I closed the book. “Yes, of course. Were your investigations more fruitful?”
“I found nothing incriminating in Bixby’s correspondence,” Griffin said. “Or at least, nothing I saw from a cursory inspection. As for the scene itself, I got down on my knees and examined the carpet. It was sodden with blood. According to the police, his assailant stabbed Victor Bixby forty-seven times, and I have no trouble believing it.”
“Oh. That is…well, a great many times for an unknown assassin to have stabbed him while his nephew tried to stop the assault,” I pointed out.
Griffin’s expression darkened. “Allan Tambling isn’t mad.”
“I didn’t say—”
“Perhaps he was frozen with shock. Wouldn’t you be? Or perhaps he stepped away for a moment and returned only at the end of the assault, just long enough to clutch his uncle’s dying body to him before chasing off after the assassin.”
For the first time, it occurred to me Griffin might have a bit too much fellow-feeling with Allan to view the case with his usual detachment. Or Allan as he imagined him to be: a man unjustly confined in an asylum at the mercy of Dr. Zeiler.
“I suppose?” I said, glancing at Christine for help.
She shrugged. “Stranger things have happened, and Griffin is the expert in this,” she said, rather unhelpfully, in my opinion.
“I did find something out of the ordinary,” Griffin went on. He pulled a slip of paper from his pocket and held it out for us to inspect. “I discovered this under the desk, as if it had been tossed or kicked there during the struggle. What do you make of it?”
The slip of paper was badly creased, as if someone had wadded it up in his fist. Smoothing it out, I saw one side was perfectly blank. On the other, a heavy hand had drawn a symbol depicting a stylized eye.
“What the devil?” I murmured.
“Do you recognize it?”
“It seems familiar.” I tried to think from where, but couldn’t quite place it. “I’ve seen similar occult signs in the Arcanorum and the Al Azif, although this one seems slightly different.”
“Ah.” He looked away. “That sort of familiar.”
“It may mean nothing,” I said hastily. “I might be mistaken. There may be nothing unnatural occurring.”
“Yes.” Griffin didn’t sound convinced. With a sigh, he took out his watch to check the time. “Well, I’m off to confront...not otherworldly horrors, exactly.”
“What are you on about?” Christine asked with a frown.
Griffin cast her a rueful grin. “Don’t you recall? My parents wish to visit the museum today. We’ll see you there.”
Chapter 7
I spent the first part of the afternoon in the library, as it was off limits to general visitors and thus an excellent place to hide from Griffin’s family. Unfortunately, I eventually had to return to my office in order to get any actual work done. If I didn’t wish to go too far out of my way, my course obliged me to cut through some of the public areas of the museum. The Ladysmith’s architect had died screaming in a madhouse shortly after the building’s completion, and his deteriorating mental state showed in its layout. I wondered what he’d think of Griffin’s current case.
My stack of books made it difficult to see where I was going, let alone open and close doors, but I managed well enough until I reached the new Isley Wing, where a portion of Nephren-Ka’s funerary relics were on display for the public. The mummy himself, along with some of the more grandiose items, was on world tour and wouldn’t return to our museum until some time next year. But the sheer wealth of items Christine had uncovered meant plenty remained to display to our visitors, and the exhibit frequently had any number of spectators, even during what would normally be off times.
I hurried through the exhibit, hoping not to be seen. Over my stack of books, I glimpsed a group of people standing near one of the monumental statues of the pharaoh himself, but they seemed more interested in the statue than in accosting a museum worker with their questions. As I approached the discreet staff door at the other end of the room, I heard James Kerr say, “Well, don’t that beat all! It’s just like something out of the Bible, ain’t it, Ma?”
“It surely is. Is this the one who held the Israelites in slavery and brought down all those plagues?”
“No, Mother, Nephren-Ka lived quite a long time earlier,” replied Griffin.
Of course I’d managed to enter the hall at the exact same time as the very people I wanted to avoid. Should I greet them? Flee while I still had the chance? Which course of action would Griffin prefer I take?
“Whyborne? Is that you?” Griffin called.
I bit back a sigh and turned to them. “Oh, hello,” I said, as if I’d somehow missed their presence earlier.
“Dr. Whyborne!” Mrs. Kerr beamed at me. “Oh, I’m so glad you and my boy are friends, I can’t even tell you! Griffin mentioned you work here, and I was hoping we’d see you again. What is it you do, now? I’m sure he said in his letters, but when you get to be my age, the memory starts to go, you know!”
Her enthusiasm for our association piled me with guilt heavier than the books I carried. “I, ah, translate,” I said. It wasn’t precisely accurate, but close enough to the truth.
“It really is writing?” Ruth inquired, directing her gaze to a nearby case with a fragment of papyrus in it.
“Oh, yes, it is.”
“All them little squiggles and snakes and birds and such?” Mr. Kerr said, as if he thought I played a joke on him. “Why would somebody want to write with birds and crocodiles, and not just plain old letters?”
“Yes, Whyborne,” Griffin said with a grin, “why would they do such a thing?”
I shot him a glare, which he impudently ignored. “Very well,” I said, shoving the books into his arms. “If you’ll kindly deposit these in my office, I shall do my best to answer questions. I trust you remember the way?”
“I believe so,” he said, without giving the slightest hint he’d visited me there on many occasions. Usually in order to have lunch together, but sometimes he would lock the door behind him and…
Oh dear lord, I couldn’t think of such things, not while standing in front of his parents and cousin. “Well,” I said, hoping my smile didn’t look too strained, “what did you wish to know?”
~ * ~
Fortunately, Griffin returned before too long, and with Christine in tow. What sort of favor had he promised to get her to voluntarily play tour guide?
“Mother, Father, Ruth,” he said, “allow me to introduce my friend Dr. Christine Putnam.”
“Oh!” Nella Kerr’s hands fluttered wildly. “James! She’s the lady archaeologist we read about in the papers!” Lunging forward, she grabbed Christine’s hand and shook it heartily. “It is just such a pleasure to meet you. Oh, I can’t believe this! Me, shaking hands with the lady archaeologist!”
For the first time since I’d met her, Christine looked as if she wished to flee screaming. Given she’d faced down charging hippos, undead Guardians, and monstrous creatures from outer space, I didn’t know if I should be amused or alarmed.
“Yes,” she said, putting on a grim smile, like a woman en route to her execution. “Griffin said you wished to know about the exhibit.”
Without giving them an opportunity to ask questions, she began lecturing on the deplorable state of archaeology in general, with specific examples of idiot tourists and fools searching for evidence of Moses. The Kerrs listened with somewhat stunned expressions on their faces, and I wondered if I should take the opportunity to slip away.
As I glanced to the safety of the staff door, I noticed Ruth lingering near the papyrus scroll she had asked about earlier, rather than remaining with her uncle and aunt. I had difficulty conversing with people I knew, let alone virtual strangers, but the instincts of my upbringing said I must at least offer to keep her company. Exposure to Christine had not yet been enough to overcome all the dictates of manners, so I approached Ruth resignedly.
“Have you any questions, Miss Kerr?” I asked.
She started a bit, as if she hadn’t been aware of my approach. A pink blush spread across her cheeks, and she hastily looked down. “Oh, no. I’m sure you got better things to do than answer my silly questions.”
“The only silly question is an unasked one,” I said, a sentiment I was certain Christine would disagree with most vehemently. The museum didn’t pay me to answer the questions of tourists, especially ones without the wherewithal to become donors, but a few minutes would make no difference. It had nothing at all to do with my feelings of guilt over deceiving Griffin’s family about the truth of our relationship.
Well, hopefully I was deceiving them, at least, since I was doing a rather poor job of lying to myself at the moment.
“Then…how do you know what it says?” Miss Kerr asked. “I don’t speak nothing but English, and not even that like my teacher wanted, when I did go to school. Ma always said there weren’t no point in schooling a girl; not like fancy books were going to teach me how to raise children or kill a chicken the right way.”
Shadows darkened her blue eyes. Of regret? Perhaps she had as little enthusiasm for her aunt’s matchmaking as Griffin did.
“My mother taught me how to read,” I said. “Not just English, but Latin and Greek as well. So, with all respect to your mother, I cannot agree with such a sentiment.” A thought occurred to me. “Can you read? Ah, English? I don’t mean to offer insult—”
She blushed and ducked her head. “I can read pretty well, sir. Better than I can speak it, I reckon.”
“Egyptian hieroglyphs may not be the best starting point for the new student,” I said, hoping I came across as diplomatic rather than patronizing. “There are some Latin inscriptions in the Roman exhibit through here; those use the letters you are familiar with, at least.”
I set about explaining some of the very basics, choosing one of the simpler inscriptions. Ruth proved to be a quick learner, and even followed my explanation of how different endings implied a masculine or feminine or neutral person or thing. Her eyes lit up when we worked through the first phrase together and again when she immediately recognized a word from the first exhibit in the second. Had someone—her mother?—attempted to impress an idea of her own stupidity on her, to prevent her from becoming too clever?
“If you are truly interested, there is a Latin primer I can recommend,” I said, when Mr. Kerr’s voice echoed through the gallery.
“Ruth! Are you bothering Dr. Whyborne, girl?”
I turned, startled. As for Ruth, she turned painfully red and stared at the ground. “I—I’m sorry,” she mumbled, although whether the apology was aimed at her uncle or me I didn’t know.
“Not at all,” I assured him.
Mr. Kerr looked less than reassured, however. What was wrong with the man? Miss Kerr and I had been quite properly introduced; it wasn’t as if I were some stranger who had pressed his unwanted attentions on her.
“Very kind,” he said, as his wife and Griffin caught us up. Christine had vanished, probably cackling to herself, having thoroughly discomfited the Kerrs in some fashion or other. “But I know how the girl can go on once she gets an idea in her head.”
“The girl,” as if she had no name of her own to recognize. I tried to think, but before I could say anything, Mrs. Kerr shot her husband a hard look.
“Don’t be foolish, Pa,” she said. “Really, Dr. Whyborne, I don’t know where he gets these ideas! You won’t find another girl as sober and hardworking as our Ruth in Kansas or Massachusetts, I’d wager.”
Surely, I had missed some important context. Poor Miss Kerr looked utterly humiliated, and Griffin seemed torn between amusement and some darker feeling I couldn’t quite identify.
I had no idea what I could say to make Ruth’s lot better—in fact, given how I tended to botch even everyday human interactions, I’d likely only make things worse. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Kerr,” I said, bowing to her. “I will send the Latin primer to you via Griffin, if I may.”
Griffin seemed to have mastered his emotions. At any rate, he rather smirked when he said, “Really, Whyborne, don’t you recall you and Dr. Putnam accepted our invitation to dinner on Friday?”
“Oh.” I folded my hands behind my back to suppress the desire to throttle him. “Of course. How could I have possibly forgotten?”
~ * ~
“You never mentioned this cousin of yours to me,” I said much later.
Griffin had taken his parents and Ruth out to dinner again, leaving me to dine alone, unless one counted Saul, who was excellent company in some ways but not much of a conversationalist. Griffin returned shortly after nightfall and changed into some of his more disreputable togs for a trip down to the docks.
Now we made our way through Widdershins, toward the saloon where Allan Tambling had lunched and drank away his last afternoon as a free man. A heavy fog rolled in off the sea, and the gaslights shone dimly through it. Other strolling figures appeared and disappeared with suddenness, none paying any mind to us. The Daboll trumpet sounded in the distance, warning ships of the fogbound coast.
Griffin sighed. “I didn’t think there was any reason to,” he said. “I met her once, many years ago, before I even left for Chicago. She was just a child then. Of course, I was also, or might as well have been.” His mouth twisted slightly. “A month or two after I moved here, I received a letter from her. It was clear to me either Ma—Mother,” he correctly hastily, “or perhaps Father, had encouraged her to write.”
“You don’t have to correct your language or disguise your accent in front of me,” I said with some exasperation. Our backgrounds could not have been more disparate, but surely I’d made it clear I didn’t care about our differences in class.
“It’s no disguise. I’ve spoken this way for so long it’s become my nature. Besides, Mother would be the first to scold me for slipping into old habits.”
I didn’t wish to argue, so I didn’t dispute his words. Instead, I asked, “And their intent in bringing Miss Kerr…?”
“How should I know?” Griffin asked testily.
“Perhaps they’ve sprung her on you in hopes you’ll be so smitten by meeting face-to-face you’ll propose,” I suggested.
“Then they’ll be very disappointed, won’t they?” Griffin said. “At any rate, she seems quite nice.”
“Yes.” At the moment, I’d rather she’d been cruel or dreadfully stupid, or at least have given me some reason to dislike her. But the little I’d seen of her had seemed perfectly charming, like a countrified version of Miss Parkhurst.
“They’re only staying for a few days. Can you not endure it for that long?”
On the one hand, I didn’t want to endure it at all. On the other, Griffin had been kidnapped by my father’s cohorts and almost sacrificed in an unholy ritual. I might know little of the Kerrs, but I felt relativity certain they wouldn’t be feeding my blood to undead abominations any time soon. “So long as it’s only for a few days, then yes.”
“Of course it will be.”
“Then, yes, I’ll endure it.” I felt a bit of a wretch; it wasn’t as if Griffin asked much of me, after all. “What do you believe we’ll learn at the tavern?” I asked, hoping for a change of topic.
Griffin pursed his lips. “Whether or not Allan met anyone there. Or if someone had the opportunity to slip something into his drink, which might have caused his later blackout. At this point, I’m trying to keep an open mind.”
I had another question, one I half-feared to ask. “Griffin…er, have you…well, that is, have you considered Allan may very well have killed his uncle?”
Griffin’s bearing stiffened sharply, although only someone familiar with him would have noticed. “Why would he have screamed in the street and summoned attention if he were a cold-blooded murderer? And where is the ceremonial bowl, if not taken by some thief?”
“The latter is a puzzle,” I admitted. “But in truth, there
are any number of things he might have done with it.”
“God.” Griffin came to a halt, glaring away down the street rather than looking at me. “You sound like…”
He didn’t finish, but I easily imagined what he meant to say. Surely, those who had condemned him to a madhouse had spoken similar words, never believing his tale of eldritch abominations could possibly be real.
Damn it. I wished I had waited to speak my mind, until we were behind locked doors and drawn curtains, where I might safely take him into my arms. I pitched my voice low and hoped he understood. “I’m sorry, old fellow. I merely raise the possibility, because you know as well as I do not every man within Stormhaven’s walls has been unjustly condemned. Some suffer from delusion, and…and we may not be able to help them. I only meant to ask if you had considered the possibility, not cast doubt on your judgment.”
“Of course I have.” He sounded as if the words had to be dragged across sandpaper to reach his tongue. “But I like to believe I am a fair assessor of character. Allan Tambling strikes me no more of a murderer than you do.”
I didn’t think there was anything to gain from an argument. I touched his elbow lightly. “Of course. You are more experienced in these matters, so I shall defer to your expertise.”
He glanced at me, and I caught a flicker of doubt in his eyes before he smiled. “Thank you.”
“You will question the bartender?” I asked.
“That is one of my goals.”
“And I’m with you, because…?”
Griffin laughed. “Because I value your opinion. Don’t worry, my dear—I have no plans to abandon you to the locals.”
Given our past history, I doubted his word, but I followed him anyway. I would have followed him anywhere: to a saloon, or bathhouse, or hell itself. Did he understand that? He felt such shame at his fits and his past, but I could not possibly imagine loving him more.
Except I did. Every day. Which didn’t really disprove my point.
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 54