by Kelly Powell
His tone was resolute, impervious to arguments. Catherine’s pulse pounded in her ears, so that all other sound seemed washed away, replaced by the frantic beating. Throat dry, she nodded and retreated from the office.
In her room, she put on her coat, bonnet, and gloves, her movements numb, mechanical as the presses downstairs. She stared out the window—the glass fogged, early-morning condensation above the sill—to the blur of carriages and people below, passing by the Chronicle with nary a care of what went on behind its doors.
She stepped into the hall, headed down the stairs, straight across the print floor and out onto the sidewalk. She continued in a daze, tripping once, twice, on the cobblestones. The brisk morning air stung her eyes to tears; she wiped at them just as briskly as she came to the street on which the watchmaker’s shop was located. The CLOSED sign was still upon the door, but Catherine knocked, hoping someone would hear and answer.
And someone did.
“Good morning, Mr. Nolan.”
Guy did not look as though he’d gotten much rest in her absence. He was tidily dressed in a collared shirt and dark trousers, his waistcoat complemented by a golden watch chain, but his face was pallid, his eyes bleary with sleeplessness. “Miss Daly,” he said. “I didn’t realize you’d be coming to call so early.”
She stepped over the threshold, lowering her voice to a whisper. “How is he?”
“Better now than he was during the night.” Guy regarded her steadily. “He cried himself to sleep.”
When Catherine said nothing to that, he turned away, leading her up the back staircase. The way was dark, close, the steps creaking beneath them. It reminded her of the print shop, and the thought was enough to knot her insides. She had until day’s end to find the timepiece, but how was she to uncover it without an inkling of its whereabouts?
The stairs brought them into a narrow hall decked in flocked wallpaper. Catherine followed Guy through an open door into a kitchen. It was quite a large room, with a table and six chairs, a fireplace, shelves of crockery above the counter. Brass pots and pans were lined on hooks on the wall, and there was a kettle of water coming to a boil on the stove. The window was cracked open, the yellowed edge of the lace curtains fluttering over the sill. Despite the well-worn state of the furnishings, everything appeared orderly, scrubbed spotless, cared for in the manner Catherine cared for her own precious few belongings.
Owen sat at the table, but he stood politely when they entered the room. On the table before him was a rack of toast, blackened at the edges, the faint smell of burning hanging in the air. The morning’s newspaper and Guy’s spectacles lay in the space opposite, and in the light of day, surrounded by such ordinary things, Owen himself appeared less ethereal than he had the night before. Casting his eyes down, he said quietly, “Good morning, Miss Daly.”
“Morning.” She moved forward to take a seat. “How are you?”
Sitting back down, he said, “Well, thank you,” though he bore the same marks of sleeplessness Guy did. He looked to be wearing some of Guy’s clothes as well, slightly too loose on his more slender frame. His hair was brushed neatly, his eyes not as dark as they seemed to her in the night, but a muddy hazel color. “I must apologize for my behavior last night. I am grateful to you, and to Mr. Nolan, for taking me in so charitably. But I don’t wish to impose myself on your goodwill. I will find work and a place of lodging and shan’t disturb you any further.”
She and Guy ought to be the ones apologizing. Owen would undoubtedly still be in the ground if it weren’t for them. Now here he was, without his memories, trying to make the best of things. Catherine admired it, but that didn’t stop selfishness from holding sway over her thoughts.
This boy was her only lead in discovering the timepiece and securing her job.
He couldn’t just up and leave.
“Your consideration does you credit,” she told him, “but finding work in this city isn’t as easy as all that.”
“Owen,” said Guy, returning to his chair with teapot in hand, “perhaps you’d like to tell Miss Daly what you told me.”
Owen sat a little straighter. “What I’d like is a last name. Calling me by the first is hardly proper when we aren’t familiar with each other.”
Guy took up his reading glasses, setting his eyes on the newspaper. “I’ve seen your skull,” he muttered. “I think that makes us quite familiar.”
This seemed to put Owen rather out of countenance. Hoping to console him, Catherine reached for the teapot and poured tea into his cup. “You may give yourself a last name, of course.”
“Well, I… Yes, all right, then. You may call me Smith.”
“Smith?” Guy considered him over the rims of his glasses. “Very well. Now do you wish to inform Miss Daly of what happened?”
Catherine folded her hands in her lap, trying to swallow down her own worries, which were aching to be said. Owen fidgeted with his teacup. “A nightmare,” he murmured. “I thought perhaps—perhaps it could be—”
“A memory?” The possibility jolted her. “What was it?”
His mouth twisted. “Do keep in mind it was a dream, and a horrible one at that.”
Next to her, Guy put aside his paper. His gaze was dark behind his spectacles as he fixed his attention on Owen. Catherine wondered what it was like for him—to have brought this boy into his home, to hear him crying in the night. Just as the watery daylight cleared away the strangeness of Owen Smith, so too did it grant Guy Nolan the appearance of composure, unruffled by this sudden sweep of changes.
Shoulders hunched, Owen picked at a slice of toast as he spoke. “I was out walking—I don’t know where. Someone—someone grabbed me from behind, pulled me into an alley. I felt something sharp at my neck.” He brought his fingers to rest at the hollow of his throat, as if in search of a scar, but his pale skin was smooth and unmarked. “Then I woke up.”
“And you didn’t get a look at the person?” Catherine asked.
Owen shook his head. “How can I be sure this even happened?” He stared down at the broken bits of toast on his plate, his voice turning small and choked. “Why would someone murder me?”
With a sigh, Guy took off his glasses. “Look here,” he said. “We needn’t get all worked up just yet. We haven’t got any credible proof you were murdered, dear God.”
His words may have chased away the night’s phantoms—if the scene Owen described hadn’t seemed so real. Catherine poured herself a cup of tea, adding milk, the tiny teaspoon clinking against the sides. “There is a way we might find out,” she said.
Owen met her eyes, his expression despondent. “How’s that, Miss Daly?”
She offered him a small smile. “A record of your death.”
CHAPTER NINE
CATHERINE BROUGHT GUY and Owen back to the Invercarn Chronicle.
They stood across the street from the building, and this close to the river, the air was filled with the smell of dirt and rust and damp. Catherine eyed the window to Ainsworth’s office. He seldom ventured outside of it during the workday, and he rarely visited the archive, which was where the old obituaries were kept.
Beside her, Guy took off his hat. “I’m not certain about this.”
Catherine couldn’t tell whether he was talking to her or to Owen. Perhaps both of them, though Owen didn’t appear too keen on this endeavor. He’d had to borrow more of Guy’s clothes, namely a dark coat and hat, which Guy had unearthed from a linen chest, taking a needle and thread to the torn seams before they set off.
Approaching the front door, Catherine asked, “Why do you say so, Mr. Nolan?”
“Well, we’ve no name, no date of birth, nor date of death. And I’ve got to head back to the shop around noon—I’ve clients coming by to pick up repairs.” He checked his pocket watch, marking the time.
“Can’t your father handle that?” Odd that she hadn’t seen him at breakfast.
“He left earlier this morning,” replied Guy. “He’s repairing someone’s
long-case clock across the city.”
“Well, I know my way around the archives. It shan’t take long,” Catherine said. “It’s worth a look, at the very least.”
Inside, she nodded to the employees who greeted her. She didn’t stop to make conversation, leading the boys up the staircase to the fourth floor. It was still, near silent, away from the clatter of print work. The archive was around the back of the building, a long stretch of space crowded with tables and cabinets, old prints and files stowed away for safekeeping. It was the newspaper’s own morgue.
The windows here were lined with soot and grime, the gray morning offering little illumination. Catherine set about lighting the lamps, the familiar task easing the knot of worry inside her.
“Is it all right that we’re in here?” asked Owen.
She turned around. He stood next to one of the tables by the door, as if too nervous to step any farther into the room. Guy, meanwhile, was already scrutinizing the cabinets, the labeled drawers with their brass knobs, scratches in the wood finish. He tried one of the drawers; the wood was swollen, stuck fast, and Guy winced at the scraping sound it made as he tugged it out. Looking back at Owen, Catherine said, “Of course. The Chronicle has kept archives since it was established, a decade or so before your passing. We get plenty of visitors wishing to look through the old records.”
Guy pushed up his glasses and flipped through the contents of the drawer. “Shall we each take a year? We can start with the papers printed twenty years ago and work forward from there.”
“That’s reasonable.” Catherine glanced over at Owen. “Mr. Smith?”
He pulled away from the table and made his way across the room. His face was ashen, his eyes shining bright as coins. A thought occurred to Catherine, and she told him, “You needn’t look yourself, if it pains you.”
“No,” he murmured. “It would take you and Mr. Nolan that much longer to go through it all. You’ve already done so much on my behalf—I truly am grateful.”
Catherine bit her lip. She was at once overwhelmed with pity, caught in the fear that there was nothing to find, whether it be Owen’s obituary or the timepiece. She set her fingertips to a cabinet drawer. She pulled it open, dust floating free.
They piled papers on a table and worked through them in a meticulous manner. By week, by month, by year. The obituaries were organized in narrow columns, and Catherine skimmed over the lines, wondering who’d set the type, who’d made the impressions. It was important work, the neatly printed pages telling of so many lives.
From the hallway came the sound of familiar footsteps. Catherine glanced up just as Spencer Carlyle opened the door, looking in at the three of them. “Catherine,” he said. “I thought I saw you come up here.”
She rose from her chair and headed over to him. He closed the door a little as he stepped inside. A nearby lamp on the wall cast light over his face, his blue eyes bright in the glow. “Why aren’t you downstairs?” he asked. And then: “Is something wrong?”
She swallowed hard. “Mr. Ainsworth thinks I’ve stolen from him, is all.”
Spencer frowned. “And why is that?”
Catherine set a hand on the door, shutting it the rest of the way. She spoke in a whisper. “You know the timepiece he’s been looking for? He was given information it was in the public cemetery. He sent me to retrieve it, but—it wasn’t there, Spencer.” She could hear her voice rising and took a slow, steadying breath. “He doesn’t believe me, so I have until the end of the day to hand it over, or he’ll turn me out of doors.” She stared at the light within the lamp. “It’s not nearly enough time to look. Even if I find it, perhaps he’ll want to get rid of me anyway, if he thinks I’m keeping it from him now.”
Spencer leaned back against the wall. “Do you wish me to speak with him?”
Her eyes flashed to his. Hope flared in her heart like a struck match. “Oh, Spencer, would you? I’d be much obliged.”
“I can’t say he’ll listen to me.” He peered around her, as if only now noticing Guy and Owen. “Who are they?”
“Friends of mine.” She looked over at their table. The boys sat across from each other, heads ducked, papers in front of them. “They wanted a look into the archives. We’ll put everything back in its place.”
Spencer said, “That’s Guy Nolan, isn’t it? I recognize him.”
“Yes. I asked him if he’d study the timepiece. I wanted… I wanted to know if the rumors about its magic were true.” Her gaze went to Owen, her insides twisting. She’d learned all too well of the timepiece’s enchantment, the rumors proven real.
Spencer let out a sigh. “I’ll talk to him, Catherine.”
“Thank you.”
He left, closing the door, and she started back across the room. Dust particles drifted in the air, caught in the lamplight, the spread of papers on the table marked with hard creases, ripped at the edges, pages worn so thin in parts they were made translucent. She took a seat beside Owen, and Guy looked up, questioning.
“That was Spencer Carlyle,” she told him. “He’s the foreman.”
“Ah.”
She reached for another paper, flipping to the obituaries. They passed some while in silence, before Guy asked, “Mr. Smith, how old do you suppose you are?”
Owen rubbed the back of his neck. In a tentative, hopeful tone, he said, “Eighteen?”
Catherine smiled down at her paper. She was seventeen, and he didn’t look any older than she was.
Guy didn’t mock his answer, but replied in all seriousness, “I just turned eighteen myself. I think you’re perhaps a little younger. Fifteen? Sixteen?”
“Perhaps,” said Owen quietly.
Catherine said, “Strictly speaking, Mr. Smith, you’re older than either of us.”
Guy nodded. “You’ve a point there, Miss Daly.” He looked down at the newspaper before him, tapping his fingers idly against the page. “There was a boy of fifteen years apprenticed to a wheelwright. He died after a short but severe illness—it says naught else.”
“They’re all rather short, aren’t they?” Owen replied. “It’s difficult to know for certain with only a line or two.” Lowering his gaze, he smoothed over the creases in the paper. “It would be a fine thing, I think, if someone who knew me wrote something kind after my passing.”
Catherine carefully folded the newspaper she held. They could spend the rest of the day here and find nothing. Owen was right: The death notices were often short, with too little information to substantiate the murder of a coffin maker. She was still no closer to discovering the timepiece—and her time was winding down.
“Perhaps we ought to depart,” she said.
Owen gathered together some of the papers. As he headed for the cabinets, Catherine made to follow, but stilled when Guy murmured, “A word, please, Miss Daly.”
She looked back at him. “What is it?”
His brown eyes were the color of dark tea behind his spectacles. His hair fell across his forehead, and he pushed it aside, his mouth a thin line of concern. “Is everything all right?” he asked. “This morning—and just now—” He leaned toward her, his voice dipping low. “Is something the matter?”
She cast her eyes down, studying the grain of the table, the knots in the wood. “Mr. Ainsworth thinks I’ve taken the timepiece.”
“What?”
“And he’ll turn me out if I don’t return with it by tonight. Mr. Carlyle said he’d try to reason with him, but…” She trailed off, running her fingertips along the table’s edge.
Guy blinked at her. “Well, now,” he said after a moment, “he hasn’t seen it before, has he?”
Catherine knew just what he meant and she didn’t like it. “Don’t be absurd.”
“It’s only a suggestion. We’ve plenty of old watches lying around the shop. If I gave you one, and you gave it to him, will he know it isn’t the one he’s after? I think there’s a chance he won’t.” His gaze drifted past her, and he stood up, placing a hand flat over hi
s waistcoat. “Mr. Smith, there you are. Grand.”
Owen pulled on his coat. “Will we be heading back to your flat now?” He clutched Guy’s cast-off hat in his gloved hands, looking between the two of them.
“Yes, let’s. You may even stay downstairs in the shop, if you like.”
Catherine tugged on her own coat. She smoothed back loose strands of her hair and tied her bonnet in place. She turned down the lamps, leaving the room in shadow.
CHAPTER TEN
OUT ON THE STREET, the sun shone through a gap in the cloud cover. It was close to midday, and a crowded omnibus rolled past them, the coach painted green and yellow, the horses’ hooves clicking against the cobbles. They started in the direction of the watchmaker’s shop, heading away from the river, to the narrow stretches of smaller streets, the dark alleys that cut between them. When they passed the way to the public cemetery, Catherine couldn’t help but glance back. It’d be wise to return before dark; if Owen was to stay with Guy, she ought to turn back and search the grounds alone.
Reaching the corner, Catherine spotted a young man sitting on the low front step of the Nolans’ shop. His hat was placed beside him, his blond hair a stark contrast to the green front of the building.
“Mr. Nolan,” she said, “who’s that on your step?”
Guy paused on the pavement. “Sydney Mallory.” Meeting her gaze, he added, “I believe I’ve mentioned him to you, Miss Daly.”
And Catherine realized who this person must be.
Sydney Mallory was the resurrectionist.
In that same moment, Sydney noticed them. Getting up from the step, he set his hat on his head and made his way over to them. “Guy!” he said. “I tried knocking—isn’t your father in? It hardly seems advantageous to close up every time you step out.” Though he looked to be the same age as Guy, he was a little taller, wearing a dark-gray overcoat. His blue eyes alit on Catherine, and he doffed his hat. “Good day, miss.”
Guy said, “Sydney, please meet Miss Daly. She’s a compositor at the Chronicle. Miss Daly, this is Sydney Mallory.”
