square patches staring up at me are utterly familiar from the few times I’ve gone to London with my family.
I glance at the photograph in Mary’s hands. “What is Sara Crewe’s Timeline?”
It’s the A.D. who answers. “1905BUR-LP. Except, it’s not really set in the early twentieth-century. The story takes place in the nineteenth-century.”
I lift the painting off the wall once more, turning it over. Written in cursive, in faint pencil in the bottom right corner, is Brook Street. I carefully peel back the brown paper covering the back to see if any other items are present, and am rewarded with another photograph of the same woman. This one, though, is in black and white. Arms around a man with darkish curly hair in a smart suit with his back to the camera, she’s got her head thrown back, laughing assumedly at whatever he is saying.
“Sonofabitch,” the A.D. whispers.
Son of a bitch is right. The man’s posture is far too similar to Lygari for my comfort.
I flip the painting over, searching the piece for any clues. There is nothing amiss in the scene—just the faint images of people riding and walking through the busy square. The A.D. and Mary quickly peel back the brown paper on the backs of the remaining two canvases in the room, and both are rewarded with a handful of photographs. Many are blurry, others have little to few clear shots of faces. Once we’ve hung the artwork back up, Mary swears. “We need to go.”
We’re out the door within a minute, in the elevator before two pass. We step out in the lobby the moment the A.D.’s alarm on his phone sounds. I am pleasantly surprised at how he was right with his estimation. Fifteen minutes did prove to be enough to find something.
The A.D. salutes the doorman. “The fishies are fed.” He lowers his voice. “Just don’t tell her we had to flush one down the toilet.” His rubbery lips twist ruefully. “Whoops!”
The doorman says nothing.
When we are safely in the car once more, I ask wryly, “Does this Kristina even have fish?”
“Her credit card records say she shops at a local pet store that specializes in fish.” The A.D. offers me an impish grin. “It was a good assumption.”
“You did well tonight, Jack.” And he did. Surprisingly so.
The man in question gasps, holding a hand against his chest. “Her Majesty . . . complimenting a poor feller like meself?”
Mary sighs. “Well, this complicates matters.”
Feigned outrage reflects back at her. “I actually do know how to do my job, you know.”
“No, not that.” She pulls the stack of photographs out of her bag. “These.”
It’s hard to see the details in the dark, especially with so few cars with their headlights on the road. But I can see why her mood is somber. A photograph of Finn and myself had been found in Bücherei, and now another agent, albeit a retired one, is represented in two more found amongst others within another of Lygari’s residences.
It cannot be mere happenstance.
When I first arrived at the Institute, I was issued Sara Crewe’s old flat. It was still filled with her belongings, and that first night, Finn and Mary helped me box away the multitude of dolls and pillows she’d left behind. Finn had mentioned that Sara was dead, although Mary clarified that, in today’s world, she would be, as her Timeline exists in the past.
Sara, then, must exist in the past, in the nineteenth-century. Therefore, I must go there and inquire as to what her connection with Lygari/Pfeifer is.
VAN BRUNT STARES AT the two clearest photographs of the stack we discovered, his face devoid of any visible emotion.
“It’s Sara.” Mary taps on the colored picture, where the woman lounges on a grassy knoll. “Even you have to admit it’s the little princess.”
The Librarian pulls aside the photograph in which the woman embraces a man. Her head tilts quizzically to the side as she stares at the image. She is wearing a silk, floral robe and matching slippers, her hair in curlers. I have never seen her so informal before, and I must admit, it’s a bit jarring despite the hour.
“It does appear so.” Exhaustion clings to Van Brunt—but like myself, he will not give in to it yet. There is too much at stake, too much to do. “Are you certain there were no other photographs than these in the apartment?”
“None, boss man.” The A.D. cracks his eyes open from where he slumps within a chair. “I checked every room as thoroughly as one can within the time limit. There were just a bunch of bills with Pfeifer’s name on them. No other pieces of correspondence, nothing even with his damn signature on it.”
“And the other paintings?”
“I’ve uploaded all the files to the server.” Mary does her best to try to hide her burgeoning yawn.
“Could you identify the scenes in the others? Determine if they correspond with the photographs found behind them?”
“Time was pressed, I’m afraid.”
“So many of these are unclear.” The Society’s leader rubs at his temples. “If only there was one that had a decent shot of a face.”
“We must find out what Brook Street refers to,” I interject.
Van Brunt’s blue eyes meet mine. “There is no need, Ms. Reeve, as I already have the answer. It is the street that Mrs. Carrisford resides upon in London.”
I ask, “Who is Mrs. Carrisford?” but it obvious everyone else in the room already knows the answer, for knowing looks are shared.
“Sara Crewe married a former beau once she left this Timeline, a Mr. Carrisford.”
“Former beau?” Mary snorts. “He’s old enough to be her grandfather. She was his ward. The entire relationship between the two of them has always been utterly disturbing.” She pretends to gag.
Upon reflection, Finn had told me once that Sa
ra had a boyfriend in her original Timeline, hadn’t he?
“They were on a break while she was here,” the A.D. pipes up. “Or so she said. Apparently, they’d been banging for a year or so before she joined the Society.” He shudders and cackles simultaneously. “Can you even imagine doing such a thing?”
“God, no.” Mary clamps a hand over his mouth. “Stop, before I vomit.”
Indulging in such salacious gossip will not help us right now, so I turn the conversation back to where it needs to be. “I was told that when she left, Sara wanted nothing more to do with the Society. Why was that?”
“She had her reasons.” The Librarian sets the photograph she’d been studying down upon Van Brunt’s desk.
“Since then, there has been no communication with the woman?”
Van Brunt informs me there has not.
“I’m going to go question her.” I hold aloft the picture where she embraces a man. “Perhaps she can explain how she has been found to be intimate with Lygari.”
“You cannot be certain of his identity, Ms. Reeve,” Van Brunt says tiredly. “There are no distinguishing marks to ascertain anything other than Mrs. Carrisford was hugging a man of good height with curly hair.”
He is right—there is nothing but a wall of black coat and darkish, curly hair visible. No show of hand, no ring upon a pinky finger. No cleft chin, no eyes to confirm. It could be any man, but instinct insists it is not.
“Nevertheless, I wish to speak to her as quickly as possible.”
The Librarian takes the photograph from me, adding it to the neat stack she’s recently created. “Let her go.”
Van Brunt’s eyebrows lift up in the tiniest way, mild surprise reflecting in his eyes.
“You and I both know curiosity always gets the best of our Alice. We should not stand in her way.” A sly smile is sent my way.
Mary stifles another yawn. “I’ll go, too.” To me, more softly, “We’re in this together.”
Despite the terrible circumstances thrusting us into the position of partnering together, I am grateful it is she who stands by me.
Before the A.D. offers up his service, Van Brunt says, “Mr. Dawkins, I have an assignment I need for you to complete as quickly as possible. Details have been sent to your account.”
His assistant mock salutes him. “Aye, aye, o’ captain of mine.”
The Librarian turns to me. “You’ll need to go change first. Sara lives in a rather nice neighborhood, and no one there will desire anything other than propriety.”
It’s exasperating that she remembers such small details when they slip my mind. Mary and I proceed to head up to the costume room without bothering to rouse Marianne. After all, being so intimately acquainted with the nineteenth-century, she and I know exactly what to look for.
As we help one another with our corsets, Mary gasps as I pull her stays tight. “I’d hoped to never see the wet blanket again.”
“No one says you must come.”
“I do, as a matter of fact. I loathe these things.” She gasps once more. “But they do create an interesting waistline. Make it tighter, will you?”
A good half hour later, both of us struggling to breathe, we’re laced in so tight, we’re appropriately attired for late nineteenth-century London. Our weapons are artfully hidden within the folds of skirts and bustles. As strange as it may sound, I’ve rather missed wearing such fashions—although now that I’ve spent many months corset free, I can appreciation the benefit of burning them all.
Mary writes us into 1905BUR-LP, appropriately close enough to Grosvenor Square. Clouds blanket the sky, but thankfully, there is no rain or snow. We stroll the small distance to Brook Street, gently nodding to those who greet us on our way.
The address Van Brunt provided us is a rather stately, gray abode with stairs that lead up toward a main door. It’s a large residence, indicating Sara Crewe went from small flat in New York City to much comfort in London.
I do not hesitate to rap upon the door. In turn, Mary yawns loudly.
“If you keep doing that,” I say mildly, “I will start to do so, as well.”
She purposely, slowly, exaggeratedly yawns right in my face.
The door finally creaks open, bringing with it an elderly man in smart livery with an upturned nose that appears when I fail to produce a calling card. Nonetheless, I say firmly, “We are here to see Mrs. Carrisford.”
“Mrs. Carrisford is unavailable for visitors at this time.”
“Is she here, though?” Mary snaps.
Before the butler can answer, a loud crash sounds within the house, followed by an equally loud string of blistering curses.
Everything—absolutely everything: the air, our breaths, our hearts, the birds in the sky, everything—goes perfectly, amazingly, impossibly still.
Mary grabs my arm, her eyes wide. Prickles race up and down my arms and spine, because we know that voice. And if Victor is here, then—
I do not bother with formalities anymore. I shove the door the butler’s clinging to fully open. Mary bolts into the house. “Victor! Victor! Where are you?”
How is this possible? How is it we came to interrogate Sara Carrisford over photographs found within Lygari’s residence and instead found those who we feared lost forever?
The butler is aghast. “Miss! Miss! You cannot just—”
“Where is he?” She’s frantic. “Where is my Victor?”
I grab hold of the butler’s arm to force his attention. “Are the Misters Van Brunt in residence?”
He gapes at me. Another crash sounds, one loud enough to rattle the walls. Victor’s shouting grows even louder. The butler says to Mary, “Miss, please, I beg of you, do not rile the doctor up. He’s in fits today as it is! We’ve only just managed to calm him down—”
A third crash explodes. Mary needs no further explanation before darting down an echoing hallway.
“I will only ask this once more.” I grab hold of the sputtering butler. “Are a Mr. Finn Van Brunt and a Mr. Victor Van Brunt in residence?
A deep breath is taken as he straightens his spine. He says nothing, but still. My knees nearly fail me. If Victor is here, Finn must be as well. “I must insist you take me to Mr. Finn Van Brunt immediately.”
“Mrs. Carrisford left strict instructions that he not be disturbed without her explicit permission!”
Blessed confirmation, then. Finn is somehow here, at Sara Crewe Carrisford’s home in 1905BUR-LP and not in 1905/06Sōs-IAAC as feared. I have no idea how he managed to edit from one Timeline to the other, but I am utterly grateful for it occurring nonetheless. I repress the tears threatening to swallow me whole, knowing I must stay strong and find him. My dagger whips out, angled at the base of the butler’s neck. “Is this adequate permission?”
A woman appears at the top of the nearby stairs. “Mr. Groverley! What is this ruckus? I believe I told you—” She stops when she notices our precarious position. I stare up at this delicate, lovely woman—black hair a little too messy, pink dress splotched with dried blood—and there is no doubt in my mind toward her identity.
She thinks to be the guardian at the gates, does she? How ironic, considering. There is no smile upon my face as I curtly greet her. She was in a photograph with Lygari, after all. As of this moment, guardian or no, she is my enemy. “Hello, Sara. Would you be so kind to inform me where Finn is? Your butler seems to have metaphorically lost his tongue. What a shame it would be if he was to lose it for real.”
Her mouth snaps open and then shut before she strides calmly down the stairs. She tucks back her hair, and although I’m certain she tries her best to hide it, her hand shakes with the motion. “Mr. Groverley is only following my orders. I beg of you to unhand him so that we might—”
“We will do nothing other than immediately go to wherever Finn is.”
Steel fortifies her words. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I consider what I have learned of Sara Carrisford, née Crewe. Fin
n’s former partner at the Society for nearly four years, rumors paint her as exceedingly nice, terrible at hand-to-hand combat, yet at the same time a fairly decent shot. She was neither frighteningly intelligent nor dimwitted, but capable enough. Mary dislikes her immensely, claiming the sugary sweetness of Sara’s personality and limitless optimism prior to her retirement were cloying and irritating. Others felt indifferent toward her departure; she has rarely entered conversation since my arrival. That is, until today.
A wicked smile curves my lips. “I think you do.”
She lunges at me suddenly, a small knife materializing in her hand. I roughly shove the butler to the side; he collapses upon the ground several feet away. Sara flips over the remaining railing, readying herself.
Well. Perhaps she’s a bit better at tactical fighting than I was led to believe.
“You do not want to do this with me, of that I can assure you.”
She surprises me with her palm flipped up, tips of fingers motioning toward me to do so. Very well, then.
Desperation colors each of her moves, but I am able to easily counter most of them. She attempts a blow; I parry, sending her blade skittering in a distance. She kicks, I twist her leg and send her sprawling. She does not give up, though, no matter how many times she falls. Her butler even tries to tackle me, but once more, his interference lands him flat on his arse.
Sara truly is not as terrible as she was made out to be, though. By no means is she excellent at hand-to-hand combat, but she has determination and a drive that makes half that battle. She knows how to fall the right way, to get up and not give up. She even manages to land a few decent punches.
I wonder if Finn taught her these moves.
Victor’s shouting sounds within the house again. Another crash follows. Sara spins and kicks out at me, but I’m able to deflect her strike and instead grab hold and slam her against a wall. My dagger out and shoved against her neck, I say loudly, “Mr. Groverley, if you approach us without my permission, you will find need to remove your mistress’ blood up from the floor.”
The Forgotten Mountain (The Collectors' Society Book 3) Page 6