Several things came to mind at the sight, but the foremost was one of her favorite stories, in which the hero met the god of the forge and asked the master blacksmith for items of great power. When her mother told it, the items were humble tools like hoes or kitchen pots. Since Hetty was married to a blacksmith who made clever things with many uses, over time the items became a key that could open any lock, a coin that cast a spell of invisibility, a lantern that needed no oil to burn, and a compass that pointed to your heart’s desire.
“Hetty.” Benjy absently dabbed his face with his apron. “How late is it?”
“Not late at all,” she said, eyeing the stack of horseshoes. They were stacked high enough to nearly topple over. “How long have you been at this?”
“Forever, it seems,” he remarked. “Still more to do.”
“I can wait until you finish. I don’t mind watching you work.”
These teasing words led him to roll his eyes, but Benjy couldn’t fool her. She saw a smile tug at his mouth and knew that even if he had a large and complex work order to finish by the day’s end, she wouldn’t be sent away. He might try to convince her to work the bellows, but he would let her linger around the forge even if she was nothing more than a distraction.
There was a box that once held some matter of tools, and she placed her package on top with care.
Mindful of the flames, she walked to the workbench. It was rather empty today, with only a few tools scattered across the surface. Usually there was a long line of work across it, from repairs to drawings of new work. She even came here once to find a sword among his work for the day. But there was nothing on the workbench to make diverting conversation, so she sank onto a nearby stool and rolled one of the chisels along the surface in front of her.
“Is something the matter?” Benjy dropped another horseshoe onto the stack.
“Do you know someone named Judith?”
He picked up a hammer and proceeded to wag it at her. “You should rephrase that question before I give an answer that gets misunderstood.”
“Oh!” Hetty laughed. “I was just wondering if the name was familiar.”
“It’s not. Who is she? No,” he corrected himself, “what is this about?”
“The odd note that was in our post. I met the writer, and the lengths she took to meet me was because she’s passing. It’s also why she sought me out. Her sister Judith has gone missing. According to her, Judith taught Sorcery to others and recently disappeared. But she’s only worried because there’s a chance Judith’s activities will be connected to her, even though it shouldn’t matter. This is her sister and she is more concerned about being caught living a lie.”
“Then don’t take the case.”
“I can’t.” Hetty’s protest was scarcely off her lips before she saw her hands were shaking. She shoved them behind her back, but it was too late.
Benjy had dropped his hammer, the half-formed horseshoe, and everything else he was doing to come around to where she sat. He exchanged his apron for the abandoned work shirt, her stitch-work glowing for a moment as the fabric brushed against his skin.
“This isn’t about my sister,” Hetty said in answer to his unspoken concerns. “This woman, Alice, she bought all this expensive fabric for me. I can’t refuse, or she’ll have me arrested.”
Benjy didn’t reach out to touch her, but loomed overhead like a thoughtful cloud, as if touching her would bring on a storm of tears.
She wasn’t sure she wanted him to grab her hands and say everything would be fine and he’d take care of it, but this wasn’t much better. Looming over her with concern just made the distance between them greater than what it was.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Benjy said, looking more at the arrangement of tools on the walls than at her face. “This woman considers you her only hope to find her sister.”
“If I’m her only hope, it’s only because she doesn’t want to look herself !”
“But you do. And you will.” He paused before adding, “Would you like help?”
“What happened to ‘This is your case, Hetty’?” she said, mimicking his voice. “Now you want to help? Is it because it involves a missing sister?”
“Yes, that’s exactly my reason,” he replied. “This is your weakness and it skews your judgment. You’ll lose yourself in this case.”
“I haven’t before.”
“It only takes one time.”
She heard an echo of their conversation last night about Marianne, and her dismissal about naming her friend as a suspect. Just like then, he was casting doubt on her judgment, but this time she wasn’t nearly as vexed to hear such words.
He had the right of it.
Her love for her sister led her to see that relationship echoed in other sibling pairs and to be surprised when the bond wasn’t strong. He was right to warn her. But it was already too late.
“Why do you have to be right about that?” she grumbled.
“Sometimes I don’t wish to be.”
Benjy’s face was carefully blank, which made his words an even greater puzzle. She was still considering what to make of them when footsteps filled the thoughtful silence.
“Am I interrupting?”
Darlene stood in the doorway with her daughter cradled in her arms. She eyed the room hesitantly, as if she was uncertain if her dress or baby could come to greater harm.
“There’s nothing to interrupt,” Benjy said as he stepped toward the workbench, abandoning Hetty as he tucked his concerns away.
Darlene, deciding to take a risk, moved forward in the space, nodding briefly at Hetty as she did. “I’ve come to ask you a favor. It’s a bit short notice, but I am only a messenger. Benjy, will you play the piano at the repass tomorrow? Eunice thought it would be a grand idea since it’ll be hosted at her home.”
“Repass?” Benjy echoed. “At the Loring home?”
“Charlie’s funeral is tomorrow.” Darlene frowned. “Didn’t Hetty tell you?”
“I didn’t get a chance,” Hetty admitted, speaking directly to Benjy. “Marianne insists on services as soon as possible. Oliver is busy getting ready, but he’s not asking for help.”
“Then I should change his mind,” Benjy replied.
“Will you play the piano?” Darlene asked again.
He nodded.
Then, strangely, he made a show of looking at the horseshoes. “I think I got the number of horses wrong. Excuse me, I’m going to talk to Sy.” Rather abruptly he left them, but not without giving Hetty a peculiar look as he passed.
It happened too quickly for Hetty to catch his meaning. But it had to be something about Darlene.
Her friend would not have come to ask Benjy about the piano. A piano needed only to be present in a room and he would play. No, Darlene came here for something else.
True to form, Darlene lingered, biting her lip as she glanced around the forge.
“I’m sure he’ll be back,” Hetty said, collecting her package. “Just wait a few moments.”
“I didn’t come to talk to him. I mean,” Darlene added, “I came to talk to him because I wanted Benjy to pass along a message to you. I went around to the dress shop and they said you weren’t there.”
“I quit—the usual story.”
“Ah.” Darlene stumbled at this. If Hetty wasn’t already curious, she would have been now. Like a berating elder sister, Darlene always had a few choice words when Hetty announced she was looking for work. Usually to the tune of tossing aside perfectly good opportunities on a whim. “Good, then you’ll have time to talk,” Darlene said. “I need to tell you something. I went to see Marianne. There’s something about Charlie’s death that she’s hiding!”
DOVE
12
SUCH A CONVERSATION COULD NOT be done so openly, even in the back of the forge. With little effort, Hetty convinced her friend to walk the few blocks to the boardinghouse, where they could finish their conversation. The moment they went inside, however, Hetty realized she m
ade the decision a bit too hastily.
Darlene, who had said nothing other than whisper a soothing word to her daughter, grew wildly animated at the sight of the cradle.
Darlene peered into it, and even the baby appeared to assess the piece of furniture for its quality and use.
“That’s not ours,” Hetty said, when an utterly delighted Darlene turned back around. She placed the package of fabric on the table. “It’s just a job Benjy picked up.”
“I should have known,” Darlene replied as she walked around it. “It’s too poorly made to be his work. Although it does look rather nice in here.”
“It takes up too much space,” Hetty grunted as she reached for her scissors. With a simple snip, she cut open the brown paper to free the fabric. It spilled out along the table like a river of moonlight.
“You can always make room, especially if you gave this away.” Darlene pointed to the tiny plant on the shelf.
Moonleaf was the only scrap of herbal lore Hetty still remembered from her mother. A plant whose leaves eased the pains of monthly bleeding and kept a baby from growing. The only protection her mother could give. It didn’t protect from unwanted attentions, but it did prevent a baby being born from violence and pain.
“Give it away?” Hetty remarked. “To who?”
“To Eunice Loring.” Darlene lightly bounced her daughter on her hip. “Eunice told me she wanted some to ease her monthly pains, but I think she wanted it for its other properties.”
“Why tell me about this? Penelope has access to far more herbs than I do.”
“Apparently the wares at the store are already allotted to customers. The other shops in town don’t carry the herb at all, even in limited qualities. It’s the most effective means, which makes it the most expensive. I don’t have anything she could use,” Darlene continued. “My trouble was I never could manage to get pregnant. But I knew you had some. I’m not suggesting you give her the whole thing, just asking if you could spare her some. She’s been rather listless lately. I think she had a miscarriage.”
“And doesn’t want to risk another pregnancy.” Hetty took the herb mostly out of habit, but had no pressing need for it. “I can spare some. Maybe even seeds for her to grow her own later.”
“I’m glad to hear that. She has this silly idea you don’t like her.”
“Not her directly,” Hetty said as she pounced on the chance to bring the conversation back to why she brought Darlene here in the first place. “Marianne rubbed their friendship in my face.”
Darlene drooped at the mention of Marianne’s name, and a worried frown replaced her brief touch of glee.
“Why don’t you put Lorene in the crib?” Hetty suggested. “She looks ready for a nap. It’ll be a good way to test if the charms Benjy put in actually work.”
“You don’t trust it does?”
“I trust he made a good attempt at copying my spells.”
The baby went into the cradle and made gurgling noises as some of the sigils carved into it lit up.
Relieved of her precious burden, Darlene settled into a chair. She held herself still as the reason for her coming suddenly flowed back into her.
It was a nervousness Hetty recognized, which was why she busied herself with the fabric. The illusion of occupation would make this feel more like a conversation.
“When did you see Marianne?” Hetty asked.
“This morning. I went alone. She was glad to see me. Marianne apologized for the other night, but we didn’t talk much. Just about the arrangements for the funeral, and things people had contributed. Then someone knocked on the door. I thought it was Charlie’s mother, who was due to arrive at any moment. But there was this man instead. Marianne tried to shoo him away. It took some time for her to succeed. I asked her about him, and she told me she had never seen the man before. I was ready to forget it when she added the man might be someone that Charlie had known through business. The way she said it was very odd.”
“Charlie had fingers in a number of things.” Leaving the fabric aside, Hetty went to fetch her dress form.
Since their room was small, instead of standing in the corner, it stood upright in her tub sharing the space with blankets, winter coats, and a few other things that couldn’t quite fit elsewhere. Gripping her arms around the headless wire figure, Hetty lifted it out. “Did Marianne say which business?”
“Gambling.”
The dress form hit the floor hard enough that it might have added a new scar to the wood.
Marianne had lied to her!
Hetty had believed her without question because the woman had just lost her husband and would be too distraught to make up lies. How could have Hetty forgotten Charlie didn’t earn his money by himself? Marianne was right there next to him with pointed advice and suggestions.
“I thought you should know,” Darlene went on, “so you could follow up on the gambling. You are investigating Charlie’s death, aren’t you?”
“He died in an accident.” The fib came quickly. “It has nothing to do with us.”
“Hetty.” Darlene’s hands were flat against her knees, and when Darlene looked up there was nothing quavering or trembling in her expression. Her eyes were sharp and attentive as they had been in the days when she was an agent of the Vigilance Society, tasked with moving people in plain sight of bounty hunters. “Everyone knows what you and Benjy do. Why, even George said that Charlie’s death is so much of a shock that you couldn’t not investigate. Benjy has gone poking about on less.”
He had, in fact, with her right at his side doing her fair share of poking.
“That’s all very true,” Hetty said, “but I thought the past was past.”
As expected, Darlene didn’t challenge the reminder. She pursed her lips, though, clearly wishing she could press further.
Hetty held up the fabric against the dress form.
“I didn’t realize you have a commission to work on,” Darlene said in an attempt to shift the conversation.
“Not a commission,” Hetty said. “It’s for Maybelle. Her daughter needs a new wedding dress. I’m not even sure where to start,” Hetty added with an exaggerated sigh. “I have more fabric than I need, but not enough for two dresses.”
“Do you have an idea of what you want?”
Hetty considered the polite request. While she could make the excess of fabric work, she wanted to keep Darlene here a bit longer.
Darlene knew something more about Marianne, and not necessarily from this morning. Charlie’s death had not been a random thing—it had been the final play in a game already in progress. Hetty had an idea of what that game might have been, but she had been on the outside of the Richardsons’ social circle since the start of the year. The same could not be said of Darlene.
Darlene had to know something helpful, and Hetty was going to keep her talking until she found it.
“I don’t have a single idea,” Hetty lied. She shuffled the items along the table, pushing aside papers until she pulled out a battered bound book. In between half-written notes and maps in and around the city were Hetty’s own sketches of dresses and Benjy’s rough designs for machines. She turned to a blank page and held out a pencil to her friend. “Can you draw something for me?”
“When have you ever needed to ask that?”
Darlene put pencil to paper, and Hetty kept up her questions as she continued with her own work. As she cut fabric and pinned pieces together, she kept up a steady flow of conversation. She learned the Waltons were owners of a candy store and that the husband was a member of the same secret society of masons as Charlie. Darlene and George hadn’t been at that dinner. But Darlene was very upset that Marianne’s children had been enrolled at a different school instead of theirs. She didn’t admit it, of course, but she returned to the subject more times than it merited.
“Where they ended up going is very good, but she made it seem like they would come to us. She promised!”
“You know how Marianne is with promise
s.”
“But she promised me and—” There was a sharp snap behind her. Darlene let out a small cry as her sketchbook tumbled from her lap, and she held up a hand with the broken end of a pencil jammed in her palm.
“I’m so sorry,” Darlene sputtered as blood began to pool. “The pencil just snapped and I . . .”
“Don’t touch it! Don’t move it at all. I have something that will help.”
Hetty opened the door to the wardrobe and withdrew a box from the top drawer. Penelope had gifted Hetty with a collection of healing salves. A collection they put to great use. Still, when she reached for a jar, she was surprised to see that it was mostly empty.
Returning to her friend, Hetty summoned a chipped bowl to her side, and a pitcher.
Darlene had removed the pencil from her hand, and she sat there with a trembling lip as Hetty carefully cleaned the wound. A little healing salve covered the cut, and a bit of torn fabric became a makeshift bandage.
“You’ll be fine in a moment,” Hetty said. “Penelope made this, after all.”
“I wouldn’t have expected anything less.” Darlene turned her hand over. “She makes them special for you, given all the trouble you find yourself in.”
“Not that much trouble.”
“Oh, it’s plenty enough.” Darlene said this without her usual cheer. It could be the pain radiating from her hand, but if the healing salve was working, something else drew away the mirth from her features.
Was there something else Darlene hadn’t told her?
Hetty went to the dress, resuming her work. As she mulled over how to frame her next question, the door opened.
“Good, you’re here! You won’t believe what I found out.” Benjy strode in pausing only when he saw Darlene perched on a chair.
“Hello, Darlene,” he said cheerfully, and he eyed the dress form Hetty worked at, “and Catherine Anne.”
“Catherine Anne?” Darlene giggled.
The Conductors Page 12
