Grave Expectations (The Ministry of Curiosities Book 4) Page 12

  Another shrug. "I don't know. He doesn't tell us much." His gaze narrowed. "Why?"

  I dried my hands on my apron. "Come with me, as my bodyguard. I want to—"

  "No." He chopped his hand through the air. "Absolutely not. It's too dangerous for you. Besides, can you imagine what he'd do to me if something happened?"

  "Nothing will happen with you there as my protector."

  "Your faith in me is admirable, but misguided. We both know that. I'm not him, and even he can't stop a bullet."

  No, but I knew something that could. I slopped a teacup into the tub. "Never mind."

  Some twenty minutes later, when a delivery of more furniture arrived, a plan formed.

  I paid the cart driver and his boy and urged them to keep my lark to themselves. I quickly changed into the boys' clothing I'd kept in my dresser and tucked my hair under the cap. Keeping my head low and my fingers touching the amber pendant around my neck, I sat beside the driver as we exited through Lichfield's gate.

  Nobody tried to kill me and I couldn't see any strangers lurking nearby. I let out my pent-up breath and drew in fresh, free air.

  The boy was already waiting for us around the corner, having climbed the fence at the rear of the estate. I thanked father and son, then asked them to take me to Kensington Police Station.

  Chapter 10

  Dressing as a boy made sense when it came to sneaking out of the house. It was a useless disguise for coaxing names and addresses from detective inspectors, however. The ruddy-cheeked man investigating the Drinkwater murder refused to tell me anything, even after I assured him that I worked for a scientific organization who wished to posthumously award Mr. Drinkwater a research prize.

  "Tell your master I don't give away information like that to children. Or anybody! Get out of here, boy." He shooed me with a motion of his short, stubby hands and returned to his paperwork.

  I didn't move. "I can pay you."

  My attempted bribery earned me a glare. "Do you want to be arrested?"

  I ran out of there as fast as possible. I'd been thrown into a police holding cell once before and did not want to repeat the experience.

  I waited until darkness descended and the detective inspector went home for the evening. A constable remained on duty, but it would be easy enough to avoid his notice. I made my way along a lane, pocketing pebbles as I went, then scrambled over the back fence into a large courtyard.

  Using Gus's principle that it was always worth trying the door to see if it was unlocked, I tested the knob. It turned but the door didn't budge. It must be bolted from the inside. There were no external locks on either of the high, narrow windows either. One of them probably led to the holding cells.

  There were no crates nearby, so I had to climb up the side fence and stand on my toes to reach the roof. I was a little out of practice, but I soon learned that scrambling up structures wasn't a skill easily forgotten. The roof wasn't too steep either, which helped.

  I lay flat on my front and curled my fingers around the gutter edge, just above one of the windows. I sucked in a deep breath, blew it out again, and peered through.

  Three prisoners sat inside a whitewashed room, looking utterly bored in the lamplight. I quickly snapped my head back out of view before they saw me.

  Inch by inch, I slithered over to the other window and repeated the exercise. I couldn't see anything in the darkness. The lack of lighting meant it was probably unoccupied. I slithered back to the section of the roof directly above the door and removed a pebble from my pocket.

  I threw it as hard as I could against the door. A moment later, it opened.

  "Anyone out here?" the constable called into the darkness when no one answered.

  He clicked his tongue. "When I catch you, you little turds, I'll—"

  My second pebble hit the back fence and my third flew over it, making a sound as it landed on the cobbles in the lane. The constable came into view. Hands on hips, he stood in the center of the courtyard and looked around.

  I threw three pebbles this time. All landed on the other side of the fence.

  The constable drew his truncheon from its holster and unbolted the gate. Clinging to the edge of the roof by my fingers, I swung down and through the open door, landing softly in the empty corridor. After a quick glance back outside to confirm that the constable hadn't noticed, I slipped inside the dark room and closed the door. In the moment before it shut, the light from the corridor lamp revealed a room with mop, brooms and other cleaning equipment at one end and a large cabinet with numerous small drawers on the side.

  I pressed my ear to the door and listened. Someone hummed quietly but I heard no voices. The back door closed and a bolt slid home. Footsteps passed by the storeroom door without stopping. I waited another moment and, when all remained quiet, I crept out to the corridor. The detective inspector's office was two doors down, visible from the front desk where the constable sat with his feet up, his back to me.

  On tiptoes, I snuck into the unlocked windowless office and silently cursed the lack of light. I fumbled in the dark until I located the lamp on the desk and lit it. The gas hissed a little but not too loudly. I checked the stack of papers and found the Drinkwater case on top.

  I flicked past the gruesome photographs and the information he'd gathered from witnesses. That wasn't what I needed. Near the back, I found the name and address of Mrs. Drinkwater's sister, but no other kin. If she wasn't there, I had no notion of where to find her. Lincoln would already know this information too and would be there ahead of me. Indeed, he should have returned to Lichfield hours ago.

  I flipped the pages back in place, going slower to skim read them. A name caught my eye.

  Joan Brumley.

  From the look of things, this detective wasn't working on the Brumley case, but he or someone else had linked the two murders. The timing and method of death must have given them a clue. I made a mental note of Brumley's details, including that of her cousin, listed as the next of kin.

  I continued to flip the pages back in place, only to pause again when I spotted another familiar name. Two. Oh my god.

  Victor Frankenstein and Captain Jasper.

  They were listed with two other men under the heading Known Associates. Beside their names were the letters 'DEC'. Deceased. The detective must have found correspondence between them. I couldn't believe I hadn't made the connection earlier. All three men were scientists involved in reanimation, of sorts. Frankenstein had wanted to bring dead bodies to life using my necromancy, Jasper had wanted to bring them to life using medicine, and Drinkwater wanted to make false limbs work.

  Had they shared the results of their research with one another? Had Frankenstein and Jasper known Drinkwater was magical? Was Drinkwater's death in any way related to this connection? And Brumley's too?

  My mind spun with so many questions. I needed to speak with Lincoln. And yet…he must have known. He would have snuck in here in much the same way I did, and searched through these same papers. If he knew…why hadn't he told me?

  Footsteps approached along the corridor. I extinguished the lamp and ducked beneath the desk. I clasped the pendant around my neck. Its warmth reassured me.

  The door opened and a rectangle of light beamed across the floor. Polished shoes approached, pausing only inches from where I hid. My heart hammered so hard I felt sure he must have heard it, even over his whistling. Papers rustled for what seemed like several minutes, but was more likely only seconds. Then finally, the shoes retreated and the constable shut the door. The room fell dark, but I didn't dare move.

  I waited until I was sure he wouldn't return and emerged from my hiding spot. I tiptoed to the door, opened it and checked up and down the corridor before emerging fully. The bolt on the back door wasn't as quiet as I would have liked, but nobody came after me, so it must have been quiet enough. I closed the door, sprinted across the courtyard, out the back gate and down the lane.

  I didn't stop running until I reached the corne
r where the numerous streetlamps provided comfort and a sense of protection. It was still early and, despite the cold, people were out and about, coming home from work or making evening calls. I found a cab and paid the driver to take me back to Lichfield.

  The journey gave me time to think. I had so many questions, and I knew Lincoln might know the answers to some of them. I hoped he'd returned, because I wanted to confront him about keeping information from me. Then again, if he'd come home to find me not there…

  I dismissed that possibility from my mind and considered everything I knew, which was very little. Mrs. Drinkwater might be able to tell me more about her husband's association with Jasper and Frankenstein, but finding her would likely prove difficult now. If she hadn't gone into hiding, Lincoln would have returned home hours ago. I didn't think I could succeed where he'd failed.

  But I didn't need Mrs. Drinkwater's help. There were other ways to get information.

  * * *

  Lincoln wasn't home, to my immense relief. Not only that, but my ruse of retiring to my room due to a headache had worked, so the others were utterly surprised to see me stroll into the kitchen wearing boy's clothes. None more so than Doyle.

  He dropped the eggs he'd been about to pass to Cook. They smashed all over the floor and splattered his gleaming black shoes. "Miss Holloway?" His scandalized tone matched the look on his face.

  "That it is, Mr. Doyle," I said in my old slum accent. "Close yer gob, now. Don't want no one finking yer a fish."

  "I…I…"

  "Aye, I'm dressed like a boy." I removed my cap and bowed. "What's for dinner, Cook? I'm starving."

  "Leftover beef." Cook shook his head and cleared his throat. When he finally got Doyle's attention, he nodded at the mess on the floor.

  Doyle crouched to pick up the bits of shell, but continued to glance up at me as if he expected me to do a jig.

  Seth and Gus stood by the door, blocking my exit, their arms crossed over their chests, matching scowls on their faces. "You're lucky Fitzroy's not here," Seth said.

  "I know." I smiled but that didn't wipe off their scowls. "I was quite safe. I had my pet with me." I pulled the necklace out from beneath my shirt.

  "That don't make it right," Gus said, lowering his arms. "You should tell someone when you go out."

  "You wouldn't have let me go."

  "There's a good reason for that."

  I sighed. "I can't stay in here day and night doing nothing." Not when people were keeping things from me.

  "Where did you go?" Seth asked, staying by the door.

  "Kensington Police Station. I wanted to find out where Mrs. Drinkwater's sister lived. I'd like to speak to her again, without Lincoln glaring daggers at her, that is."

  "And did you find the sister's address?"

  "The detective inspector wouldn't speak to me." There. That wasn't a lie.

  I ate some bread and cheese and a slice of beef, all while my heart beat out a guilty rhythm against my ribs. I finished and washed my meal down with a glass of red wine. "Lincoln hasn't sent word?"

  "None," Gus said.

  "He's been gone a long time. Do you think he's all right?"

  "Of course he bloody is. He's always all right."

  I didn't think that was a good reason not to worry. And I was worried. What made it worse was that I had no idea where to begin looking for him.

  "Give him until the morning," Seth said quietly. "If he's not back by then, we'll begin a search."

  I gave him a flat smile. "Very well. You're probably right, and he's just busy looking for Mrs. Drinkwater." I stood. "Goodnight all. This time I really am retiring to my room."

  Seth followed me out of the kitchen. "Then you won't mind if I make sure you get there, and check on you from time to time."

  "Forget checkin' on her," Gus said, also following. "I'm standin' outside her door."

  I let them walk with me up the stairs. It didn't matter whether they remained on guard or not, so I closed the door and thought nothing more about them. Instead of preparing for bed, however, I sat in the armchair by the fire and loosened my hair. It reached just past my shoulders now, still much shorter than it had been before I cut it at age thirteen. One day, it would grow long again. Sometimes that day felt like a lifetime away.

  I must have fallen asleep. It was still dark when I awoke, and the orange glow of the coals provided the only light. I lit a candle, wrapped a shawl around my shoulders, and slipped out of the room. Neither Gus nor Seth had remained in the corridor and the house was silent. It felt empty.

  I knocked lightly on Lincoln's door, and entered when there was no answer. His sitting room and study were undisturbed and his bed made. I set the candle on the table and slipped under the covers to wait for him. With his scent enveloping me, I soon fell asleep.

  I awoke alone the following morning. I quickly dressed and joined the others in the kitchen. "He didn't come home," I announced.

  "What you want us to do?" Gus asked.

  Cook set a plate of poached eggs and bacon in front of me. "Eat first, worry later."

  "I don't feel like eating." I pushed the plate away.

  "He'll be fine," Seth said.

  "He was angry when he left. I'm worried that his anger will cause him to make mistakes."

  "He don't make mistakes," Gus said, hacking into his bacon. "Besides, if we want to find him, where would we start lookin'?"

  I sighed. I truly didn't know. They were right, and searching for Lincoln would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. But I had to try. "Let's do something different. Since we only know the Drinkwaters' London address and Mrs. Drinkwater's sister's address, we've struck a dead end. Lincoln would have already searched there, and my guess is that she won't be at either of those places. So let's speak with Joan Brumley's cousin."

  "Who?" Cook asked.

  "The other supernatural victim," Seth told him. "How will we find the cousin?"

  "Her address was noted in the detective's files," I said.

  Seth folded his arms. "You told us you didn't learn anything from the police."

  "That's not precisely what I said. Anyway, I think Lincoln may have widened his investigation, having hit a dead end when it came to finding Mrs. Drinkwater."

  "P'haps." Gus shoveled the rest of his eggs into his mouth then proceeded to speak before swallowing. "He might not need to be found. He might be well into the hunt and not able to come home yet."

  "I am aware of that. I'm also aware that he won't want us to go looking for him—if nothing is wrong."

  Seth held up a finger. "We will go looking for him at the Brumley cousin's house. You will stay here."

  I suspected they'd say that. I had no intention of forcing the issue or sneaking out. They could do as I asked perfectly adequately without my presence. "I have some specific questions I'd like you to ask Miss Brumley's cousin. I'll write them down after breakfast."

  Gus wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "She don't trust us to think for ourselves, Seth."

  Seth merely scowled.

  After they left, I spent the morning with Doyle in the formal drawing room. It hadn't been used since Lincoln moved into Lichfield Towers, and dust covers blanketed what little furniture had been left behind by the last owner. After the previous day's delivery, Doyle had set about removing the old and arranging the new. He'd done a marvelous job. Together, we made plans and moved the new furniture again to see how it looked in other positions, only to put most of it back again.

  I was sweating by the time Gus and Seth returned from visiting Joan Brumley's cousin, Edith. "Well?" I asked before they'd had a chance to remove their hats and gloves.

  "Fitzroy went there late yesterday," Gus said.

  I blew out a breath. So he was alive and well then, thank God. "And?"

  "And he asked the same questions you wanted us to ask her. Mostly. The Drinkwater name wasn't familiar to her and she'd had no visits from anyone asking about her cousin except for the police and Fitzroy."<
br />
  "So there's most likely no other link between them except they were both supernaturals. Go on. What else?"

  "As far as Edith Brumley knew, her cousin didn't know she was a necromancer, as such. She knew she could speak with ghosts, of course, but she didn't have a name for her magic. She didn't consider it magical at all, or supernatural, it just was. Aside from Fitzroy and us, no one has mentioned the word necromancy to her, and the police didn't discuss Joan's magic at all."

  "What about Frankenstein and Jasper? Had Joan ever mentioned them to Edith?"

  "The names weren't familiar to her."

  Damn. This wasn't going as I thought it would. "What about my final question? Had Joan associated with anyone new lately?"

  They gave me matching looks of triumph. "This is the interestin' part," Gus said.

  "It was an inspired question," Seth added. "It turns out that Joan had a paramour. Edith thought this highly unlikely, considering Joan had been a spinster for years and no one had shown interest in her before."

  Gus circled his finger at his temple. "No surprise there."

  "According to Edith, the fellow avoided meeting her although she was Joan's only family. He kept putting it off, which made Edith suspicious that he was merely a figment of her cousin's imagination. She changed her opinion when Joan became very upset after the gentleman broke off contact. One day he'd been talking to her about building a life together, and the next…nothing. He simply never showed at their prearranged meeting place, and since she had no way of contacting him, the relationship ended."

  "Did Joan give Edith a description of him?"

  Both men shook their heads. "You won't believe it, Charlie," Gus said. He couldn't stand still, he was so eager to tell me. "Edith Brumley keeps a diary. She looked through it for the date when Joan came to her all upset. Guess when it was."

  "Just tell me!"

  "The day after Frankenstein died."

  I pressed a hand to my chest. "My God," I whispered. "You think he was her paramour?"

  They both nodded. "He wanted a necromancer and she was one."