“Er, I…well, that is, I…”
“I excavated the damned tomb,” Christine snapped, her spine straightening away from the back of the chair.
“But surely you had someone else remove it—such a thing isn’t appropriate for a woman’s eyes.”
Christine let out a bark of laughter, but I recognized it as a sign of anger and shrank back against my chair. “Dear heavens, Bradley, one can hardly set foot in an ancient tomb or temple without male members pointing at one from every direction!”
Heat scalding my face, I snatched up Rice’s book and fled. It would have been a new low, even had I not compounded it by plowing straight into Griffin Flaherty.
~ * ~
“Steady on,” Flaherty said, catching my shoulder to keep us both from colliding with the wall. “Is everything all right?”
I tried to think of some plausible lie, since “I’ve allowed myself to be driven from my own office by two of my colleagues” seemed far too pathetic to say aloud.
Christine’s voice, strengthened from bellowing orders to workers at dig sites, echoed down the hall. “I will not surrender my profession simply because men throughout history have been unduly enamored of their penises!”
I closed my eyes and hoped the museum basement would swallow me. It failed to rescue me, so I opened them again, to see Flaherty shaking with silent laughter. Blue highlights sparkled in his green eyes, and the smile removed lines of care from his face, leaving behind a certain boyish charm.
His hand still clasped my shoulder. I should have pulled away, but my feet refused to move.
“I see why you were in a hurry to escape,” Flaherty said. His fingers tightened briefly, then let go. I fancied I could still feel their outline in the lingering warmth on my coat.
“I suppose you came by to ch-check on my progress with the, er, cipher,” I stammered. “We could go to the, um, library, perhaps, to talk.”
“We could,” Flaherty agreed; his smile had shifted from outright amusement to simply charming. “But I have another idea. How would you like to discuss your progress over lunch?”
“L-lunch?”
“Yes. The meal people eat in the middle of the day? Or is lunch not a custom here in Widdershins?”
My ears grew hot, and I stared down at his shoes. He wore sturdy boots today instead of oxfords; perhaps he meant to do a bit of walking on the icy sidewalks.
“It was a joke,” he said gently, when I didn’t respond. “Or perhaps you’re concerned about leaving Dr. Putnam alone with her adversary?”
Christine had hit her stride, but Bradley was now yelling as well. I caught something about “this is what comes of letting women into universities,” and winced.
“No,” I said. “Christine is clever enough not to leave Bradley’s body where anyone will ever find it. That was, er, a joke as well,” I added, when he looked momentarily taken aback.
His surprise morphed into laughter. “Touché, Dr. Whyborne. Lunch, then?”
“My duties—”
“Can wait an hour. Come along. I won’t take no for answer.”
~ * ~
We ended up at Marsh’s, a small diner not far from the museum, which catered to office workers and department store clerks. I seldom ate out, both for reasons of economy and because I feared someone might try to speak to me. Flaherty took over the duty of exchanging small talk with our waiter. Unfortunately, he wanted to chat with me as well.
“Have you eaten here often?” he asked, once the waiter had taken our orders.
“No.”
He waited a moment longer, before nodding, as if I’d given a satisfactory answer. “I’ve noticed most of the restaurants here specialize in fish. Natural for a coastal city, I’m sure, but I do miss a good Chicago steak.”
“Oh.” I had no idea what to make of him. “Er, the cipher, then?”
Flaherty glanced up at me from beneath thick lashes as he stirred sugar into his coffee. “I had hoped to enjoy a pleasant lunch before we delve into business.”
“Oh,” I repeated, but couldn’t think how to continue.
“I haven’t met very many people since moving to Widdershins, and as we are working together for a brief time, I thought to get to know you better.”
I had no idea how to respond. To my relief, the waiter returned with our fish sandwiches. Grateful for something to occupy my hands, I picked up my fork and knife and began to cut the sandwich into neat squares. “I’m sure I would seem terribly boring to someone like you,” I said.
He took a big bite from his sandwich. “Someone like me?” he asked once he had swallowed.
“A detective. Someone used to, er, excitement.”
Flaherty arched a brow. “If you’re asking after my qualifications, I was formerly employed by the Pinkerton Detective Agency. I was injured in the line of duty and subsequently decided to go into business for myself.”
“I-I didn’t mean to imply—”
“It’s all right, Dr. Whyborne.” He touched the back of my hand lightly. “I only meant to tease. Forgive me.”
I disliked being teased…but the look on his face was kindly rather than mocking. “May we talk about the cipher now?”
“As you wish.” He took another enormous bite of sandwich and watched me attentively as he chewed.
“It’s more complicated than I’d expected.” I cut my sandwich into smaller bits, buying time while I sorted my thoughts. “I assumed it would be a simple substitution cipher.”
He held up his hand. “I’m sorry, a what?”
I hesitated, unsure if he actually wanted to know, or if his words were meant as a signal to stop talking about things of no possible interest to anyone but myself. He seemed genuinely curious, though. “A substitution cipher. Writing B for A, for example, and C for B. Thus F-L-A-H-E-R-T-Y would become G-M-B-I-F-S-U-Z. Easy enough to decode. At least, if the person decoding it knows the language, or at least recognizes it as words and not a jumble of meaningless letters.”
“The director assured me you know twelve different languages.”
“I speak thirteen, but I can read more. Many of them haven’t been commonly used in centuries, if not millennia, though.”
“Why do you sound apologetic? I’d imagine anyone else would be proud of such an accomplishment.”
The tips of my ears grew hot. “I, er…”
Flaherty grinned at my discomfort, curse him. “You think me impertinent, don’t you?”
“Rather, yes.”
“Forgive me. So, you expected a simple substitution cipher. Thus far, you’ve determined it is not such. Do you know what it might be, then?”
“Not yet. I have some ideas, but I haven’t had time to test them.”
“Because impertinent detectives insist on inviting you to lunch.” His smile implied we were sharing a joke.
“Er, quite?” I said, not sure how to react.
Apparently satisfied, he sat back in his chair. “Well, as long as I’m keeping you from your work, would you care to stop by the police station with me?”
“I…what? The police station? Whatever for?”
“I want to speak further with the detective—the official detective—investigating the case. I’ve heard his story before, but I hoped a set of fresh ears, as it were, might pick up on something I missed.”
I truly didn’t want to enter the police station, no matter what the circumstances. I wasn’t a criminal, precisely, having never acted on my inclinations. But as those were unlikely to change, nothing good could come of the police noticing me. “I can’t imagine I’d be of any use.”
“I don’t see why not.”
How was I to answer? “I, er…I take it you think the detective is lying, then?”
“Not lying as much as…ignoring the truth,” Flaherty said with a wry twist of his lips. They were very nice lips, I couldn’t help but notice: plump and well-formed. “According to the official report, young Mr. Rice was the victim of a robbery. However, when the body was
found some hours after his murder, it was still in possession of a valuable ring and pocket watch. When asked why the thieves would have left those behind, Detective Tilton insists the robbers must have been frightened away by someone who neither took advantage of the murder nor raised any sort of alarm.”
“There may be no sinister explanation outside of incompetence,” I pointed out. “The tomb of the town’s founder, Theron Blackbyrne, was broken into last month and his body stolen. According to the papers, the police haven’t so much as a single lead.”
“Yes.” His lips pursed thoughtfully. “For a place with no medical college, there does seem to be a rather thriving resurrectionist trade. Still, the circumstances of Philip’s death are odd even for this town.”
I raised my eyebrows. “This town? Whatever is wrong with Widdershins?”
“Besides the grave-robbing?” Flaherty grinned. “Have you ever lived anywhere else, Dr. Whyborne?”
No doubt he was a world traveler. At the very least, his accent indicated he’d been farther west than New England. “Of course. I went to university in, er, Arkham.”
“Oh, and that’s such an improvement,” he muttered. “Are you truly content to only imagine far-off places through your studies? To only visit Egypt or Greece in your mind?”
I clenched my hands beneath the table. Of course he didn’t—couldn’t—understand. “It may be all very well and good for Dr. Putnam to go gallivanting all over the world, but I see no reason for me to join her. I’m quite content where I am.”
“Are you?” Flaherty murmured.
The man was impertinent. “Of course.” Perhaps he deserved a bit of impertinence back. “If Widdershins is such a terrible place, why set up shop here instead of Boston or Providence?”
Flaherty’s amusement slipped, like a mask which no longer quite fit. “It seemed the sort of place a fellow could start over, live quietly, and not have to put up with anyone prying into his private affairs.”
His honesty surprised me. “I see. Well you’re certainly correct. Although it does seem like a strange choice for a man whose business is to pry into the private affairs of others.”
“It does make my work more interesting,” Flaherty agreed, his grin once again in place. He leaned forward, lacing his hands together beneath his chin, and fixed his eyes on me. “Fortunately, I rather enjoy a challenge.”
I lowered my gaze and ate a bite of my sandwich. My imagination was running wild. He wasn’t flirting with me. The very idea was absurd.
“Well, Dr. Whyborne, will you accompany me to the police station?” he prodded.
“If you wish,” I yielded. “I can tell you won’t give up until you get your way.”
“Indeed,” he said, leaning back with a satisfied expression on his face. “As you will soon see, I can be persistent as a bull dog when I find something I want.”
~ * ~
Flaherty led the way to the police station. It was a squat, surly building, flanked on either side by tall, gambrel-roofed houses, which had fallen into disrepair. Almost superstitious fear chilled my blood as I stepped through the narrow door behind Mr. Flaherty. He strolled up to the desk at the front of the large room; from the expression on the face of the officer seated there, this was not the first time he’d visited the station. “Is Detective Tilton available? Dr. Whyborne and I have a few questions about his investigation.”
The officer shot me a surprised look. “Let me see, sir,” he said, and left his post, scurrying past rows of desks and into the back of the building. I cast a questioning glance at Flaherty, but he didn’t meet my gaze, instead concentrating on the task of removing his gloves and tucking them into his coat pocket.
The policeman returned within a few minutes. “Detective Tilton will see you in his office,” he said, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the back.
Apparently, Flaherty had been there before as well, because he led the way without hesitation. Feeling more and more out of place, I followed.
The office reeked of cigar smoke. A harried-looking man in an ill-fitting suit sat behind the desk. At our entrance, he half rose and indicated the two seats placed in front of him.
“Mr. Flaherty,” he said, sounding less than enthused. His murky eyes regarded me warily, as if not quite certain what I was doing in his office. I shared his uncertainty.
“Detective Tilton, may I introduce Dr. Percival Endicott Whyborne.”
I hesitantly extended my hand. Detective Tilton shook it just as cautiously.
Flaherty dropped into his chair with perfect ease. I perched on the edge of mine. Tilton continued to watch me rather than my companion, and my nervousness increased. Were the police somehow trained to spot men such as myself?
“Well, then,” Flaherty said cheerfully, “we just wanted to go over the details of the murder of Philip Rice with you once more, detective.”
“I don’t see what there is to go over,” Tilton said, finally looking at Flaherty. “I let you read the official report. It was a robbery gone wrong.”
“Of course,” Flaherty agreed. “But given the bribe Mr. Rice paid for you to investigate, I would have thought you’d at least have pulled in some poor wretch and beaten him until he confessed.”
Tilton stiffened. “I dislike your implication, sir.”
“Forgive me—perhaps things are different here than in Chicago.” Flaherty smiled, but there was no sincerity to it.
Tilton cut his gaze sharply to me; I shrank back involuntarily. “Dr. Whyborne, I must ask…are you here at your father’s request?”
The question was outrageous. “Certainly not! I—”
Oh. Of course. This was why Flaherty had asked me to accompany him.
A sense of stupid disappointment swept over me. Flaherty hadn’t wanted my opinion, or even my company over lunch. I had been a fool to think otherwise.
“Excuse me,” I said, rising to my feet and clutching at my overcoat, as if it could shield me from embarrassment. “I-I have to go.”
For the second time in one day, I fled an office in abject humiliation.
Chapter 4
The walk back through the police station was a blur. As soon as my shoes hit the slushy sidewalk outside, I quickened my pace. Cold air stung my face, but failed to soothe the heat burning there.
“Dr. Whyborne! Wait!”
I could run, but would just end up slipping on a bit of ice and sprawling at Flaherty’s feet. “I do not appreciate being used, sir,” I snapped, aiming the words back over my shoulder.
I slowed to cross a street, and he used the opportunity to catch up to me. “Dr. Whyborne—”
“You’ll have your blasted translation,” I said firmly, not looking at him as I strode across to the other corner. Despite his shorter legs, he managed to keep up with me. “I’ll finish it as soon as humanly possible, at which point, I trust, you will never again darken my doorstep.”
His hand landed on my shoulder once again. The warmth and weight of it sent a little shock through me. I shrugged it off.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Please, slow up.”
“You knew, didn’t you?” I asked. Bitterness rose like stinging bile in my throat, and for once I didn’t bother to disguise it. Of course he didn’t want my company at the station because he valued my opinion; he wanted it because he hoped my father’s name would intimidate Tilton into telling the truth.
I was a fool. An utter, thoroughgoing fool.
“Of course I know who your father is,” he said, not bothering to deny it. “And, yes, I will admit, I’d hoped your name would hold sway with Tilton.”
“If you had warned me—”
“Would you have gone?”
“You’ll never know now, will you?”
He let out a sigh. “No. Forgive me, if you can. It’s just…you are as much a cipher to me as that book.”
His words surprised me into glancing at him. His gaze was focused straight ahead, the rusty brown strands in his irises darken
ing the green now, his mouth pursed in a frown.
“I hardly see how I could be a cipher to anyone,” I said stiffly. “After all, you clearly have the facts at your disposal.”
“Percival Endicott Whyborne, youngest child of railroad tycoon Niles Whyborne. You neither attended your father’s alma mater nor went into the family business, a situation which might be explained by the fact your older brother did both. Except your father has never donated to the museum where you are employed, and you live in a modest apartment, apparently on nothing more than the salary the museum pays you.”
“As I said.”
“Not at all. I know the what but not the why.”
Even worse. “I am but another mystery to you. A challenge, as you said earlier.” A specimen, to be viewed and dissected.
His hand curled around my elbow, slowing me as we turned onto Old Mill Street. “I wish you would give me the opportunity to explain.”
“I see no need for—”
Flaherty suddenly yanked me into a fetid alleyway. Before I could think to protest, he grabbed both my arms and shoved me backward, into a sort of alcove formed by the chimneys of adjoining buildings. Rough brick scraped my back, and my shoes sank into something best not examined too closely.
“Wh-what are you doing?” I gasped. “I do not appreciate—”
He laid a finger over my lips, and the sheer audacity of the gesture silenced me. His skin was chilled against my mouth; in his haste, he hadn’t put his gloves back on. Even though our only contact was through his finger, warmth flooded my entire body.
“Shh,” he murmured, his breath ghosting over my cheek. “We’re being followed.”
“F-followed?” I whispered, acutely aware of the movement of my lips against his finger.
“Followed.” His scent enveloped me: warm skin, damp wool, and sandalwood. “Hold still—I wish to see who has such an interest in our doings.”
I nodded dumbly, my thoughts ricocheting inside my skull. Satisfied, he dropped his hand and turned his back to me, peering out in the direction of the street. The curve of one buttock pressed lightly against my thigh, palpable even through the cloth of our trousers.
Whyborne and Griffin, Books 1-3 Page 3
