by Kelly Powell
Guy started down the hall, heading for the stairs. Catherine took another glance at the bedroom door as Owen followed Guy. The floorboards creaked beneath them, the sounds of the clocks in the shop below muffled but steady as a heartbeat. Catherine turned away and set off after them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CATHERINE SAT NEXT to Owen as the omnibus rattled over North Bridge. A patchy drizzle speckled the cobbles, the dark evening sky holding the promise of more rain. Leaning against her shoulder, Owen pitched his voice low. “What are we going to do, Catherine?” His gaze went to Guy, sitting on the bench across from them.
Guy had spoken little since leaving the shop. Now he sat with his shoulders slumped, head down, so Catherine couldn’t see his face.
Policemen had returned with them to the watchmaker’s shop. In the back room, they’d questioned Guy, and he’d stared down at the floor, his voice growing quieter with each answer he gave.
“He was dead when I found him,” he’d said. “He took medicine, to help him sleep, but it’s not the same sort I saw on his nightstand. It was replaced with something else.”
Her heart ached as she remembered Guy’s smile that morning, the light in his eyes. To Owen, she said, “He needs time. His father was all the family he had.”
Owen looked to the rest of the people crowding the omnibus. Almost every space was occupied, umbrellas folded up and dripping rainwater. He cast his gaze down, skimming his fingers over the brim of his hat.
“What are you thinking, Owen?”
“Only that…” He swallowed. “I don’t think my memories are going to come back, and I know I likely don’t have any family, but—I’m hoping we are friends?”
“Yes.” Catherine smiled softly. “Of course we are.”
He smiled back at her, his hazel eyes bright. He looked again in Guy’s direction, and his smile fell away. “I wish there were some way to ease his pain.”
“I wish it too,” said Catherine. “We’ll help him however we can, but grief isn’t a wound that can be neatly stitched.”
Owen nodded. They were silent for the remainder of their journey, the omnibus clipping along, passing the establishments that made up the university district. Near Watt’s street, the three of them stepped out and started walking. The mansions here were great brick piles, their hedges and gardens leafless this late in the autumn, but Catherine had seen how many flowers bloomed here in the summer months.
Geoffrey Watt resided in a fine two-story house lined with windows. Smoke curled above the chimneys, the white-painted door a stark contrast to the gray evening. Inside, they were shown into a parlor room, and Catherine seated herself in an armchair near the fire. Guy and Owen sat in chairs across from her. The walls were papered in dark red, the furniture heavy and polished. Guy took his pocket watch from his waistcoat, not to mark the time; he merely pressed it against the palm of his hand. The firelight drew attention to the tangle of his hair, the pallor of his countenance. There was a glassiness to his brown eyes that suggested he was somewhere else entirely.
Leaning forward, Catherine said softly, “Guy, you needn’t stay here. Perhaps…”
He blinked and looked her way, coming back to himself. “Pardon?”
“I said you needn’t—”
The parlor door opened. Watt walked in, regarding the three of them. He’d not yet changed for the evening; he wore a fitted frock coat and dark trousers, his cravat tied in a centered bow. Catherine remembered how he’d stood before his sister’s grave, melancholy and unsure. He seemed an altogether different man in his own house, surrounded by the elegance of the parlor. He was clearly a little bewildered at their presence, but he welcomed them in all manner of politeness.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting. I assume this is not a social call.” He took a seat on the sofa. “Good evening to you, Miss Daly. Mr. Nolan.” His eyes caught on Owen. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Guy cleared his throat. “This is my cousin,” he said. “Owen Smith.”
“A pleasure,” said Watt. “I wasn’t aware Henry Nolan had much in the way of family.”
“He is a cousin on my mother’s side.” Guy paused, clutching his pocket watch in a white-knuckled grip. “My father… my father passed away earlier today.”
“Oh, gracious. I’m sorry, Mr. Nolan.”
“Mr. Watt,” Catherine said, “we’re here because we have questions. You’ve no doubt heard news of Mr. Ainsworth’s death. We’ve reason to believe both deaths were a result of poisoning.”
Watt’s eyes widened. He leaned back against the sofa, his hands on his knees. “Well,” he said. “Good heavens.”
Guy returned his gaze to the fire, saying nothing. Catherine continued. “I know you had information Mr. Ainsworth was seeking—the location of a timepiece. You gave him directions to an unmarked plot in the cemetery, yet when he sent me to retrieve it, there was no such thing to be found.”
Watt cast his eyes down. “I didn’t think he’d dig up the grave for it.”
“He didn’t.” Catherine gripped the seat of her chair. “I did.”
With a sigh, Watt lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I directed him there thinking it would discourage him. The timepiece wasn’t left in that coffin.” He looked over at Guy, his brow creased. “I imagine it’s still in your shop, Mr. Nolan.”
Catherine turned to Guy in confusion. He didn’t move; he seemed not to have heard, but slowly, voice rasping, he said, “Why would it be there?”
In the chair next to him, Owen regarded Watt with a fearful expression, hopeful and morbidly curious. “The boy in the grave,” he began, “do you know who killed him, sir?”
Watt swallowed. “I would prefer not to speak on it.”
“You do yourself no favors that way, Mr. Watt,” said Catherine. “How did you come to know these things? Why would the timepiece be in Mr. Nolan’s shop?”
“Because it belonged to him. Henry Nolan.”
Guy’s attention snapped to Watt. Catherine had seen the bleakness in his eyes, but in that moment it was the darkness of a storm rolling in.
“You must understand I only learned of this recently,” Watt went on. “In the summer, my father told it to me on his deathbed. He said Mr. Nolan gave him the pocket watch about fifteen years ago. He said the man was grieved, having just lost his wife and two sons. Mr. Nolan asked if there was some way to keep his third son safe—if illness or accident were to take his life, if he might be able to restore it.” Watt hesitated, biting his lip. To Guy, he said, “I know your family’s magic, Mr. Nolan. You might still time, but not wind it back. Your father knew there was only so much his magic could do to achieve what he wanted. My father agreed to help him, but magic—especially on that scale—it isn’t easily done, and it isn’t done without cost.”
Catherine was all too aware of the fact. She knew what must’ve come about all those years ago. She said, “One would need to take a life in order to give life to another.”
Watt nodded. “He was a foundling boy. My father made sure of that. He killed him quickly.”
Guy’s expression was so thunderous, Catherine thought he might take Watt by the lapels and shake him. She fairly wanted to do just that. His voice held a hard undercurrent as he said, “Do not justify it so, Mr. Watt. It was murder.”
“Yes, that was your father’s sentiment when my father returned the timepiece to him with the magic he’d asked for within it. A life for a life. Mr. Nolan was none too pleased, and rightfully so, I suppose. But… Surely in his heart of hearts he must’ve known what it would take?”
The conversation Catherine had overheard between Guy and Everley returned to the forefront of her thoughts.
Mr. Everley. You don’t think I’d ever use it, do you?
No. I only fear your father might.
Guy got up, walking out of the room, and Catherine released a sigh. She looked to Owen, pressed back against the armchair opposite her. His face was white as paper. “Come, Owen.” She kept her
voice gentle. “I think we’ve heard enough.”
At the doorway, she paused with her hand on the frame. “Mr. Watt,” she said, “do you happen to know what this timepiece looks like?”
“Indeed.” He went over to a writing desk in the corner, lifting the rosewood lid. “I hoped to speak with Mr. Nolan about it, a few months ago, but he seemed to no longer remember it. I fear the guilt might’ve led him to recklessness—I heard he’d been selling pieces of time for a while. Such business would’ve eaten away at his memories.” Sitting at the desk, he picked up a pencil and began to sketch. “The watch Henry Nolan gave my father was a lovely silver piece. My father had it for a little time before he—well, before he gave it back to Mr. Nolan.”
Finishing his sketch of the timepiece, Watt handed the paper to Catherine. “That timepiece holds powerful magic. Someone from the Chronicle—Mr. Carlyle—was asking me about it only recently. He knew I misled Mr. Ainsworth regarding its whereabouts. I told him it might still be in the Nolans’ shop, but I couldn’t be entirely sure. Mr. Nolan would do well to find it.”
Catherine looked down at the timepiece Watt had drawn. She swallowed against the tightness in her throat, and Watt’s words echoed in her mind as she and Owen left the parlor.
Outside, Guy stood in the front courtyard. It was raining quite steadily now, and the shoulder cape of his overcoat was soaked through. He looked over at the sound of their footsteps. Owen began to say something, but then Guy put his arms around him. And despite being pressed against the wet wool of Guy’s coat, Owen leaned in gratefully.
“It was vile what he said,” Guy told him. “Your life isn’t worth any less than mine. My father oughtn’t have—” His voice turned choked. “I’m so sorry. You died because of—”
Owen managed to free one of his arms to pat Guy on the back. “Do not think it your fault. It wasn’t, Guy. It wasn’t.”
“Guy,” said Catherine. She held out the bit of paper. “Have a look at this.”
He stepped back from Owen, taking his reading glasses from his pocket. Raindrops dotted the paper as Guy studied the picture of the timepiece. “Dear God.” He shook his head. “To think, all this time…”
“So you know where it is?” Owen asked.
“It’s the pocket watch I was wearing… the night Catherine and I dug up your grave.” Guy looked up from Watt’s sketch. “In fact, the crystal over the face broke. I thought it was so old, I must’ve cracked it while we were digging. I left it on the worktable. I’ve been meaning to repair it.”
Yet Catherine felt a creeping dread rather than any sense of relief. She started across the courtyard, rain slipping down past her collar, making her shiver. She said, “Let’s hope it’s still there.”
* * *
The omnibus ride back to the watchmaker’s shop was a long one. They got off, and though the streetlights illuminated the way, no lamps burned inside the shop. Guy reached into his pocket for his key, gazing up at the curtained windows of the flat. Catherine’s heart clenched.
He went inside and began lighting the lamps. The shop glowed with warmth, all dark wood and clockwork, the smell of polish and metal. Catherine took off her coat and bonnet, setting them on the coatrack.
Guy paused at the doorway to the back room. Catherine came to stand beside him. Only yesterday, Guy had sat at the worktable while his father looked over his shoulder, advising him. Now he stared into the dimness of the room, his expression achingly vulnerable.
He took a breath and stepped inside, lighting the desk lamp. There were several pocket watches on the table—in movement holders, gears exposed, or still in their casings—but after a fleeting glance, Guy said, “It’s not here.” He bent down, opening drawers. “Unless my father moved it, but I doubt that.”
Inside the drawers, there were more tools, tarnished pocket watches and chains, rusted gears, fragments of metal.
Owen’s voice wavered. “How will we find it?”
Guy’s shoulders sagged as he looked back at him. “Whoever killed my father—I imagine they have it now.” He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his palms against them.
Catherine said, “So we’ll find them,” and her manner was just as resolute as Guy had been on noting the timepiece’s absence. “Mr. Nolan was killed in the same manner as Mr. Ainsworth. The medical examiner told the police about Mr. Ainsworth being poisoned. Someone at the print shop has done this.”
Her thoughts turned to Spencer wandering the cemetery in the night, asking about the timepiece at the university. He’d been absent from the print shop earlier today, but then so had Boyd, taking off on an errand. She ought to return and see if they were there now, but she couldn’t find the will to leave. In all likelihood, someone at the print shop had poisoned Ainsworth, poisoned Henry Nolan, and stolen the timepiece to use for their own ends.
Later in the evening, Catherine turned down the light of the desk lamp and slipped beneath the blankets on the sofa. The ticking of the clocks provided a small comfort, a reminder of previous nights, happier ones.
She awoke to the same near darkness. Her head was clouded with sleep, and she was momentarily unsure what had woken her. Then footsteps sounded above. Someone else was awake—moving around in the kitchen. Catherine stared bleary-eyed at the ceiling, worry gnawing at her insides. A chair scraped against the floor, muffled but distinct. She sat up and reached for her clothes, dressing quickly in the dim.
A clock behind the shop counter displayed the early-morning hour. Its golden pendulum swung side to side, rhythmic, as she crossed the floor in her stockinged feet. The mechanism chimed the hour in doleful tones along with the rest, the sound following her as she started up the stairs.
In the kitchen, Guy sat at the table with a candle offering feeble light. When she came to the doorway, he looked over to meet her gaze. Catherine couldn’t tell if he’d woken from some terrible nightmare or simply hadn’t slept at all. His eyes were red and fever-bright, the collar of his nightshirt damp with sweat. “Did I wake you?” His voice came out hoarse. “I’m sorry.”
Catherine stopped just inside the room. She felt as though she could go no farther. “I can go back downstairs, if you’d like to be alone.”
He shook his head. She took a seat across from him and realized he was crying, silently, the tears slipping down his face as he blinked. He wiped them away with his knuckles. When his hands came to rest atop the table, Catherine curled her own around them, squeezing lightly.
“What am I supposed to do now?” he asked. “I don’t… I don’t know what to do.”
“I don’t know, either, Guy,” she said softly. “But I know you needn’t figure it out right now.”
He bowed his head, a sob escaping him. “This shouldn’t have happened. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” His voice choked. “Owen and my father—my father never should’ve—” He tipped his head back, blinking up at the ceiling. “You were going to come to dinner.”
Catherine whispered, “I’m here now.”
He looked at her. Closing his eyes, he took deep breaths. And after a moment, he asked, “Should we go to the print shop tomorrow?”
Catherine swallowed, thinking over the past few days. She recalled Spencer standing beside her in Ainsworth’s office. She remembered the pallor of his face and the shaking of his hands as he’d looked upon Ainsworth’s body. She imagined him poisoning Ainsworth’s tea with arsenic, switching out Henry’s medicine, taking the timepiece from the worktable and stepping back out onto the street.
He could be a murderer.
“Let me go with you,” said Guy. “We can search for evidence.”
“I don’t see how we’ll manage that, with everyone else there. I tried to have a look around Mr. Carlyle’s room today, but my roommate caught me at it.”
Guy held on to her hands. His eyes were dark and steady in the candlelight. “We can manage it,” he said. “I’ll still time, and we can manage it.”
Catherine looked back at him. It seemed an e
asy answer in the quiet of the kitchen. At this hour of the night, time was dreamlike; she could imagine them existing outside the bounds of it already, without consequence.
“Only if you’re certain,” she told him.
Guy nodded. He drew away from her, his gaze lowered. “What my father did,” he started, voice quiet, “I can’t bear it, Catherine.”
“He wasn’t the one who killed Owen.”
“Perhaps he didn’t hold the knife, but Mr. Watt was right in that he must’ve known—he must’ve realized the cost. Now he’s gone, and I can’t even speak to him of it. He kept selling hours, not telling me why. I never would’ve thought he did so to forget.” Guy stared at the candle flame between them. “Every time I think on it,” he whispered, “it hurts to breathe, like I’ve a shard of ice in my chest.”
“You are grieving.” Catherine folded her arms on the table and tipped her head to the side. “And you’ve a kind heart. You know what is good and right in the world.”
Guy’s mouth quirked. His eyes shone with unshed tears. “At the moment, I feel I do not know much of anything.”
From down the hall, a door cracked open. The floorboards creaked under footsteps, and Owen appeared in the kitchen doorway, scratching the back of his head. “What are you two doing?” he asked. “It’s very late.”
Guy scrubbed the tears from his eyes. He stood up and pressed his hands against the table. “Catherine and I are going to the print shop tomorrow.”
Owen regarded them. “Will you be all right?”
Catherine rose from her chair, the candlelight flickering in her wake. She didn’t want to think Spencer capable of murder, to think he’d poisoned Henry Nolan and stolen the timepiece, but she was thinking it. “It shouldn’t take long,” she said. “I believe I know where to look.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
ONCE IT WAS PROPERLY morning and sunlight shone in through the windows, Catherine joined Guy and Owen in the kitchen for breakfast. The table was taken up with plates of toast and eggs, teacups and saucers between them.