by Kelly Powell
“Hurry.” Fear tore at her insides, panic closing around her heart.
He hunched his shoulders, mouth pressed thin, but he reached for the ladder to make his way down.
Below them, Guy’s voice: “Is something wrong?”
Catherine didn’t answer him but went down the ladder after Owen. She saw the glow of Guy’s lantern at the bottom, heard him say, “Here, Mr. Smith,” offering his hand as he helped Owen, then her, past the cracked rung.
“A watchman is out there,” Catherine whispered. Guy peered up the length of the ladder, but she grabbed him by the sleeve. “Mind your light.”
They moved farther into the storeroom, Guy leading them to the empty crates piled in a corner. He turned one over and sat on it, setting his lantern on the dirt floor.
There was a small cut on his face, just above his jaw. The line of blood shone bright red in the light. Catherine said, “You’re bleeding.”
Guy gave her a blank look. “Pardon?”
She touched the place on her own face, and Guy put a hand to his cheek. He studied the blood on his fingertips, brow furrowed. “I must’ve got it when the rung gave way.” Glancing to her, he asked, “Is it very bad?”
“It’s just a scratch.” She took out her handkerchief, passing it to him.
He brought the cloth to his face and leaned back, glancing around. “This is cozy. How long are we to stay down here?”
The ceiling at this part of the storeroom was quite low; Owen raised a hand, his palm resting flat against it. “It feels like I’m back there.” His voice was unsteady. “In the grave.”
Guy made a sympathetic sound. “Oh, Mr. Smith.” He turned over two other crates and said, “Here now, come sit.”
“We just have to wait for the guard to move on,” said Catherine, taking a seat. “And we must be quiet.”
They sat in silence for some minutes, before Guy murmured, “The timepiece… It doesn’t look to be here, either.”
The room was bare aside from the crates, the packed-dirt floor clear of debris. Through the cellar opening, Catherine could make out the whistling of the wind. She put her arms about herself. “Mr. Smith, do you recall anything? Being back here?”
He ducked his head, rubbing his palms together. “No, Miss Daly.”
Getting up, she began to search through the remainder of the crates. Guy stood as well, lantern in hand, giving her more light. The boxes were splitting along the grain, damp-stained—all of them empty. With a sigh, she shook her head.
Guy took a step back. “I’ll go and see if the guard has gone.” He headed up the ladder, and Catherine and Owen waited in the dark.
Minutes slipped past. Catherine closed her eyes against the dim, her nerves fraying as time went on. Owen fidgeted and asked, “Do you suppose he’s all right?”
Then—
“Miss Daly? Mr. Smith?”
Catherine scrambled to her feet. She curled both hands around a ladder rung, letting out a breath of relief upon finding Guy at the opening. “We were wondering where you got to.”
She saw the flash of his grin. “Come up,” he said. “I don’t see anyone about. I think we’re quite safe now.”
Catherine gestured for Owen to go up first. Once she reached the top herself, Guy carefully pulled the hatch door closed. From somewhere inside the church, old wood groaned, creaking in the wind. Owen looked between the two of them. “Are we leaving, then? We ought to leave.”
Guy went back through the doorway. At the place where the roof gaped open, he stopped, staring up as Catherine had at the fractured timber beams and the open sky.
His dark coat was unbuttoned, and his watch chain glinted against his waistcoat. Catherine remembered the complete silence that had enveloped them when he’d made time stand still. There was a similar stillness to him now, his expression thoughtful.
She walked over to him, Owen following her out of the room. Guy raised his lantern, casting his face in light.
“I do wonder,” he said, “if perhaps Mr. Carlyle found the timepiece here after all. Perhaps we missed our chance.”
Catherine bit her lip. “I’m going to speak with him tomorrow.”
Guy’s gaze went to the church entrance. Voice low, he said, “I’m beginning to think this timepiece is not worth finding, if those looking are being killed.”
Catherine crossed her arms. The night wind tugged at her coat, strands of her hair loosening from her chignon. “It’s magic that brought Mr. Smith back to life. There are people who would take another’s life for such a thing.”
“Contrary, isn’t it?” Turning to Owen, Guy continued. “Someone took your life, Mr. Smith. Then it was restored to you. It’s entirely cruel.”
“You’re assuming,” Catherine pointed out, “that the person who killed Mr. Smith is the same person who enchanted the timepiece and that the magic worked as intended. Given our involvement, I suspect it did not.”
The three of them made their way out of the church. Walking over the grounds, Owen kept a few paces ahead. He wandered through the rows of tombstones, his head down, his hands in his pockets. Beyond the glow of Guy’s light, he looked like a ghost among the graves, a fleeting shadow caught in the corner of one’s eye. Something ephemeral.
Catherine glanced to Guy. “The last time I was in Rose Hill Cemetery,” she said, voice quiet, “the client didn’t pay Mr. Ainsworth with coin but with information. He knew the location of Mr. Smith’s plot.”
“You’re just mentioning this now?”
“It only just came to mind.”
Guy adjusted the wick of his lantern, the light flaring brighter. “What was the gentleman’s name? Do you remember it?”
“Mr. Geoffrey Watt.”
Surprise flickered across his face. “I know him,” he said. “He’s a past client of my father’s. I’ve seen his name in the books.”
“How do you suppose he came across such information?”
Up ahead, Owen had gotten farther from them. He paused, looking back, waiting near the gates.
“I think we have his address noted,” said Guy. “Shall we pay him a call?”
Catherine nodded in agreement. They reached Owen where the cemetery gates gave way to the cobbled street, shops shuttered up for the night. He held fast to the iron as he had that night, the last night they were all here together.
“Are you well, Mr. Smith?” Guy asked.
Letting go of the gate, Owen turned to them. He looked little different from the boy they had pulled from the grave, except for the spark that lit his eyes now—recognition and familiarity. “You may call me Owen,” he told them. “I think I would prefer it if you did.”
Catherine smiled. They journeyed back to the watchmaker’s, the way there as recognizable to her as the course to the print shop. In the kitchen, she placed her trunk on the floor near the table, looking it over to ensure all her things were packed away. Owen settled in one of the worn armchairs by the hearth as Guy built up a fire. The wood shifted and popped, and sparks shot upward. In the quiet, Catherine told Owen about Geoffrey Watt—about his knowledge of Owen’s grave.
The shop clocks tolled the hour. Owen stretched out his legs in front of him, absently picking at a loose thread on the chair arm. “We ought to visit him, yes. When should we go?” He looked from her to Guy, who now stood at the counter, taking biscuits from a tin and setting them on a plate.
“We could try tomorrow evening,” said Catherine. “After I finish work.”
Guy brought the biscuits over to the table. Owen got up, yawned, and took two off the plate before heading to bed. Catherine closed her trunk and met Guy’s gaze. His eyes were dark in the firelight, his mouth halfway to a smile.
She said softly, “Thank you for letting me stay.”
“It was lovely having you here.” Looking down at her trunk, he bit his lip. “I can walk with you tomorrow—to the print shop. If you’d like some company.”
Catherine felt her cheeks warm. “I’d like that very much.”
&
nbsp; Guy grinned. It was a grin that lit up his whole face, his eyes shining. Catherine’s heart sped at the sight of it, and she grinned back, swift as quicksilver.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
OUTSIDE THE INVERCARN CHRONICLE, Catherine and Guy paused on the street. Watery morning light shone across the windows, softening the edges of things. The street glistened with puddles, their surfaces reflecting the pale-gray clouds, the cast-iron lampposts. Catherine looked over at Guy as he put down her trunk and took off his hat. His face was tinged pink by the chill in the air, his expression set as he gazed up at the building.
“I’ll be all right,” Catherine said, reading the concern on his face.
His eyes met hers. Smiling a little, he replied, “Of course. I have every confidence in you, Catherine.”
She picked up her trunk and recalled the first time she’d come here, with her father.
How uncertain she had felt, how decided she had been despite that.
Now here she was with Guy Nolan at her side and the unknown before her.
She said, “I’ll pay you a call in the evening,” and started for the door.
She’d taken only a few steps, when Guy said, “Catherine, wait.”
He caught up to her. And then he paused, clutching his hat in front of him. A carriage passed by on the street, its wheels rolling through the puddles, sending up small waves of rainwater.
Catherine raised her eyebrows in question. “Is evening not a suitable time?”
“No,” he said. “I mean—yes, it is. Of course. I only… I only wanted to—” He swallowed visibly, his face reddening. “I just wanted to say how much I admire you, Catherine, and—” He stopped again, shutting his eyes tight. “Oh God, I’m sorry. Never mind.” Turning on his heel, he began walking quickly away.
Catherine stared after him. The wind blew at his coat, his hair. He put on his hat and dug his hands into his pockets. Picking up her skirts in her free hand, she dashed down the street. Now she was the one calling out. “Guy, wait!”
He looked back around, his expression shy. “Yes?”
Grinning up at him, she smoothed a hand over her coat. “So, you admire me, do you? I’d like to hear the rest.”
Guy let out a startled laugh. It was such a lovely sound, and he grinned the way he had last night, with his happiness gleaming in his dark eyes. “My apologies,” he said. “I panicked.”
“Yes, I gathered.” She took a step forward, her smile softening. “Would it ease your mind to know that I also admire you?”
His eyes glistened with tears. He wiped them away, laughing as he did. When she offered him her hand, he held it in both of his. “Stay for dinner tonight, won’t you?” he said. “I promise it’ll be most entertaining and I’ll make wonderful conversation and food and it’ll be wonderful.”
“Well, that’s certainly a promise.” She squeezed his fingers. “Of course I will.” She let herself gaze at him a moment longer—his windswept hair, the depth of his brown eyes, the curve of his smile—then looked back at the brick and mortar of the print shop. “But for now I must return to work.”
* * *
Catherine set her completed forme on the bed of the press, wiping her hands on her apron. It was close to afternoon, and through the front windows, the weather looked dull and dreary. The others in the shop were composing type, inking formes, hanging printed sheets to dry. Rather than settle into the routine with ease, Catherine had spent the morning on edge. She knew the source of her discomfort—the memory of Ainsworth’s dead body only three floors up, the notion that someone here may be a killer. She inked her forme for printing, her grip tight on the roller.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl. She wouldn’t head for the watchmaker’s shop until day’s end. Boyd came out from the back room, giving them their break early, before heading out on an errand. She hadn’t yet seen Spencer, but she had a mind to go upstairs to his room and knock on his door. As Boyd left the shop, she set down her composing stick, her attention shifting to the stairs.
On the third floor, she tapped her knuckles on Spencer’s door. “Spencer,” she said. “It’s Catherine.” She put a hand on the doorknob. The rooms on this floor hadn’t locks, so she cracked the door open, glancing in. “Spencer?”
Spencer wasn’t there. His bed was neatly made, his desk at the window cleared of paper. Catherine took a step inside, looking about the space. If he’d found the timepiece last night, might it be somewhere here?
Crossing the room, she put her fingertips to the desk’s edge. She paused, hesitating, her gaze fixed on the street outside. She ought to be checking Boyd’s office. If she found some evidence of arsenic there, she could bring it to the police.
She took a deep breath and reached for the first drawer.
A creak in the floorboards told her of someone else’s presence.
“Catherine? What are you doing?”
She stilled. Stepping away from Spencer’s desk, she turned to find Bridget standing in the hall, regarding her with raised eyebrows. “If Spencer learns you’ve pried into his things, he’ll—”
“I’m not prying,” she lied, clasping her hands together. “I’m just—”
From below, the shop door slammed open. Catherine and Bridget looked at each other, equally puzzled, but Catherine’s eyes widened as she heard a voice she recognized.
“Miss Daly! Miss Daly, are you here?”
Owen Smith.
“Who is that?” asked Bridget. She followed Catherine back down to the print floor, where they met Owen at the foot of the stairs. He was hatless, his face pale. He put his knuckles to his mouth as though he couldn’t bear to speak.
“Owen,” Catherine said. “Is something the matter?”
His eyes were dark and red-rimmed. “Please,” he said. “You must come at once. Please, Catherine.” His voice broke in his distress, catching on a sob.
Catherine placed a hand on his arm, reassuring, even as her heart pounded in her chest. “Of course. It’s all right.” She looked to Bridget. “Tell Mr. Boyd I’ll be back later.”
“But—” Bridget shook her head. “Catherine…”
Catherine untied her apron, hung it up, and fetched her coat and bonnet.
When she came back downstairs, Owen turned for the door. Out on the street, he wiped at his eyes with his coat sleeve, taking a shuddering breath. He said, “I don’t know what to do.”
“What’s happened? Is it Guy?”
He nodded. “His—his father has died.”
Catherine’s breath left her in a rush. She recalled with clarity the fondness in Henry Nolan’s voice when he’d spoken to Guy, the kindness in his gaze. She did not wish to know how he’d died.
“Guy has not left his bedside,” Owen continued. “He won’t speak. I told him I’d go and get you—he didn’t even seem to hear me.”
She couldn’t imagine how Guy must feel, losing the only family he had left. They walked quickly back to the watchmaker’s shop, and in the gray afternoon light, nothing looked amiss, though the CLOSED sign was hung on the door. Catherine went inside and up the back staircase. The stillness that greeted her in the hall reminded her of the shroud of silence that fell when Guy’s magic was at work. Her footsteps were muffled by the carpet runner, her heart pounding in her ears.
Easing open the door, she saw Guy first, kneeling at the side of the bed. His father lay in it, as if he merely slept. The sight brought her back to Ainsworth’s office, back to the hospital morgue. She knew what death looked like.
Guy’s hand rested on the coverlet. Catherine took it in hers, gently, and he didn’t pull away. He tipped his face up, his eyes glazed over with agony. Without saying anything, she led him out of the room.
She closed the door once they were in the hall. Guy sat with his back against the wall, his fingers digging into the carpet runner. At the click of the door closing, his breathing turned shallow. Small, choked sounds escaped him, and he covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking.
/> Catherine swallowed hard. She touched his shoulder, letting him know she was there. Owen sat on the other side of him, and they waited in that dim and narrow stretch of hallway, while Guy cried into his hands, while Henry Nolan lay dead in the room behind them.
Exhaling shakily, he wiped his face with his shirtsleeve. He pressed his temple to the wallpaper, shutting his eyes.
“Guy,” Catherine murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
He fixed his gaze on her. And he whispered, “He was murdered, Catherine.” Burst capillaries threaded the whites of his eyes, his voice raw and cracked through. “He was murdered. I know it.”
Catherine looked over her shoulder at the door. Guy shuddered beside her, continuing in the same half whisper. “The window in his room is unlatched. Someone has been here. Someone poisoned him.”
She turned back to him. “You mean,” she said softly, “like Mr. Ainsworth?”
He nodded and closed his eyes once more.
Owen said, “We ought to tell the police, oughtn’t we?”
They sat in silence for a moment. Guy staggered to his feet, leaning against the wall to steady himself. He didn’t look toward his father’s bedroom, but concentrated on the floor as he said, “Yes. Yes, we must tell the police.” He ran a hand through his hair, glancing over at Catherine. “Then we must visit Mr. Watt.”
Catherine stood up. She didn’t say what she wanted to—that perhaps she ought to go to Geoffrey Watt’s residence by herself. He had information about Owen, surely, but she wondered if Owen could sit through a discussion of his own death. And Guy had just lost his father. He was in no state to be making inquiries about murder.
Guy seemed to read her hesitation. He took a handkerchief from his trouser pocket, wiping again at his tear-stained face, but it didn’t alleviate the redness of his eyes, nor the shaking of his hands. “I’m not staying behind, Catherine.”
She imagined him sitting alone downstairs while clocks chimed the passing hours. Her throat closed at the thought. “Very well,” she said.
“Yes, I’m coming along too,” said Owen, getting to his feet. “It’s best if we all go. This man knew where I was buried—he might know who killed me.”