by S. E. Grove
The country outside of Seville was dry, even in February, and though Ildefonso considered it hilly, the landscape was in reality quite flat. We traveled on horseback, fed the horses at the roadside inns, and saw very little of the villages along the way. The farther east we traveled, the closer we came to the Dark Age, and we saw empty villages everywhere. The people in those villages still populated kept to themselves and were wary of strangers. We appreciated all the more that our guide was well-known on the route as a merchant. Instead of viewing us with suspicion, innkeepers almost universally accepted us without comment. It was evident, nonetheless, that the epidemic had done more than isolate the villages. It had also, to my eye, made the population generally sullen, unwelcoming, and hostile. As we continued along, encountering the hard faces of innkeepers and other travelers, I realized how exceptional Gilberto’s lively and generous outpouring of kindness had been.
Our traveling companions had been very quiet on the last day of our journey; though, to be fair, they were rarely talkative. Rubio occasionally had moments of effervescent sociability, but for the most part they were a serious—that is to say, dull—trio of bodyguards. I was beginning to feel nervous about the encounter that lay before us. Either we would find Bruno dead, or we would be faced with an unpleasant confrontation with the village authorities. Riding into Murtea around midday, we asked directions from the sentry, and he pointed us to the sheriff’s office.
Murtea was ringed by a stone wall, and once we had passed through its gate we found ourselves in a labyrinth of narrow streets, some of them cobbled, some of them dirt. It took several tries to reach the fountain at the village center and then locate beside it the sheriff’s office. Bronson and I rode in front, and our supposed guides, riding more and more slowly, followed. Here and there we passed villagers on the street, and they glanced at us warily and made no sign of welcome. When we finally found the sheriff’s office, we were greeted at the doorway—if such a scowl can be considered greeting—by a thin man wearing a long sword tipped with gold and a tattered black cape.
We had agreed some days earlier that, while my Castilian was adequate, Ildefonso would be the one to ask the Murtean sheriff what had happened to Bruno. However, as we dismounted, I found that our three bodyguards were no longer beside us. Their horses stood with ours, seemingly as perplexed as Bronson and I; they shook their loose reins with surprised gratification. Looking quickly around the plaza, I realized that Ildefonso, Rubio, and El Sapo were sitting at some distance from each other, near the fountain. My first thought was that they were exhausted by the heat. But then, with dawning horror, I saw El Sapo fall to his side listlessly as if in a faint. He lay there, insensible to the dust and punishing sun. I knew then, without any doubt, what afflicted him. Bronson and I looked at each other, sharing the same, panicked thought: What are we to do?
The decision was made for us. A woman we had not seen, who was standing in the shade of a building not far from the fountain, let out a piercing scream. “Lapena, lapena!” she cried, her voice rising to a shriek as she repeated the dread word over and over again, running from the plaza. Our three companions did not so much as move. Bronson and I turned as one to the sheriff, but he had already disappeared. For one deluded moment, we imagined we would go free. I think, to my shame, I actually contemplated riding off and leaving Ildefonso, Rubio, and El Sapo.
Then four figures emerged from the sheriff’s office. They wore full suits of armor under white capes with hoods, and upon their faces were long-beaked masks of pounded gold. The white fabric of the capes glinted in the bright sunlight, and I realized that golden thread had been woven into the cloth. With their beaks and armor and white garments, the men seemed like strange, silent raptors. I recognized the sheriff only by the gold-tipped sword with which he held us at bay. While his three assistants strode purposefully toward the fountain, the sheriff curtly ordered us to raise our hands.
In a rapid, unnerving procession, we were guided back out through the labyrinth of narrow streets. I heard some disturbance behind us, and I turned to see that the sheriff’s deputies had thrown Ildefonso, Rubio, and El Sapo face-down over their saddles and were leading them along behind us. Once again, I felt a wave of unfounded hope that they would simply turn us out of the village. It was not to be. After passing one shuttered window after another, we reached the now unmanned sentry post and stepped past the city walls onto the dry, featureless plain. We walked south, branching off the road we had arrived on, and I saw our destination on the slope of a hill: a low, long building of stone with grating on the open windows. It was the village jail, doubling as a station for quarantine, set at a safe distance from the village walls. The sheriff opened the door and motioned for us to enter. His deputies tied up the five horses and carried our inert guides into the dark jail.
“Please, sir,” I begged him in Castilian. “Let me explain why we are here. We can leave at once if you will only tell us the whereabouts of our friend—a man who was imprisoned here some months ago . . .” It was impossible to read the sheriff’s expression under the sinister golden beak, but his actions were clear enough. Forcing us into the jail at sword’s point, he threw the door closed behind us and locked it. Bronson and I were left there together in the darkness, along with three men who were already, inexorably, succumbing to lapena.
14
Keeping Secrets
—1892, June 4: 13-Hour 27—
Prior to the Disruption, law enforcement in Boston relied upon sheriffs, constables, and watchmen. In some parts of New Occident, this system is still in place. But beginning in the 1840s, many of the larger cities—namely Boston, New York, Charleston, and New Orleans—established police forces aimed at preventing and detecting crime. Since then, the police force has become a pillar of the criminal justice system in New Occident.
—From Shadrack Elli’s History of New Occident
CLUTCHING THE KNIFE and the blood-stained bundle of clothing, Theo sat perfectly still in the darkness, his back against the wardrobe wall. He breathed as quietly as he could and used the trick he always did when he needed to calm himself: he imagined himself watching from overhead. Beyond the wardrobe lay the map room, and beyond the map room stood the rest of house; East Ending Street spread out in either direction, and the streets he knew so well branched out from it until they filled the city and reached the bay. From that vantage point, he could see all the routes connecting him, in the wardrobe at 34 East Ending Street, to the innumerable places in the larger world. He wasn’t trapped—he was hiding. Watching from overhead reminded him that no matter what the circumstances, he could find a way out. There was always a way out.
The police had taken Shadrack and Miles—the former calling for Sophia, the latter raging furiously—and left two officers guarding Bligh’s body. Theo heard them grumbling when they were assigned to stay behind.
“When’s Grey coming, then?” one of the police officers asked the other, after more than half an hour had passed.
“He’s on his way. Having his dinner at home, I heard, and wouldn’t be interrupted.”
The two men shared a low chuckle. “And I heard he didn’t have a choice about it.”
They laughed again. “You don’t have a daughter,” the officer with the older voice said more soberly. “They boss you something shocking.”
“And you don’t have a Nettie Grey,” the younger man replied. “I met her last year when Grey got the medal. She asked me why we hadn’t arrested Juniper in the Park Street burglary.”
“Fates above. How did she know about that?”
“Grey tells her everything, the old fool. He’s all stone to us and all honey to her. Worships the ground she walks on. Makes her think she owns the whole of Boston.”
“Terrifying.”
“I’ll say. If it were me I wouldn’t interrupt dinner, either.”
There was a noise overhead, and the officers fell silent. Theo heard slo
w, even steps descending the stairs. “Ives, Johnson,” said a level voice. “Good evening.”
“Evening, Inspector Grey,” the older voice replied. “Not a good one though.”
“So I see. Nothing has been moved?”
“The two suspects made a bit of a mess before we could pin them.”
“Which I suppose accounts for the carpet.”
“Most likely, sir.”
“Thank you. I’ll take a few minutes.”
Silence ensued. Theo heard only quiet movements for almost half an hour, and he had to force himself to wait for their voices or their footsteps on the stairs. They are still here, he said to himself. Wait for them. Wait.
Finally, Inspector Grey’s voice interrupted the silence. “Thank you. You may take the body. Is anyone else at home?”
“The housekeeper is outside, sir. She arrived while we were here, and we’ve kept her waiting so as not to interfere.”
“I’ll speak with her upstairs.”
Theo heard first the even footsteps of Grey climbing the steps and then the messier sounds of the two officers moving and wrapping Bligh’s body. With sounds of effort they, too, left the map room.
Theo stretched his legs with a sigh of relief. He would have to wait a while longer, but at least now he could move. The darkness made it impossible to check his watch. He sensed that it was nearing fifteen-hour. Sophia was surely waiting for him at the harbor, and he would not be there. He shook his head, telling himself that once she came home, she would understand.
The footsteps above and the occasional high-pitched lament told him that Mrs. Clay was speaking with Grey. Their interview lasted some forty minutes, and then Theo waited roughly half that time again to be certain that the footsteps he heard overhead belonged to Mrs. Clay alone.
Bundle and knife in hand, he climbed quietly out of the wardrobe, sidestepping the gruesome carpet and the overturned chair. He took the stairs silently and peered into the study. There was no one there. The house had grown ominously quiet. “Mrs. Clay?” he called.
“Theo! Is that you?” A chair in the kitchen scraped against the floor, and Mrs. Clay rushed to meet him. She let out a shriek. “Fates above!”
“This isn’t my blood—it’s Bligh’s.” She stared at him, uncomprehending. “These things are Shadrack’s; I had to take them.”
Her eyes grew round with horror. “What have you done, Theo?”
“I was with them when we found Bligh. I saw the knife, these gloves, and the robe—they’re Shadrack’s. So I took them and hid in the wardrobe.”
“You’ve been in the wardrobe this whole time?”
“Yes.” They stared at one another in silence. Theo was remembering the previous summer and considering the odd coincidence of being forced to take refuge twice in the basement wardrobe of 34 East Ending Street.
Mrs. Clay was attempting to understand what had happened, and as yet she could not. “So the police did not see you?”
“They didn’t see me.”
“But what about those—things you’re holding? The police will want them.”
Theo held the knife up meaningly, as if to remind her what it was. “Shadrack didn’t kill Bligh. But anyone who finds this will think he did. I had to take them.”
“I need to sit down,” Mrs. Clay said. She walked back to the kitchen, and Theo followed her. “Put those horrible things in the sink.”
“Is Sophia back?”
“That is the other tragedy.” Mrs. Clay shook her head and took a piece of notepaper from her skirt pocket. “What on earth does this mean?”
Theo could see it was in Sophia’s hand, and his stomach sank. “What does it say?”
“‘Shadrack, I am sorry, but I had to go. You said to me last summer that I needed something to do. What was true then is true now. I will be in good company. And I’ve asked Calixta and Burr to meet me in Seville. Love, Sophia.’ She can’t really mean Seville?”
“What time is it now?” Theo asked, ignoring the question. He wrapped the knife and gloves in the robe with the clean part on the outside and began washing his hands vigorously in the sink.
“Fifteen-hour, fifteen. Your shirt has blood on it.”
She’ll be back any moment now, Theo reassured himself. When I don’t show up, she’ll be upset, but she’ll just come home. He pulled off his shirt, dried his hands, and then joined Mrs. Clay at the kitchen table. “I think Sophia can explain it herself. She should be back soon. That letter . . . She and Shadrack had a little argument, that’s all.”
“The Fates have turned against us,” Mrs. Clay said, her voice catching. “I can think of no other explanation. I have always warned Mr. Elli that his irreverence toward them would have consequences, but he would not listen.” She sniffled.
“The Fates had nothing to do with it.” Theo took stock of the housekeeper’s disordered hair, her tears, and her ashen face. “Mrs. Clay,” he said more gently, reaching across the table to take her hand. “This wasn’t the Fates. It was Gordon Broadgirdle.”
She blinked at him. “What do you mean?”
“I have no doubt—it was him. He was here the other day threatening Shadrack, and this is just the kind of thing he would do. Commit some terrible crime and frame someone else for it.”
“But he’s a member of parliament.”
Theo gave a dry laugh. “He is now, sure, but he hasn’t always been. He’s a scoundrel, through and through.”
“You speak as if you know him.”
“I do.” Theo dropped her hand and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He could see how the next month would unfold, as clearly as he could see his escape route from Boston. Sophia would come back to the house, and she would be devastated to find her uncle in prison. The evidence would all, neatly and precisely, confirm Shadrack’s guilt. A plodding procession of criminal justice officials would convict Shadrack and Miles of murder. Broadgirdle, the unseen architect of the entire grotesque edifice, would chuckle in the background, enjoying the spectacle.
Theo saw his escape route crumbling as if it had been built of sand. The motto that had served him well for many years, “Every man for himself,” was of no help here. What will happen to Sophia? Theo thought. She can’t fix this by herself, nor can Mrs. Clay. He could not imagine abandoning Shadrack and Miles now, not while he had a chance to prevent what would happen. Indeed, he was perhaps the only person who could prevent it, since he knew with certainty who was responsible.
The thought of confronting Broadgirdle made him quail. But that won’t happen, Theo thought firmly. I don’t have to talk to him or even see him. I just have to prove he’s guilty.
He realized that Mrs. Clay was waiting for him to speak. “I know him from before,” he said. “Before I met all of you. When I lived in the Baldlands.”
“Do you mean to say that he is not from New Occident?”
“That’s right.”
“But no one knows this. He pretends to be from Boston.” Mrs. Clay twisted her handkerchief. “He has no right to be in parliament!”
“You got it. He’s just like us—forged papers and everything, I’ll bet.”
“You must tell someone! Now—at once. Someone in parliament.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Why not? It’s an obligation, Theo! You must.”
Theo wanted to tell Mrs. Clay the truth, and in fact he had planned to, so that she would see the rightness of what he intended. But now the words he had meant to say lodged somewhere in his chest, and other words—easier words that felt so much more palatable and that were not, in fact, entirely untrue—took their place. “Here’s the thing. Remember the other night, when Bligh asked Shadrack about leverage?” She nodded. “You know what Broadgirdle does with leverage? He blackmails people.”
Mrs. Clay stared at him. “But Shadrack has
not done anything wrong.”
“We don’t know what kind of leverage Broadgirdle has. It could be something we don’t know about—something from his past.” He felt a twinge as he said it; the words cut unexpectedly close. “If we just go to parliament and burst out with it—‘Broadgirdle is not from New Occident!’—he might do the same with what he has on Shadrack.”
“I see what you mean,” she said slowly. “But who is he? You still haven’t told me.”
Theo opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what he would say until the words were out. “He was a banker on the Baldlands side of the border. He made a fortune off of railroad speculators—took their money and then found some dirty secret they were keeping and made it impossible for that money to ever leave. I saw it happen to more than a dozen people.” It sounded plausible. And it fit the circumstances of their present dilemma perfectly.
“How did you find out?” Mrs. Clay asked, more horrified than doubtful.
“Friend of mine who worked at the bank,” he said matter-of-factly.
