The Devil's Teeth (Ravenwood Mysteries #5)

by Sabrina Flynn

  Isobel thanked her, and fished around a hidden pocket, but it was empty. She had forgotten—she wasn't allowed currency while at the asylum.

  Maria put a hand on her arm. "Don't. It's for Samuel."

  "I'll do my best to find out what happened."

  Maria nodded, and hugged her shawl to her shoulders.

  Isobel hesitated. "If you ever need help." She presented a card stamped with a raven. "You'll know where to find me."

  Mist swam in Maria's eyes. She accepted the card and tucked it away, turning quickly to disappear inside a shack.

  Isobel turned to find Lacy in rapt conversation with Julius. It was mostly one-sided, but he appeared captivated. Isobel struck off, and Julius hastily excused himself, peeled the woman off his arm, and hurried to catch up.

  "Attempting to escape?" Julius asked.

  "You looked to be in the midst of a talking session."

  "After a fashion." He shook his head. "It's really quite useless to speak with an inebriated individual. I've tried… but drunkenness is a strange, ravaging affliction."

  "A slow, cowardly death," she murmured.

  "I wouldn't call it cowardice. To you, perhaps. I thought you intended to question the miners?"

  "Those women know the miners best. They know the brutes, and the kind-hearted. And they know the desires and dreams of them all."

  "True," he agreed. "Men will tell a prostitute anything. I've always thought they were akin to alienists."

  Isobel chuckled.

  "I'm quite serious," he defended.

  "The truth is ironic. What does that say about your profession, Doctor?"

  "That we have much to learn," he said.

  They found Finneas O'Conner leaning against a wagon cleaning his fingernails with a knife. Finn looked her up and down, then twirled his knife, sheathing it in one smooth motion. "I would've thought you wee devils might have diverged a bit."

  "I could say the same of you and your ways." She thrust out her hand, and he bowed over it with a flourish, brushing the air above her knuckles.

  "I can't be shaking the hand of a beautiful lass like you, Miss Amsel."

  "This is Doctor Bright."

  "Is he your keeper?"

  She smiled. "One in a long line."

  Finn laughed. "And we all know what happened to those." He winked.

  "Thanks for giving Lotario a ride into town the other day."

  "That lad looked in a bad way."

  "That'd be my fault, as usual."

  Finn grinned from ear to ear, and hooked his thumbs beneath his waistcoat. She remembered the man from her childhood. He was the kind of man that took a penny from her ear, and laughed at mischief. She also remembered why her father fired him.

  "Wasn't it always?" Finn laughed.

  "I've reformed my ways."

  "That's what a little bird told me. A bona fide detective now. Are you here to turn those lovely eyes on me?"

  "I'm afraid not."

  Finn clutched his heart. "By my sweet mother's grave, she'll roll over to hear I've reformed and mended my ways."

  "I doubt it. But I was hoping you could help me."

  "How may I assist the devil herself?"

  "I know you have ears everywhere."

  "That I do." He crossed his heart.

  "Have you heard of the missing boy?"

  "Rumors flit to my ears like wee fairies. It's good you found him."

  "I found one boy."

  Finn looked confused. "There's two missing boys?" he asked in surprise.

  She shook her head. "I found John. But the older boy is still missing."

  "I did not know that."

  "Did you happen to see a boy walking along the road, or give one a ride?"

  "I haven't given anyone a ride into town," he said quickly. "Except your brother. He's close to a boy, I suppose."

  "He's hardly a boy," Isobel said.

  "Could'a fooled ol' Finn." He flashed another lopsided grin. But he quickly turned serious, squinting at the sky in thought. "I haven't heard anyone mention giving the Sheel boys a lift. But we do see those boys from time to time lurking around the mines. They're a pair to rival you wee devils. Leaders, they are."

  "Why are the boys lurking around the mines?"

  "Gah. I don't know." He paused to spat. "Lookin' for gold in the shafts, I suppose."

  "Look, Finn, someone is already in custody. None of the men here have to worry about being accused of any wrongdoing," she lied through her teeth.

  "Yeah, I heard about Samuel." Finn took out a cigarette, and struck a match against his trousers. "I'll tell you one thing," he said, putting flame to the end. "I always said Samuel Lopez was a creep."

  "Why is that?"

  Finn took a drag on his cigarette. "Caught him watching those boys. Out by Holm's place. It's about time Samuel gets a noose around his neck."

  "Watching hardly calls for a noose."

  "That girl last year. She ran with those boys sometimes, and I caught that idiot following her once, too."

  22

  An Orderly Mind

  NICHOLAS

  Nicholas turned the sign around on the door. He straightened it so it wasn't tilted, and when he was satisfied, he wiped the glass with a clean cloth.

  "Thank you, Nicholas. Any plans tonight?" Mr. Joy asked.

  "Plans?"

  Edwin Joy was a severe man, but he had a ready smile when he was relaxed. "Headed to a restaurant? Taking a young lady to the theater?"

  Nicholas glanced down at his shoes. "Er, no, Mr. Joy. I don't think any woman would put up with my habits." The question had caught him off guard, and when he was surprised his stutter returned. Nervous now, Nicholas turned the key, lest a late customer should come inside. But once was never enough. To be sure he turned it again, and then once more to be satisfied.

  Mr. Joy chuckled. "Well, I appreciate your habits, Nicholas. You're well suited to the profession. I never have to worry with you. I know all our mixtures and tinctures will be spot on. A misstep in this line of work can kill." Edwin Joy patted Nicholas's back, as he did most nights. Nicholas wasn't sure if the compliment was sincere or if he was being mocked. Nicholas did not understand people.

  "Goodnight, Nicholas."

  Nicholas stood straight as a board. "Goodnight, sir."

  Mr. Joy stepped out onto the boardwalk. Gaslights shone like beacons in the mist. Across the way, the California Theatre glowed with promise. A line of theatergoers stood under the bright lights. None of it interested Nicholas. He turned to the shop, and picked up the broom, sweeping again, and then polishing the counter until it gleamed under his skilled hand.

  By the time he was satisfied with his work, darkness had thickened and the lights outside had turned ominous. He glanced out the tinted windows, his face centered in the shop's 'O'. Figures drifted by like ghosts. He should have left with Mr. Joy.

  A large shadow stopped, and looked directly at him. Nicholas jerked away from the glass. He had left a smudge. Heart galloping, he stood frozen for a minute, torn between wiping away the smudge and hiding from the face outside the window. Mind warred with body, until he thought he'd be ripped apart.

  Nicholas grunted as if struck, and sat on his haunches, covering his ears, and squeezing his eyes shut. He listened to his heart, to the blood rushing through his veins. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. It was so loud. He counted to ten, but somewhere between the three and four, he stuttered on his count and it wasn't symmetrical, so he started over again. On the third time, he was pleased with the pause between numbers, and opened his eyes.

  The shadow was gone. The smudge remained. His choice was obvious now. Nicholas hopped to his feet, whipped out a cloth, and set about cleaning the window with his favorite cleaner—rubbing alcohol. It had a soothing smell. When he was finished, not a streak remained.

  Nicholas checked his pocket watch. He made three circuits of the drugstore, and then stepped outside, putting his key into the lock. He turned it once, twice, three times, th
en tucked the key in his pocket, patting it to make sure it was snug. He straightened his cuffs, and walked out into the dark night.

  The evening rush was ebbing, though a few devout businessmen still trudged home. He glanced over his shoulder. Two men walked behind him. One pushed a cart: a chimney sweep. The second had his hands in his pockets; the flare of a cigarette glowed beneath his cap.

  Nicholas smacked into something solid. He reeled backwards, and hands clamped down to steady him.

  "Whoa, now. Take it easy, son." Shiny badge, tall cap, and uniform. A police officer. "Where are you going in such a hurry?"

  Nicholas ducked his head. "Sorry, sir. I'm clumsy." Keeping his eyes on the ground, he quickly rushed past the officer. He wished he could hide like a turtle.

  Nicholas hopped on a cable car, and watched the city roll by. Saloons were lit and theaters glowed. San Francisco shifted at night from businesses to pleasure, leaving the financial district quiet. He disembarked at Leavenworth Street, and comforted himself by counting boards on the walk home.

  He stopped at a curb and tucked the number into his mind, before glancing over his shoulder. A boy with a newspaper bag strolled down the street, a block away. Relieved, Nicholas continued his counting. At five hundred and seventy three, he stopped, and looked up. A man stood in front of his house.

  Nicholas scrambled a few steps backwards. Badge, shiny buttons, a bullseye lantern, and a billy club. Another police officer. He could never bring himself to look at the eyes. There was too much complexity in those organs—intricate vessels, the pupils constricting and dilating, and the colors—the colors were mesmerizing. Nicholas would lose himself in wonder, and it made people uncomfortable.

  "'Cuse me, sir. You live here?"

  The man spoke to him.

  Nicholas glanced at the officer's shoes. And groaned. They were not shiny at all, but scratched and muddy. Nicholas's fingers twitched.

  "You've had a break in, sir."

  "Wh—what?" Nicholas stuttered.

  The officer gestured with his billy club. "Do you live here?"

  Nicholas glanced at his house. It was dark, but everything appeared to be order. "Yes, I do."

  "I'll show you, then. You can make a report, and tell me what's missing."

  The word sent a panic through Nicholas. He opened his gate and ran up the steps, forgetting to count them. As he fished out his key, he looked back and mentally counted. They were all there. But so was someone else. Just outside his front fence stood a gentleman with a silver-tipped walking stick. Nicholas noted the man's polished shoes with approval. He followed the shoes up the man's trousers, to a crisp suit and a snowy collar. A trim beard on the man's jaw calmed Nicholas. And so did the voice.

  "Is everything all right, Mr. Nicholas?"

  "Mr. Riot," Nicholas said, more to himself than in greeting. "It appears I've been robbed. H…how did you—"

  "It's fortunate this officer arrived to help you," Riot said.

  Nicholas glanced at the officer's badge. "Yes, I suppose."

  With hunched shoulders, Nicholas put his key into its lock. It slid in perfectly. The door was locked. There was that. So why was the officer claiming he'd been robbed?

  The officer shifted. Voices droned behind him. Introductions. Why did everyone want a name? It made no sense to Nicholas. But then little did. He opened his door, and reached for the gaslight. Light illuminated his haven, but instead of comfort he found chaos.

  Nicholas cried out, but quickly put a fist to his mouth to stifle the sound. A hand touched his arm. He flinched, and the hand fell away, but even in his distressed state, he noted the orderly fingernails.

  "Is there anything missing?" the officer asked.

  Everything was out of place. Shards of glass and wood littered the floor. Nicholas bent and righted his coat stand. He picked up an umbrella stand next, and moved it to the right, five inches away from the coat stand. He turned it just so. One thing at a time, and all would be well again.

  "Mr. Nicholas!" the officer's shout barely registered. "Shouldn't you be checking on your valuables?"

  Nicholas swallowed, gazing at the chaos he would have to pass over. But he had to know. Were they safe? Nicholas took a breath, closed his eyes, and bolted over the mess. He knew his home by heart. He stopped at the back door, and without daring to look at the broken glass, wrenched it open and shot down the back steps.

  They were there. Nicholas exhaled. Beneath the moon and silver mist, he could just make out the familiar, wild shapes of his rose bushes. He ran a hand over a petal, brushing velvet life.

  "My darlings," he breathed. "You're all right, aren't you?"

  "What the devil!" the officer spat out.

  "Who reported the break in?" Riot asked.

  "Who are you to him, Mr. Riot?" the officer returned.

  "A friend."

  "A neighbor rang the call box. Found a broken brick," the officer grunted, and took out a notepad and pencil. He licked the tip. "Mr. Nicholas. I have other pressing crimes to be investigating. Can you tell me if anything were stolen?"

  Nicholas glanced at the officer's broad chest. "No… nothing."

  "But you haven't checked."

  Nicholas titled his head to the side. He glanced at both men, shying away from their eyes. "Everything is here," he said softly.

  The officer spat. Nicholas flinched, gaze drawn to the dark ground. Unfortunately, it wasn't dark enough. His cheek twitched at the thick wad of saliva staining the earth.

  "It's fortunate nothing of value was stolen," Riot said.

  Nicholas couldn't take it. He donned his gloves, scooped up the saliva and dirt, and carried it to a compost pile. He hesitated, glancing at his gloves. Resigned, he stripped them off and let them fall into the compost pile, along with the dirt and saliva.

  "Look 'ere. I need to write my report. Can you please check if anything were stolen?"

  "My roses are here," Nicholas said. The officer stared at him. Nicholas tucked his head down, and hurried up the stairs. The kitchen. He groaned. To comfort himself, he picked up a chair and righted it. Then replaced a pot on its hook, and reached for a dust bin.

  "Sir! You can clean afterwards!"

  "Officer Jones, he doesn't appear to be concerned with anything other than his roses. I think you can move on," Riot said.

  "Let me do my job."

  Riot tipped his hat, and stepped back. The officer grabbed Nicholas’s arm and jerked him to his feet. "Valuables, sir."

  Nicholas winced at the tone of voice. The officer's skin was red above his collar, but Nicholas never made it farther than his scruffy chin.

  Riot stood casually by, hands on his walking stick, watching the men. "You can clean up later," Riot suggested.

  "Yes, of course," Nicholas said.

  The officer let him go. He tucked his hands in his pockets, and picked his way over the ruins of his life. Every crack, every crunch, made him want to curl into a ball and hide. He glanced at the detective. Mr. Riot. The one who hadn't believed him. Why was he here now?

  Nicholas asked the question out loud.

  "I'm here to help you, Nicholas, as your friend," Riot replied.

  Nicholas puzzled over the answer. When had Mr. Riot become his friend? Had visiting his home been the beginning of friendship? Nicholas shook his head. Social complexities were beyond him.

  The officer nudged Nicholas. He stumbled forward. "What should I check for?" Nicholas asked.

  "Money. Gold. Jewelry," the officer bit back.

  "Yes, right." Nicholas searched for his cash box—a carved scrimshaw box. It was lying open on the floor, his savings gone.

  "Forty seven dollars and twenty-nine cents was taken," he informed the officer. But Nicholas didn't care about money. He only cared about his roses and books. Nicholas dropped to his knees, clutching at their torn pages—his own flesh and blood. "Who would do this?" he choked out.

  All his memories. Journals, photographs, every day of his life chronicled. It was too
much. Nicholas curled into a ball on the torn pages, and pressed his palms over his ears, blocking out the world.

  23

  A Peculiar Case

  RIOT

  Atticus Riot regarded the young man at his feet. And then he looked to Officer Jones. The man was gruff, heavyset in a strongman's way, with roughened hands. His uniform strained over his chest. Jones stabbed his pencil at the paper, and snapped his notebook shut.

  "Do you have everything you need?" Riot asked.

  "Yes. Doubt we'll get his money back."

  "I think that highly unlikely," Riot agreed. He waited, tapping a finger on the knob of his stick. The officer looked around the room, and blew a noisy breath past his lips. With a muttered oath, he stomped out. The door slammed shut, and Riot continued to wait. After the echo died, he moved to the hallway and listened for a few moments. But the only sound was Nicholas's harsh breathing.

  He went back to his client and patted the young man's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Nicholas." The man seemed to curl into an even tighter ball. Riot frowned down at him. The man seemed to want to hide. Riot located a blanket in the mess, and laid it over him.

  "I'll get you something to drink." He didn't know if Nicholas could hear anything in such a distressed state.

  It didn't take long to find a drink. Nicholas kept no alcohol in the house, only a pitcher of water with lemon slices inside the ice box. Riot carried a glass back to the study. Nicholas had roused himself. He was sitting upright, sorting through torn pages and placing them in neat stacks, as he murmured under his breath.

  Riot held the glass out to him. "Drink this."

  "I need to fix this."

  Riot set the glass on a side table. He righted a chair, and sat, crossing his legs. He had failed Mr. Nicholas. Riot had been too preoccupied with the present and haunted by his past—one where a murderer had entered his own home. Fear had blinded Riot—fear that Nicholas was another assassin. Another threat. But the man was no such thing. He was only sensitive and misunderstood. Possessed of a peculiar mind.