The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (44 page)

Now it was Olivia’s turn to deflate. She dropped her eyes and ran her finger along the surface of the table before them. “Yes.”

“And what did she say?”

Olivia raised the finger, checked it for dust. When she found none, she made a face and sighed. “She says she’s been funding the traditionalists for years. She’s a long-time friend of Hector Combs. She was with her cronies planning the exposure of Doctor Livingstone on the night the Duke was killed, not that any of them can speak in her defence without admitting some awkward truths. The fight at the gallery was because her daughter’s beau enjoys the company of other men, which apparently is a very big deal to some people, and everything neatly wraps up together.”

“Do you believe it all?”

Olivia’s shoulders slumped like she was suddenly carrying the weight of the world. She closed her eyes and raised one of those elegant hands to rub at her temple. “It all feels right,” she murmured unhappily, and shook her head. “Gods damn me, but it
feels
right.”

“All along, you―”

A bit of the spark appeared in Olivia again, and her shoulders tensed. “I
said
I knew she was hiding something,” she interrupted accusingly. “And I was right. Was it so big a stretch to assume it was the obvious thing? I’m never wrong in my feeling, Maris,
never
.” When Officer Dawson inclined her head in agreement, Olivia continued. “Vanessa Caldwell doesn’t
feel
right.”

The policewoman sighed. “No? Then who, Faraday? Who killed the Duke and the girl? Was it the creditor? One of the staff? Someone we haven’t even looked at?”

“I don’t…” Olivia growled in frustration. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll tell you who it was. It was the mistress. It’s always the mistress. We should just arrest them as part of procedure.” Officer Dawson looked over her shoulder for a long moment, staring at something far away, and then turned back to the mirror. “We’re going to hold her in Vernella overnight, try to get some more information over her, and then have her brought to Darrington.
You
can ask her some questions, see what you can get out of her. Go to the hospital tomorrow. Talk to her friends. Talk to her landlady. Just get
something
. It was her. We know it. We just have to find proof we can use to put her in jail for it. You understand me?”

“Naturally.”

“Good, I’ll talk to you―”

Just do it now,
Chris told himself, and, before he lost his nerve, pushed himself forward, elbowing Olivia aside to take her place in front of the mirror. “Officer Dawson,” he got out, “I’m very sorry to take up your time, but I need to ask you for a favour.”

The policewoman’s eyebrow shot up into her hair. “Do you, now?”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “I—I need to speak to Doctor Livingstone.”

Officer Dawson stared at him for a long moment, and, just before he went to hesitantly repeat his question, she barked the sort of laugh that could set half the dogs in a neighbourhood howling. “You and everybody else!”

He licked his lips and tried again. “I just need to ask him a question. It won’t take―”

“Buckley.” Her tone turned flat and the amusement vanished. “Don’t waste my time. A reporter from every paper in the country is converging on this police station, and they’re the least of it. I’ve got Lowry bigwigs and investigators and politickers from both sides pouring in through the damn windows. And on top of it all, I’ve got the Livingstone family. And you know what?” She shook her head. “It’s not even my case. It doesn’t have anything to
do
with me.”

He longed to reach through the mirror, grab her shoulders, force her to understand. “This is important. I spoke to him just yesterday. He was at my house! Please, I―”

“I like you, Buckley.” Officer Dawson pointed an accusing finger. “Stop making me not like you.” Before he could say another word, she reached out and rang the chimes, and her face in the mirror was enveloped into the mist.

Chris could have howled. His tenuous connection with Officer Dawson was the only way he could think of to get in and see the Doctor. He had to know if it was true, any of it. At the very least, if he could hear the Doctor say for himself whether or not he was actually responsible, he felt he could have some idea of what to do. The danger had grown only greater; the traditionalist movement would strike while the iron was hot.

He shook his head in defeat. Surely, a plan would come to him. He could talk to Miss Albany when he got home this evening. She might know what to do.

He forced himself to straighten. He murmured a quiet apology to Olivia while making a show of opening his notebook and checking his notes from the conversation he’d just witnessed. When he was sure everything was in order, he looked back over at Olivia, who was watching him with a dull gleam in her eyes, seemingly half a world away. “Well,” he said, trying to sound professional and collected. “Who else do we have to talk to today?”

Olivia turned away from him, drifting towards the door. She looked like a leaf carried by a current, dancing on a wind, floating in a pool. Directionless and lifeless. “No one,” she said quietly. “Nowhere.”

Chris frowned. “But Officer Dawson said―”

“I know what she said. I don’t have any intention of wasting my time.” She shook her head and opened the front door. “Go home, Mister Buckley. I’ll see you in the morning. Maybe once I’ve slept on this…maybe once I’ve slept on this, I’ll have any damned idea of what to do with myself.”

She didn’t even let him share her taxi.

Chris had gotten used to returning to the estate to either silence or chaos, dark echoing corners or important men with lies on their lips. When he pushed open the door and was greeted by a sweet voice calling his name, he felt as if he’d been given a gift.

“Rosemary!” he cried. He dropped his things in an untidy lump by the door and before he’d even managed to wrestle out of his topcoat and shoes, he was barrelled over by a ball of blue cotton and black curls.

She wrapped her arms around him and he held her tight, tears prickling the back of his eyes. Was it ridiculous that she seemed taller? Had her curls always been so soft, and had she ever allowed him to stroke them without pouting? He pressed his cheek against her dark crown and felt her link her pinkie fingers behind his back. “It feels like I was asleep forever,” she said quietly, and he thought he could almost hear a ragged edge of tears in her sweet voice. “And every time I woke up, you weren’t here.”

“I’m here now, Rosie,” he murmured, and she sighed contentedly, and that was all either of them needed.

He could have stayed forever, everything simple and familiar, but Rosemary was always restless. She untangled herself from him and grabbed one of his hands in both of hers. “Come on!” she insisted. He struggled to at least kick off his muddy shoes while she dragged him into the dining room. He was surprised to see, not Miss Albany, but Fernand sitting at the head of the table with a book spread out in front of him. Rosemary’s empty seat was also parked before an open book, and her workspace was littered with graphite pencils strewn in all directions. Rosemary’s favourite tea set—it has been their mother’s favourite, as well—was in the centre of the table between them.

Chris laid his hand on the top of Rosemary’s head, feeling her springy ringlets depress beneath the weight. “Fernand,” he faltered. “What are you doing here today? Is there something with the investments, or…”

The old man shook his head. “No, young master, I’m just here for little Rosemary.”

“Oh no!” Rosemary cried, and Chris followed her gaze down to the puddle his topcoat was making on the floor. “You’re soaked!” The outline of one of the buttons of his shirt was pressed into her cheek, he noticed with a smile. “Were you walking out in the rain all day?”

“Yes, actually,” he said, gingerly pulling off the wet coat and tossing it back towards the rack. It hit the ground with a wet
thunk
and he cringed. “Where’s the nanny?” he asked, following Rosemary into the room. “I wanted to talk to her about something.”

Fernand reached for the tea set in the centre of the table. Chris saw the discontent he tried to hide in the curve of his lips, the set of his eyebrows, and the tension in his jaw. “She mirrored me,” he grumbled. “She said she had a family emergency and had to leave work immediately. I thought nothing of it, not until what I learned happened today. And until…” He dropped a sugar cube into his tea. “Tell your brother what you told me, Rosemary.”

The girl turned her bright blue eyes onto Chris. “Someone mirrored for her. The gnome liked him. He said he wanted to set him free.”

A reformist. Chris tried to recall what the doctor had said. “I think her brother is an associate of the doctor,” he told Fernand, and, when Fernand’s cloudy expression didn’t dissipate, continued. “Fernand, please. I’m not going to dismiss someone for their politics.”

“After what happened today, it’s hardly just politics,” Fernand muttered, sipping his tea.

“We still don’t know
what
happened today,” Chris insisted. “All I know right now is that Miss Albany has done her best for Rosemary.”

Rosemary seized his arm, tugging his wrist towards the table. He trailed after her as she pulled him along to the empty chair across from her own, with their mother’s tea set between them. “Is it true, Chris?” she demanded. “Did they really arrest that Livingstone bastard for the Floating Castle?”

“Language,” Chris warned. She murmured an apology and he pinched the bridge of his nose. She sounded much too excited about all of this, like it was a thrilling event and not…whatever it was.

“
Is
it true?” Fernand asked. “I’ve had that mirror going off all day, reporter after reporter trying to hear the little wizard’s commentary on the big event.”

“He wouldn’t let me talk to any of them, Chris,” Rosemary pouted, leaning against his shoulder.

“Good,” Chris said, and held up a hand to forestall her protests. He pointed to the chair across from him, and she skulked back over. He was very aware of first Fernand, and then Rosemary watching him intently as he took his time pouring hot water into his cup. The salamander in the glass at the base of the teapot slowly blinked at him, and he avoided locking gazes with it.

He would have waited until his tea was fully prepared before saying anything, but he felt the tension about to explode. “I don’t know what exactly you’ve heard.” He reached for a bag of leaves. Fernand picked one up and handed it to him, and Chris smiled at him thankfully. “But, yes, Francis Livingstone has been—has been arrested on suspicion of sabotaging the Floating Castle.”

“Oh, wow,” Rosemary breathed.

Chris dropped the bag into his cup and held it under with his spoon. Colour ran into the water, staining it orange and brown. “I was at the station when he was brought in―”

“
Really
?” Rosemary squeaked.

“―but I don’t know much more, except that at this point, it’s only suspicion.” Even if he could tell them about the Duchess or the conspiracy or all the Old Blood money that had been poured into making this a reality, he wouldn’t. To Rosemary, it would sound too exciting for something so awful. To Fernand, it would sound like the paranoid ranting of a reformist sympathizer.

Fernand caught his eye as he went to raise the tea to his lips. “I suppose that takes the offer of Cooperton off the table,” he said quietly.

Chris flicked his gaze to Rosemary, who stared up at him, big eyes filled with curiosity. “I suppose,” he agreed, and, hoping that would be the end of it, took a long draught of the tea to forestall any further questions.

His eyes watered and bulged. He coughed and sputtered, trying not to spit. “
Gods
,” he cried after forcing himself to swallow it. “
Gods
, that’s bitter.” Rosemary giggled at his distress while he peered into the cup, looking for some explanation for the acrid taste. It
looked
normal enough, though now that he was paying attention, the scent was a little spicier than he was used to…

Fernand blinked. He took another bag of leaves from the tray and sniffed at it thoughtfully. “Mine was fine,” he said.

“Mine, too!” Rosemary supplied.

Chris set the cup down on the table and pushed it over to Fernand, trying to scrub the taste from his teeth with his tongue. The old man lifted the cup to his lips, took a thoughtful sip, and then peered down into the cup. He shrugged. “I don’t know, young master,” he said, and then sighed and reached over to set the cup back down before him. “It tastes just fine to me.”

Chris eyed the teacup as though it might bite him. He didn’t reach for it.

“Do you think they’ll get him for it?” Fernand was asking, and Chris dragged himself back to the unpleasant matter before him. He gave his adviser a pleading look, but the old man either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“I honestly don’t know.” He trailed his finger around the rim of his cup. “The whole thing is just…unbelievable. And…and tragic. Whether he did it or not, it’s
very
tragic, actually. I wish everyone could stop treating the whole thing like a carnival. This is the anniversary of the―of the worst and most tragic disaster in Tarlish
history
, and instead of treating it with the gravity it deserves, we’re all just sitting around
gossiping
about―”

He cut himself off. Too late, he heard the way his volume had risen. Fernand watched him with mild reproach while Rosemary blinked wide eyes and wrapped her hands around her teacup. Chris looked back and forth between them, searching for the best way to smooth it over, but his social instincts seemed broken or just gone.

He reached for his cup. The steam rose and be breathed deeply its spicy scent. “Honestly,” he murmured, staring into his tea. His head suddenly felt very heavy. “I’d rather not talk about it. Any of it. Today has been so long and so full and I―”
I can’t.
He swallowed the words and looked up. “What I
would
rather,” he said with false cheer, “is to
finally
spend some time with my little sister! Especially since our Uncle Fernand is here!”