Spectris: Veritas Book Two

by Quinn Coleridge

  Tom gets to his feet and thanks Cordelia again. He takes his bowl to the sink and then heads out to the garden.

  Where are you going?

  To the outhouse, if you don’t mind. Do I have to report all my activities to you?

  No, no! I just wondered if you were leaving for the circus. To sleuth.

  I’m planning on it. Now could you give me a little privacy, nosey ears?

  Picking up my spoon, I take a bite of oatmeal and tune out anything relating to Tom and the outhouse. Cordelia brings her own breakfast to the table and sits next to me.

  I smile at her. Isaac’s well?

  “Yes. Much better now that he sleeps downstairs at night.” She leans close and whispers, “He’s doing what you told him. Writing down everything he remembers from the day of the bombing, where he went after the argument with the factory foreman, whom he saw . . .”

  Isaac remembered someone? A witness, an alibi?

  “Well, you know he went for a walk in the park, don’t you? To cool off after all that shouting.”

  I nod, excited. And?

  She pats my hand soothingly. “And there were crowds of people, strangers he never talked with. They certainly wouldn’t help him.”

  I sense the word “but” coming next. Something happened?

  “It’s probably nothing, Hester. He just said there was a clown walking about, selling novelties and toys to children. Isaac happened to be standing nearby when this boy and his nanny bought something. A tin bunny, I think. The child dropped it, and Isaac picked up the toy for him. Then the nanny said thanks and scolded the boy as they walked away—Isaac felt sorry for him. End of story. Do you still think it’s an alibi?”

  A smile lifts my lips. Clown’s name?

  “Isaac didn’t ask. He said the clown wore an orange top hat and a blue, dotted tie.” She sighs in frustration. “That really isn’t much help, is it?”

  Swallowing a bite of porridge, I shrug and put the spoon aside. What of the nanny?

  “He described her as having a plumpish figure, pinkish cheeks, and greyish hair.”

  Drat. I imagine this description could apply to many of the nannies in Stonehenge.

  “Oh!” Cordelia sounds cheerful again. “She did call the child Peter when she was scolding him about dropping the toy.”

  A clown, a nanny, and a child named Peter.

  My thoughts are disrupted when the outhouse door slams, and Tom walks up the stairs to the back porch. He washes his hands in the basin Gabriel and Willard use when they’re working outside and goes off in the direction of the barn. To check on his horse Banquo, I suppose.

  Cordelia puts down her teacup with a clack. “I’ve seen a ragman on that corner of the park. Isaac gives him a coin if he has one. Not to buy rags or anything, just because the fellow looks so pitiful. I’ll have to ask Isaac if he was there as well.”

  Grinning, I amend my list of possible leads, adding the pitiful ragman at the end.

  Huzzah, Cordelia!

  “Really? It’s done Isaac worlds of good to write everything out. Having something to do up there in the attic keeps him sane.” Cordelia rises and goes to the pantry. “Did you know he’s composing a sonata in my honor?”

  Isaac, the tone-deaf piano tuner?

  I hear a swirling, back-and-forth sound as Cordelia brings things from the pantry and sets them on the counter. The swirling continues as she moves about the kitchen. Is she dancing the waltz? A heavy, floral scent surrounds her.

  Happiness.

  With her fiancé in hiding, the police sergeant looking for a scapegoat, and Charcoal Suit Lennox still at large, this sonata turns my normally sensible Cordelia into a cavorting imp. Is this what young love does to one?

  “Isaac taps the rhythm of the sonata on his knees and hums for me. Ever so softly, so no one else hears.” She twirls over and takes my hands, lifting them in time to the waltz. “The melody’s so sweet.”

  Talking loudly about blacksmithing tools, Gabriel, Willard, and Tom walk in, disrupting our waltz. I could kiss them for rescuing me. Sometimes men are a relief where emotional olfaction is concerned—female feelings can be exhausting.

  Tom leaves the kitchen for his bedroom upstairs, and the other two men sit down to eat. Less complicated than Cordelia at present, Gabriel and Willard smell of hay and horses and the outdoors. No emotion beyond concern about Jupiter losing a shoe.

  “I’ll fix it,” Gabriel says. “Won’t take long, either. The hoof looks good for an old nag.”

  A fly buzzes around the food. Willard smacks the tabletop near his bowl and brushes something to the floor. No more fly. “He’s right, White Hair. Your horse is old as dirt, and you know it.”

  They eat companionably, regardless of a few more flies coming in through the screened door, and then we part ways. Willard to his mysterious undertakings—hopefully tracking down my aunt Mary Arden among them—and Gabriel to the forge. While helping to clean up after the meal, I convince Cordelia to go with me to the artisan blocks near the lace factory. Just for a quick jaunt, before I work for Fannie at Griffin House.

  Even with the recent arson at the warehouse on Ninth, there are other potters who sell creamware. My depleted coffee tin still holds enough coin to buy Cordelia some wedding dishes. Heaven knows she’s keen on having her own set, and she can earn it while helping me investigate.

  First thing on the sleuthing/shopping agenda: learn Mr. Abernathy’s fate.

  Almost immediately, someone knocks on the front door, and since Tom is coming down the stairs, he goes to see who it is.

  “Back so soon,” he mutters.

  “Every chance I get, Craddock.”

  Kelly’s voice makes me instantly want to pat my hair and smooth my dress. I hastily remove my apron as the men stroll into the kitchen. Cordelia asks if the doctor has broken his fast.

  “Hours ago, Miss Collins. Alice made pancakes for the first time, and they will sit in my stomach for weeks.”

  “Oh dear. Rather heavy?”

  “Like sandbags with syrup. Ask me if I’m hungry again in September.” He touches a curl that has slipped out from my braid. “You left your hat in the buggy last night, Hester.”

  First he finds my reticule in front of the police station and now it’s my hat. What will it be next, a glove at the grocers? It seems my belongings are dropping like breadcrumbs everywhere I go.

  “That peach muslin suits you.”

  Peach? I’m wearing peach?

  Not lavender? I sign.

  Kelly touches the material at my sleeve. “It is most definitely peach.”

  Curses. I’m not the peach type at all. Indigo, bottle green, periwinkle—I’ve been told those are more me.

  “Is your throat hurting again?”

  I swallow tentatively. Needs rest.

  “Perhaps you should take things slow, and have a quiet day at home.”

  No. Shopping with Cordelia.

  “But you dislike shopping above all things, Hester.”

  Dentists are worse. And influenza.

  He leans in as I put on my newly returned hat. “I smell lilacs. Is it your perfume?”

  This makes me blush. Just soap.

  “I like just soap.” Kelly turns toward Cordelia. She’s bustling about the kitchen, getting things in order before we leave. “Since you’re going out, I could escort you ladies for an hour.”

  “That’s very kind, Doctor,” Cordelia chimes in. “We’d love your company.”

  Drat. He mustn’t come along. Not while I’m investigating.

  No need. You’re busy. We’ll go alone.

  Of course Kelly can’t accept this at face value.

  “Is there a reason you don’t wish me to join you, Hester?”

  Shopping for Cordelia’s wedding china. Boring.

  “You couldn’t bore me if your life depended upon it. What else are you doing besides selecting china?”

  Tom has watched all this from a spot near the kitchen door and chooses to interj
ect now with telepathy. Why don’t you let the good doctor drive us all to the warehouses? I’ll investigate and gather information against the criminals. You pick out china with your husband.

  The last line is said with such an obnoxious tone that my hand automatically forms the obscene gesture I was tempted to use earlier. Luckily, my fingers are hidden within the folds of my skirt. It’s not just shopping, Tom. I’ll be working on the case, learning about Abernathy. We agreed on this last night.

  I know we did. It’s just so easy to make you mad that I couldn’t resist.

  Shut up, Craddock.

  Make me.

  I must look upset because Kelly pats my arm. “I don’t mean to interfere, Hester,” he says. “At least let me drive you to the shops.”

  Ready at last, Cordelia arrives at my side still smelling of happiness. “Thank you. We’re in your debt, Doctor.”

  “I’ll leave the shopping to you and the girls, Kelly,” Tom says from the kitchen doorway. “But I’d take a ride uptown if you’re willing.”

  We all file down the hall and through the front door. Cordelia locks it and gives the key to me, after which I put it into my reticule. The hot sun makes me feel as though my head is steaming beneath my bonnet. I take out my fan and close the reticule. Our group of four proceeds to Kelly’s buggy.

  “Are you going to the police station, Mr. Craddock?” Cordelia asks. “When we spoke earlier, you mentioned filling out an application.”

  The doctor turns to Tom. “What kind of application?”

  “For a position as a constable,” Tom replies. “Inspector Jones said he’d have me anytime I wished to apply. Need to earn money if I’m to pay the rent.”

  I mull over his words while Cordelia climbs into the buggy. A man must make a living, and Tom cannot be what he was before his family went to California. No more ranch. No more cowboy.

  Kelly seems to approve of Tom’s idea. “Jones did say that. He was very impressed with your work last year.”

  “What work do you speak of?” Cordelia asks. “I can’t recall.”

  The doctor gives me the seat next to his, on the driver’s bench. “The Inspector thinks Craddock’s a natural detective, Miss Collins. Especially since he found David Thornhill, the killer who shot him and tried to escape.”

  Cordelia gasps. “What a terrible experience that must have been!”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it,” Tom agrees.

  The drive to the artisan blocks of Stonehenge is uneventful. We pull into the livery yard, and Kelly gets out of the buggy. He offers to help me down, and I accept. I always enjoy the fact that he asks before putting his hands around my waist and lifting me down. Tom exits the buggy next and assists Cordelia, although he does not ask her permission.

  “Enjoy your day, Hester,” Kelly says. “I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for.”

  Thank you for the ride. I smile at him, amazed that things have worked out so conveniently.

  Right up until I hear Sir Death and Professor Hammersmith behind us on Ninth Street. They have just finished a ride and are paying for the rental of the equines.

  “What bad luck!” Hammersmith says to Sir Death. “I am glad you’ve got your wallet, Exitus. I must have misplaced mine.”

  Death pays their livery bill, and they walk over to where we stand.

  “How serendipitous, cousin!” he says to me. “Did you know we would be here?”

  Never in my wildest dreams. I shake my head and listen to Hammersmith’s account of the ninety minutes or so since breakfast.

  “We intended to go to the circus for that private tour, but the stained-glass shops waylaid us, didn’t they, Exitus?”

  Sir Death guffaws. “Stained-glass is a passion of mine, I’m afraid.”

  After they visited a few of the glass shops, Sir Death had mentioned to Hammersmith that He did not ride, and the professor insisted Death do so immediately. The horse had other ideas. It carried the Reaper nearly a mile and began to tremble and bray so much, Death decided to return the animal to its owner.

  Hammersmith and Death laugh a good deal over the failed riding lesson and hatch a new plan. One in which Tom and Kelly go with them on another adventure. Kelly defers, saying a pile of paperwork awaits him at his office.

  Tom also has other plans. “I have a meeting with Inspector Jones at the Metropolitan.”

  This does not sit well with Sir Death or the professor. Neither of them wants to waste time at police headquarters. They bid Tom well, and he walks off happily, free to do as he wishes.

  “Where shall we rendezvous?” Cordelia asks. “At the Waverly Tea House?”

  “The Waverly it is, fair lady,” Sir Death replies. “Who wishes to go uptown when we can dine in the artist’s quarter?”

  He and Hammersmith position themselves on either side of Kelly. In a good natured fashion, they pressure him to put off his duty for several hours. All the paperwork in Stonehenge will never get the doctor away from the two men. Kelly bows to their collective will, rather than appear ungracious.

  The poor, poor man. He is only in this position because of me.

  I cringe as Death and Hammersmith begin chanting, “Off we go, sir! Off we go!”

  It’s another one of those moments when blindness is a blessing. I can’t see the look on Kelly’s face as he is dragged away, but I feel justly chagrined. I owe him on a grand scale.

  And knowing the doctor as I do, he will collect.

  Cordelia and I walk south at a leisurely pace. Willa Holloway and the rest of the factory ghosts appear in my psyche a short time later. In high dudgeon, they follow me at a distance, mumbling to one another about my lack of progress on solving their murders. They smell of blood and decay, and I feel ill. It is difficult to tune them out as I listen to Cordelia chatter. My head aches as she tells me of the wedding gift she hopes to buy Isaac: a leather-bound composing book so he can write more songs in her honor. And possibly an engraved metronome. Music has kept him occupied in the attic, she says, and he’s writing another score this very day.

  Cordelia’s determined cheerfulness has whitewashed her underlying distress, as though planning for their future will speed Isaac’s exoneration along. Having overcome their initial desire to run away, the innocent couple seems sure right will prevail, that the true bombing culprit will be revealed if they can just keep Isaac hidden a little longer. Though more cynical than they, I too believe this.

  A few solid leads—plus some admissible evidence—and I will give all to Kelly. He’ll proceed on his end by sharing everything with Inspector Jones. My sort-of-husband tends to trust my intuition, and Jones is a good man. Even with Sir Death pretending to be human, we should be able to wrap this up in a reasonable amount of time.

  If only I can convince Willa and company of this. However, ghosts and enduring patience aren’t typically reconcilable.

  14

  Quaere veritatem.

  Seek the truth.

  Emitting hot, metallic-scented air, the warehouses are cavernous structures with tall, rounded chimneys at the roofline and massive kilns and glazing areas inside. This is how Cordelia describes them to me, adding that the tradesmen are brawny, sweaty fellows. The last adjective I deduced for myself through olfaction, yet the shops where one purchases the finished creamware are much less odiferous. They are usually a rather sophisticated blend of fresh coffee, spices, and dried flowers. Attached to the warehouses by covered breezeways, the shops face the busier thoroughfares to enhance commerce.

  People associated with the potworks—the owners, craftsmen and common laborers—are referred to as “potters” whether they work the clay, do the glazing, or some other task. The businesses are tight knit, often run by generations of potters’ families, young and old. We enter the nearest creamware shop, The Queen’s Favourite.

  Hmm. I doubt Victoria Regina has been anywhere near this place.

  My wedding minded friend practically bounces with excitement as we are shown around the extensi
ve display shelves. Unable to appreciate the beauty of the dishes, I claim a tufted chair in the center of the room and listen to her converse with the store clerk. After a half hour, their words blur in my mind, as tedious as magpies parleying across the branches of a tree.

  (Chirp, chirp) “Would madam like painted dishes or the plain creamware?”

  “May I see both? I can’t decide.”

  (Yawp.) “Of course! Is that a service for six or eight?”

  “Ten, perhaps? (Caw, caw!)

  “Very good. And what of a teapot and sugar bowl?”

  (Squawk . . .)

  Di miserentur.

  Over the imaginary magpies, I hear my coffee tin savings dwindle to dust. It galls me to admit that Kelly was right when he said shopping falls just below the dentist and influenza on my scale of personal dislikes. Thrusting all bird similes aside, I sit up in my chair as Cordelia leaves the saleswoman. Are they finished? Is her mind made up?

  Of course not, that would be too easy. Cordelia is thinking of her future children’s heirlooms, after all; she cannot settle upon anything without looking elsewhere. Which is actually good—I want to visit all of the shops. I just assumed we’d have covered half of them in the time we’ve spent here. If we follow this pattern, my schedule will be in tatters. I may have to bow out with Cordelia this time and set up an entire day for her future-children’s-second-cousin’s-neighbor’s-best-pal’s teapot.

  Before we leave, however, I insist she get a bud vase. Cordelia has gone back to it several times, commenting on the delicate roses adorning the mouth and bottom. The purchase should give me a chance to ask my own questions.

  Cordelia leads me to the front desk and requests the vase. The salesclerk returns with the merchandise and gives it to her superior.

  Enjoyed shop, I sign to Cordelia. Tell lady.

  “That’s thirty, forty, fifty cents . . .” In the process of paying with a great deal of change, she turns back to the woman behind the desk. “My friend likes your place very much.”

  “How nice,” the woman replies, wrapping the fragile item in something soft. “We’ve been in business twenty years, my husband and I.”