Jasper withdrew a chunk of chalk from his pocket along with a piece of paper. “Take this,” he said, handing him the chalk, “and draw what you see on the paper. You’ll need to make it bigger. Copy the symbols and letters as closely as you can.”
Rutter’s dirty hand trembled slightly as he reached for the items around the bars. His brows raised as he opened the paper and studied the markings. “What does all this mean?”
Jasper smiled. “That’s for me to know. I wouldn’t want to burden you with this terrible knowledge. It could go wrong if not done properly.”
“Of course.” Rutter nodded earnestly. “Which wall shall I put it on?”
“The right side, where everyone will be able to see it when they walk into this area.” He glanced over his shoulder to make certain the guard hadn’t returned. “Quickly now. We don’t have much time.”
Rutter licked his lips and moved to the wall, lifting his hand high to begin copying the designs.
“Bigger,” Jasper ordered as he watched Rutter work. “That gives it more power.”
Rutter glanced warily over his shoulder, hesitating a moment before turning back to his task, some of the lines shaky from his trembling hand.
“Straight as you can, Rutter. Let the power of the symbols guide the chalk.”
After pausing for a moment as though to gather himself, he made the strokes bigger and bolder.
“That’s it. Quick as you can,” Jasper encouraged. He withdrew a small glass vial and a knife from the top of his boot, waiting patiently while Rutter finished the design that covered most of the wall.
In a quiet voice, he began to chant a series of Latin phrases.
“Abiit nemine salutato.”
He went away without bidding anyone farewell.
That seemed appropriate under the circumstances.
“Aeternum vale.” Farewell forever.
As he continued, Rutter glanced briefly at him then began to draw faster.
Jasper smiled. Two problems would be solved with this one act. Rumors of his dark power would spread, and Rutter would no longer be a prisoner.
He could almost feel a powerful force seeping through him at the thought.
Chapter Twelve
“When the last batch of shopkeeper-swindlers of St. Pancras were tried and convicted, the ugly fact transpired that not a few of them were gentlemen holding official positions in the parish.”
~The Seven Curses of London
“You said Frost was coming?” Julia’s father asked as they walked up the steps of the British Museum in the Bloomsbury area of London.
“I believe so.” Julia hoped Oliver would actually make an appearance. But as he hadn’t replied to her message, she didn’t know what to expect.
She’d allowed her father to delve into his research for the past two days but had decided he needed a break once more. Although this museum was said to have an interesting temporary exhibit on medieval artifacts, that hadn’t been enough to lure him from his desk. She’d had to add Oliver to the mix once again.
She told herself she wasn’t hurt that her father would rather spend time reading that silly book instead of with her, yet the opportunity to speak with Oliver was enough to get him out of the house. Not hurt at all.
Instead, being a mature adult who didn’t hold grudges, she’d sent a message inviting Oliver to join them this afternoon.
She also attempted to convince herself she wasn’t hurt that, despite their intimate kisses in his library, Oliver had made no effort to call upon her or bother to respond to her message. Perhaps she’d misunderstood how he felt about her or—
With a sigh, she shook her head. She no longer knew whether up was down or vice versa. Not when it came to Oliver.
Since he’d entered her life, her world had tilted. She couldn’t say how she felt about him either. Attempting to place a name on her feelings was complicated. Added to that was a lack of sleep, which she blamed on Oliver. She’d relived those moments in his arms, the way he made her feel, more times than she could count.
While she told herself it was actually a relief he wasn’t courting her as she needed to stay with her father, a part of her longed for exactly that. He made her feel things she’d hadn’t dreamed were possible.
In truth, she had no idea how to handle these emotions. They swirled around her, clouding her mind, until she wasn’t certain what to think or do.
A trickle of awareness flowed through her, and she couldn’t stop a small gasp when Oliver emerged from behind one of the tall, granite columns gracing the front of the museum. Her mind and body were attuned to him in a way that puzzled her.
As she took in his appearance, from those green eyes to the black suit coat that emphasized his broad shoulders, she had to admit she wanted to spend time with him as much as her father did.
How ridiculous when nothing could come of it.
“Good day.” That watchful gaze of his seemed to see more than she wanted it to.
Memories of the way they’d kissed—the feel of his hands on her—coursed through her. She closed her eyes for a moment, hoping to halt the tumble of her thoughts as heat flooded her cheeks. When she opened them, she was relieved to see Oliver had shifted his attention to her father.
The two men visited for several moments, and the topic soon moved to her father’s progress. Was that the only reason Oliver had come? The thought was far more disappointing than she cared to admit.
Julia waited patiently as they spoke, wondering how long this project might last. She had no doubt that once it was over, they’d no longer see Oliver. Her heart twisted at the notion.
“Isn’t that right, my dear?” her father asked, jolting her out of her thoughts.
“I’m sorry?”
“I was telling the viscount that viewing the medieval exhibition in his company will be all the more interesting.”
“Certainly,” she agreed though she couldn’t imagine Oliver sharing tidbits of information as they perused the exhibits.
When she caught sight of Oliver’s raised brow, she realized her tone might have sounded sarcastic. But she refused to feel guilty about her doubt as she believed he would barely tolerate this outing. The best she could do was to offer a smile when really she would’ve preferred to stick out her tongue at him.
“Shall we?” she asked.
Oliver opened the door, and they entered the chilly interior of the museum.
As Julia’s eyes adjusted to the dimness, she sensed Oliver’s presence directly behind her.
“Are you suggesting you won’t enjoy this outing in my company?” he whispered.
“No, I’m suggesting you won’t,” she whispered back.
“What was that?” her father asked.
“Nothing of importance,” Julia said. “I’m anxious to see the exhibit.” When Oliver scoffed, she turned to glare at him. “I enjoy perusing medieval artifacts.”
“Do you?” The inflection in his voice suggested otherwise.
Granted, the main reason—perhaps the only reason—for her interest in this outing was because of her father, but she liked learning new things. While she didn’t really enjoy learning royal lineages, trying to understand what life was like on a daily basis for people who lived in another time was fascinating. The challenge of putting food on the table for a family would’ve been so different than it was today.
Her father led the way into the first gallery, which displayed pieces of Anglo-Saxon jewelry.
“You can see the Celtic influence in the earlier pieces,” Oliver said as he studied the items over her shoulder. “Later pieces are often more ornate and have a Byzantine influence.”
Julia turned to stare at him, surprised he’d offered any insight at all. His expression revealed little. Had he done it to prove her wrong or was he truly attempting to be helpful?
They continued on, admiring the ivory carvings from Spain, relic containers, and book covers. Oliver continued to share bits of information as they walked along, all
of which Julia actually found enthralling. His knowledge truly was impressive yet he only shared what he thought would interest them.
When Julia paused at a piece of stained glass, he asked, “Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, admiring the way the light shown through it only to catch sight of his smile. “Why does that amuse you?”
“Because it’s one of my favorite pieces.” He said the words almost reluctantly.
Julia turned to face him, suddenly realizing how close he stood. Her father had already moved ahead, and no one else was nearby. “It truly is beautiful.”
“As are you,” he whispered. Slowly, haltingly, he bent to press his lips to hers before quickly drawing back.
Though the kiss was brief, a mere brush of their lips, the heat it held packed a punch. Each interaction she had with this enigmatic man only confused her more. “Oliver, I—”
“Frost, what is this?” her father asked from a short distance ahead.
Julia turned to walk toward him without finishing her thought, grateful for the interruption. She wasn’t sure what she’d been about to say, but it wasn’t something that should be spoken. That much, she knew for certain.
Oliver followed and answered her father’s question. Julia didn’t hear any of their conversation. Perhaps it would’ve been better if the two men had visited the museum without her. That would’ve simplified things. Seeing Oliver again was only confusing her more. Her growing feelings for him were at odds with her responsibilities.
She tried to keep her distance for the rest of the tour, putting her father between them when possible. After all, the whole purpose of this visit had been to aid her father, not her. And if she had to guess, she thought it did Oliver some good as well. The man enjoyed books far more than people. She couldn’t help but wonder why. What had happened in his past to make him so unhappy, that he preferred those musty, old books over human interaction?
Though tempted to ask again, she refrained. He hadn’t answered when she’d visited him at his home. There was no reason to expect he’d give an honest answer now.
After nearly two hours, Julia could tell her father was tiring. She took the risk of drawing closer to Oliver. “We’ll need to leave soon,” she whispered to him. “I don’t want to overtax him.”
“Of course.” Oliver turned to her father as he approached. “I must be going soon.”
“We need to as well. I want to read a few more pages yet this afternoon,” her father said with a smile.
“No need to press too hard with the text. I’m sure you’re tired.”
“I seem to regain my energy once I begin reading.”
Julia nearly groaned with dismay. She’d hoped he’d take a break from his research.
“Shall I come by on the morrow and assist you? Perhaps we could make more progress together.”
Julia’s heart thumped painfully at Oliver’s offer. Seeing more of him had not been part of her plan.
Once again, her father’s delight at Oliver’s suggestion prevented her from discouraging it. How could she possibly protest when a visit from Oliver so clearly delighted him?
Oliver escorted them out of the museum and to their carriage. “Thank you for inviting me,” he told Julia as her father settled on the seat.
“You’ve made my father very happy.”
“But not you?”
She frowned up at him, not understanding what he wanted. “My preferences don’t matter.”
“That’s not true.”
She wished he was right, but all that mattered was keeping her father occupied, engaged, and enjoying life. That was a task that required all her time and energy. “Thank you for coming.”
“I look forward to seeing you again on the morrow.”
She bit her lip, wishing she didn’t feel the same.
~*~
Hawke paced the prison entrance as they waited to speak with the sergeant, his agitation obvious. “Though the world will be better off without Rutter, he was our best link to Smithby.”
“Do they have any idea who murdered him?” Oliver asked. Hawke had sent an urgent message, asking Oliver to meet him at Newgate Prison. He’d arrived to the news that Rutter had been found dead in his cell.
“Supposedly his brother came to visit late yesterday. The guard on duty didn’t discover his body until supper time.” Hawke’s blue gaze held Oliver’s. “The guards are convinced some sort of dark magic contributed to his death.”
Oliver frowned. “Simply because odd markings were drawn on the wall?”
“You know how superstitious people are. Smithby has done much to build the myth that he has access to powers from that damned book. Rutter filled the guards’ minds with that nonsense, so they had already bought into his lies. Now that this happened, the guards are all too eager to believe it has something to do with unearthly powers.”
Before Oliver could ask for details, a guard arrived. “Right this way, Captain. Sergeant Rollins will see you now.”
Oliver followed Hawke down the corridor to a small office where the guard opened the door.
“Thank you for coming so quickly.” A tall man rose from behind a desk and shook Hawke’s hand. “I’m Sergeant Rollins.” He sent a questioning look at Oliver.
“This is Viscount Frost, a friend of mine who is an expert in medievalism. He might be able to assist us with the drawings on the cell wall.”
“Any help on those would be welcome.” The man scratched his dark beard. “It looks more like a child’s drawing than powerful symbols to me.”
“I’m quite curious to see them,” Oliver said.
“Can you share more details with us?” Hawke asked. “It might help to determine what truly happened.”
From the disgruntled expression on the sergeant’s face, Oliver surmised he didn’t care to ask for help with something that occurred in the prison.
“The markings cover much of one wall. Rutter had rambled on since his arrival about Jasper Smithby and his power, but I didn’t think much of it. As far as we’re concerned, Smithby is nothing more than a professional thief who happens to be organized about it. Unfortunately, we’ve had little success in locating him.”
Oliver shared a look with Hawke. They’d already discussed how little the police seemed to discover about Smithby and his operations.
“But perhaps the drawings will mean something to one of you,” the sergeant continued. “They’ve certainly managed to cause unease among the guards. Rutter’s body was discovered lying in the bed, arms crossed, no sign of entrance into the cell, no sign of a struggle. The guards on duty assumed Rutter was sleeping, nothing more.”
“But he’d been stabbed?” Hawke asked.
“Humph. Can’t say for certain. At first we assumed so as there was a slice nearly ear-to-ear on his neck. But based on my experience, the cut didn’t appear to be more than skin deep. Difficult to tell without a thorough cleaning. There’s enough blood on his blanket and mattress to make one think a pig had been drained there but only the one cut. Yet he’s dead. And posed in an odd position with his hands crossed over his chest. The men don’t like it. They’re muttering about dark powers.” He shook his head. “Heaven knows what we’ll do if the news sheets get wind of this.”
“If you don’t believe his throat was truly slit, how did he die?” Oliver asked.
“We don’t know yet. Perhaps some sort of poison? Though the body shows no signs of distress.” The sergeant was obviously done discussing the matter as he rose. “Rutter’s body was removed yesterday, but I’ll show you the cell.”
Oliver and Hawke followed the man to Rutter’s cell where the door stood ajar. The blanket and thin mattress remained, the large brownish-red stain clearly visible on the floor as well.
The metallic stench of blood had Oliver’s nose twitching, dredging up memories he’d prefer to forget.
“Surely Rutter wouldn’t slit his own throat,” Hawke said as he stepped into the cell.
“S
eems unlikely, doesn’t it?” Oliver shifted his attention to the white chalk marks on the wall above the cot. At first they appeared to make little sense. Latin words combined with symbols—circles, crosses, triangles—in random patterns. But as Oliver studied them, he realized they were drawn in columns rather than reading left to right.
“Anything of interest?” Hawke asked.
“Your impatience is showing,” Oliver said as he kept his gaze on the markings. “Give me a few moments.”
Hawke and the sergeant spoke further as Oliver studied the drawings. At a glance, he’d guess the marks were merely there to suggest a dark meaning, to imply some sort of black magic was at work. While he could identify some of them, others were not as familiar.
He withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket and copied some of the letters and symbols so he could research them upon his return home.
Hawke came to his side, holding his silence although impatience vibrated off him.
“I would hazard a guess that this is more for show,” Oliver said. “While there are one or two Latin phrases that make sense such as this one, ‘farewell forever,’ the rest of it appears random. I want to look up a few of these to be certain there’s no hidden message I’m missing.”
“What do you suppose those are?” Hawke asked as he pointed to the corner of the cell.
Oliver looked closer. Several rocks were piled together along with some small pieces of wood and shells. “Fetishes, perhaps.”
“What?”
“Symbols of divine energy. They’re said to have magical properties due to the spirits that dwell in them.”
“Are you certain? They look like something that should be tossed away.”
Oliver picked up one of the pieces of wood. It was carved with a few marks. “If these were true fetishes, they would be permeated with power by a shaman or some other type of holy man.”
“Damn Smithby. He’s doing his best to make this look like he truly has some sort of power.” Hawke turned to where the sergeant was speaking with a few of the guards as though in an attempt to calm them.
Charming the Scholar (The Seven Curses of London Book 2) Page 13
