“I’ll be in a busy freight yard in the middle of the day,” I reminded him. “I’m certain not even the most determined Fideles agent would dare attack under such circumstances. I’ll be perfectly safe.”
~ * ~
An hour or two later, I approached the foreman at the freight sorting yard. Although not nearly as large a city as Boston or New York, Widdershins was a port town, and freight of all kinds came and left on the rail lines. The bells of the switch engines rang as they raced back and forth, men shouted as cars coupled and uncoupled, and steam whistles shrieked loudly enough to make my ears ache. The place gave the impression of a very noisy anthill, all frenzied activity, whose pattern presented only confusion to my eye.
I’d dressed in such a fashion as to blend with my surroundings: a suit two years out of date and showing signs of wear around the cuffs, bowler hat, and sturdy boots. My sword cane I reluctantly left at home, but I brought my revolver just in case.
I also carried a small stack of bills to keep both foreman and workers well-disposed to me. “Mr. Johansson?” the foreman mused, and I discreetly slipped him another folded bill. “Ah, yes. I believe he’s unloading lumber at the moment. I’ll send him your way.”
I dallied at the edge of the yard, watching men swarm over boxcars, shifting freight from rail to wagon or to ship. Soon enough, I was joined by a tall, lanky man with a ready smile and hair in need of a trim. “Mr. Johansson?”
“Ja,” he said, shaking my hand. “You want to speak to me? Is this about Cotton?”
“It is,” I agreed. “Can you tell me anything that might help us find him?”
Perhaps he assumed me a detective with the police. Or perhaps he didn’t care about my motive, so long as someone was looking for his friend. “What do you need to know?”
“Anything that might seem of interest,” I said with studied casualness. “His habits. His background. Any unusual changes in his behavior. How long have you known him?”
“Not long.” Johansson took out his handkerchief and absently wiped sweat and grime from his brow. “Under two months, perhaps? We share a little room not far from here. As for his habits, there’s not much to tell. We wake up, come to work, get dinner and a beer or two after, and go home again.” He shrugged.
I itched to ask more direct questions, but I didn’t want Johansson to realize I’d once known Mr. Odell. “No sweetheart, then?”
“Nein, nein.” Johansson shook his head. “The man doesn’t even play cards. That’s why I went straight to the police when he didn’t come home last night. I expected them to laugh me off, say he must be drunk somewhere, that I would have to fight to get anyone to take this seriously.”
“We’re taking this quite seriously, I assure you.” I considered a moment, before asking the question I’d wanted to from the start. “Do you know anything about his background? Where he came from, what brought him to Widdershins, anything like that?”
“A little.” Johansson took out a battered cigarette case and offered me one. When I declined, he lit one for himself. “He came from somewhere to the west. Kansas, I think. He was a farmer. Influenza carried off his entire family in ’94.”
I tried and failed to recall how many children Odell had. Two daughters and three sons? Or was it four?
Had the tragedy broken his mind in some fashion? Driven him into the arms of the Fideles? “God rest their souls.”
“Ja.” Johansson nodded sadly. “He tried to go on, but he was not a young man, and his heart was broken. He lost everything and was taken in by the—how do you say it? The poor farm?”
If Odell hadn’t tried to kill me less than twenty-four hours ago, I would have felt sorry for the man. To have fallen from a respected position in the community, surrounded by family and friends, to a pauper surviving only on the charity of the county, must have been a terrible blow. “Then how did he come to Widdershins?” I asked.
Johansson tossed down the butt of his cigarette and ground it out with his boot. “He didn’t say, other than fate had intervened. If you really want to know, talk to our other roommate.”
I frowned. “Other roommate?”
“Monroe Evers. He came from Kansas with Cotton.” Johansson nodded in the direction he’d come from. “He’s working with me right over there.”
My heart kicked against my ribs. Monroe Evers.
We’d blackened each other’s eyes as boys. He’d been a year older than me, the sort of child who pulled wings off of flies. Anything smaller than him had been a target—and he’d been large for his age.
My hands curled into fists, pulse rushing faster. Delancey had asked to talk to me, Odell attempted to kill me, and now here was another person from Fallow.
Perhaps I’d been too quick to assure Whyborne of my safety.
“Can you take me to him?” I asked.
Johansson nodded and loped off. I followed him through the freight yard, pausing to let the switch engines whisk past and dodging around lines of cars waiting to be unloaded. The clang of bells and couplers, the hiss of air brakes, the shouts of men, dinned against my ears. As Johansson said, Odell was no longer a young man. After a lifetime of farming, of being his own master, it must have seemed strange and terrible to work here, for a wage that would barely afford him food and a place to stay. Then again, perhaps it had been a welcome escape from the memories of his dead family, of the happy times they’d once spent in the fields and barns.
Or perhaps Odell simply felt he had nothing left to live for. Was that how the Fideles had recruited him to kill Delancey?
Johansson led the way to a group of flatcars, some still piled high with lumber. “Monroe!” he yelled to one of the men who’d just unfastened a load. “There’s a man here who wants to talk to you about Cotton!”
Monroe Evers turned to us. In his hands, he held the now-loose chain that had secured the lumber, one end capped with a large hook. The midmorning sun cast shade over his features from the brim of his hat, but my shadowsight perceived the corruption crawling over his skin.
~ * ~
For a moment, we only stared at one another. Then his expression shifted from one of curiosity—to pure fury.
I barely had time to duck as the hook whistled over my head. Johansson cried out, as did the men of the work crew, but Evers didn’t seem to even hear them. Instead, he leapt down from his perch, swinging the chain so the hook sliced viciously through the air.
“You’ll pay for what you did,” he growled.
I had no way to defend myself from the chain, save for my revolver—and there were too many other men crowded around to risk hitting one of them. I ducked as he lashed at me again, then broke into a run.
Evers lumbered after me. I bolted across one set of tracks, then another, before ducking between two rows of boxcars. The tracks were close together, forcing me to turn almost sideways to fit through. Even as I did so, the line of boxcars on my right began to move. I pressed myself more tightly to the other cars; if I wasn’t careful of my feet, I’d lose them. Or possibly more.
As soon as the line of boxcars cleared my position, I caught the glint of sunlight on the chain. Evers had been waiting.
I dropped into a crouch, and the hook slammed against the side of the car behind me—and caught on the cut lever. Seizing my opportunity, I lunged to my feet, burying the top of my head in Evers’s stomach. He let out a startled “oof,” and staggered back, but didn’t go down.
No matter. I pulled out my revolver and held it to his temple. “Mr. Evers—”
No shadow of fear passed over his face. As if uncaring for his life, he pivoted on his heel and slammed his fist into my side.
The unexpected blow sent me tumbling onto the next set of tracks. A bell clanged madly, and I looked up, only to see the front of a switch engine bearing down on me.
I hurled myself forward, praying the next set of tracks would be clear. Even as I did so, Evers lunged after me, as insensible to the danger of the engine as he had been of the gun.
“Mein Gott!” Johansson crouched beside me, his fair face even paler with fear. “Are you hurt?”
I shook my head and allowed him to help me to my feet. My trousers were ripped and my palms abraded, but otherwise I’d escaped without harm.
The same couldn’t be said for Evers.
I turned away from the sight of tracks smeared red with blood. Why had he acted with such indifference to his own safety? Surely he wouldn’t have survived his job here for more than a few days if that was his normal behavior.
Instead, it was as if he’d been so focused on hurting me nothing else mattered. Not even his own life.
“Why did he do that?” Johansson asked, staring past me in horror at the ruin of what had been a human being. “Why did he attack you?”
“I don’t know,” I said. But I was going to have to find out.
Chapter 6
Whyborne
“Wait.” I put a hand on Christine’s elbow as we entered the Widdershins Arms Hotel. As hotels went, it was quite respectable, if not luxurious. Men and women sat in the lobby, reading the paper or chatting. Fortunately, none of them looked our way.
“What is it, Whyb—that is, I mean, Mr. Weatherby? My husband?” Christine asked loudly. Now everyone was looking at us.
I’d taken a bit of inspiration from Griffin’s aptitude for blending into the background whenever he carried out an investigation. I’d become all too recognizable in town as of late; people might notice and wonder what I was about, letting myself into a hotel room when I had a perfectly serviceable house nearby. So I’d looted through Griffin’s small collection of eyeglasses, false noses, and wigs, before settling on a false mustache applied with spirit gum. Between the mustache and the bowler hat I’d borrowed, I was certain no one would easily recognize me.
Christine wore a very large feathered hat, to which she’d attached several additional ostrich plumes, in the hopes it would both hide and distract from her face. If anyone asked, we would claim to be the Weatherbys, newlyweds vacationing in Widdershins.
“Keep your voice down, dear,” I said, casting a smile at a couple staring at us. Lowering my voice, I added, “Should we ask for Delancey’s mail at the desk?”
“On our way out,” she decided. “That way, if the clerk remembers Delancey and grows suspicious, we won’t get thrown out before we even reach the room.”
“Good idea,” I whispered back. A glance showed me the couple were still staring. “Quick—take my arm.”
“Whatever for?”
“We’re supposed to be newlyweds.”
Muttering something under her breath, she seized my arm in a vise-like grip. “Come along, Whyb—husband,” she said, dragging me toward the stairs. Would the watching couple assume an excess of marital enthusiasm on her part? It would no doubt help our disguise if they did, but the very thought made me feel a bit faint.
Thankfully, no one questioned our right to be in the hotel. We passed one or two maids, but otherwise the hallways seemed deserted. According to the number on the key, Delancey’s room was on the top floor at one corner, as though he wished to be surrounded by as few people as possible.
A maid was busy changing the linens in the next room. She glanced our way, then frowned. “I haven’t done your room, sir, ma’am,” she said, staring rather curiously at my face. “I can get it right quick, if you want, or—”
“Come back later,” Christine said, unlocking the room. She still hadn’t let go of my arm.
“Er, yes,” I said to the maid. “We’re newlyweds, you see, and—”
“Stop dawdling and get inside, man!”
I glimpsed the maid doubled over in silent laughter before Christine forcefully shut the door. “Christine!” I hissed at her. My face flamed, and I briefly considered crawling beneath the bed and expiring from sheer embarrassment.
“Oh, quit complaining. She won’t be back for hours,” Christine said. “Now let’s have a look around.”
The room contained a clothespress, bed, washstand, and desk. “Check the desk,” I told Christine, and bent to peer beneath the bed. “Oh, look!”
She turned from the desk. “You found something?”
“A penny.” I held it up.
She rolled her eyes. “If it isn’t an enchanted penny, I suggest you keep looking.”
I tucked the penny in my pocket and opened the clothespress. A single suit hung inside, accompanied by two shirts and a tie. A small trunk had also been shoved in the back.
I pulled the trunk out and placed it on the bed. Fortunately, the key was still in the lock, so I opened it easily.
I’d hoped for some obvious clue—a book of spells like the Arcanorum, or a diary detailing everything which had brought Delancey to Widdershins. Instead, I found a supply of cheap cuffs and collars, a loofah bath brush, and a package of pills promising to “cure all desire for tobacco.” At the very bottom were a handful of photographs.
I lifted them out. The top one showed a group of men, including Delancey, standing around some sort of tall machinery. Around them stretched an expanse of barren land, the soil cracked and broken.
“What do you make of this?” I asked Christine, holding out the photo.
She glanced at it. “It looks to be some sort of drilling apparatus.”
Several other photos showed the same men and machinery, in various states of operation and setup. Though the landscape immediately around them remained bare earth, a house or barn showed in the distance of some of the photographs, making me think they’d drilled in multiple locations. I flipped over the photos, and found writing on the back of one.
“Fideles located the transferal sphere at a depth of 203 feet,” I read aloud. “The Fideles...but he’s posing with them.”
“Perhaps he infiltrated the cult. Or was working with them and changed his mind.” Christine shrugged. “I’m more interested in this transferal sphere. Do you think that refers to the artifact Delancey had in his valise?”
“Probably. Though that doesn’t tell us what it was transferring.”
Christine straightened. “Whyborne, look at this.”
I joined her at the desk. She handed me a punched train ticket, which Delancey must have absent-mindedly tossed in the drawer when he reached the hotel. The ticket bore the familiar Whyborne Railroad crest, and the conductor’s stamp matched the date of the postmark on Delancey’s letter from Topeka.
“Look at the city of origin,” Christine said. “He took the train to Topeka...from Fallow.”
Delancey had come from Fallow, just as Odell had earlier. “The photographs,” I said, snatching one up. “What did Griffin say about a barren spot, which gave the place its name? Could that be why the land looks so arid around the drilling apparatus?”
A sharp knock sounded on the door.
~ * ~
Christine and I exchanged a look of alarm. Surely the maid wouldn’t have returned so soon, unless she discovered we weren’t the room’s legitimate occupants.
“Newlyweds,” Christine muttered. “Right.”
Before I could ask what she was on about, she clambered onto the bed and began to jump enthusiastically on it. “Oh!” she shouted above the squeaking frame. “Yes! There! There!”
“Christine?” Iskander called through the closed door. “Is that you?”
Oh God. Visions of Iskander hurling me from the window flashed through my mind.
“Oh,” Christine said, climbing down from the bed and throwing open the door. “Hello, Kander. We weren’t expecting you.”
“So I see,” Iskander said dryly. Thank heavens he didn’t look homicidal. “What on earth is on your head?”
“Never mind that,” Griffin said, stepping in behind him. “What the devil is attached to your face, Whyborne?”
“It’s a disguise,” I said, a bit smug that I’d thought to us
e it.
His lips started to twitch. “The purpose of a disguise is to divert attention, not make everyone wonder why you’re going about town with a dead caterpillar on your lip.”
I scowled at him and tore the false mustache off. My angry gesture was undermined by the fact it stung more than I’d expected.
“We decided to pose as newlyweds,” Christine explained, nodding so that Iskander had to duck to avoid one of the plumes sprouting from her hat.
“It wasn’t a terrible idea, in theory,” he said neutrally. Unfortunately, the spastic twitches of the corners of his mouth betrayed him.
“Indeed.” Griffin grinned at me. “The two of you could teach the Pinkertons some tricks.”
“Oh, do be quiet,” I muttered, sinking down to the edge of the bed. The tiny room was horribly crowded with the four of us plus Christine’s giant hat. “What are you two doing here?”
“After I finished up at the train yard, I came to see you at the museum. Iskander said you’d left for the hotel. We decided to lend our assistance.”
Christine looked annoyed. “I think Whyborne and I are quite capable of searching a room by ourselves.”
“Unless someone was watching for Delancey’s return and saw you come in here,” Griffin replied, all mirth gone from his face now.
Something must have gone wrong, to cause him additional concern. “What happened?”
“I was attacked,” Griffin said. “By another corrupted man, whom I knew from Fallow.”
I stood back up and reached for him. “Are you all right?”
“Just a few bruises.” Griffin’s expression was somber. “As for him, he ended up beneath the wheels of a switch engine.”
“Oh my.” I sat down again. “We found punched train tickets. It seems as though Delancey was in Fallow as well. And we found this.” I handed him the stack of photos. “Judging by the writing on the back of the photo, the artifact was brought up by one of the drilling attempts...”
I trailed off. In the afternoon light streaming through the window, Griffin’s face had gone stark white. “Oh God,” he whispered.
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