Magic Dark and Strange

by Kelly Powell

  “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mallory,” said Catherine, though she wasn’t yet sure of that. She wondered if he had a daytime profession, or if resurrecting bodies was his only work. Though she supposed if he did have another occupation, Guy would’ve remarked on it.

  Sydney replied, “The pleasure is mine, Miss Daly,” before his attention shifted to the remaining member of their company.

  Owen looked on with his hat in his hands, so near the sidewalk’s edge he was at risk of being struck by a passing carriage. Guy introduced him, telling Sydney, “Mr. Smith is from the country and recently orphaned. He’s looking for work.”

  Sydney put a hand to his heart. “I’m an orphan and I get by all right. You must come to call sometime—the lodging house on Navy Street.”

  “Oh.” Owen’s gaze darted to Guy and Catherine and back to Sydney. “Thank you, Mr. Mallory. That’s very gracious.”

  Guy took his shop key from his pocket. He moved to open the door, and Sydney said, “Shall I come around another time? I don’t wish to intrude if you have company.”

  At that, Guy glanced back. His eyes shifted from Sydney to Catherine. It was clear to her Sydney had some matter to discuss, and if Guy were to make inquiries about the timepiece, perhaps Owen ought not to be present.

  She said, “Mr. Smith and I were just on our way.” She looked over at Owen with a smile. “Walk with me, won’t you? You still haven’t seen much of the city.”

  “That’s a fine idea,” Guy jumped in. “There’s naught for you to do in the shop anyway, Mr. Smith.”

  “All right.” Biting his lip, Owen replaced his hat. “That is, if you’re certain.”

  “Quite.” Guy pushed open the door. “I’ll see you this evening.”

  Sydney bade them farewell, and Catherine ushered Owen along, guiding him down an alley to emerge on a main road. The sky had clouded over, the leaden color promising rain. Catherine didn’t suppose Owen would be keen on accompanying her to the cemetery. As they passed a grocer’s, then a haberdasher’s, he cast a curious look into the shop windows. He said, “Mr. Mallory is a friend of Mr. Nolan’s, I take it?”

  Catherine paused beside him, smoothing a gloved hand over her coat. She thought Guy likely had many friends. He seemed a good sort of friend to have—so earnest and reliable, so set in his place in the world.

  She replied, “A friend, yes.”

  “Hmm. He seems a fine gent.” Clasping his hands behind his back, Owen turned to her. “Do you think I could make hats?”

  Her brow furrowed at the change of subject. “Pardon?”

  He inclined his head toward the haberdasher’s shop. “I need to find work, some sort of apprenticeship. You said I was once a coffin maker, but—that seems rather morbid, doesn’t it?”

  “Well, I print obituaries.”

  He swallowed hard. Continuing down the street, he said, “I think I could be a good baker, if I applied myself. Or perhaps I could learn to drive a coach.”

  “I suppose… Mr. Smith, are you all right?”

  Owen had turned colorless, his breaths uneven. Patches of red bloomed along his cheekbones. He nodded, took off his hat, and said, “Yes, I—I think I just need to sit.”

  “Of course.” Catherine directed him to the front steps of a bank. She sat beside him and rested a hand against the stone step. “It’s perfectly understandable if you’re feeling overwhelmed. You’ve been out of the ground for very little time. Indeed, not even a full day.”

  “It’s not that,” he said thickly. “Well, not just that. It’s—” He ducked his head, his grip tight on Guy’s old hat. “You both have lives and friends and things to do and I know I’m a bother. I don’t mean to be, but I am, and I’m sorry.” Tears slid down his cheeks, and he pushed them aside impatiently. “I don’t even have my own clothes to wear.”

  Softly, Catherine asked, “Where are the ones you were buried in?”

  “Still in Mr. Nolan’s flat.” He let out a laugh. “They were quite dirty, and he said I looked like an old codger in them besides, so he gave me some of his.”

  “Now, isn’t that a kindness?” Catherine did her best to sound lighthearted. “He cares enough not to let you go out dressed unfashionably.”

  Owen laughed again, but his eyes were still full of tears. Catherine placed a hand over his. “You’re not a bother, Mr. Smith. Your bones would still be lying in your coffin if Mr. Nolan and I hadn’t come along last night. It’d be cruel of us not to look out for you.”

  Owen gazed back at her. Hesitantly, he asked, “What was it you were looking for? When you dug me up?”

  “A timepiece.” Catherine let out a breath. “It was believed to be buried with you. My employer tasked me with fetching it.”

  He tipped his head to the side. “Was it mine?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Looking away, he scrubbed the remaining tears from his eyes. “If it was not your magic that brought me back, it was someone else’s doing. Perhaps if we find this timepiece, we’ll find them, too.” Rain began to fall, speckling the stone steps, and he tilted his face up to meet it, closing his eyes and exhaling slowly.

  Catherine sat with him a moment longer. The timepiece’s whereabouts could very well be one of his lost memories. Rain dampened their clothes, but neither of them remarked on it, nor moved to get up. People hurried along on the street, umbrellas unfurling.

  Keeping his eyes closed, Owen asked, “Miss Daly, how many coffin makers are there in this city?”

  “I’m not sure.” She watched as a carriage passed them, its wheels turning up rainwater. “But I know of one.”

  “I’d like to go there. If you’ll show me the way.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  THE COFFIN SHOP SAT on a corner lot on a small lane near the factory district. It was next door to a cabinetmaker’s, the sandstone buildings blackened with coal soot. Their respective trades were painted in faded capital letters above the doors. The rain had ceased, though it was still overcast, and everything was made damp and dark and slick.

  “Here it is,” said Catherine. She looked over at Owen. “Would you like to go in?”

  He nodded, distracted as he glanced around. The lane was empty of people aside from them. Rainwater collected on the shop steps, dimpled in the middle from age and wear. They came to the door, and Owen reached out to set his hand on the knob. He peered up at the painted lettering before releasing a defeated little sigh. “Nothing,” he said. “I can’t remember any of this.”

  “Don’t lose heart, Mr. Smith. Give it time—it may all come rushing back.”

  Owen’s past might be found beneath this roof, his memories. And with it, the possibility of finding the timepiece. When they stepped inside, the place was mercifully warm and dry. Gas lamps were lit along the walls, hissing softly, illuminating the dark wood floor, the details of the flocked wallpaper. No one stood at the shop counter, and Catherine turned back to find Owen still at the front of the room. Two velvet sofas were by the entrance, a watercolor landscape of Invercarn hanging above them. It was a lovely painting of dark-brown buildings, the slate-gray sky, morning-blue shadows.

  “Say now, what are you doing in here?”

  Catherine grimaced at that tone of voice. Looking over, she saw a man in his early thirties in the back-room doorway. He eyed them warily, his mouth pressed thin.

  Even if they weren’t wet from the rain—making it obvious they hadn’t stepped light from a carriage—neither Catherine nor Owen were dressed especially fine. No matter what Catherine had said about fashionableness, the clothes Owen wore were still noticeably secondhand, fraying at the cuffs. Catherine wasn’t much better off, in her old coat and bonnet, with only a few petticoats to give shape to the skirt of her dress. Clearly they were not here with money to spend on an ornate coffin.

  “Good day, sir,” Catherine said cheerfully. “We’re looking for someone who might’ve worked in this establishment some years back. May we ask you a few questions?”

 
“No, no, no. You’re not here to buy nothing—be off with you.” The man came around the counter to stand before them, arms crossed. He was clean-shaven and his ginger hair was brushed back, his work apron marked with oil and wood stain.

  Owen stepped forward. “How long have you worked in this shop, sir?”

  “Since I was a boy,” said the coffin maker, gesturing to the door. “If you’re looking for someone, you’d have better luck going to the police, eh?”

  “During your apprenticeship, did a boy with my likeness work here?”

  “How am I to know? Plenty have worked here over the years. Some stay on; some go elsewhere—I’ve not got a record.”

  “Sir, please.” Owen’s voice cracked. Catherine could only imagine how much he must want this—to be remembered, to know he once existed in the world. “If you could just think on it.”

  The man walked over. “You do have a familiar look about you.” His eyes narrowed. “Is this a relative of yours?”

  Owen stood motionless, wide-eyed and pale. His voice was faint as he said, “What can you remember about him? Can you—do you remember his name?”

  “No. He worked here years ago, mind.” The man scratched the back of his head. “Kept to himself. Quiet-like, you know? Then he up and vanished—never saw him after that.”

  Owen shared a look with Catherine. He raised a shaky hand to his throat, as if to reassure himself of his pulse.

  Vanished.

  So it was true. Owen had worked in this shop, at least for a time, and something awful had happened to him. A shiver crept over her spine as she considered again the nightmare he’d spoken of that morning.

  “I’m afraid that’s all the help I can offer. You go on now, the pair of you.”

  The coffin maker headed for the counter. Catherine turned toward the door, hoping Owen would follow, but stopped as he called out, “Wait.”

  He stood looking at the coffin maker. There was a desperate, peculiar light to his eyes, and when the man met his gaze, Owen asked him, “What’s your name?”

  The man tilted his head. “Reed,” he said after a pause. “James Reed.”

  “Mr. Reed.” Owen took a breath and nodded. “Thank you. I’m Owen Smith.”

  The man put his hands in his trouser pockets. “Right. Good day, Mr. Smith.”

  They stepped back out onto the lane, and the wind pulled at the ribbons of Catherine’s bonnet. The day was settling into late afternoon, the chill in the air becoming crisp and cold as the light dwindled. Owen put on his hat, shading his eyes. Catherine waited for him to speak.

  He said, “That man knew me. James Reed. He knew me.” His words ran together, tumbling out. “Whoever I was—he knew that person. And I knew him. I was—I was quiet and kept to myself. That seems all right, doesn’t it? I mean…”

  “It must be a shock,” Catherine offered. She eyed the darkening sky, the shadowed peaks of the buildings up ahead. It was the watercolor painting washed in gray, a motley collection of soot-stained brick and stone. The thought of the timepiece was incessant as pins and needles, but if there was some clue of it in Owen’s past, they hadn’t found it in the obituary pages or the coffin shop. Catherine imagined being dismissed from the Chronicle, but it didn’t bear thinking on.

  The day was not yet done.

  “A shock? Yes. I suppose it is, Miss Daly.” Owen rubbed at his eyes. “My head is aching something terrible.”

  “We’ll return to Mr. Nolan’s and get him to make us tea.”

  He nodded, sniffed, and ran a hand over his eyes a second time as they turned the corner. She knew he was crying again. She passed him a handkerchief, saying, “It’s all right,” when he choked out, “Sorry,” and, “Thank you,” in quick succession.

  Dry leaves whirled up in the breeze, fluttering across their path. Catherine shivered, the cold biting at her cheeks, but she only ducked her head, continuing on.

  She still had the cemetery to search.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  WHEN CATHERINE AND OWEN arrived at the watchmaker’s, Guy Nolan closed shop and led them upstairs to his flat. Owen quickly retired to the spare room down the hall, claiming a headache; Catherine couldn’t blame him for wanting to be alone. Guy made him up a plate of cheese and toast, a cup of lavender tea and honey to help him sleep. Catherine bade Owen good night and took a seat at the kitchen table.

  The mantel clock above the fireplace ticked softly in the stillness. Beside it, a painted miniature sat in an oval frame. It was a picture of a dark-haired boy—no older than ten—standing solemn-faced in a jacket and short trousers. Guy came back into the kitchen, and Catherine smiled, gesturing to it. “Is that you?”

  He glanced at the portrait but didn’t answer the question. He went and stood at the window, resting his hands against the sill. “Mr. Smith seems quite overset.”

  She sighed. “Yes. We visited the coffin maker’s on Burnside Lane. The man there—he knew him from before. He said he just vanished one day.”

  Guy turned to look at her. He was silhouetted against the window, his watch chain glinting at his waistcoat pocket. “You do think he was murdered, then?”

  Catherine swallowed. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “No.” Guy took a moment to close his eyes. “No. Sadly, I find it all too easy to believe. And buried in an unmarked grave like he was.” He shook his head. “I’ll wager he had no one in the world to care for him.”

  Catherine pushed up from the table. She took hold of her coat and bonnet and slipped on her gloves. Her heart remained steady, her breaths even, though her calm was in shattered pieces. “I have to be on my way,” she said. “I need to search the cemetery.”

  Glancing out at the street, Guy said, “Would you like me to come with you?”

  She paused. A heavy silence hung between them, weighted by the occurrences of last night, until Catherine set a gloved hand on the table and said, “Thank you kindly, Mr. Nolan. I’d much appreciate your help.”

  He went down the hall to let Owen know, and Catherine went downstairs, waiting in the dim of the shop. The lamppost just outside had been lit; its brightness shone through the front window, light gleaming over the polished counter, to the clocks on the wall, reflecting off their glass casings.

  The old staircase creaked and popped under Guy’s footsteps. He fetched a lantern from the back room and took his coat and hat from their place on the rack.

  “How was your visit with Mr. Mallory?” Catherine asked as they headed out. “You didn’t… you didn’t tell him about Mr. Smith, did you?”

  “No, no.” Guy adjusted his grip on the unlit lantern, locking the door behind them. He offered her his arm as they started down the street. “I did ask him if anyone at the university might know something more of this timepiece, aside from the rumors, but—” He stopped, very abruptly, pressing his lips thin.

  “Yes, Mr. Nolan?”

  “Nothing.” Then, in an entirely different tone, he said, “Have you supposed this timepiece may not be a pocket watch? It’s not definite, is it? Perhaps it’s a great long-case clock hidden in that old church.”

  “I’ve no idea how I’d carry that back to Mr. Ainsworth.”

  Guy smiled. “That would be quite the challenge.”

  The grounds of the public cemetery stretched out before them. Tall columns supported the stone arch above the front gates, the wrought-iron fence edging the sidewalk. Stone walls ran along the sides of the yard, the graves dark and damp from the afternoon’s rain. Buildings lined the street bordering the back of the grounds. They were pressed close, old sandstone and white windows, smoke rising from their chimney tops.

  They passed through the open gates and headed down a pathway marked with puddles turned to mud. Catherine already despaired the state of her skirts, her boots spattered with mire.

  Guy made a sound of dismay as he stepped out of a puddle. “And these are my good trousers.” He looked ahead of them. “Where do you want to start?”

  There were rows
upon rows of gravestones, the winding dirt trails between them, the old mausoleums, the ruins of the church. Catherine hadn’t any directions now, and finding the timepiece somewhere in such an expanse seemed at once an impossible task.

  “I suppose,” she said, “we can start at Mr. Smith’s grave.”

  They found the plot with little trouble. Catherine surveyed the freshly turned earth, the loose clumps of grass, wondering how many others had been buried without markers to indicate their place.

  “The timepiece ought to be around here, oughtn’t it?” She turned to Guy. “Its magic worked on Mr. Smith. It should be close.”

  Guy studied the ground. Crouching down, he pressed one hand to the dirt. “It may not be in a grave, but it could be buried all the same. If it was left here years ago, it could be under soil and tree roots by now.” He stood up and glanced toward the nearby willow tree. “Or perhaps in a hollow, if the piece is small enough.”

  They found no hollow in the willow, but there was one at the base of an oak tree some paces away. They sat down before it, staring into the dark space.

  Guy lit his lantern, the flare of brightness illuminating the cracks in the bark, the dried and curling leaves about the trunk. The light reflected in Guy’s eyes as he set down the lantern, peering into the hollow. Catherine reached a hand inside, but all she felt were cobwebs, undergrowth, and more dead leaves.

  With a sigh, she removed her hand, wiping it on the grass. “If it’s in a hollow, it’s not this one.”

  They moved on, inspecting other trees, walking around the tall mausoleums with their padlocked bronze doors. The light faded as they continued along the cemetery paths, the air turning brittle and biting. It was well into evening, and unease tightened Catherine’s chest, her heart thudding as she took note of the darkening sky. There seemed to be no one about the cemetery apart from them, its emptiness made glaring by the lengthening shadows, gusts of wind scraping the branches above their heads.

  She said, “Mr. Nolan,” and looked around to find he’d paused in front of a tombstone. His expression was solemn as he regarded it, his lantern held loosely at his side. When she said his name again, he glanced up, meeting her gaze.