Heathcliff never became the cruel, twisted figure who haunted Wuthering Heights. He never went wherever he went in those mysterious three years that turned his heart to ice.
“And you?” I swirled to meet Morrie. James Moriarty, one of the more iconic villains in Victorian literature. “You never met Sherlock Holmes at Reichenbach Falls?”
Morrie shook his head. “I found myself placed in such a position through Holmes’ continual persecution that I was in danger of losing my liberty. The situation had become impossible, so I left England in my attempt to remain one step ahead of my foe. I fell asleep on the train to Geneva, and woke up here.”
“But what about you?” I asked Quoth. He shook his head.
“He’s different,” Heathcliff growled. “Mr. Simson never said anything about shapeshifters.”
“I have a theory that he might be both the raven and the poem’s anonymous narrator,” Morrie said. “Somehow, they were pulled from the poem as a single unit.”
“I remember little from my previous life.” Quoth stared at the ceiling as words tumbled out – a stream of rich, velvet vowels dripping with sadness. “This stands to reason since I came from a poem and not a book. I recall only a room filled with books and a sensation of time marching on without me, while I remained frozen in a memory that faded into nothingness, dragging some vital piece of me into the void along with it. Even now that memory haunts me, and my mind snatches at the visions as they grow ever dim. That is why I spend most of my time in my raven form.” Quoth pinched the skin on his thigh. “This human skin feels… awkward. Plus, these stupid things are a bit useless.” He flapped his arms.
My ears buzzed. It was such a wild tale, it couldn’t possibly be true. And yet… I’d seen Quoth’s feathers retract into his skin and a beak where his mouth should be.
“But I heard Quoth’s voice in the shop when the raven was around,” I said, my last weak protest.
“You did,” Morrie frowned. “And that’s highly irregular. In his raven form, Quoth can communicate telepathically, but only other fictional characters have ever been able to hear him. Until you. That’s why Heathcliff gave you the job.”
Is it? I remembered Quoth’s voice from my first meeting with Heathcliff, saying I was pretty, that I was ‘the one.’ Did he mean I was the perfect one for the job because I could hear him? He didn’t know that when he spoke.
Or is there something else?
“So why can I…”
“Yet another question we’re not yet able to answer, gorgeous.” Morrie patted my leg. “Let us clear your name of this murder first, and then perhaps between the four of us we can figure out the secrets of Nevermore Bookshop.”
“What about Grimalkin?” I asked, faintly.
“She’s just a cat,” Heathcliff said.
“We’re almost certain,” Morrie added.
“Meow,” Grimalkin confirmed, stretching out across Heathcliff’s lap.
I tipped my head back and skulled the wine, then held my glass out to Heathcliff. “You got more?”
“You planning to drink until this seems plausible?” Heathcliff asked.
“Damn right.”
“A woman after my own heart.” Heathcliff returned to the fridge and pulled out another bottle of cheap swill. He offered some to Morrie, who shook his head, instead pulling a gold flask from a strap around his ankle and taking a deep swig. Quoth too refused, but he didn’t seem to have a hidden stash of his own.
I accepted a full glass from Heathcliff and took another deep drink. Alcoholic warmth spread across my chest, but it did nothing to take the edge off what I’d seen and heard. “How did you all come to live here in Nevermore Bookshop together?”
“I arrived first,” Heathcliff said, his fingers tightening around the bottle. “Mr. Simson had some contacts in London who secured me a birth certificate and passport. He said that he’d found me the perfect job, one that suited my unique skills. I thought he’d be sending me up North to be a shepherd or take tourists on hikes around the moors, but instead he handed me the keys to the shop.”
“Why?”
Heathcliff shrugged. “He never told me, and I never saw him again to ask. He’d cleared out his flat, closed his account down at the Argleton post office, left me with a right mess of the accounts, and all the riff raff that come from the stacks.”
“I was the first to land in Heathcliff’s lap,” Morrie grinned. “He does love the feel of my firm cheeks on his—”
Heathcliff growled.
“Anyway,” Morrie grinned. “We bonded over our joint exile from the fictional world. Plus, I’m able to hack into the government records and forge birth certificates and other useful documents, so if I stuck around, he didn’t have to keep going down to London. Heathcliff likes that. It means he doesn’t have to leave the shop, and I can cook. It was six months before we had our first fictional guest – Hester Primm. We tried to live with her for a while, but she was always bringing strangers home. Heathcliff found her a nice job pulling pints at a sports bar in London. Then it was Titania—”
“You mean, the fairy queen from A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
“The very same. She now manages a donkey rehabilitation center in Cornwall. And Quoth was the last. He came six months ago, and we haven’t had anyone since, which is a blessing, because living with Quoth is like having an annoying bloody baby.”
“It is not,” Quoth said.
Morrie ticked off points on his long fingers. “He regurgitates food. He tears up the furniture. He creates incomprehensive paintings we’re supposed to stick on the fridge and admire. He shits on the customers.”
“Only when they quote that bloody poem,” Quoth growled, his brown eyes swiveling to Morrie. “How would you feel if you were constantly reminded of the source of all your grief?”
“I don’t have any grief,” Morrie shot back. “Unlike some people, I’ve adjusted to my new life.”
Although Morrie spoke with his usual easy confidence, something in the stiffening of his fingers suggested he was trying to convince himself.
“At least you’ve got a whole bloody house of chamber doors to loom over,” Heathcliff’s quiet words dripped with menace. “I lost a part of myself, like leaving a rib in the pub bathroom—”
“Don’t tell me what I—” Quoth’s words cut off as his lips puckered out from his face. His eyes bugged out, the sockets contorting and shifting back toward his ears as his neck snapped forward and his arms bent back.
I screamed, shrinking back in the chair as black feathers exploded through Quoth’s skin, each one covered in a black film that drained away as the feathers unfurled and settled against each other. Quoth spread his arms and flapped, blowing papers and crumpling his clothes across the floor. His body hovered in the air for a moment as it shrunk down and folded in on itself, twisting and contorting until he’d become the raven. He circled the room three times, croaking with indignation, then settled onto the perch above the fireplace and glared down at Heathcliff.
“This is why you can’t tell the police about Quoth,” Morrie said. “He can’t control his shifting, especially if he’s nervous or stressed or angry. If they take him down to the station and he turns into a bird, then—”
“I get it,” I gasped, my hand against my heart, trying to press air back into my lungs. Any doubt I’d had that their ridiculous story was another lie had been shocked right out of me. “Is that also why he doesn’t have a birth certificate or a job?”
“We decided it would be easier for Quoth to hide if he never existed in the first place,” Morrie said. The raven flew down to perch on his shoulder, nodding its head sadly.
“So that’s Poe’s raven… and you’re really Heathcliff… and you’re James Moriarty…” The saliva dried in my throat. “You’re a criminal genius.”
“I’ve never been tested,” Morrie said, but he couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice. “But yes, it’s probable I’m a genius.”
“You hacked into
Jo’s phone, and you got me to lie to the police, and…” realization gripped my heart with icy fists. “All that money that disappeared from your company’s accounts… you wouldn’t happen to know where it is?”
“I might have an inkling,” Morrie took another swig from his flask. “But I lost my job before I could provide the company with my valuable insights. Luckily, I’m well equipped to weather such financial setbacks. It’s just as well, because Heathcliff rarely makes enough to cover the mortgage, so I must supply the shortfall. I do, however, have plenty leftover with which to play. Do you want a pony? I’ve always thought what this shop needs is a pony.”
“Jesus bloody Christ,” Heathcliff skulled the rest of the wine bottle. “This place is already a bloody menagerie.”
I sighed. “It’s cool. It’s all bloody fine. I’m working for history’s greatest antihero and hanging out with the Napoleon of Crime and a bloody rhyming bird. And yet this still isn’t the worst thing that’s happened to me this week. I just stood over my best friend’s body. Is there any chance Ashley’s death is related to this whole cursed bookshop thing?”
Morrie and Heathcliff exchanged a glance. “It’s crossed our minds, but we can’t figure how. Is your friend Ashley some kind of vindictive warlock hellbent on yanking fictional characters from their narratives in medias res?”
“Not that I know of.” A horrid thought occurred to me. “You don’t think some evil character appeared in the shop right as she walked in, stabbed her, and ran away, did you? It could have been Jack the Ripper or Hannibal Lecter or—”
Heathcliff shook his head. “No. We’d know.”
“We get a strange feeling when it happens,” Morrie said. “Some invisible force rudely thrusts a hand inside your chest cavity and jiggles your organs around. Not one of us had that feeling last night—”
“Hey, is anyone in there?”
Morrie froze. My heart hammered. Someone was downstairs in the shop. “I told you to leave that bookshelf in place,” Heathcliff hissed to Moriarty.
“I did. The bastards must have moved it or come in the back way. Either way, they’re breaking in.”
Heathcliff leapt to his feet. Grimalkin howled as she was tipped rudely to the floor. “I’ll clap them around the ears!”
“No. I’ll deal with them.” I stood up. “They’re here to see me, anyway. I might as well give them a show.”
I headed for the stairs. The mood Heathcliff was in, he’d bite the customer’s head off. And I… I needed to not be in the room with the three of them anymore.
“No, Mina, don’t—” but I was already halfway down the stairs.
“Hi, my name is Mina and I’d be happy to help—” I stopped in my tracks as I peered over the balustrade into the entrance hall below and saw who our customer was. Jo, the medical examiner.
“Oh, hello,” she called up at me, flashing me a friendly smile that seemed out of place for a medical examiner to give a murder suspect. My heart leapt. Does that mean they cleared my name? “There’s quite a crowd outside trying to pry the front door open, so I went around back. One of the windows was loose so I just…” she mimed pushing the sash up and rolling into the shop.
“Heathcliff isn’t opening the shop today,” I said cautiously, aware that behind that smile was the woman who had the power to send me to jail for a long time. “I’m trying to convince him it might be better to brave the gawkers, lest we end up with a riot.”
“I say bring on the riot,” Jo said. “The last time anything exciting happened in Argleton was when Danny Evans drove his lorry into the side of the pub.”
I laughed, remembering the incident well. Mum had been drinking in the pub that night, and she staggered across the green to where I was reading in the bookshop with glass sticking out of her leg just to tell me the story. “I was eight when that happened. Are you local, then? You look about my age, but I don’t remember you from school.”
“I’m a couple of years older,” Jo said. “My mum died when I was six and I moved around with Dad for awhile, went to uni, then found myself back here again. Guess the old place is hard to escape, eh?”
“It sure is. I’m sorry about your mum.”
“I’m sorry about the dead body in your shop,” Jo said. “If it’s any consolation, I finished my examination this morning, and I don’t believe you’re the murderer.”
“No?”
“No. The knife had been wielded with some considerable force, which would usually rule out a female assailant. But it’s not me you have to convince, and Chief Inspector Hayes is definitely looking at you.”
“Oh, goody. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, right. Yes. You probably think it’s totally insane that I just broke back into a crime scene, but the truth is, I left my sweater here last night, and I was hoping I could get it. It’s my favorite one. Also… I’m heading down to London for a vitreous and enucleation course and I need something to read on the train.” Jo turned on her heel, gesturing to the shelves crammed with books. “I actually didn’t know this place existed until last night, and now I don’t know where to start.”
“A what course?”
“Vitreous and enucleation. Vitreous is a clear fluid between the lens and retina in your eye. I’m teaching pathology technicians how to extract it with a syringe for toxicology testing. Enucleation is removing the whole eyeball—”
“That’s fine. I don’t need to know. Sounds like fun.” My stomach churned at the idea of it. I remembered the stack of books beside Quoth’s bed. I bet he and Jo have similar tastes. “I saw something you’d like, but I’ll have to ask where to find it. Feel free to have a look for your sweater while I run up and speak to Heathcliff.”
I dashed back upstairs, where Heathcliff had already buried his nose in a book and Morrie was trying to convince a now human Quoth to try on a tailored vest. “It’s Jo. She climbed in a window. She’s on her way to an eyeball convention and wants to buy a book. I wondered if any of those books Quoth was reading was available for sale?”
Quoth pulled on his second sock and straightened up. “I’ll get them for you. I’ve read them all.”
“Thank—” But he’d already disappeared.
“Did Jo say anything about the investigation?” Morrie asked.
“Only that the force of the stabbing suggested a male assailant, but the Chief Inspector still considered me a suspect.”
Quoth returned and handed me a selection of books. “These were my favorites.”
I came back down the stairs just as Jo picked up a black hoodie from behind a bookcase. I handed her the books. “These are all true crime stories and grisly things you’ll like. This one’s on the history of poison and this is about the H. H. Holmes murders in Chicago…”
“Hey, thanks.” Jo studied the cover of the poison book. “This looks perfect. I’ll take it.”
“Awesome. I’ll ring it up for you.” I led her over to the counter and punched the total into the ancient till. “Just do me a favor and tell me about it when you get back. The book, not the course. I don’t want to hear anything about eyeballs and syringes, but I want to read this.”
“Will do. Maybe we could have coffee and I could tell you all about the poison cases I’ve worked on over the years. Did you know that strychnine poisoning is often mistaken for tetanus until the postmortem toxicology reports otherwise?” Jo slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry. Is that weird? It’s totally weird, right? I don’t mean to talk your ear off about eyeballs and poisons.”
“Just weird enough for me.” I grinned, noticing the Misfits logo on the front of her hoodie as I scribbled out her receipt. Heathcliff still kept handwritten records because he was a crazy person who seemed determined to remain stuck in the imaginary time period from whence he came. “You into punk?”
“Hell yeah. Especially stuff that’s about horror and blood and guts.” Jo dictated her number to me and I sent her a text message with a smiley face. She held up her phone with my
number. “I’ve got you now. We can talk more about poison and punk when we get that coffee. And now I’m certain you can’t have written that text—”
“What text?”
“Oh,” Jo clapped her hands over her mouth. “I’m not supposed to say anything. You’ll be hearing about it from the police soon. But don’t worry about it – they’ll see it doesn’t match your usual diction and look elsewhere.”
That doesn’t sound promising.
I escorted Jo back to the window. She climbed out and sprinted around the corner, her poison book tucked under her arm. I already liked Jo. Anyone who crawled in a window because they desperately needed a book to read was okay by me. The thought of meeting her for coffee made my stomach flip with excitement. I wanted her to be my friend, but it was hard to start a friendship with a person who might end up convicting you for murder.
As soon as Jo was out of sight, I raced back upstairs. Morrie was already at his computer, and Quoth and Heathcliff faced each other in front of the fire, a chessboard between them. Quoth had returned to his bird form, and he trotted across the board to move the pieces with his beak.
“The police found a text on Ashley’s phone,” I exclaimed. “Jo seemed to imply it implicated me.”
Heathcliff’s glower could freeze a volcano.
Morrie pulled out his phone and tapped the screen. “Correct. They found a message from a burner phone, sent thirty-three minutes before we found the body. It reads, ‘Can we meet n person? It safe. No1 watchin shop.’”
I peered over his shoulder. “Anyone who knows me knows I’d never send a text with incorrect spelling or numbers instead of words. But how did you find that text? Did they release that to the papers? What have they said about me? Did they at least get a picture where I look good?”
“You’re not in the papers yet, gorgeous.”
“Then where’d you get that text?”
“The police file.”
“But… police files aren’t public.”
“Nope.” Morrie opened up an app on his phone, his finger paused over a large red button. “Do you want me to corrupt the file, lose all their info?”
Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop Page 12