by Kelly Powell
She didn’t catch sight of Sydney until he knocked on the door.
When Guy answered it, Sydney looked over at Owen. “Are you set on visiting the university after all? Very good. I rather thought so.”
They followed him out onto the street. The morning was bitter cold; Catherine’s teeth chattered as they waited for a passing omnibus. Guy paid Owen’s fare as well as his own; Catherine and Sydney followed after them, stepping up into the coach. At this early hour, there were scant few passengers. Catherine sat on the wooden bench next to Owen, Guy and Sydney sitting just across from them.
They started down the road, the coach wheels bumping over the cobbles. Guy removed his hat and fidgeted with the brim. His eyes cut to Sydney as the other boy leaned forward, hands clasped, his gaze steady on Owen.
“Guy tells me you don’t remember aught before you died,” he said, his voice quiet but clear. “Does that mean you don’t remember dying?”
Owen frowned. “No,” he said shortly.
Guy said, “Don’t needle him, Sydney, please.”
“I’m only curious.” Still looking at Owen, Sydney leaned back in his seat. “What a shock it must’ve been for you—waking in a grave! I can’t imagine.”
Catherine turned toward Owen. “I think it would be wise,” she started, “if you did not mention the entirety of what happened to you to those at the university.”
He swallowed visibly. “I don’t even know the entirety. Isn’t that why we’re going?”
“I agree with Miss Daly,” said Guy. “We ought to think of some story—”
“Nonsense!” Sydney cut in. “No one there will care to see him if we don’t tell them the truth of the matter.”
The omnibus made another stop. They had reached a main street; outside the coach windows, shopkeepers were sweeping their front steps, arranging the merchandise in their displays. The omnibus moved on, turning a corner, and Catherine narrowed her eyes at Sydney. She asked, “Who are you bringing us to meet, Mr. Mallory?”
“One of the medical students. Francis Williams. He’s a good sort.”
Guy took out his glasses to polish them, but glanced up to share a smile with Catherine. He said, “He sounds remarkable.”
Sydney snapped, “Oh, yes, Guy, because what you do is so adventurous. Listen. Francis is a fine fellow. If we tell him about Mr. Smith here, he’ll keep quiet.”
They came to the wide stretch of the river, and the omnibus rattled onto North Bridge, slowing amid the surrounding traffic. The water below was black as an ink spill in the early-morning light, rowboats and barges navigating the harbor.
Once they reached the other side, more passengers stepped on and off. They passed the city library—smooth red sandstone, carvings in the shadows of the archways—and the marble columns of the museum. The peaked roofs rose higher than any in Old Town, where the tallest building was the clock tower in Elgin Square.
Near the hospital, the four of them got off the omnibus to walk the rest of the way to the university’s medical department.
The building Sydney led them to was a great stone pile. In the courtyard before it, the grass lay pale and glittering with morning frost, crunching beneath their feet. A group of young men in wool overcoats stood outside the double doors, talking with one another. Catherine hoped they wouldn’t question them, and though a few glanced over as they started up the steps, none of the men remarked on their presence.
Sydney ushered them inside, the doors opening onto a polished entrance of dark wood with a grand carpeted staircase, light from one of the high windows gilding the banister. Guy tilted his head back, and Catherine followed his gaze to the lit chandeliers between the wood beams spanning the ceiling.
“Francis has rooms here,” said Sydney, heading for the stairs. “But I’ve never paid him a call this early in the day. He might be at a lecture.”
Catherine asked, “Does he know anything of the timepiece?”
With a smile, Sydney replied, “I daresay he does. You’ll have to ask him, won’t you, Miss Daly?”
And yet, when they came to Francis’s door on the fourth floor, no one answered.
“Well,” said Sydney, sounding mildly irritated. “Perhaps we should try the library. It’s back downstairs.”
The library was at the far end of the building, an expansive room filled with bookshelves that soared up to the arched ceiling. Claw-foot tables lined the space, marble sculptures set against the stacks, their shadows stretching across the floorboards. Sydney surveyed the room from the doorway. Catherine looked about at the bent heads of those reading at the tables. The place was quiet, but not unnervingly so. It was like the print floor without the clatter of the presses, that same concentration to the task at hand.
Sydney started forward, peering between the stacks. He said, “Ah,” and directed them to a table near one of the tall windows. A young man sat there alone, a book open in front of him, other leather-bound tomes piled at his elbow. His hair was wavy and blond, his waistcoat embroidered green silk. He glanced up, and Catherine saw his eyes were green as well—a shade paler than his waistcoat. His brow furrowed. “Sydney?” he said. “What…?” Then, taking in the sight of Catherine, Guy, and Owen, he added, “Hello.”
“Good morning, Francis,” said Sydney. “We don’t mean to disturb you at your studies, but we’ve a matter to discuss—one you ought to find quite interesting—if we might speak in private.”
Francis smiled a little, gesturing at the empty table. “Isn’t this private enough?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Releasing a sigh, Francis said, “Very well. Give me a moment.” He stood and took up the book he was reading, along with one other from the pile, holding them against his chest. “We’ll go upstairs.”
As they walked, Sydney made the introductions. “Francis Williams, this is Guy Nolan. His father is a watchmaker in Old Town. These are his friends Miss Daly and Mr. Smith.”
Francis inclined his head. “Lovely to meet you.”
Back at the entrance, Catherine slowed, pausing at the foot of the stairs.
Guy, noticing her hesitation, said, “Miss Daly?”
There was a man she recognized heading down the opposite corridor. He wore a dark frock coat, his light-brown hair slicked down and curled at the sides. She’d seen him a few times at the print shop, though he had no place there.
Mr. Boyd, proprietor of the Journal.
When Guy said her name again, she picked up her skirts and started after him.
On the fourth floor, Francis opened the door to his room. It was rather plainer than Catherine had expected. The arrangement was similar to her room at the print shop, though the furnishings were a fair bit nicer, and he had it to himself instead of having to share it with another student. A spray of flowers graced the windowsill, and everywhere else there lay books and papers, pens and inkpots.
Francis placed the books he carried on his desk. Turning around, he said, “What is it, then?”
Sydney opened his mouth, then closed it. His gaze flickered to Guy, to Catherine and Owen. “Perhaps you might explain,” he said vaguely.
Catherine looked over at Francis. “We’re searching for a timepiece.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Sydney mentioned that. In fact, someone else was here making inquiries about it just yesterday.”
“What?” said Sydney. “Who?”
“A man from the Invercarn Chronicle, I believe. I didn’t speak to him myself.”
Catherine cast her eyes down, jaw clenched. Ainsworth. Ainsworth had been here. And if he was asking about the timepiece, did that mean he no longer thought she had it?
Guy asked, “What do you know of this timepiece, Mr. Williams?”
“I know it’s powerful magic.” Francis tapped his fingers against the edge of his desk. “It’s not the sort of enchantment one could make on one’s own, is it?”
“Do you have any knowledge of where it might be?”
“I mean…” Francis frow
ned, rubbing his chin. “Some fellows here think it’s somewhere in the public cemetery, but there are others—others who say it’s still with whoever made it, tucked away in a shop drawer or some such place. That seems the more likely possibility to me, at least. If it was in the cemetery, surely someone would’ve come across it by now.” His gaze shifted from Guy to Sydney. “Is this all you wished to discuss? I’ve a lecture in”—he took out his pocket watch, checked the time—“less than half an hour.”
Catherine looked to Owen, as did Guy and Sydney. He was quite pale, his grip tight around the hat in his hands. He gave a small shake of his head and fixed his attention on his boots.
Sydney narrowed his eyes. “Yes, Francis,” he said. “Thank you.”
“All right.” Francis glanced out the narrow window above the desk, before starting back toward them, making for the door. “Will you be coming back tonight? Only, I already told Professor Blackwood you planned on it.”
“Indeed. A little after midnight, I should think.”
Francis walked with them back down to the entrance, bidding them farewell. Outside, they made their way across the courtyard. It was turning out to be a fine day despite the chill, sunlight reflecting off the windows of the stone buildings.
“I couldn’t tell him,” said Owen. His breath misted in the air. “Please, I—I just—”
“You needn’t tell anyone you don’t want to,” Catherine replied.
“And we know more about the timepiece than he does,” Guy put in. “It’s as you said, Miss Daly—the timepiece must certainly be somewhere in that cemetery to have worked its magic as it did.”
Catherine recalled the second night she and Guy had gone seeking the device, the gloom and stillness of the graveyard, and her attempt the next morning, standing before the church ruins shrouded in fog. Now Ainsworth was at the university, asking questions. Perhaps she could reason with him if he’d given up on the notion that she’d stolen it. She could return to her print work and continue the search.
“I’m going to go to the Chronicle,” she said.
Guy looked her way.
“Mr. Ainsworth can’t think I have the timepiece if he’s asking after it here. He may let me have my job back.”
Bringing a hand to his cravat, Guy tugged at the dark fabric. “Miss Daly,” he said. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.” Though what a terrible lie that was. She felt at once completely knotted and moments away from coming undone.
But even so, her mind was set.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CATHERINE STOOD a little ways down the street from the print shop. After crossing the river, Sydney had headed in the direction of the lodging house, while Guy had brought Owen back to the watchmaker’s, before coming along with Catherine. He paused beside her on the sidewalk now, looking over at the dark brick building.
“What shall I do,” he asked, “if you don’t come back out?”
“I’ll be all right,” Catherine told him. “And if not, I’m sure you’ll think of something valiant, provide some distraction so that I might escape.”
Guy’s eyes flickered to hers. He glanced away just as quickly, swallowing hard. “Of course,” he said. “A distraction.”
“Fear not, Mr. Nolan.” She offered him a reassuring smile. “I’ll return directly. I only need to speak with Mr. Ainsworth for a moment.”
With that, she continued on toward the shop. The building was soot-stained like every other in Old Town, the brass sign on the door weather-worn. Catherine let herself in and started across the print floor. The workday had begun; most people were at their desks and took no notice of her. Those who did simply nodded and smiled, and Catherine did her best to keep her expression pleasant. It seemed news had not spread about her predicament. Perhaps Ainsworth hadn’t yet come to a decision. Spencer had said he’d likely be preoccupied—he’d had a meeting with Boyd yesterday.
Upstairs, she knocked on the door to his office. “Mr. Ainsworth?”
The gas lights behind her hissed in the quiet. She glanced over her shoulder at the empty hall. Bringing a hand to the doorknob, she raised her voice. “Mr. Ainsworth, it’s Miss Daly.”
She opened the door, looked in, and stepped back at once.
Jonathan Ainsworth was quite dead.
He lay on the floor, his desk chair pushed back as though he’d collapsed from it. His face was pallid, his eyes staring in the fixed, unseeing manner of the departed. There was no blood, no gaping wound from which Catherine could discern the cause of his demise. Heart pounding, she crouched down, taking his wrist in some futile attempt to find a pulse. Pieces of a broken teacup were strewn over the floorboards, dark tea splashed across the wood. Ainsworth’s skin was already cold, his body stiff, as though he’d been dead for some time, throughout the night even.
Sitting back, she cut her eyes away from his vacant expression. It was startling to stumble upon him like this, but she couldn’t find it in herself to shed any tears for her former employer. In place of grief, there was only overwhelming puzzlement, and underlying it, a sharp edge of fear. The sensation coalesced within her heart, and she scrambled to her feet.
She had to tell someone. She had to find Spencer.
In his office downstairs, Spencer sat at his desk, looking over a bit of paper. He jerked his head up when she came in, putting the paper away in a drawer. “Catherine! What—good gracious, can’t you knock?”
Catherine closed the door, pressing her back against it. “Spencer,” she said. “You need to come upstairs. Mr. Ainsworth—Mr. Ainsworth is dead.”
His eyes flew wide. “What? What do you mean?”
“He—I just went up there and, Spencer, it looks like he’s been there all night. Did you see him come in this morning?”
Spencer shook his head slowly. “No.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair and stood up, coming around the side of the desk. “Oh God, I haven’t seen him since yesterday afternoon.”
They went up to the fourth floor together. Ainsworth’s door hung partially ajar, where Catherine had left it unlatched; through the gap, she saw a chipped fragment of the teacup, part of one of Ainsworth’s boots. Spencer eased the door open the rest of the way, and they regarded the body in silence.
After a long moment, Spencer said quietly, “I’ll inform the police. I don’t know what could’ve—perhaps the shock of it.”
“The shock of what?”
Spencer shuddered, pulling the door closed. Even with Ainsworth’s body out of sight, Catherine couldn’t rid her mind of the scene. It was as if it were printed on the insides of her eyelids.
Still in that same quiet voice, Spencer said, “He signed over the paper to Mr. Boyd at their meeting yesterday. I thought he might’ve gone home afterward. I had no idea he was still here.” He dragged his fingers through his hair again, his face white as chalk. “I wanted to find you, Catherine, but I wasn’t sure where you’d gone. Mr. Boyd may very well let you work here again.”
Catherine simply stared at him. The words washed over her, sinking in. Ainsworth had signed away his business. She might return to her work as a printer. She shook her head. “But why would Mr. Ainsworth do such a thing?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Spencer’s eyes flitted to the closed door. “He was faring poorly. It’s why he started the farewell service. It’s why he wanted that timepiece.” He looked back at her, solemn-faced. “You haven’t found it, have you?”
“No.” She turned her gaze on the door.
“I’ll head to the police station. They’ll identify the cause, I’m sure.”
“Of course.” She reached out then, meaning to place a hand on his arm, but he flinched, and she hid her hands away in her coat pockets. “Spencer,” she said. “Are you all right?”
He ignored the question. “I don’t know how long I’ll be at the station. Will you be here?”
Catherine took a step back down the hall, wanting to put some distance between herself and the door concealing Ain
sworth’s body. “I need to collect my things,” she said hastily. “But I’ll come back in the morning.”
“Very well.”
He made no move to accompany her downstairs, so she left him in the hall, hurrying down the steps. The ground didn’t feel quite solid beneath her, and she had to catch hold of the handrail to keep steady.
Spencer had supposed Ainsworth had died of shock. But to her, it looked for all the world like he’d been poisoned.
* * *
Stepping out of the building, Catherine blinked in the sunlight. The cold air on her face was a relief for once; it was as if she’d broken free of a nightmare. Only she couldn’t cast aside her memories as she might a dream.
“Miss Daly!”
Guy stood waiting on the opposite sidewalk. He took off his hat, waving it at her. A passing carriage pulled to a stop before him, the horses tossing their heads. Guy’s face reddened, and he called up apologies to the driver. Then he jammed his hat back on and dashed across the street, bright-eyed and grinning. “Miss Daly,” he said. “Thank goodness. I was just about to commence the most magnificent distraction to aid in your escape.” He noted her expression, and his eyebrows pinched together. “What’s the matter?”
Catherine started away from the print shop. Any minute now, Spencer would be coming through those doors, and she didn’t wish for him to find her lingering there.
She told Guy, “Mr. Ainsworth is dead,” and the words came out terribly steady. They were the tidy detachment of a death notice set to be printed. Yet as she continued, the steadiness of her voice wavered, drawing thin. “I went up to his office and he—he was on the floor. I think he must’ve been lying there all night. He was cold.”
“My God,” said Guy. “Are you quite all right?”
Catherine met his gaze. “It looked like he’d been poisoned, Mr. Nolan. There was a teacup all in pieces on the floor.”
A great gust of wind swept past them, and in its wake, she was left trembling, tears pricking at her eyes. “And he signed over the paper to the owner of the Journal, so I suppose I may have my job back, but how can I…? How can I go back? Ainsworth was at the university yesterday. He was looking for the timepiece. And now he’s dead.”