by Kelly Powell
“Miss Daly.” Guy’s voice was gentle. They came to a stop along the river’s edge, and Catherine set a hand upon the parapet wall, the coolness of the damp stone seeping through her glove. She looked up at Guy’s face, at his dark eyes, his kind expression. He asked forthrightly, “What do you want to do?”
She closed her eyes for an instant, taking a breath. “I need to find out what happened to him, Mr. Nolan. If it’s connected in any way to the timepiece, we can’t let Mr. Smith be caught up in it.”
Guy nodded. He looked out over the river. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.” Yet there was a certain strain to his voice, and she could tell something else was weighing on his mind. When he placed his hand on the parapet next to hers, Catherine almost took hold of it.
She said, “I know you’re going to the cemetery tonight with Mr. Mallory. Let me come with you.”
“Thank you,” he said softly. “I’d like that.”
They walked on, heading for the watchmaker’s shop. Guy stopped at a small bakery, and Catherine welcomed the warmth of it, breathing in the smell of fresh bread, the sweetness of the cakes. They waited their turn at the counter, and she asked, “Is your father at the shop?”
“Yes. And Mr. Smith is upstairs.” He turned toward her. “Will you tell Mr. Smith… about Mr. Ainsworth?”
“It won’t do any good to keep it from him. I believe we’ve enough trouble already, enough secrets, without adding to the pile.”
Guy’s mouth quirked. “That’s the truth.”
He bought a loaf of bread, wrapped it in cloth, and tucked it under his arm. He offered his other arm to Catherine as they stepped back out onto the street. “Sydney will be coming by after dark,” he said. “You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you? I’ll tell my father I’ve invited you and Mr. Smith. It’s not often we entertain guests. I think it’ll do us all good.” He smiled at her, slight but real. “What do you think, Miss Daly?”
“I think that sounds lovely.” And she held on to his arm a little tighter.
* * *
Dinner at the Nolans’ was conducted much the same way as it was back at her family home. Catherine sat beside Owen, across from Guy’s father, and she thought again how similar Guy was to Henry, their shared mannerisms. They both gestured with their fork as they talked and leaned back in their chair when they laughed. Catherine missed her parents greatly in that moment, a familiar ache lodging in her heart. She felt a stab of envy, too—how fortunate Guy was he needn’t work elsewhere—but that wasn’t fair. Guy and Henry were without the rest of their family. Catherine couldn’t imagine what it must’ve been like for Guy’s father to lose a wife and two sons in one fell swoop.
Henry retired to bed, and Catherine, Guy, and Owen went down to the shop, into the back room. It was there Catherine told Owen of Ainsworth’s demise.
“And you think it has something to do with the timepiece?” Owen asked. He sat next to her on the sofa, his eyes wide as he regarded her.
“It makes the most sense,” said Catherine. She looked to Guy, sitting in his chair at the worktable. “But we’ll find out for certain.”
“If someone poisoned him,” Guy started, “that person could be at the print shop.”
Catherine swallowed. “I know.”
She didn’t want to think on it, but it was too glaring to overlook. She wondered about Boyd as well, imagining him sitting in Ainsworth’s office, slipping poison into Ainsworth’s tea. He’d gotten ownership of his business—perhaps he knew Ainsworth was in search of the timepiece and wanted the device along with the newspaper.
Guy shifted in his chair. Under the lamplight, he arranged things on the desk, straightening the collection of tools. He said, “Mr. Smith, you might want to head upstairs. Sydney will be here momentarily.”
Owen stood up. “I can… I can come along if you need me to.”
“That’s all right.” Guy smiled. “Miss Daly will be going with us.”
Owen’s shoulders sagged in obvious relief. He bade them good night, leaving the room just as the clocks chimed in the shop.
Guy began rummaging through one of the desk drawers. He took out an old pocket watch, turned it about in his hand, and nodded to himself, placing it on the tabletop.
“Are you quite set on this, Mr. Nolan?”
“Yes.” His eyes shone in the dim light. “I know how it’s done. I’ve seen my father put hours into watches.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Catherine leaned forward. She held his gaze, her hands clasped tight in front of her. “I meant this course of action. Are you quite decided?”
He cast his eyes down to study the floor. “I told you,” he said, and his voice shook. “This is what I have to do. At least… at least for tonight. I agreed to it.” He glanced up at her. “I keep my word, Miss Daly.”
“Very well, then. If you insist on being honorable.”
A knock sounded at the shop entrance. Guy picked up the watch he’d set aside, a small winding key, and a lantern. Catherine followed him out of the back room, taking her coat from the rack as he pulled open the door.
Sydney Mallory was without a spade, and no cart waited on the street. Catherine supposed they were already at the cemetery. He doffed his hat. “Good evening,” he said. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” said Guy.
They headed outside, to where the lamppost in front of the shop glowed, hissing softly, and plumes of factory smoke rose up into the night. Guy closed the door behind him, locking it. And they started off in the direction of the public cemetery.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CATHERINE AND GUY WALKED after Sydney as they made their way through town. Few other pedestrians were about, but a number of carriages clipped by on the road. Light still shone from the windows of terraced houses, the narrow alleyways left in shadow.
To Guy, Catherine said, “We ought to try looking in the old church.”
“I agree. Once I… When I still time, we can search.”
At the cemetery, a horse and cart were stopped at the sidewalk’s edge. Two young men sat on the back of the cart, but upon catching sight of them, the pair stood and took up spades and a bundle of canvas cloth before disappearing through the gates.
Sydney came to a standstill at the cart. “You’d best do it now, Guy.”
“How much time do you need?”
Head tilted, Sydney considered him. “About two hours. Three would be better.”
“For five people…” Guy bit at his bottom lip. “That’s fifteen hours.”
“Can you manage it or not?”
Guy looked away, lighting his lantern, setting it down on the cart. He placed the watch and winding key next to it, then put on his glasses, removed a sewing needle from his coat pocket, and pricked the skin of his palm. “Just give me a moment.”
He smeared a bit of blood on the back of the pocket watch. After cleaning his palm with a handkerchief, he fit the winding key into the case to wind the mainspring. He closed his eyes, turning the key, the mechanism clicking softly.
The familiar sounds of the city continued on, but Catherine could imagine, almost sense, the magic drawing around them, pulling close. Three hours, suspended, outside of time. Fifteen hours of Guy’s memories.
Silence fell as he pulled the key from the watch. It was a peculiar stillness, an unsettling solitude. The wind ceased, the nearby streetlight no longer flickered. A little ways down the road, a carriage was halted, motionless, horses arrested midstep. Disconcertingly, Guy’s watch kept ticking; he stared down at it with a dazed expression.
“I was worried I wouldn’t do it right,” he murmured.
Sydney asked, “Do we have three hours?” And when Guy nodded, he clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll have your payment to you first thing tomorrow.” Lighting another lantern, he lifted a spade from the cart, heading off into the darkness of the cemetery.
Guy took off his spectacles. Lantern light glanced over his features as he tucked the watch and winding ke
y back into his pocket. Turning, he looked up and down the street. “Gracious,” he said. “This is strange, isn’t it?”
Catherine eyed him. “Are you all right?”
“A little dizzy,” he admitted. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Yes, you mentioned so.”
He picked up his lantern, using it to gesture toward the gates. “Shall we?”
Yet as they reached them, Guy paused beneath the stone arch. “Miss Daly, wait.” His voice was strange, distant. He put the lantern on the ground, and with his other hand, he grabbed hold of the gate. He leaned against it, his temple pressed to the iron bar.
“Mr. Nolan?”
“I don’t feel well,” he whispered.
A moment later he collapsed, landing in the dirt. The watch slid out of his coat pocket, clacking against the base of the lantern.
Catherine’s heart knocked against her rib cage. She knelt beside him, bringing a hand to his shoulder. “Mr. Nolan,” she said, frantic. “Mr. Nolan.”
He let out a groan and rolled onto his side, his eyes fluttering open. His face was peaky-looking, colorless, but he sat up, his back against the gate. He gazed down at his muddied clothes, his mouth a thin, unhappy line.
“You’re not all right,” said Catherine.
Fifteen hours of memory. It was little wonder he’d collapsed. Whenever Catherine had made use of magic, she’d given up only an hour at a time.
He swallowed. “I’ll be fine.”
She helped him to his feet. Putting the watch into her own pocket, she raised Guy’s lantern, peering ahead of them. Sydney was nowhere to be seen, but the night was clouded, and shadows lay thick over the grounds.
She wanted to suggest she search alone, to let Guy rest. Before she could, he held out his hand for the lantern. “We mustn’t waste this time, Miss Daly. Let’s have a look in the church.”
They started on the path in that direction. The lantern’s light cast a pale glow over the dirt trail, illuminating gnarled tree roots and the etchings on gravestones.
Ainsworth’s body was likely spending the night in the hospital morgue. He’d be buried within a vault or under a table tombstone, guarded in Rose Hill from those set on disinterment.
In the near distance, the great heap of the ruins loomed above the graves. It seemed entirely possible that the timepiece could be hidden somewhere inside, away from the prying eyes of resurrection men and cemetery guards.
Guy led the way in, his light a small spot of brightness in the cavernous space. Dry leaves crunched beneath their boots, the smell of damp stone permeating the air. Catherine looked to Guy. “How are you feeling?”
“Well, I’ve no memory of what I don’t remember.” He met her gaze, his face unreadable in the dim. “The memories I’ve lost—I don’t know what they were. Though I suppose that’s the very nature of losing them.”
“I imagine Mr. Smith feels much the same.” It was one thing to lose time off her distant future, when she hadn’t the knowledge of how long she’d be on this earth. The idea of losing pieces and moments from her past chilled her to the marrow.
Guy’s light passed over a stairwell. The stone steps were set in a curve, likely leading to the tower.
Catherine said softly, “Might we try up there?”
The way was narrow and dark as pitch. Guy started up first, saying, “Hold on to my coat,” and Catherine did so, placing her other hand on the wall to steady herself. At the top, they found an empty room. There were no parts left from the bells, the windows without slats. The view must’ve been splendid in the day, but now there was only the river, black and glinting, and the burn of streetlamps between buildings.
Guy raised his lantern, the light catching upon the threads of cobwebs, cracks in the stone, but no timepiece. Catherine took the watch from her pocket, studying the dull silver of the hour and minute hands.
“We can’t stay here much longer,” she said.
Back downstairs, they stood at the foot of the stairs. Guy held his lantern at his side, peering farther into the hollowed-out church. “I wonder,” he said, “if Mr. Smith came back here, whether he might recall something.”
Catherine’s eyebrows pinched together. “How do you mean?”
“What if he was the one to hide the timepiece, Miss Daly?”
It was a possibility she hadn’t considered, one she didn’t much care to dwell on. If Owen had hidden the timepiece, he’d surely known of its magic.
“I don’t know,” she said. “We could… we could ask him to come along, I suppose.”
Outside the church walls, there came the sound of footsteps. Sydney Mallory appeared in the doorway, a tall silhouette, his spade rested against his shoulder. “We’ll be heading off,” he told them. “I suggest you do the same. You don’t want the watchmen finding you here.”
Guy shifted his lantern from one hand to the other. His expression as he regarded Sydney was weary. He said only, “Good night, Sydney.”
Sydney took his leave, and the stillness of the night encircled them once more. Catherine reached for the watch in her pocket. The metal was warm to the touch, the ticking faint but audible. When Guy remained silent, she said, “Should we start back?”
“Yes,” he murmured.
They walked out of the church, through the cemetery, past the front gates. With lamplight to mark the rest of the way, Guy put out his lantern. There were streaks of mud on his coat and over his boots. Catherine remembered his pocket watch and offered it to him. “Here you are, Mr. Nolan.”
He glanced over, his eyes glittering in the dim. It took her a moment to realize he was crying. “Mr. Nolan,” she said, “whatever is the matter?”
Guy took the watch in his hand, letting out a hitched breath. “What I did tonight was neither good nor honorable. I’ve used magic when my father told me I oughtn’t. I’ve lied to him. I thought… I thought I could put things right. I thought this was the way.” He scrubbed at his eyes, his voice wavering as he continued. “Is this what my mother would have me do? My brothers? I think not.”
“Mr. Nolan.” Catherine put a gloved hand over his, the one holding the watch. “You’re doing your best. That’s all we can ever do.”
He pulled away. Closing his eyes, he ducked his head, tears slipping down his face. “I don’t know what to do, Miss Daly.” He sniffed. “I—I don’t—”
They both startled as the city’s stillness shattered around them. It was far from the bustle of midday, but the preceding silence made everything seem louder than it was. The wind gusted, the streetlamp hissed, carriage wheels squeaked and bumped over the cobbles. Time went on, and so did the people, carried by the tide of it.
Guy wiped at his face with his coat sleeve. “I need to get home,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “Will you—are you coming along, Miss Daly?”
She nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak in that moment.
They walked toward the watchmaker’s, passing other rows of shops. Cheery light emanated from some of the flats above, but at this hour, most of the windows were dark, lace curtains drawn across them for the night. Awnings were pulled down, CLOSED signs upon the doors.
Quietly, Guy said, “Are you going back to the Chronicle tomorrow?”
“Yes. I’m to meet Mr. Boyd, the new proprietor.” Catherine fidgeted with the ties of her bonnet. “Might I have some paper when we get in? I’d like to write to my family.”
“Certainly.” After a pause, he added, even quieter, “I’d like to hear more about them, if you’re inclined to tell me.”
And so she did. She spoke of her mother and father, how good and kind they were. She recalled times when she and John and Anne had rolled down wet hills in the rain, when they’d fallen asleep in the fields on summer nights. A lump rose in the back of her throat, her vision blurring as they neared the green front of the watchmaker’s shop. At the front step, Guy looked to her, and his eyes widened. “Apologies,” he said. “I’ve upset you.”
Catherin
e smiled even as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. “No, no. You’re quite all right, Mr. Nolan.”
He turned away. Bringing a hand to the door, he picked at a flake of peeling green paint. He said something, but she didn’t catch what it was.
“Pardon?”
“I said you may call me Guy, if you like.” In the lamplight, she saw the flush of pink across his face. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“In that case,” she said, voice soft, “you must call me Catherine.”
Guy smiled at her, his eyes bright. He said, “Catherine,” as if only for the sake of it, the delight of doing so.
She grinned back. “Yes, Guy?”
He ducked his head, blushing still, and took out his key. “I’ll fetch you some paper,” he said, opening the door.
They sat together in the kitchen as she wrote her letter.
Tending to the fire, Guy said, “I plan on going to the chemist’s tomorrow.”
Catherine paused in her writing. A lit candle before her on the table cast warm light over the still wet ink. She said, “There’s medicines that might be used as poisons. If we made inquiries—if anyone from the print shop bought something of such a nature, that would help greatly in narrowing down suspects.”
“We need to determine what sort of poison was used,” said Guy. He set down the poker, leaning an arm against the mantelpiece. “There’s plenty of things that can work as a poison. If indeed Mr. Ainsworth was poisoned. Are you quite certain?”
Catherine put aside her pen. “I think his body will be in the hospital morgue.”
Understanding flashed in Guy’s eyes. “Miss Daly,” he said. “Catherine, I’m not sure anyone there would tell us anything.”
“How else are we to get answers?”
From down the hall, a door cracked open. Footsteps sounded on the floorboards, and Owen appeared in the kitchen doorway. “You might’ve told me you were in.”
