Spectris Page 17

  “Kept in the family, is it?” Cordelia asks. “Those are always the best shops.”

  Glad they were spared.

  Cordelia leans my way. “What do you mean, Hester?”

  Not burned. Like A-b-e-r-n-a-t-h-y’s warehouse.

  “Why, I hardly think . . . should we mention it?”

  Our interaction has obviously caught the attention of the woman. Her hands are still, no longer boxing up the vase. “What’s that you’re doing, miss?”

  “It’s a hand language of sorts,” Cordelia replies. “For the deaf, or in this case, someone who can’t speak well.”

  Twine, or maybe ribbon, is being cut with scissors, the roll spinning to the floor when the woman accidentally releases it. Her bones creak as she bend to picks up the spool. “Blind and dumb? How unlucky.”

  Say it, Cordelia. About the fire. Now.

  My companion sighs and does as I ask. In response, the old woman’s body jerks against the table. She hands the boxed vase to Cordelia without another word and walks off the showroom floor. A bitter emotion remains behind, cold as frost.

  “Well done, Hester. Now we’ve offended the lady.”

  Cordelia is mistaken. The potter’s wife was not feeling angry or offended but fearful. And not over Abernathy’s fate. She bears a very specific anxiety—one that’s been honed over time and accompanies a well-known threat.

  Charcoal Suit Lennox, if I’m not mistaken.

  I touch Cordelia’s sleeve, and she sighs again. “Yes?”

  Ask clerk, I sign. Shop owner’s name.

  “All right,” Cordelia grumbles. “Anything else? A cup of tea? A spot of aspic on the veranda?”

  Aspic? I make a gagging face. She’s funny when she’s annoyed. Go. Owner’s name.

  “I suppose I’ll have to do what you ask. It appears I’ve sold my soul for a bud vase.”

  She returns shortly afterwards, with a familiar name on her lips. A Mr. Morris of Yorkshire owns both The Queen’s Favourite and the attending potworks.

  Smiling, I hug my prickly friend. Thank you, Cordelia.

  “You’re welcome, though I don’t understand. These questions I’ve asked for you, have they something to do with clearing Isaac’s name?”

  I nod and Cordelia exhales. “Well then, I’ll ask them to kingdom come if it proves his innocence.”

  She thanks the clerk, and we’re off to the next shop. The price of the bud vase was well worth this confirmation about Morris. He is indeed the same man Lennox threatened a few days ago at Griffin House.

  And his wife is frightened out of her mind that Lennox might make good on his threats.

  By noon, I have exactly two dollars left in my reticule. My coffee tin bank at home will remain a dry, barren place, where nothing green will ever grow again. Farewell bar of lilac soap that I planned to buy for myself. I hardly knew ye, but I wished to get better acquainted.

  Mourning my sorry state, I sit in the Quality Dishes showroom with a pile of packages for Cordelia gathered around my knees like children waiting for their story. I no longer feel guilty for bossing her around earlier.

  How does Isaac begin to manage his fiancée? She’s a force of nature. It’s impossible to deny the woman anything, but caution must prevail. I don’t collect rent for another week and the stipend from my mother’s estate doesn’t arrive until the end of the month.

  Willa and the other ghosts weep quietly by a display case but lack conviction because they are actually browsing. Through their eyes, I see the shop and all its finery. When Willa first appeared, I saw myself through ghost-sight, and it was hideous. My gown really is a dreadful peach color and my hair looks ghastly, all limp from the heat. The ghosts stop weeping after a few more minutes and begin discussing tureens and soup bowl sets. They eventually grow bored with the gift shop and disappear. Ghost-sight goes with them, and I am blind again.

  Cordelia knows what I wish to ask the shop people by now, and I don’t need to sign a thing. She alters the dialogue somewhat to suit this particular salesclerk, and the information pours forth as though Cordelia is the girl’s bosom chum. They each have birthdays in early October, love fashion, and the uptown library where Cordelia works. I enjoy literature as much as the next female with a brain, but these two are kindred souls. Their names are even cute together—Kitty and Cordelia.

  They begin to navigate the complex world of hair bows. What size is appropriate for which face shape? From there, it’s on to lace gloves. Is it really necessary for a young woman to wear them or are they too old-fashioned in this day and age?

  Riveting as this discussion has been, and now that I know gloves are still de rigueur—Cordelia finally takes some change—my change—from her reticule and expresses regret that Abernathy’s went up in flames. This is our moment of truth at Quality Dishes. At every other shop, the clerks have shut down completely when the fire or the name Abernathy’s was mentioned. Usually they ignored the question entirely or changed the subject. A few of them dismissed themselves and walked away in a huff.

  If these people won’t talk to us, it’s a sure bet they didn’t speak to the police when questioned after the fire. Stonehengians are notorious for being uncooperative with the authorities.

  Cordelia pours herself another cup of coffee. “Do fires like that happen often?” she asks Kitty. “Are you in danger working here with the potworks attached to the store?”

  “Sometimes, I guess.”

  I sit up in my chair. Finally! A comment worth eavesdropping upon.

  Kitty scoots closer to Cordelia. “It is dangerous. I should think of becoming a librarian like you.”

  “There’s no better place in the world than a roomful of books.”

  “You’d imagine a shop like this would be smooth and easy, right? But all the potters are having trouble.”

  Cordelia lowers her voice conspiratorially. “What do you mean? What kind of trouble?”

  “Tools missing, clay ruined, craftsmen too scared to come to work. It all started with that awful man.”

  “What awful man?”

  I almost fall off my chair in anticipation. Come now, Kitty! Give us the awful man’s name.

  The girl pulls Cordelia to another spot, one that probably feels safer. “Mr. Lennox showed up after Scarlett got hurt and went away. Changed things, started asking for more money, and said it was Scarlett who put him up to it. But the owners don’t want to pay without confirmation from the boss.”

  “No, of course not. Why should they?”

  “Exactly what my father said! And then his potworks burned to the ground. The poor people at the lace factory got worse, though.”

  Cordelia makes a sound of exclamation. “Your father’s business? You mean to say you’re related to Mr. Abernathy?”

  “I’m his youngest.” Her voice wobbles and then she begins to cry. “Could you put in a good word at the library if I apply for a position? I want nothing more to do with this business after what it’s done to our family. Wouldn’t be here at all if Mrs. Wells hadn’t needed help.”

  Blessed day! We have stumbled upon an Abernathy!

  Kitty weeps in earnest now, and Cordelia searches her bag. For a handkerchief, perhaps? The girl blows her nose with a loud honk. “Now Papa stays holed up in his bedroom and won’t come out, afraid he’s next to die.”

  “Can’t he go to the police?” Cordelia asks. “Wouldn’t they help?”

  The irony of her question, since Cordelia herself despises coppers, flies over Kitty’s head. “I think Papa would, but he doesn’t know which one to trust. Some police are as bad as him who set the fire.”

  More tears follow and then the movement of skirts, as though Cordelia has embraced the girl or put an arm around her. “There, there, dear. Cry it all out.”

  “Papa calls Lennox all sorts of filth.” Kitty gulps and blows her nose once more. “He wears nice clothes though. Not as handsome as Mr. Scarlett, but a regular popinjay.”

  Vestis virum reddit. Especially for someo
ne like Charcoal Suit.

  The note of loyalty in the girl’s voice surprises me. Why would the potters prefer James Scarlett to Lennox? Has Scarlett beguiled them in some way? Are his rates for protection more reasonable than Charcoal Suit’s? Or is the devil you know truly better than the one you don’t?

  Kitty regains some composure after further comforting and Cordelia gives her a card with information on how to contact Kelly and Inspector Jones. “Both honest as the day is long. They’ll take care of your pa.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Positive. Let me add my address to theirs, Kitty. You come over whenever you get scared.”

  Cordelia’s writing implement scratches across the paper. Why doesn’t she ask where Abernathy is staying? We must find the man and convince him to testify against Lennox. But Cordelia doesn’t push his frightened daughter. I stand up from my chair, knocking several of the gift bags to the side.

  “Stop by the library,” Cordelia says to Kitty. “Let’s see about getting you a job. And don’t lose that card I gave you. Kelly and Jones will do all they can to help your father.”

  “Thank you. I’ll talk with him tonight.”

  Full of fancy sandwiches and fairy cakes, the Waverly tearoom smells lovely, even if it isn’t the Windsor Hotel. We’re thirty minutes past the time we arranged to meet with the gentlemen, and Sir Death is already chomping at the bit to leave. Kelly is quiet in his corner chair—he could be asleep by the sound of his breathing—and Hammersmith is munching away.

  Tom is absent of course, and I reach out to him telepathically.

  Are you all right?

  Still at the circus. Interesting place. You should come over and have your palm read. The gypsy swore I had a very long life line.

  Any new information?

  Some. We’ll talk about it when I get home.

  Sir Death advises me on the best tearoom fare. Having sampled most of it, He hopes to walk off the meal by crossing the city parklands to High Street. It’s quite a distance, but exertion doesn’t seem to hinder Him or Hammersmith.

  “I can’t cover our bill,” the professor says. “Lost wallet, you know.”

  “Don’t fret,” Sir Death replies. “The tea mistress has been compensated.”

  Right. Let’s be off, I think to myself, as eager to go as my pretend cousin. I have things to do and no more time to spare.

  Cordelia is not eager to depart. She sits down and asks for a cup and saucer. “What will you do once you reach High Street, Mr. Night?”

  “I suppose I’ll play tourist and soak up the museums and art galleries. The library has three levels, I’ve been told, and some stunning first editions and illuminated manuscripts.”

  Hammersmith pushes away from the table and stands. “All worth a visit, wouldn’t you agree, Miss Collins?”

  “Oh yes, professor. It might take a few days to see it all.”

  He claps Sir Death on the shoulder. “I shall introduce you to Monsieur Pierre. You could do with some new clothes, and bespoke garments are his specialty.”

  “A brilliant idea, Phineas! Nothing but bold stripes or patterns. No black crape.”

  The professor laughs. “When did crape enter this conversation, good fellow? You do get such odd notions at times.”

  Sir Death pays for Cordelia’s tea and sandwiches. Where did He get all this money? Can I charge Him rent as well?

  Cordelia expresses her appreciation for the refreshments and begins to serve herself. “The new suit sounds dashing. Not many men are secure enough to wear bold patterns.”

  “Why not, lovely lady? We live but once, or so I hear.”

  “Well, fashion changes with the wind and custom suits cost a great deal. I wouldn’t wish you to regret the purchase later.”

  “Ah, Miss Collins. Mammon does not pass beyond the grave. Let us spend it while we live.”

  “Seize the moment!” Hammersmith says. “Excelsior!”

  Unmoved by their stirring rhetoric, I sigh with resignation and sit down. I cannot seize anything until Cordelia finishes her tearoom delicacies. Sir Death and the professor cheerfully bid us adieu, and Kelly awakens several minutes later.

  It strikes me that I have missed him, and I lay my hand on his knee. He reaches over and squeezes my fingers. “Sorry I nodded off.”

  Tired man.

  “You’re right about that, but I really must get back to work. The afternoon is half gone.”

  I owe you. Kelly.

  “You do indeed and rest assured, I won’t forget it.”

  This admission strikes the pit of my stomach, and I’m uncertain whether it evokes anticipation or fear.

  15

  Occasio facit furem.

  Nulla avarita sine poena est.

  Opportunity makes a thief.

  There is no avarice without penalty—Seneca

  When we return to the boarding house, the police are searching the place. Still on the main floor, they can’t have been at it long.

  I hear someone spit near my doorway. “What are you about, Sergeant Drown?” Kelly asks, jumping from the wagon. “Do you have a search warrant for my wife’s home?”

  Drown spits again. “The blind woman’s your wife? I don’t believe it, not with you living on the other side of town.”

  “Believe it or not, it’s true. Show me the warrant.”

  The sergeant can’t produce one. Instead he hems and haws about neighbors hearing things at night. Voices talking, movements in the dark, sneaking in and out of windows.

  “Don’t need a warrant if the facts add up, Coroner Kelly. They’re hiding Baker somewhere on the premises.”

  Cordelia sits with me in the buggy, squeezing my hand. Her fear stings my nose and mouth like a frost inside the body, a block of ice stuck under the ribs refusing to melt. Kelly walks back to the rig and lifts me down. What the devil is he doing?

  The doctor presses a kiss upon my lips, tasting of lemons and honey, and I can’t help melting against him. Especially when Sergeant Drown gasps like a surfacing goldfish.

  While technically perfect, Kelly’s kiss feels rather calculated, not that I’m complaining. I fancy it’s more for the policemen’s benefit than a random act of passion.

  Kelly releases me and drapes his arm around my shoulders. “Movements in the dark, Sergeant? Sneaking in and out of windows? Perhaps the neighbors have misunderstood my nocturnal visits to my wife. A little adventure keeps the spark alive.”

  The goldfish gasp again. “You’ll swear on that, Coroner?”

  “Bring me a stack of bibles.”

  His fabrication must be convincing because Drown calls off his men and sounds thoroughly embarrassed as he apologizes to Kelly. But his voice turns resentful while questioning Cordelia, threatening to arrest her if her statements are proved false. Weeping, she tells him she’s worried sick and has no idea where Isaac could be.

  “I haven’t seen him in days,” she cries. “Not since the explosion. You don’t think he died in that factory too, do you?”

  What a clever idea, Cordelia. You’re quite an actress.

  Drown assures her there is no evidence to suggest that Isaac was killed in the bombing. The sergeant also sounds rather intrigued by the possibility of a dead suspect, as though he has never given the scenario a thought until now. Do I smell relief coming from the policeman? Hope that the case will be solved with a corpse amid the ruins?

  The officers leave my home and head to the lace factory.

  Deo volente. Cordelia’s fib may have bought Isaac some time.

  But Isaac has vanished. The attic is empty, as are the barn, chicken coop, and greenhouse. I assume he fled to parts unknown after seeing Drown and his men arrive.

  Bereft, Cordelia lies down upstairs, giving way to more tears. She insists she wants to be alone until Isaac returns. I hear her throw something across the floor. Whatever it is, a shattering sound breaks through her sobs. One of the wedding gifts we bought today, perhaps? They must be painful to look upon.


  “All right, Hester,” Kelly says. “Let’s talk.”

  We are the only ones downstairs. He closes the door to my bedroom and sits beside me on the edge of the mattress. “Start with Isaac Baker. You’ve been hiding him here, I take it.”

  Should I share what I’ve found with Kelly or wait and gather more information? Will he say it’s circumstantial at best? Damnation, I’m never sure. I could just skip the bits about Willa Holloway and the ghosts and tell him everything else. Since I’m usually sarcastic with sign language, I try speech first.

  Pushing against my throat, I croak out the name, “Sam Lennox,” relieved that my voice is functional after the muteness of this morning. “He blew up Shaw’s lace factory. Burned Abernathy’s warehouse.”

  “How do you know this?” Kelly asks.

  “Kitty Abernathy.” I lean closer to him, hoping to get everything out quickly. “She said her father’s afraid of Lennox. He wants Abernathy to pay more.”

  “Pay more what?”

  “Protection money. All of the potters do it. Other trades as well, I think.”

  He rests his hand on my shoulder. “Slow down, don’t stress your throat. I spoke to a Mr. Benedict when I was out with your cousin. We looked through his stained-glass pieces before going on the circus tour. Benedict was afraid of his own shadow when we entered his shop.”

  “He’s paying Lennox,” I reply. “Shaw’s factory was destroyed as an example, to show the others what will happen if they don’t meet his demands.”

  “You were sleuthing this morning. When you and Cordelia went to the potworks?”

  I nod, hoping to win Kelly’s approval. “I was careful. I wasn’t alone.”

  “No, you weren’t alone, I’ll give you that. But what if Lennox had shown up?”

  “He doesn’t know me. I’m just kitchen help.”

  “What do you mean kitchen help?”

  “At Griffin House. I’m a scullery maid.”

  “Are you saying—” The bed squeaks as Kelly stands up mid-sentence. He begins to pace, counting slowly under his breath. “One, two, three, four.”

  “Spit it out, Kelly.”