"That man has bad luck," the gypsy responded.
Bad luck? "What about a man with two dead men on his porch?"
"That man is being warned."
What sort of warning exactly? "How about three dead men?"
The gypsy smiled, her teeth yellowed and rotting. "Take care, Quinton Inwood."
Quinn was halfway home before he remembered that he had not given the gypsy his name.
*~*~*
Quinn stumbled over the second dead body three days later on his way out to the library. The man was not familiar, but his shirt had been ripped open to expose his hairy chest. In the center, a cross was burned. There was a piece of paper tucked into the man's mouth, and Quinn saw a "Q" on the envelope, but he did not have a chance to grab it before his father appeared. His father took one look at the body and shuffled Quinn back inside to sit on the stool in the corner until the authorities arrived. No one ever mentioned the odd piece of paper. Once again, the authorities did not care much about the dead man, only asking a few questions before hauling the body away.
When his father stepped back inside, he informed Quinn that he would be staying inside for the next couple of days. Quinn wanted to argue, but Oz stepped in after him and Quinn quieted. So he sat inside of the shop, reading over books he had already read and secretly watching Oz, who stayed to man the counter of his father's agency. His crush on Oz seemed inevitable. Despite the fact that Oz was only five years older than he was, he was so very mature—not to mention that with his honey-blond hair and sunny smile, he was quite possibly the brightest person Quinn knew. Staying inside was not a hardship with Oz around to keep him company and Quinn worried that somewhere deep down, his father had realized and was taking advantage of that fact.
Still, two days later, when Oz looked up and flashed him a shy little smile, Quinn's heart beat a bit faster and he accepted that his predicament could be much worse.
"Quinn," Oz began rather suddenly, fidgeting nervously. "Do you think perhaps—" At that moment, however, Quinn's father returned and shot a sharp warning glance at Quinn, and Oz quickly quieted. He refused to repeat his question when Quinn tried to ask later.
In the third day of his confinement, the agency received a visitor, a straight-backed man with a mean disposition. He sneered at Oz, and then demanded to speak to Matthew Inwood. When his father came to greet his visitor, they glared at one another. Quinn sat up a bit straighter and looked carefully between the two of them.
"Francis. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Quinn had never heard that tone from his father before, that ice that made it clear that whoever this Francis was, he was not welcome in Matthew's store.
"I heard about the unfortunate incidents at your store and came to offer my assistance." Francis oozed charm, but Quinn still had a bad feeling about him. That feeling intensified when he looked up at Francis and Quinn felt a painful twinge in his chest. "Perhaps you would like my help in cleansing your home of evil influences?" When he turned his gaze away, the pain stopped.
Matthew's glare intensified. "Your offer is kind, but we have Oswald." He gestured to Oz, who stood behind the counter, face serene and surrounded by a competent air—not at all like the man who had stared in confusion at the accounting for the past hour and a half, muttering unhappily to himself as he tried to figure out how the added numbers produced a particular sum. In Oz's defense, Quinn knew for a fact that his father really had no idea how to keep books.
"Oswald is young," Francis stated.
Oz smiled calmly, as he answered, "The church has approved my work here. Thank you for your concern, Bishop." The look Francis shot at Oz could only be defined as hateful, but he pulled himself together and nodded politely.
"So long as you feel you can handle it." He swept out of the agency with a dramatic flap of his coat. In his wake, everyone sighed in relief. Things seemed peaceful from then on, Quinn fantasizing about Oz from his side of the store, while Oz puzzled out the books and studiously ignored him.
Then the third body appeared.
The third was the worst because Quinn knew him. Lawrence had been a thief and a scoundrel, but above all else, he had been a close friend who had vowed to straighten his life out after a single request from the girl he had loved since they had both been children. Since then, he had been learning to read in hopes that he could impress her by asking her to marry him with one of her favorite poems. Quinn had been helping him, and the last time they had spoken, Lawrence had talked of finally proposing. The announcement had led to a raucous visit to the pub.
And now Lawrence was dead.
This time, Quinn would not allow himself to be ignored.
"Father, please, you must investigate Lawrence's death. You would know how." The authorities did not care. To them, Lawrence was yet another low class slime about which they no longer had to worry. But Quinn's father ran a detective agency, claiming to be able to help people find what they thought lost forever. What Quinn found even odder was the fact that he only took certain cases; plenty of nobility had walked in only to flounce out at his rejection. Quinn was not allowed to know the details of the business, and he realized that there were some parts of his father that he might never understand. But he knew his father could handle this investigation. "Please," he begged, "Lawrence was my friend."
Matthew shook his head sadly. "There are so many other things at work here, my son. I cannot look into your friend's murder. I hesitate to even leave this shop during the day knowing that you might be alone."
"Well, if you will not look into it, I will!" Quinn was tired of sitting on his little stool, watching as people died—and he was tired of being left in the dark. He hadn't mistaken that note, he was sure of it; someone had written that note to him. Someone had killed Lawrence because of Quinn and his father honestly thought he should sit there on that damned stool again and wait.
"No!" Matthew sounded fearful and his tone was nearly enough to stop Quinn in his steps. "You cannot go out there! You must understand."
"My friend is dead, Father! That is what I understand." Quinn sat back on the stool, though. Matthew kept a close eye on him throughout the day and Oz seemed confused at the tension between them.
"We all want to protect the people we love, Quinn," Oz told him softly once they were alone.
"I am not a child, Oz. He should understand that."
Oz reached down and ruffled his hair. When Quinn looked up at him angrily, what he saw in Oz's eyes made him soften. Oz had never looked at him like that before. For a moment, he thought Oz might say something, but Oz just shook his head and returned to the counter. Even more annoyed with himself, Quinn thumbed loudly through his book. Throughout the day, Quinn behaved himself, although he spent the time plotting. When dusk fell, he retired to his bed under Matthew's suspicious eye.
Getting out of the window was easy enough, although he felt a bit guilty about how his father would worry. However, Quinn could not help thinking about what the gypsy had said; if the second body had been a warning, had Lawrence been killed because Quinn had not heeded it? And Quinn had no doubts that the warning had been meant for him. Otherwise, why would he have been the one to find the bodies? And that note; Quinn had definitely seen a Q on that note. It had been meant for him, but his father was hiding it.
Quinn had thought long and hard about where to start his investigation. The note seemed like a probable place, but Matthew would be waiting carefully to see when Quinn tried to grab it, of that much he was sure. So he decided that the best place to start would be Lawrence's mother. She lived fairly close by in a rundown house much like theirs. Paranoia enhanced by his father's words, Quinn darted across the street and up the road, until he stood before Lawrence's house. He knocked and Lawrence's sister opened the door. Her eyes looked bruised, as if she had been crying hard, and she seemed angry at Quinn's interruption.
"What do you want?" she demanded. Elizabeth had never been a particularly sweet creature by Lawrence's own description, but it had always been cl
ear that she loved him. Now in mourning of his absence, it became even clearer how fond she had been of him.
"Only to offer my condolences," Quinn responded. He wished he could have done this properly, brought over some sort of food so that they could share stories of Lawrence; but he had no idea where to begin in the kitchen and Elizabeth had never seemed the type to do such a thing.
"Most offer their condolences at a sensible time of day." But her manner softened. "Were you a friend of my brother's, then?"
"I was. He was a good person."
"He was a scoundrel," she stated fondly, "but it is nice of you to speak kindly of him."
An awkward silence descended between them, before Quinn cleared his throat, and coughed out hoarsely, "Do you know where he was the night before?"
"When he was found dead?" Elizabeth asked. "Why do you want to know?"
Quinn flushed and stumbled through his words. "I was simply curious and I thought the authorities might have already asked. I was just hoping—"
"You're a terrible liar," she said. "You might wish to work at that. Honest people never get anywhere in life."
Quinn's flush deepened. "The authorities have given up, but Lawrence was my friend and I think he deserves to see his killer brought to justice."
Elizabeth stared at him for a moment, before answering. "All I know is that he had a new job lately. Trying to impress his lady love, I assumed."
"Where would that be?"
"At the cursed manor." Everyone knew that estate; it had been built for Lord Covington when he had come to the country to personally over see his new factories. He had passed rather suddenly, and his wife had seen fit to take over his work, but Lady Covington could scarcely keep servants in employ due to the rumor that a vengeful ghost lingered in the house awaiting his revenge. Quinn had always found the story a bit silly, but anyone who walked too closely to the house could feel that there was something wrong with it. Why had Lawrence taken employment there? Then again, likely it had been the only employment he had been able to find due to his reputation.
"I see. Thank you for your assistance." Quinn nodded politely, but before he could get too far away, Elizabeth reached out to grab him in a hug that threatened to squeeze the life out of him.
"Thank you for visiting. Truly." Elizabeth let go of him and quickly disappeared inside after that, closing the door behind her. Quinn stared after her for a moment or two, before stepping back into the street and trying to formulate a plan. What would his father do with this information? There was no one he could go to, yet. All he knew was that Lawrence had gone to work for Lady Covington, and then he had died. But why would a noble dump bodies on the doorstep of the Inwood agency?
He was being ridiculous. A noble would not dump bodies on a doorstep, but perhaps Lawrence had crossed one of the servants and they had gotten the wrong house.
There was only one way he would find out. Quinn checked the money in his pocket and winced, before hiring a hackney to carry him as close to the cursed manor as possible.
"You want to be let out here?" The driver sounded doubtful, and Quinn supposed it had something to do with how young he looked, despite the fact that he was nearly twenty.
"Yes, please. Thank you for your services."
The driver eyed him suspiciously. "You've the manners of a noble."
Quinn supposed that had to do with his love of reading and libraries, since his father would allow him to do scarce else. He had no idea how to assuage the driver's worries, though, so he simply paid the man and departed the hackney. As it made its way back to the main road, Quinn turned toward the long winding walk up to Lady Covington's estate. It was a good thing he had started this early, or it would have been midnight by the time he made his way up the path. As it was, it had reached full dark by the time he was close enough to the house to truly feel the chills. His chest started to hurt again, but he put the pain away as fear and kept going.
There had been no clues on his walk up to the house. No glaring blood spots or ripped clothing; just the sounds of wildlife settling in for the night. Once Quinn reached the house, he was surprised to see just how large it was—his father's house might fit inside one of those rooms. Quinn could feel the dark aura creeping from the house in waves, so there was little doubt that he was in the correct place. He made his way tentatively around the side to the servant's entrance and knocked.
The woman that opened the door was plump and fearsome, and eyed Quinn suspiciously as she demanded, "What do you want?"
"I—um, my name is Quinton and I heard one of your workers died, and I was hoping you might have work." Quinn had thought out his cover story during the ride there. Someone looking for work would not raise suspicions, and since no one noticed servants, he hopefully would not be called upon too much to lie. However, he could not help the fact that the woman's hard stare made him feel like he had done something wrong already.
"Died?" The woman seemed stunned. "Who died?"
"Lawrence. I heard tell in the pub that he had been found dead."
"Oh dear," she remarked in horror. "And here I've been cursing his name for being late and the poor thing has passed. I warned him not to walk so late at night, but he never took the words of this poor, concerned woman to heart." She studied Quinn carefully. "Are you a friend of his?"
Reminded of his failure with Elizabeth earlier that night, Quinn resolved to stay close to the truth. Maybe his lie would be more believable. "Of a sort. Lawrence was a friendly fellow."
"That he was. He'll be missed; he was a hard worker. Going to be engaged, you know."
The words caused a pang in Quinn's heart. "I know."
The woman shook her head sadly. "Such a shame. Poor girl." She abruptly ushered him in. "And here I am, keeping you out in the cold." When she got a good look at his face, her expression softened. "Well, aren't you a delicate dear?"
Quinn flushed. "I assure you, I will work hard."
"I'm sure you will, but it seems such a shame to put such a pretty face to work." She patted his cheeks in a familiar manner. "Lawrence was built like a bull; I worried that he might run into things and break them. You, though, you're rather like a fawn."
Quinn tried his best not to be offended; it was not this woman's fault that she was right—he did have rather delicate features. Quinn had once wondered if that was why his father was so protective of him. But that would not do now—if she thought he was delicate, she might not allow him to work, and ultimately ruin his chances for a bit of investigating. "Despite my appearance, I can assure you that I have handled some basic housework tasks before."
"Is that so," the woman replied. "We could use the help, but please be careful, dear." Having established that Quinn was completely harmless, she hummed to herself as she turned to bustle toward the kitchen, adding, "My name is Mary."
Quinn introduced himself as well and followed her, looking for something with which he might be able to help. "Did Lawrence work here long?"
"Lawrence?" Mary repeated distractedly. "He just started a few weeks ago. He said he was saving up to buy his sweetheart a brooch."
"Was he here last night?"
Mary gave him a suspicious glance. "Why are you asking?"
Quinn thought of an excuse quickly. "I wanted something to tell his mother. Of his last day, I mean."
Mary's gaze once again softened. "That's a very sweet thing of you to do. And now that I think of it, he was here, leaving late as usual."
"Did he seem worried about anything? Or scared?"
"Not at all. He mentioned he would be buying Annabelle's trinket the next day. Have you met her? She sounded like a sweet girl." After a moment, Mary shook herself from the memories. "Enough questions. I need your assistance in the dining room, Quinn."
It turned out that she required his assistance in bringing out the dinner plates. The idea of coming face to face with nobles terrified Quinn beyond explanation, but he had asked for this, hadn't he?
The dining room was as opulent
as he had imagined, the table made of a dark, heavy wood and covered in black silk, and seating four people. The man closest to Quinn reminded him of a pig. When Quinn set the plate down, he eyed the food with beady eyes and licked his lips like he could already taste the meal in front of him. In contrast, the woman Quinn supposed was his wife eyed the food distastefully, as if it were yet another challenge to be conquered. She gave Quinn an irritated look as he set the plate before her.
When he looked up, he saw that Mary had already served the lady of the house and her companion. Lady Covington was by far the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, her light blonde hair secured at the back of her neck and very little jewelry adorning her body. Her manner showed her wealth far more than gems ever would have. Her companion was equally as beautiful, but no one would have ever mistaken him for a fawn. An amused smile curled his lips as he listened to Lady Covington's story, but his eyes focused on Quinn. Quinn nearly dropped the plate in his hand when their eyes met.
"Have you hired someone new already, Abigail?" His accent made the words sound pretty and exotic, but it was his eyes that caught Quinn's attention. His amethyst eyes made Quinn feel very much so like prey in the sights of a predator. It should have been terrifying.
"What do you mean, Sebastian?" Lady Covington looked over at Quinn, and remarked, "Oh dear, Mary, we do have someone new. What happened to poor Lawrence?" It shocked Quinn that Lady Covington would even know the name of those that worked in her home, much less care about their wellbeing.
"This is Lawrence's friend, Quinton. He informed me that dear Lawrence has passed."
A look of horror passed over Lady Covington's face, before sadness settled. "How horrible!"
"Yes, truly horrible," the bird-like woman agreed, as she took a small bite of her food. "But such sadness does not belong at the dinner table." She gave Quinn a sharp look and he took an automatic step back.
Lady Covington gave her an irritated look in return. "How old are you, Quinton?"
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