by Selina Kray
For where else could Amos Scaggs be but the Tree of Wisdom? And where else could the finale of this wild drama of theirs play out?
A whiff of the earlier treacle scent stopped her cold. She heard Han skid in behind her. She sniffed the air, peered around a bend in time to see her white rabbit disappear around a sharp right turn. Callie consulted the map as she climbed forward over a pile of rocks. When they came to the fork in the tunnel, she again paused.
A rustling farther down the left passage pricked her ears. She shined the lantern in that direction but saw only another bend in the tunnel.
“Later.” Han gripped her shoulders from behind but didn’t steer her. “We’ve got to catch her before she meddles.”
The treacle scent curdled, stinking of hot lead and lye, scratching her nose.
“Something’s not right.”
“No time to dither.”
A flash of green-yellow light saw Han slam her to the ground. Callie shoved her face into his sleeve as the suffocating fumes of a chemical fire clogged the tunnel. Han pressed a handkerchief into her hand, pointing to their escape route. Callie crawled out from under him, a small part of her cursing their circumstances before a howl of agony seized their attentions.
“Are you hurt?”
“No. Are you?”
“Someone’s down there.”
A loud grunt followed by a string of curses in a language she recognized only too well echoed out of the smoke.
“Go!” Han nudged her in Sister Merry’s direction. “Catch her up. I’ll help them.”
“No. They might be injured.”
“I’ll see to them.” He tapped her revolver through the fabric of her trousers. “End this.”
Torn, Callie hung about until two figures lurched into view at the bend in the tunnel. Two staggering, coughing figures—impossible to say who propped up whom—but both alive.
“Go!” Han barked.
She scrambled to her feet, jogging until she passed into a wave of less-toxic air, then broke out into a run. She grappled up an incline in the path until she spotted a circle of sunlight. Callie blew out her lantern as she reached the base of the hole, tucking it behind a stump that acted as a step into the garden. At first glance upward, a ring of foliage greeted her. She waited for her eyes to adjust before peering up over the edge.
She bit back a gasp. Under the heavy boughs of the Tree of Wisdom, Amos Scaggs cowered away from his furious sister while cradling a babe in his arms. A ring of flowers and leaves that matched the staging of the other boy’s body decorated the grass.
Callie popped out of the hole, revolver aimed and ready.
“Stop!” she bellowed, charging toward them.
Amos yelped and swayed such that Callie feared he would drop the babe. Which, by its squeals, proved blessedly alive. She prayed luck would continue to shine upon her as she closed in on the pair, halting just far enough to keep them in her sights.
Sister Merry stared at the barrel of her revolver. She raised up placating hands, one for Callie and one for her brother.
“Now don’t be doing anything rash...”
Callie only had time for Amos. “Put the babe down.”
He trembled like a bird caught in a briar. “Merry...”
“In that patch over there, then step away.” Callie flicked her gun. “Now.”
“He needs his Mother.”
“If you’ll only let me explain,” Sister Merry insisted.
“Now. Put him down now.”
“Only She can shelter him!” Amos cried. “Only She can spare him!”
“He don’t understand,” Sister Merry pleaded. “You’re scaring him.”
“Nothing will happen to you or your sister,” Callie reassured Amos. “We’ll talk it all through. Just walk over to that patch and lay him down.”
Amos cradled the babe closer to his chest, its shrill wails muffled by his shirt.
“She can see! She will know!”
The revolver’s blast startled even Callie. She didn’t remember taking aim. She didn’t remember pulling the trigger. Only the report and the instinctive twitch of her hand.
The bullet smoked as it lodged in the bark of the tree but didn’t ignite.
“Down. Now.”
Amos scrambled to do her bidding, cooing to the frightened babe as he lay him in the grass. By the time he walked back to join his sister and she held them back with her newly cocked revolver, Callie had resolved her mind as to the exact nature of the scene playing out before her.
But she had to be sure.
Tim slouched on the stump at the tunnel’s exit, face raised to the sky. He gulped down breath after breath of clean air, the wheeze in his chest reignited by the noxious smoke of the explosion. He clutched the flask of water a well-prepared Han had given him, took a measured draught. His body quaked in half-relief, half-unspent adrenaline. Though an aura of exhaustion twinkled on the periphery of his vision, it would be some time before he could truly rest. They had a case to solve.
He basked in the—probably imagined—heat of the sunlight on his face, careful to avert his eyes from the sight of Hiero slipping on Han’s jacket. The blast’s aftermath flickered through his mind: Hiero lit by a halo of fire; rolling him against the wall to snuff it out; Han’s hulking shadow in the distance as they dragged each other through the endless, fume-dark tunnel. The blaze had given Hiero an impromptu haircut, the singed ends somehow suiting him.
But his back had suffered the worst of it, scorched right through to his skin. Or what some vile bastard had left him of skin, scarred and striped into a thick layer the flames barely burned. Tim hadn’t let his stare linger, but he recognized a whipping when he saw it. He fought now to give Hiero the privacy he deserved, to stopgap his questions and focus on the voices shouting above.
But then Hiero was there before him, clothes and handsomeness righted, hand extended toward him. Prepared to give more when he had already given everything. Shepherded the case to its completion. Saved Tim’s life. So Tim did what any reasonable person would do upon reuniting with their lover after a brush with death.
He kissed the life out of him.
Like something out of a folktale, the fervent press of Hiero’s lips revived something in Tim. It was as if Tim could taste his ache and worry, his senses engulfed by the rich scent of Hiero’s relief. They kissed and caressed with fatalistic ardor until Tim broke from him to replenish the breath he’d stolen. And wished, in that moment, the world would fall away.
Then Tim heard the healthy, ear-splitting squalls of a babe very much alive and, with Hiero’s help, heaved himself out of the hole.
“What have you done, sweet boy? What have you done?” Sister Merry wailed, crouched in a pietà with Amos in a too-familiar circle of leaves and blooms.
Tim also clocked Callie and her revolver. They’d all heard the gunshot, but Amos didn’t appear to have been wounded.
“He didn’t need it, Merry,” Amos pleaded. “Her blessing. He wanted to be good. He wanted to be good!”
“Hush now,” she cooed, petting his head. Spotting Tim amidst the bushes covering the hole, her face crumbled. “DI Stoker, please! He didn’t know what he was doing. He doesn’t know his own mind.”
Tim could only cough in response, deciding to let the scene play out a bit longer. No one in it seemed aware of the chaos in the distance: the potting shed engulfed in flames, a small group wrestling Sister Juliet to the ground, Daughters flying across the lawn to save their garden.
“Everything in hand?” he asked Callie, whose aim and intent never wavered.
“Well in hand, sir.”
A curse and a clatter behind him heralded Hiero’s entry. He sauntered over to a nearby patch of grass, where little Felix still fussed. Tim couldn’t help but smile as Hiero scooped him up, quieting him with coos and cuddles to be envious of. Han appeared beside Tim, offering his support. Aching too much to be ashamed, Tim allowed himself to be escorted over to the tree. He settled into a spo
t on a slight incline above the others, giving him the feeling of a king attending a bizarre performance by travelling players. Ever the Gertrude to his Claudius, Hiero soon joined him, the now-slumbering babe cradled against him.
“‘Hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature, to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and pressure,’” Hiero whispered.
“Quite.” After another drink of water, Tim turned his attention back to the scene before him. “Make your report.”
“I found them like this, forced them to surrender the babe.” Tim listened closely to Callie’s emphasis, trying to discern her thoughts from the words she underlined. “The gent gave me a bit of trouble but did it willingly enough once I fired a shot. At the tree, sir.”
Tim nodded. “And what do you have to say for yourselves?”
“Inspector, sir, he’s not right.” Sister Merry released her brother long enough to make a direct appeal. Despite her firmed mouth and adamant posture, Tim knew she was begging. “He got Mother Rebecca’s message mixed up in his head. Let me take him away from here. I swear to you, we won’t go near anywhere with little ’uns. Just back to the farm, to the soil. He won’t bother a soul.”
Tim didn’t respond, letting her believe such a fantasy was possible a few moments longer. Cruel, perhaps, but he needed the truth.
“And you, Amos? Tell me what you were doing here.” As soon as Tim saw Amos flicker his eyes toward his sister, he gestured for Han to separate them. “Not to her. To me.”
Amos worried his hands as he sat before him but looked Tim in the eye.
“He doesn’t fear you,” Hiero murmured.
“Nor the consequences of his actions,” Tim agreed.
“That boy is in the Mother’s light.” He pointed to the babe, his features softening. “And She will protect him.”
“Protect him from what?”
Amos shook his head. “He in’t done nothing wrong. He’s just a little ’un.”
“Why did you bring him here?”
“So She would know. She would know what was being done.” A sob wracked through him. “I’m sorry, Merry! I didn’t mean it. I didn’t...”
“Sweet boy.” Sister Merry blinked away tears. “Inspector, please. Let me take him away.”
“They are packed and ready,” Han pointedly remarked. “Their wagon’s at the side gate.”
Tim sighed, wishing he could spare someone to go search it. “You meant to flee?”
“To go back from where we came,” Sister Merry corrected. “Away from all this. To the land.”
“You would abandon your garden?”
“My garden is burning.” She turned her gaze to the blaze on the other side of the stream, tears spilling over. “Nothing here for us now.”
He considered them, Merry and Amos, as he worked through a theory of the crime. He glanced at Callie, raised an eyebrow. She made her convictions clear. He looked to Han, who seconded them. He turned to Hiero.
“Care to take the stage?”
He snorted. “So ill-prepared? Never.” Hiero cast his black-pearl eyes upon him, glowing with a mixture of pride and affection. “The audience is waiting, my dear.”
Before he could begin, a ruckus at the base of the hill distracted them all. Sir Hugh charged toward them, dragging a smirking, manacled Sister Juliet with him. Sister Nora and Sister Zanna chased after them, their white uniforms and weary faces streaked with soot. They came to an abrupt halt on seeing Hiero and Tim, bedraggled but alive.
“Stoker!” Sir Hugh fell speechless at the state of them.
“Ah, Sir Hugh,” Hiero greeted in his most obsequious tone. “How good of you to join us. And at the opportune moment, no less.”
“What in blazes is going on here?”
“Rather a poor choice of words, given the state of the garden.”
“Go back to your nest, Serpent, that She may smite all and everything of yours,” Sister Juliet seethed, much to Hiero’s delight. Or so Tim interpreted his snickers.
“You’re done here, Stoker,” Sir Hugh announced. “I’m summoning the Yard.”
“That’s rather fortunate,” Hiero again intervened, “since he’s about to solve the case.”
Angry chatter broke out, everyone vying for their protest to be heard. Han’s sharp whistle silenced—and slightly deafened—them.
“Is that so?” Sir Hugh asked, unable to conceal his eagerness.
“Mostly, though I’d offer a slight correction,” Tim responded. “We believe we have identified the culprit.” Tim spared a grateful glance to Callie, Han, and Hiero. “My team and I, that is. I’ll endeavor to explain.” Tim wriggled up so he sat taller against the trunk of the Tree of Wisdom, wishing he had the strength to stand. “From the first it was clear this is a case where motive reigned supreme. Yet that aspect proved the most difficult to determine. Can any sane individual understand what might prompt one to kill a child? Is anyone who commits a crime such as this in possession of their sanity? No. And so we, as investigators, ventured into the mouth of madness.”
“But surely some had more means or opportunity than others,” Sir Hugh interrupted.
“The location of the body and its staging did give us pause,” Tim explained. “A question we considered was whether the killer was the one who buried the body. We think it unlikely. This brought up the question of collusion. Did the killer act alone? Or was someone helping or covering up for them? Why would someone do this? Was this part of a larger plot to farm babies plucked from those sent to the orphan asylum? If so, at what point in the process were the babes taken, and where were they kept? It was a case of endless complexities but few conclusions.”
“I saw firsthand all the suspects had enough access to commit the crime,” Callie elaborated, dropping her Archie guise and accent. Only Sister Nora gasped. “We theorized a night guardian with access to all the rooms in Castleside could have stolen the babes. But our adventures proved anyone with enough determination who could pick a lock could have managed the feat at night.”
“Sister Nora and Sister Merry both have a complete set of keys,” Han continued. “No one would have questioned Sister Juliet or Sister Zanna roaming the halls at night. Amos drove the children to the orphan asylum. All but he could have doctored the records. But as we’ve established the killer had an accomplice...”
A throng of rapt eyes looked to Hiero. He grinned, and looked to Tim.
“Proceed.”
Tim chuckle-coughed. “Once we’d determined all of the principal suspects had means and opportunity, the question of motive became paramount. It may seem like a fool’s errand to attempt to fathom the unfathomable—and certainly there can never be a satisfying explanation as to why someone might commit this horrible crime—but there may be enough dark method at work for us to narrow the suspects.
“Sister Zanna, unless I’m an exceptionally poor judge of character, I eliminated first. She has dedicated her life to birthing and saving children. If she cared to be rid of them, the logical method would be to dispatch them in the aftermath of their mother’s labor. No one would question her verdict as a midwife. It would also prove complicated for her to snatch the babes on their way to the orphan asylum, and she has the least amount of freedom of movement on the compound.
“Sister Nora, the newest and greenest of the Daughters of Eden, might come under suspicion for just that reason. But she is the most purely devout among you and a staunch promoter of the faith. Though she obstructed our investigation, she, of all, would never do anything to compromise the work being done here. Although I sense she suspected a certain person of the murder all along and has been fighting to protect her.”
“A noble pursuit,” Hiero commented, “if misguided.”
Tim downed the last of the water, hoping his voice held.
“When we learned of the way in which Sister Juliet came to be the shepherdess of this flock, I thought the case resolved. There was a dark logic to it: devasta
ted over the loss of her child, she decrees the Daughters must begin helping fallen women, providing her with an endless supply of unwanted babes on which she could take out her anger. The plot was cunning and allowed Sister Juliet to play the part she adored: that of the benevolent, half-touched philanthropist.”
Sister Juliet’s stare could have cut glass. Gone was the wilding prophetess longing for redemption through Eve’s blessing. In her stead, a diminutive woman with clever, lucid eyes pinned Tim to the trunk at his back. He shrunk back despite himself. Rarely had he borne witness to such hatred as inked her soul.
“But she commits her crimes in the light of day,” Hiero said, breaking her hold on Tim. “Not skulking about in the shadows. She craves an audience.”
“Like recognizes like, Serpent,” Sister Juliet said through gritted teeth.
Hiero’s answering smirk had a mercenary quality. “Precisely.”
“Exonerated on one count,” Sir Hugh warned. “But there are many more hanging over her.”
Tim turned his attention to the center of their makeshift circus ring. Amos sat cross-legged, pulling off the petals of the flowers he’d brought to decorate the babe’s grave. Sister Merry stood resolute beside him, a protective hand on his shoulder. Tim wished Han had managed to keep them separated, but he supposed whatever transpired was inevitable. Some situations were bound by the rules of a higher plain.
“And then there were two,” he husked with the last shreds of his voice. “Amos, why did you bury the boy here?”
“He was crying.”
“In the night?”
“Cree-cree-cree. He was hurting.”
Hiero gasped. “The creepers!”
Tim touched his arm to hush him. “So you brought him here to stop him hurting?”
“Not the first. He died too quickly. But the others.”
Tim shuddered. It was one thing to suspect, another to hear the proof. “You buried the others here as well?”
“Inspector, have mercy!” Sister Merry wailed. “He don’t understand. He don’t know what he’s done.”