Atticus Riot tilted his head at the preceding, and increasingly engaging, paragraphs. But soon the outlandish narrative was interrupted by a feeling of watchfulness. He tore his eyes from the page, and lowered the paper a fraction.
A full-figured woman in a white tea gown sat across the table. Her hat was tilted at a stylish angle and the sun caught her auburn hair. Riot hastily folded his paper and made to rise.
“No need to get up, Mr. Riot,” she said. “You were absorbed.”
“Apparently so,” he said, offering a half-bow before sitting. “My apologies, Miss Dupree.”
“It’s a lovely day. I hope you don’t mind if I join you for breakfast.”
“Not at all,” he said easily.
Miss Dupree kept nocturnal hours. She was a late riser, and, in the month since his return, they had shared more than one breakfast together. Her eyes flickered to the article on page three. Sumptuous lips curved. “Captivating read,” she said.
“Indeed,” Riot agreed. Hers were not the only set of eyes. Riot was aware of a rustle in the hedge: Tobias, footpad in training. Unfortunately, the boy’s ears were already keen.
“You wouldn’t happen to be the dark-haired stranger with ‘fair and deft hands’?” There was subtle suggestion and smooth flirtation underlying her words.
“It says here that he is a physician,” Riot pointed out.
“True,” she said, stirring cream and sugar into her coffee. She did not sound convinced. And neither was he. The article had Bel’s mischievousness all over it.
“Still,” Miss Dupree continued, “You came to mind when I read it.”
“Now why would you think this article involved me?”
“You have a certain tilt to your shoulders. And,” she added suggestively, “you appear well rested.” Miss Dupree knew men. Gauging a man’s mood, temperament, and eagerness was a matter of life and death in her line of work.
“A solved case,” he replied.
“My congratulations.”
Riot regarded the woman. She was attractive, poised, confident, and experienced. Not for the first time, he wondered why she lodged in Ravenwood house. A woman such as she could wrap a wealthy man around her finger twice over. As a mistress, she could have a house of her own; instead, she sufficed with a single room—the largest to be sure, but still a room. Did she lodge here for protection, loneliness, or something more?
“Thank you,” he inclined his head. “I very nearly feel like celebrating. Are you free tonight, Miss Dupree?”
“For a man who very nearly wants to celebrate? Never. But for a man who would like to celebrate, I would be delighted to join you.” Her voice was a deep slow purr.
“Dinner and the theatre?”
“That would be lovely. I enjoyed our last evening out. You make for a most agreeable escort.”
“As do you.”
“Shall I keep the entire evening free?”
“The performance is only two hours.”
“And the night is long,” she smiled.
“Indeed it is.” Riot folded his napkin, stood, and slipped on his fedora. As he reached for his stick, she eyed the long length of it. He smoothly touched the brim of his hat, tucked the Call under an arm, and strolled away, feeling a lingering gaze on his back.
At the end of the driveway, Tobias made a mad dash, running to catch up. Riot stopped, and turned, frowning at the boy.
“Don’t you want Grimm to get the hack, sir?”
“Tobias, your brother is not my personal hackman.”
“But he likes it.”
“Does he?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well I like to walk.”
Tobias’ shoulders slumped.
“And,” Riot added, “your mother has plenty of other chores that need doing.”
The boy kicked the dirt and Riot took pity on him. “I’ll need the hack tonight.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll let Grimm know.”
“Until then,” Riot said, firmly, “get back to the house before your mother catches you out here.”
Tobias blew out a breath, turned, and dragged his feet up the long drive.
15
Another Unlucky Soul
AS RIOT WALKED INTO Ravenwood offices, he gave a slight shake of his head at the raven-shaped plaque on the door. Tim, it appeared, had already polished it for the day. It was a small office. Desks in the main room, a consultation room off to the side, and on the other, Riot’s own office.
Montgomery Johnson leaned in his chair, boots propped on the desk. He had a long mustache and mutton chops and a cigar stuck between his lips. “Afternoon, Riot,” the detective drawled with a puff of smoke. “Did you have a nice beauty rest?”
“I slept well, thank you,” he replied. “How is the Pacific Street case progressing?”
Johnson shrugged his broad shoulders. “I’ve been up working since the crack of dawn, unlike you. Tim’s been waiting. You’ve a client.”
Riot glanced at the consultation room, and went in the opposite direction. Tim could never say no to anyone. But then Riot wasn’t much better.
He hung up his hat, slipped his stick into the stand, and paused, glancing towards the massive desk. For a moment, he saw Zephaniah Ravenwood sitting in his customary place. It was the man’s desk, brought from the house after his death. The man was tall and solid, as expressionless as a crag with a crown of snowy hair and eyebrows that rivaled an owl’s. In life, Ravenwood was legendary, and in death he lingered. Riot could not shake his presence.
The memory frowned across the expanse of wood. ‘Don’t look so dull, Riot.’
“I’m not one for paperwork,” he murmured. Whether it was to himself or the shade, he did not care to answer.
‘Paperwork is a detective’s reward.’
Riot chuckled. “Is that why you always shoved it onto me?”
‘Whether with lawyers, judges, or women, you have a way with words.’
“Curse my smooth tongue,” he smirked and sat down in the opposite chair, reaching over to turn a stack of papers around: the evidence and testimony for the Cottrill case.
‘If you like,’ Ravenwood steepled his fingers. ‘However, I always found you useful. I freely admit, my one failing was tact.’
“Only one?”
A bushy white eyebrow arched. ‘Name a second,’ the memory challenged.
“Impossible to only name one.”
Ravenwood harrumphed. His dark eyes flashed.
“I have one knack, and you have one fault. It was a fair trade.”
‘The true mark of a partnership.’
Riot rubbed the scar beneath his hair. “You know I can’t remember,” he whispered. “Not all of what happened that day.”
‘I’m a patient man.’
At this, he snorted. “Then you’re also delusional. You were never patient.”
‘When it mattered, I was.’
“And when was that?”
‘With you, my dear boy.’
A worried voice interrupted Riot’s conversation. “A.J., are you alright?”
Riot blinked, and the shade vanished. He realized he had been talking to air. He swiveled around in his chair to find Tim standing absolutely still. The only time Tim stood still was when there was murder in the air, and apparently, when he was questioning his young friend’s mental state.
“Tired, I suppose.” Riot smoothed his hair, and gestured towards the vacant chair. “I’ve always thought this desk was pretentious.”
“Would you like a dainty tea table instead?”
“Only if you embroider me a lace tablecloth.”
“Done,” said Tim.
Riot didn’t bother asking whether his wizened friend could knit lace tablecloths. Tim was an old miner who took self-sufficiency personal.
“What unlucky soul do you have for me today?” asked Riot.
Tim removed his short cob pipe and poked at the bowl. “A man in his late twenties. I thought it best if you handled this one
.”
“That bad?”
“Curious, more like.” Which translated to difficult, hysterical, or dangerous. In the general run of things, all three.
✥
Bert Dunham stood by the window looking down on a moving world. Two days ago, his world had stopped. Time was caught in a mire, and the weight of the earth pressed on his broad shoulders—the man could barely find air.
The dazed man was in his late-twenties, trimmed hair, a drooping mustache with two days of unshaven beard. He held a stetson in his large hands, turning it, feeling the rim, and ultimately ruining the lay of the hat. Straight-backed and rigid, Bert looked like a scared animal about to bolt, but Riot could not say where his client-to-be planned to go—only away.
“Mr. Dunham,” the detective said. “Atticus Riot.”
Bert turned towards the detectives, his gaze slow to focus, and slower to react to Riot’s outstretched hand. When Bert moved, Riot shook his hand firmly, and tightened his grip for a moment, offering the man an anchor to the present.
The gesture helped. Some life entered the handshake.
“Sit if you like, Mr. Dunham.” Riot indicated a chair and pulled out one for himself. Tim edged towards the wall. “How can I help you?”
“My wife—” Bert’s throat caught, like there were words that just didn’t want coming out. It took the younger man a bit to work his way past the lump. “My wife is dead. She killed herself—so the police say.”
Most would have asked, ‘But you don’t think she did?’ Riot, however, was not most. He sat and waited, and let the silence stretch, hoping the man would find his own way. And as Riot patiently waited, he studied his client: tanned skin, broad shoulders, a faint smell of copper on his rough clothes, sure fingers, and nicks and cuts that slashed over callouses on his hands. Riot fancied he could see the touch of death upon the man, like a stain on his skin, as sure as the sun had colored his neck red.
“I came home from work—” Bert’s voice trembled, and Riot intervened, offering a distraction.
“You work with electrical wiring,” he noted.
Bert blinked. “Yes, an apprentice.” His eyes flickered to Tim who slouched in the corner trying to blend into the paneling. “I don’t think I mentioned that to your associate.”
“You didn’t,” Riot confirmed.
Despite his grief, Bert had a head on his shoulders. A good sign, that. The detective did not explain how he knew: the callouses and cuts and coppery smell, all indicative and common to electricians. Strength was needed, too, and a fair amount of intelligence.
In another life, Atticus Riot had been a cunning gambler and a swift shot. During his gambling days, he looked for an opponent’s tell and counted cards, all in a flash that lacked conscious thought. Those same talents made him a fair detective.
“That would put your wife’s death on the fourteenth, on Wednesday. What happened that day?”
Knocked from his grief, and reminded of his trade, Bert found his voice. “I came home from my work in the evening. It’d been a short day. The house smelled wrong, acrid and sweet all at once. I found my wife in the bathroom. It was like she’d been sick all over, but her mouth was—” Bert choked, as if he would be sick, and the next word came out as a thready whisper. “Burnt.”
Riot was on the verge of pouring a fortifying drink, but the young man pulled out his own flask and took a desperate swig. Bert did not describe the next futile moments of trying, and failing, to revive his wife, or mention the anguish. It was like falling. And Riot knew that sensation well.
Instead, Bert skipped to the facts: steady, reliable, controllable.
“There was a bottle of carbolic acid on the kitchen floor. Elma was always so worried about the nicks I got that she kept a bottle on hand. She was a trained nurse, you see. Knew how to dilute it and such…” Bert trailed off, staring at his hands like a pair of murder weapons.
Before guilt drowned the young man, Riot caught his attention. “Did your Elma leave a note?”
The young man reached into his pocket and retrieved a much handled piece of paper. It had been ripped from a notebook. Riot unfolded it with reverence. The words were startlingly familiar, one he had glimpsed the night before.
‘Dear Bert, I am not guilty. God knows it. Goodbye. -Elma’
This note, however, was written in a staggered, clearly shaking hand.
When Riot looked up, the young man broke down, and words rushed from his lips, each one chipping away at his composure. “It don’t make no sense. Elma and me got up early, to go shopping before my shift. She was in high spirits. We were expecting our first child—the police said it was hysterics. Women issues. They won’t look further into her death.” The last thread of his control broke, and the man’s grief filled the room.
Riot hastened over to a sideboard and poured a cool glass of water from the pitcher. When he returned, Bert drank gratefully.
“I’m sorry,” Bert said, wiping his nose with a handkerchief. The initials B.D. had been carefully stitched into the fabric with a little border of flowers.
“Is this your wife’s handwriting, Mr. Dunham?” asked Riot.
“It’s shaky, but it appears so.”
“Do you know where the paper was taken from?”
“Ripped out of her journal,” the man replied. “There’s a page missing.”
“You read her journal?”
Bert nodded, looking abash. “I thought maybe it’d say more—explain what she thought she’d done, but it didn’t. Elma was excited, she was happy with me.”
“Does she have family?”
“A brother, Henry Erving, he lives here in the city.”
“Does he have any idea what this note might mean? Something from Elma’s past maybe?”
“Truth be told, I forgot all about him.” Bert rubbed his head. It was hard to think behind a veil of grief and a medicinal flask. “I’ve only met him once. Elma and me married three months ago. We met at the County Hospital where she was working. She treated me for a gash. It was like getting hit by an electrical jolt. There’s no ignoring that. We were married a week a later,” Bert admitted with a blush.
“Did she have friends, or visitors?”
“Maybe at the hospital? I don’t really know. She quit nursing without a second thought. Like I said, we were—getting to know each other. But my landlady, Mrs. Fleet, said that just before noon, a woman by the name of Violet called.”
The detail pricked at the scar on Riot’s scalp. His fingers twitched, wanting his walking stick, or more aptly, his pistol. Danger took him that way, but he had long ago schooled his reactions. To all outward appearances, however, he was as cool as the glass in the young man’s hand.
“What did this woman look like?”
“Mrs. Fleet said she was very pretty, tallish and pale, with reddish hair.”
“Was she wearing a grey dress?” Riot asked carefully.
Bert met his gaze, looking puzzled and surprised. “Yes, Mrs. Fleet said she wore a grey dress with purplish trim.”
Tim stirred in the corner, and Riot could feel the questions wanting to boil over from the old man’s tongue. But Tim was too professional to grill him in front of a client.
“Mr. Riot,” Bert steeled himself. “I’d like you to find out why my wife drank that poison.”
“I’ll accept your case, but I must warn you, Mr. Dunham, you may not like the answer.”
“I have to know.”
✥
“Where do you want to start on this?” Tim tossed the addresses and pertinent information they had gleaned on the desk.
Riot glanced at the list of names. “I’ll search the house and locate the absent brother. See if you can interview the neighbors, or get Smith to do it if you like. And ring the city morgue. I’d like a postmortem done. Request a Mr. Duncan August.”
“I’m going to need more than that, or a whole lot of graft; the morgue won’t do a postmortem on a clear suicide.”
“Inform the
coroner that it’s related to Violet Clowes.”
“To who?”
“How’s Johnson really coming along with the Pacific Street case?”
“Vague as can be, but by his smirk this morning, I reckon he’s at least making progress.”
Riot nodded, but Tim wasn’t about to be thrown off track.
“Does this mysterious Violet have anything to do with why you were gone all night?”
Riot came clean. “Bel’s returned.”
Tim’s white brows shot up, and his beard nearly twitched with excitement. “Did you hire the girl, then?”
“Bel’s hardly a girl,” he said dryly. “And I don’t intend to hire her.”
Tim looked up at Riot. “She’s a damn fine investigator.”
“I don’t think she’d accept my offer.”
“Why the devil not?”
“It’s complicated,” Riot replied calmly.
“You’re yella’.”
“Maybe so,” Riot admitted, “but I won’t be the one to ask.”
“As a full partner, I will. The agency needs fresh blood to replace the old cranky man who’s threatening to retire at the drop of a hat.”
Riot glanced at his reflection in a wall mirror. He grimaced at the grey in his beard and the white stripe in his hair. He thought of Isobel—vibrant, full of life and possibility, and he felt his full forty some years. Then his eyes found his gnomish friend whose white hair had migrated to his chin long ago. It cheered him greatly.
“I suspect Bel prefers to find her own way.”
“This isn’t some charity case, A.J.” Tim plopped down in the chair behind the desk. It leant him an official, if comical air, considering the small man was nearly lost behind the expanse of wood. “That Miss Bel of yours is a natural investigator. She would have solved Johnson’s case days ago.”
Riot looked at the man, hard. “She’s not my Bel.”
Tim slapped a hand on the desk. “You just said it all,” the old man cackled. “All spitfire and will; I’d tread carefully, too. How’d last night go?”
A Bitter Draught Page 12
