by Selina Kray
“Someone’s rubbing off on you.” Han chuckled. “We pick our battles. What must be done before we decamp for the night?”
“Everything possible to prevent the destruction of evidence.”
“But we dinnae ken who’s doing the destroying,” Angus said.
“True,” Tim acknowledged. “But we can guess who might hasten to dispose of certain records that might lead to the killer’s discovery.”
“Or the uncovering of certain facts they don’t wish exposed during the investigation,” Han said. “The Daughters in question would have had to be seen during their prayer session.”
“But once that’s done...” Tim nodded, mostly to himself. “I must see their ledgers and accounts before they’ve a chance to alter them. The rest of the search will have to wait on the morning. I can’t think they’ll allow us to rifle through their trunks and cupboards through the night.”
“Callie and Hiero will be here.”
“And so will I, if only in a carriage outside the front gate.”
“So will we,” Han assured him.
“Good man.” Tim smiled for the first time in hours. He often found himself paired with Han during their investigations and had come to enjoy their talks. He was also one of the rare people who knew when to be silent. “Angus, if you’d be so good as to go to a local inn and fetch us some supper? And borrow some blankets and supplies, if they’re amenable. Then you can retire to Berkeley Square.”
“With pleasure, Inspector.”
Han grunted. “I suppose this means I’ve a rendezvous with the compost pit.”
“And a pair of tickets to the rugby in the offering.” Tim gave the rake a twirl before handing it over. “You can use the time to ponder which of your lady friends you’ll invite.”
“Devil take me. He’s remade you in his image.”
Tim barked a laugh while Han yanked on the gloves, which fit him perfectly. He grumbled all the way to the compost pit. Tim watched him go, only to be confronted by the united front of Sister Nora and Sister Merry when he turned toward the garden gate.
“Have you concluded your business, then, Inspector?” Sister Merry asked. “This weary garden needs her rest.”
Before Tim could answer, Sister Nora exclaimed, “Who is that?!”
“My associate, DS Han.” He chuckled inwardly at what Han would think when he learned he’d been appointed sergeant. “Time is against us, as you well know.”
“He cannot—”
“He’ll remain within the garden walls until the search is done or the sun is set. I believe your brother is also permitted to work within these confines, Sister...”
“Emerald Scaggs. Merry for short. And yes, but that’s ’cause I’m with him.”
“You can finish the necessary chores for tonight, but no one else is to enter until we do a final sweep in the morning. I’d ask you and your brother to keep to your residence. DS Han will secure the potting shed and the barn with a lock once he finishes with the compost.”
Sister Merry snickered. “I don’t envy him that.”
“Nor do I.” Tim winked. “Benefits of seniority.”
“I’ll get about my work, then, if you’re done with me, Inspector.”
“We’ll chat tomorrow,” Tim confirmed, waving her off. “And how fortuitous you’ve come to fetch me, as you’re just the person I wanted to see.”
Sister Nora couldn’t mask her shudder. “Oh?”
“I’ll wager it isn’t Sister Juliet who keeps the accounts.”
She shook her head.
“I’ll need to see your records.”
“B-but...” Sister Nora stammered. “But that’s impossible!”
Tim held up a placating hand. “For the moment I have no need to view the amount of donations you receive or how you use them. If you cooperate now and help me identify this boy, I may never. But in order to avenge him, I must know his name. And if you intend to keep me from that information, I must ask myself why.”
She inhaled a shaky breath, which did little to calm her. “Then you must ask Juliet’s permission. I am but her clerk. She controls the estate and authorizes all transactions.”
“Oh, I dare say you are far more to her than a mere clerk.” Tim gave a little Hiero twist to his words and watched her eyes go wide. A suspicion confirmed and a question raised. “Take me to Sister Juliet.”
“She’s indisposed.” Withering under Tim’s scrutiny, she tugged at the frilly ends of her sleeve. “The shock of the day. Our Mother has called her to her bosom. She isn’t to be disturbed in such a state.”
Tim monitored her expression for any sign of deception. He knew Sister Nora could have interrupted Sister Juliet’s suckle session if she deemed it necessary. The greater mystery was her devotion to Rebecca Northcote and her prophecies. Which, in his estimation, appeared genuine.
“Then if you would be so kind as to escort me to where your records are kept, I’ll begin my search.”
She opened her mouth to protest further but stopped herself.
“The sooner I have the information I seek, the sooner I’ll take my leave for the night,” Tim reminded her. “And with your help, the time will pass quickly.”
She shook her head as if to scold herself, then spun on her heel. “Follow me.”
They adjourned to a small office tucked beside Sister Juliet’s. The room was made small by the wall-to-wall bookcases, stuffed ceiling to floor with ledgers, books, and boxes. A heavy door, with locks to match, complemented the vaultlike quality. All but the highest panes of the window had been boarded up with homemade shelves. Filmy dregs of sunlight reflected through as if they were on a ship built in a wine bottle. Tim was relieved when Sister Nora dragged an anchor-shaped stone into the entryway to keep them from being caught in.
He was even more relieved when she lit a lantern, depositing it on the desk shoved into the join between two bookcases. Tim perused some of the labels on the ledgers and boxes as she gave her desk a quick tidy. The boxes were organized by year—likely photographs. She and her predecessors had dedicated a notebook to each Daughter past and present. Records from Rebecca Northcote’s time were closest to the door; she’d want more recent accounts at hand. Or hidden on the bottom shelves behind the desk.
“Quite the monastic atmosphere,” Tim observed. “I suppose the Mother approves.”
“Cleanliness is next to godliness,” came the tight, trite reply.
“Has Sister Juliet ever set foot in here?”
Sister Nora cleared her throat. “Whyever should she? There’s a bell.”
“Of course.” Tim smirked, a deliberate provocation.
“‘Each is called to serve, and shall serve how she may.’ Juliet is as useless at sums as I am at preaching. I’m grateful my place here grants me work I would not find elsewhere.”
Tim recoiled from the blade of her words, a pointed reminder many of the Daughters had sought sanctuary in coming here, not necessarily salvation. No business in the city would hire a woman like Sister Nora as a clerk—to their detriment, as she seemed more than capable.
“You’re from the colonies?”
“Herefordshire born and bred. My father was a vicar. Fifth son of an earl.”
“So you’re continuing in the family tradition.”
“After a fashion.” Something in her eyes betrayed her. “Father also had no head for sums. Or schedules. Called me his hourglass. Said you could set the time to my prompts.”
“And he permitted you to take over the vicarage accounts?”
“So he did,” she said with a pinched smile. “Now what information do you require, Inspector? There’s much to see to before evensong.”
“The children born here. How do you keep record of them?”
“By mother’s name.” She knelt behind her desk—score one for Tim—to retrieve the 1873 ledger. She’d made the same logic leap Tim had, that the mother would have come to the Daughters the previous year. A peculiar way to track the progress of children,
by always referring to the past, and a definite feint. No one as fastidious as Sister Nora made a child’s provenance so impossible for others to find. She’d made her first mistake.
Instead of giving him the ledger, Sister Nora deposited it on the desktop and flipped open to September 1873. A more innocent time for them both, Tim mused.
“She’s not likely to have come here earlier than that.” She ran her fingers down a column marked Issue. “I imagine the legend is clear enough. M for a boy, F for a girl, and WG is—”
“With God.”
“It seemed kindest.”
“‘Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.’ But I suppose your Mother Rebecca has her views on the subject.”
“She would never deny a child the arms of God, Inspector. Our Mother’s work, our work, is His work. And all our lost angels will return to us when She returns to her garden.” She pressed her knuckles to her lips, fighting her grief. Whatever else might be said about her, she genuinely mourned the dead boy. “What will become of him? Will you permit him to receive the final sacrament?”
“In time.” Tim hastened to change the subject. “Did you recognize him?”
“I did not. But I rarely spend time with the babes once they’re born. Sister Zanna may be of use to you there.”
“Not even those earmarked for adoption?”
Again she worried her sleeve. A tell, or just general nervousness? Her entire conversation had been painted in varying shades of truth.
“It’s true some of the babes wean with us, but not for long. If we’ve a home ready, most newborns are there within a week.”
“But the infant I saw last Sunday. She must have been at least eight months old.”
“An exception. Most couples choose by mother, so the child is born to them. The Thornhills chose one of the babes we’re paid to keep.”
“By your wealthier clients?”
“For their servants, yes.”
“Then you do farm some?”
Sister Nora grunted. “That word. Tainted by the foulest of the foul. How can it be a sin to care for the children of the fallen in their stead?”
“No sin I can see, unless you murder them whilst continuing to collect.”
“We succor them,” Sister Nora underlined, “until their mother can make more reliable arrangements.”
“The rare father, you mean, who won’t see his issue, even illegitimate, raised by wolves.”
“A school or a reliable guardian,” Sister Nora persisted. “Or when they are old enough to behave, in the household. Perhaps begin their training to one day go into service themselves.”
Tim fought to stay on topic, disgusted with her naivety. “Was this boy among those you kept?”
“No.” She clenched her shoulders as if preparing for an eventual blow. “We only have six places. No boys at present.”
Tim could guess why. “Any threat to a legitimate heir is swiftly dispatched to the orphan asylum.” She nodded. “Do you adopt them?”
“Impossible without the mother’s permission.”
Tim watched her mind work, sorting and tallying the facts as he’d presented them.
“Then how do you explain this boy? Three months of age, on your premises, when he should have been sent to the orphan asylum?”
“I cannot.” For the first time, she stared at her hands, unable to match his stare. “Someone must have kept him back.”
Tim let out a long breath. “Indeed. Now will you show me the correct ledger, the one that lists the children and their placements, that I may find him some peace?”
A bell rang before she could make her decision. A little gold cloche with angel wings, hung in pride of place above her desk, under a plaque in a romantic script: Juliet.
Tim could have thrown the desk over at the sound.
“Forgive me, Inspector, but you’ll have to return tomorrow.”
“Sister, I must impress upon you the urgency of my task. Someone among you—”
“The door will be locked.” She blew out the lantern to end the conversation. “I am the only one with a key. Surely you cannot think—”
“I’ve come to no conclusions for or against anyone in this house. Yourself included.”
“How disheartening.” She heaved the anchor stone out instead of in, aiming for his foot. Tim jumped back. “I’ll have further thoughts for you tomorrow.”
“But—”
“Sister Juliet requires me.” The door careened into its frame with a thud. She clanked on both locks. Their commitment to security would have impressed if it did not so impede his case. “And you, Inspector, must go.”
She had the courtesy to escort him to the front gate. Tim would ponder over their encounter long into the night as he flipped through the tiny silver book he’d stolen off her desk.
Hiero stared at the pallet as if it might stand up and dance a jig. A cold, windowless corner of the farmhouse had been curtained off by a quilt hanging on a piece of rope suspended between the walls. A second more threadbare quilt lay folded on the bottom of the pallet, its mash of straw not even covered by a sheet. A few stalks poked out of the holes in the pillowcase. A hand-carved wooden cross dominated the back wall. If Hiero stretched his arms wide, they’d span the length of the cell-like space.
Hiero fought back the shudders, the surge of bile to his throat. Only the smell of stew bubbling on the fire kept him tethered to this place and time, the brush of the quilt against the back of his hand that was not the iron door to a cage. Imbibing a gallon of scotch might get him drunk enough to sleep here; he had only a few sips left in his flask, and the Daughters abstained. He would be haunted by the usual rogue’s gallery of ghosts tonight—of that he was certain—but sleep would elude him.
Another reason, of many, to curse this place.
“Not as grand as you’re used to, Father, but I hope you’ll be comfortable.” Sister Merry poked her head around the edge of the quilt.
Hiero drew in a deep breath. The show must go on.
“I have been spoiled by Mrs. Sandringham these past weeks of travel. My room at the rectory was as humble as this. If the Lord is with me, I feel quite at home.” He gestured to the cross to divert her attention. “A magnificent piece. Your work?”
“Oh, no, that’s Amos. The blow stole his wits, but not all his gifts.”
Hiero dropped his voice to a whisper. “There was... an incident?”
“Clopped in the head by a spooked horse when he was a young’un,” she said at full voice. “No shame in it—in’t that right, Amos?” The giant himself grunted while refilling the firewood trough. “Ask your questions, Father. We’ve nothing to hide.”
“You have perhaps mistaken me for the detective inspector.”
Sister Merry chuckled. “Well smart of you to volunteer to help him. You’ll have all the good goss tomorrow eve. I do hope you’re aiming to share?”
“I am there for the girls, under the seal of the confessional,” he reminded her.
“As what regards the crime. Not their other business.” She winked.
“If it’s stories you want, I have more than a few to tell.”
His first glance around the modest farmhouse had told him all he needed to know about how he would be spending his evening. Unwilling to abandon Callie and Shahida but barred from sleeping in the main house, bunking down with Sister Merry and her brother was the only reasonable option, made all the more unreasonable by the fact that this meant being locked into a pitch-black garden where a child was recently murdered, his lover and his best friend preferring each other’s company to rescuing Hiero from this oppressive tedium.
With nary a book or a pack of cards in sight, Hiero recognized the only form of entertainment would be what he could provide. And he was always happy to sing for his supper. At this point, it was a matter of survival.
“Oh, Father, we’re simple folk,” Sister Merry said. “I’ll leave you to get settled while I set
the table.” Hiero drew in a sharp breath as she reached for the curtain. “Oh! Almost forgot.” She brandished a book from her apron, The Book of Eve by Rebecca Northcote. “Something to pass the time.”
“How kind.” He tucked it under his arm with a fond pat, resisting the urge to toss it in the fire. Then she did sweep the curtain closed, and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out.
Hiero focused on the flame of the lone candle, listened for the crackle of the hearth. Ignored the sharp throb that stabbed the back of his eye, the boulder of ache that stretched his skull. The rabbit skip of his heart, the cockroach skittle of his nerves. Warmth and comfort only steps away. He could leave anytime he wanted to. He could leave. Even lost in the dark of the garden, he could scream for Kip or Han. They would hear him.
But would they come? Would Kip ignore the call of his client’s demands if Hiero cried wolf? Or would this be counted as another bumble, another distraction, another little drama of Hiero’s meant to divert Kip from his mission and compromise him yet again? The trouble with presenting oneself as a perpetual mystery was one’s every action tended to be shrouded with disbelief.
He imagined his bedroom at Berkeley Square. The wardrobe so wide you could cozy up with a book. The oasis of his bed, overflowing with lush fabrics and soft blankets, with—when the wind blew south by southwest—a taut-muscled Kip to snug up with. Han’s regal statues in place of that oppressive cross. All the paraphernalia he’d collected over the years: antiques and costumes and satin robes and billets doux. All the things that were his, that burst from his heart like showers of gold leaf and garnets. The life he had earned in ways dishonest and unimaginable.
Hiero snuffed the candle’s flame with his fingers, enjoying the burn. Remembered Little Bean’s shrunken body in its petal bed. There was work to be done and, for once, he was eager to prove up to the task.
“Do you require any help, Sister?” Hiero asked, grateful to have a reason to exit his cell.
“Nothing to be done but ladle up.” She placed a basket of bread buns in the center of the two-person table set for three.
Dinner would be a very intimate affair, Hiero thought with a shiver. Sister Merry waved him over to one of the end chairs as Amos brought the stew pot over from the fire. Barehanded, Hiero noticed. His palms were thick with calluses that might easily have... But Kip said the boy had been strangled with a kerchief, which ruled out a man of Amos’s strength. And that kind of impulse killing.