The Magician's Dream (Oona Crate Mystery: book 3) (19 page)

Again she stopped in her tracks.

“The cemetery?” she asked, thinking of the dream cemetery in the clouds.

“Yes. It will take us a while to get there by carriage, so don’t be late. We don’t want to still be there after sunset.”

The Wizard was referring to the fact that, after sunset, the spirits of the dead came alive in the night and haunted the cemetery grounds, along with a regiment of poltergeists who guarded the graveyard entrance, preventing any ghosts or living humans from passing.

Oona’s throat had suddenly gone dry, and she felt her hands go tingly with nerves, not so much from the thought of ghosts—though the idea was quite disturbing in and of itself—but from something more personal. She thought of the graves of her mother, and sister, and father in the Crate family plot . . . of how she had not visited them since the day of their funerals over three years ago.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” the Wizard asked. “You look pale.”

Oona did her best to shake the feeling off.

“I’ll be here,” she said, and quickly began descending the stairs. She glanced at the clock on the wall as she crossed the open antechamber toward the front door. The hour hand pointed to ten o’clock. There was no time to waste.

***

“Perfect timing,” Oona said.

She peered out the carriage window as Samuligan pulled the horse to a stop in front of the museum. Outside, Oona could see Inspector White climbing the steps and waiving his hands in the air in an attempt to shoo Deacon away. The raven was currently swooping about the inspector’s head, herding him toward the museum entrance.

Several steps behind them, a uniformed police constable followed, grinning ear to ear and watching the whole scene with open amusement.

Oona stepped from the carriage and hurried up the stone steps after them, the book of knots tucked beneath one arm.

“There you are, Miss Crate!” the inspector howled at her. The two of them reached the top step together, and the inspector took one last swipe at Deacon before the raven landed composedly upon Oona’s shoulder.

“Excellent work, Deacon,” Oona said.

“I did my best,” Deacon replied, and he puffed out his chest, clearly proud of himself.

The inspector arrowed a finger at her. “What is the meaning of all of this? That bird of yours nearly pecked me to death!”

Oona shook her head. “I doubt that, Inspector. He was only making sure you got here in time to capture a deadly criminal.”

“What are you talking about?” the inspector asked.

“Follow me, and all will be revealed,” Oona said, and pulled open the thick wooden museum door.

And there he was, the daytime watchman, Victor McGillicuddy. He stood where he always did, beside the museum registry, which all visitors to the museum were required to sign. Oona had half expected him not to be there—that he would have somehow known they were coming for him and that he would have made a run for it. But no, there he stood, bold as could be, watching them approach as if he had nothing in the world to hide.

Oona’s hands began to sweat, despite the coolness of the entryway. She felt nervous and angry, and yet she did not feel nearly as frightened as she thought she ought to. She was confronting a killer, after all: the man who had murdered one of the most important people in Oona’s life, the one who had robbed her of anything close to a normal existence. Looking at the man now, it was hard to believe that he was capable of stealing anything, let alone of murder. But Oona supposed that such people were able to hide their secrets deep within their dark well of lies.

“Mr. McGillicuddy,” Oona said. She came to a stop beside the registry, Deacon puffing himself up menacingly upon her shoulder.

Inspector White and the constable halted just behind her.

Victor McGillicuddy looked at the entourage with nothing more than mild curiosity. Surely, he must know that they were on to him. How the man could remain so cool, Oona was not sure.

“Yes,” the guard said. “Got some more questions for me, do you?” He looked expectedly from Oona to the inspector.

The inspector crossed his arms and looked sternly at Oona. “Yes, Miss Crate. Why
are
we here?”

Oona opened the book of knots and flipped to the page containing the Rose Knot. “See this, Inspector? Do you recognize it?”

The inspector’s dark eyebrows came nearly together as he leaned forward to examine the illustration. “I believe I have seen it somewhere before.”

Oona’s face went red as she forced herself to suppress her anger. “Of course you have seen it before. It is the knot that the thieves used to tie up the night watchman. It is the signature of the infamous Rose Thieves. The same thieves who murdered my father over three years ago.”

Oona glanced at Victor McGillicuddy, hoping to discover signs of guilt, but the museum guard appeared only curious. Her conviction that he was the culprit began to waver.

She continued: “The person who wrote this book almost forty years ago is the inventor of the Rose Knot. He is also the inventor of this knot as well.” She flipped the book several pages back to a knot named the Shoe Fly. “This is a sophisticated way of tying a shoe.”

The inspector and the constable let out a collective “Oooooh” sound. The illustration showed a shoelace crisscrossing in a deceptively simple pattern that resembled a double-winged dragonfly.

“That’s quite beautiful,” Inspector White said. “I’ve never seen anyone tie their shoes like that before. It’s a work of art.”

“I agree,” Oona said. “And it stands to reason that if the author of this book taught this Shoe Fly Knot to someone, then he might have also taught the Rose Knot to him.”

“What are you getting at Miss Crate?” the inspector snapped.

Oona raised an eyebrow at the museum guard, staring at him hard. “Would you please raise your pant leg, Mr. McGillicuddy? So that we might see how your shoe is tied.”

“I beg your pardon?” the guard asked, looking quite surprised by the request.

Oona could feel her heart begin to quicken. This was the moment of revelation. “If you have nothing to hide, Mr. McGillicuddy, please show us your shoelaces.”

The guard looked to Inspector White, whose mouth had pulled into a tight line. He looked quite irritated with the entire affair, but twirled his finger in a let’s-get-this-over-with gesture.

The guard shrugged, and then hiked the bottom of his trouser leg up, exposing his shiny black shoes. Oona pointed at the place where the string came together in a knot and opened her mouth to utter a triumphant “
Aha!
” . . . but the sound stuck in her throat.

The guard’s shoelaces were not tied in any extraordinary way. They looked just like anybody else’s laces. Oona’s face flushed with embarrassment.

“Are you satisfied, Miss Crate?” the inspector asked.

Oona threw her hands to her hips. “So maybe he doesn’t use the Shoe Fly Knot to tie his shoes. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know the Rose Knot.” Oona flipped the book to the front cover. “The author of this book is Abraham McGillicuddy, and it seems highly suspicious to me that—”

“That’s my grandfather’s name!” the guard blurted out.

Oona took in a sharp breath. “So you admit it.”

“Of course I do,” he said plainly. “But I didn’t know he had published a book. Can I see that?”

Oona reluctantly handed the book over.

The guard began flipping through the pages, his expression growing more and more thoughtful. “Grandfather passed away in New York, just before my family moved to Dark Street, back when I was a kid. And now that I think of it, he did have a hobby that had to do with knots . . . except he never taught me any of them. Not a very nice man, my grandfather. Didn’t care for me much, as I remember. But he loved my older sister, Abigail, he did. Treated her like a little princess.”

“Your sister?” Oona asked, surprised. She looked at Deacon, wondering why the name Abigail McGillicuddy had not appeared in the
Who’s Who
.

Before she could inquire, Victor continued: “I think he taught Abigail quite a few of his knots, come to think of it, but she never showed ’em to me. Then again, I never was much interested in that sort of thing, and we never were very close, she being some nine years older than me. Plus, she got married to that shady character Denis Carlyle. My wife insisted I stop inviting them to dinner because things kept disappearing. Haven’t seen either of them in years.”

“Carlyle?” Oona said, and looked alarmingly at Deacon. “Is that . . .” She didn’t even wish to finish the sentence.

Deacon appeared thoughtful as he accessed his reference materials. After a pause, he said: “Oh, dear. Had we inquired further into the
Dark Street Who’s Who
, we would have seen the connection. But we stopped at the name McGillicuddy. Abigail McGillicuddy changed her last name when she got married to Denis Carlyle—a man with quite a checkered past—and became Abigail Carlyle . . . and she is currently the housemaid at Pendulum House.”

Oona’s heart sank.

The Final Battle Test

Oona shoved through the front door to Pendulum House so forcefully that the door banged against the inside wall, causing Deacon to jump on her shoulder. Inspector White and the police constable followed her in, with Samuligan bringing up the rear.

“Where is she?” Oona asked. She peered around the entryway as if expecting to find the maid standing there, waiting for them. But the entryway and the round antechamber beyond stood empty.

“Tell me again why we are searching for your housemaid,” the inspector said incredulously.

Oona whirled around. “Because, Inspector, she is the only person we know for sure who would know how to tie the Rose Knot—besides Isadora Iree, that is, but Isadora is too young to have murdered my father three years ago. Whoever did it was in league with Red Martin. He told me so. As you know, my father had been trying to catch the Rose Thieves when he was killed. They tied that very knot to the murder weapon, the gun, and left it behind. It was their signature. And it’s the same knot used on the night watchman at the museum on Monday night.”

“And you want me to arrest her based solely on the fact that she might know how to tie a knot?” the inspector asked.

“A
unique
knot, Inspector . . . but what I suggest you do is take Mrs. Carlyle back to her home and search it for the missing Faerie Carbuncle. That should prove she is one of the Rose Thieves.” Oona turned back to the antechamber, where several hallways branched off in different directions. “Samuligan, can you fetch Mrs. Carlyle for us? Samuligan?”

She looked around but did not see the faerie anywhere. “Where did he get to?”

“I have already searched for her. She is not here,” said the faerie, who, to Oona’s surprise, entered the antechamber from the hallway that led to the library.

“That was quick,” Oona said, quite impressed, though she knew she should not have been. The faerie was almost a part of the house and had a knack for appearing in nearly any room to which he was summoned at the drop of a hat.

“But that is not all,” Samuligan continued. “There is a book missing from the library. A very old book of spells.”

“A book of spells?” Deacon asked. “Are you sure?”

“I know that library like the back of my hand,” Samuligan said. He held up his hand, which presently displayed an intricate tattooed map of the library’s forest of books. “I knew the book was missing the moment I entered.”

Oona shook her head, confused. “You think Mrs. Carlyle took it? But what would she want with . . .” She trailed off as the answer came to her. It was a terrible answer, one that she wished were not true.

“Oona? What’s going on here?” came the voice of the Wizard. He was crossing the antechamber toward them.

“It’s Mrs. Carlyle,” Oona said. “She is one of the Rose Thieves.”

The Wizard stopped in his tracks. “The Rose Thieves? The ones responsible for your father’s death? Bradford’s murderers?”

Hearing her uncle say it out loud all at once made her want to burst into tears, and it occurred to her that she had been fighting back her emotions ever since approaching the museum guard. She swallowed hard and forced herself to keep her emotions in check for as long as possible.

“One and the same,” she said. “Surely the other Rose Thief must be her husband, Denis Carlyle . . . the man she said she met when she was around my age.”

And suddenly Oona felt a sense of betrayal like she had never felt before. She had confided in Mrs. Carlyle, told her about Adler, and even looked up to her for her thoughts on women’s rights. It was simply wretched.

Oona cleared her throat before continuing: “They stole the Faerie Carbuncle from the museum, and now she has stolen a book of ancient spells from the Pendulum House library. Most likely, she’s been looking for the spell that is required to activate the carbuncle’s enchantment.”

The Wizard ran a thoughtful hand down his beard. “That’s why I always found her cleaning the library. I just thought she was being thorough.”

Oona began to nod, understanding coming too late. “It’s true. I almost always found her there as well. She was pretending to clean the shelves when what she was really up to was looking for a book that contained the spell she would need to activate the Faerie Carbuncle which would—”

“Give her faerielike powers,” Deacon finished.

“I’ll bet that’s why she applied for the housemaid position in the first place,” Oona said. “She’s been here only a month. I’ll bet she knew that she and her husband were going to try to steal the carbuncle before she even applied. It was planned the whole time, but the Pendulum House library was so disorganized.” Oona looked to Samuligan, who raised a questioning eyebrow at her. “That is to say, so
seemingly
disorganized that it took her a month to find what she was looking for. But now she’s found it.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” said the Wizard.

“But it’s likely,” Oona said. “Why else would she steal the book? We must go to Mrs. Carlyle’s home and confront her, this instant . . . before she gets a chance to use the spell.”

“Hold on, Oona,” her uncle said. “If what you are hypothesizing is true, then this is a matter for the police.”

“That is correct,” said Inspector White, though to Oona’s ears he sounded less than fully confident.

Oona crossed her arms. “But she has stolen a magical artifact and a magical book, which together could be disastrously dangerous. I think that puts it in our magical jurisdiction.”

“You mean to say
my
jurisdiction, Oona, not yours,” her uncle said, his tone quite stern. “You are not the Wizard yet, and I will decide what actions we take.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s nearly noon now, and we have your final battle test in the cemetery to attend to. We mustn’t start too late, because as we know, the cemetery is no place to be after sunset. Oh, and you’ll be needing this, once more.”

He pulled Oswald’s wand from his pocket and handed it to Oona. She looked at it in her own hand for a moment and then shook her head.

“But, Uncle, surely—”

The Wizard held up his hand. “That is my final word on this, Oona. We’ll leave it to Inspector White to track her down.”

Inspector White stuck his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers and puffed out his chest, as if he could not have been prouder. “You can count on me. Constable Mormont and I will track them down. In fact, I know just where to begin.”

“Where is that?” Oona asked skeptically.

“Oh, we have our ways, Miss Crate. Never fear . . . Inspector White is on the case.”

Oona could only shake her head. Her insides twisted with anxiety. Surely, the inspector would do something stupid and the Carlyles would get away. But it seemed she had no choice.

***

The cemetery was located at the southernmost end of the street, close to the Glass Gates. A six-mile journey from Pendulum House, the carriage ride was a long one. It gave Oona time to brood.

She couldn’t believe how stupid she had been for befriending the very person who was responsible for her father’s death. The maid had seemed so caring and interested in Oona’s life, and yet it seemed now that it had been a masterful act, every conversation a complete fraud. Oona felt foolish for having shared her hopes and dreams with someone she had thought a friend. A true female companion.

Oona wondered if Mrs. Carlyle’s interest in the women’s rights movement had been a sham as well. The thought reminded her of what day it was.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” she said, looking at her uncle, who sat beside her in the carriage. “It’s voting day.”

The Wizard’s beard wiggled and swayed with every bump in the street. He nodded. “It is. I voted early this morning at the central Dark Street precinct. I wanted to beat the crowds. But look, you can see some of the action for yourself. We’re coming up on City Hall.”

Oona peered out the window and saw a line of people stretching down the street that led to the front entrance of City Hall, a reddish, square-shaped building that had always looked to Oona as if someone had dropped an enormous brick from the sky. It was the only building on Dark Street that had perfectly straight walls, with Roman columns out front and a pair of carved stone griffons guarding the entrance.

The line of people stretched up the street for as far as Oona could see.

“They’re all voting?” Oona asked.

“The publicity in yesterday’s paper seems to have caused a larger-than-usual turnout,” the Wizard said.

“You mean this isn’t normal?”

The Wizard shook his head, but it was Deacon who answered from his perch on the windowsill. “Council elections are held every two years, and in the past ten years, the average number of voters in each election has totaled fewer than one thousand.”

“Is that all?” Oona asked, flabbergasted. “But there are tens of thousands of people living on Dark Street.”

Presently, they pulled up even with City Hall, where the line of voters entered the building. Something struck the carriage so forcefully that Oona was flung out of her seat. Deacon let out a sharp cry and took to the air as the entire riding compartment tipped sideways and slammed down in the middle of the street.

Oona landed on top of her uncle with a crunching sound.

She took in a startled breath, shaking her head and blinking confusedly. “Uncle Alexander?” Oona asked wearily. “Are you all right?”

No response.

Outside the carriage, along with the shouts of people, she thought she heard the sounds of barking dogs. Oona scrambled to her left, just now realizing that the carriage was lying on its side. She looked at the Wizard and saw that the large sleeve of his robe was covering his face. He wasn’t moving.

“Uncle?” she asked again, and she could hear the panic in her own voice. She pulled the sleeve of his robe away and exposed his face. A trickle of blood ran down the side of his head and into his beard. His eyes were closed, and she could not tell if he was breathing. Her panic swelled like some monstrous creature inside of her, and she thought for a moment that she might faint.

And then a voice spoke from above her. “I don’t think you’ll be needing this.”

Oona looked up and her heart leapt into her throat. It was Mrs. Carlyle, who reached down through the open window and groped for something. Oona didn’t know what the woman was trying to get at, but a sense of fierce rage like she had never experienced before dropped over her.

“You did this,” Oona said, and she leapt at the woman’s arm, her fingers like claws.

But Mrs. Carlyle raised a hand in a halting gesture, and Oona froze in midmotion. She couldn’t move. She’d been somehow paralyzed. Outside the carriage, the sound of snarling dogs continued to fill the street, and for the first time Oona wondered where Samuligan was.

“I’ll just be taking this and be on my way,” the maid said, and snapped her fingers. Something from near where Oona had landed flew into Mrs. Carlyle’s hand. Still dazed from the crash, it took Oona an instant to focus on what it was. And then she saw it: Oswald’s wand.

“Thanks so much for letting me know that you use this during your tests. As you know, my boss, Red Martin, has been wanting it for some time,” Mrs. Carlyle said, and Oona could see a red gem hanging from a fine gold chain around her neck. The carbuncle! Clearly, the maid had found the spell she needed to activate the gem’s magic, and she now wielded extraordinary powers.

“Samuligan!” Oona shouted, surprised that she could speak at all. It seemed that whatever enchantment Mrs. Carlyle had used to freeze Oona in place had failed to paralyze her mouth.

Mrs. Carlyle looked up and over her shoulder toward something outside the carriage. “I believe your faerie servant has his hands full at the moment. You know, I never did like him.”

“
Profundus mag—
” Oona began, in an attempt to link her magic with Pendulum House, but Mrs. Carlyle pinched her fingers together and the motion caused Oona’s lips to clamp shut. Even more extraordinary was that her thought of the word was frozen as well. She was unable even to think the spell.

“Ah, ah, ah. No spells from you, missy,” Mrs. Carlyle said admonishingly. She considered Oona for a moment. “It’s too bad you’re such a powerful magician, Miss Crate; otherwise, I might be able to let you live. But knowing you, you’ll try to come after me, just like your father.” She aimed the wand at Oona. “That wouldn’t be—”

But this time it was Mrs. Carlyle who was cut short. She cried out in pain as black wings fluttered wildly above her head and Deacon dug his talons into the maid’s hair. The maid opened her hand in an attempt to grab at the bird, in the process releasing Oona from the silencing spell.

“
Profundus magicus!
” Oona cried, and just as it had in her battle tests, the incantation linked her own magic with the vast stores of magic in Pendulum House.

“Kraken-mooris!”
The words came to her of their own accord, an ancient spell that wound itself around her own body and then quickly expanded outward, exploding Mrs. Carlyle’s paralyzing spell in a burst of blue and white light. Oona was free.