Magic Dark and Strange

by Kelly Powell

  Guy stepped away from the mantel. There were shadows beneath his eyes, accentuated by the firelight. “You were asleep, Mr. Smith.”

  “Is everything all right?” Owen asked. “Did you go to the cemetery?”

  “Yes.” Guy dragged a hand through his hair. “We didn’t manage to find the timepiece, unfortunately.”

  “We were just discussing Mr. Ainsworth,” said Catherine. Her gaze returned to her letter, the sweep of her cursive across the page. “I’ll head to the print shop in the morning and see what I can find out.”

  Owen said, “Good night, then.” He rubbed at his eyes and curled his other hand around the doorframe. “You both ought to get some sleep.”

  He went back down the hall, the bedroom door closing, and Guy came over to the table. His voice was almost a whisper as he said, “Are you still writing your letter?”

  “I’m almost finished.” Catherine looked up at him. “Guy—what will you do?”

  He seemed to know what she meant. He let out a sigh and lowered his gaze, his fingers tracing the dark knots in the table. “I’ll figure something out. Perhaps we can open the shop for longer hours.”

  “You should rest,” she told him. “I’ll head downstairs in a moment.”

  He looked at her. “I’m not all that tired,” he said, and smiled.

  He returned to the fireplace, nudged the logs with his poker, then picked up a slim brown book from the small pile of volumes on the mantelpiece. He dropped into the flowered armchair, and for a moment, Catherine looked over his tousled hair, the curve of his shoulder, watching as he slid his reading glasses onto his nose. She went back to her letter, and sitting there in Guy’s company, she felt a quiet calm, easing her heart a little of her worries.

  Once she finished writing, she sealed the letter in an envelope. She rose from her chair, took hold of the candle, and Guy set down his book, glancing up at her. He stood and clasped his hands behind his back. “Thank you again for coming along tonight,” he said.

  Catherine tilted her head to the side. “I ought to be thanking you. We’re going back there, aren’t we? We didn’t search all of the church.”

  “Indeed. There was quite a bit of debris about the place from what I could tell. It looked ghostly.”

  The shop clocks began to chime the hour. The sound of the tolling eerily underlined Guy’s words, and they both smiled, laughing softly. Catherine’s candlelight reflected in his spectacles, a small, wavering glow. She cleared her throat as the last of the chimes fell silent, her voice coming out as a whisper. “Good night, Guy.”

  Still smiling, he said, “Good night.”

  Catherine left the kitchen, holding her candle aloft, and made her way downstairs.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CATHERINE READIED HERSELF for the day in near darkness. She lit the lamp in the back room and dressed in a flurry, pulling on her stockings and boots, tying her corset and petticoats over her chemise, slipping into her dress. She met Guy and Owen for breakfast with her face scrubbed clean and her hair pinned tightly.

  “Will you be heading to the park, Mr. Smith?” she asked.

  He shook his head, fidgeting with his teacup. “I think I’ll ask around about an apprenticeship.”

  Meeting Catherine’s gaze, Guy said, “I’ll come by the print shop later. We can go to the chemist’s together.”

  Catherine nodded. She ate a few bites of toast and drank some tea, even as her stomach knotted in apprehension. It was possible Boyd wouldn’t give her a job. It was possible he had poisoned Ainsworth.

  She and Owen bundled into their coats and hats, setting off down the street. After some minutes, Owen said, “You don’t look too keen on this, Miss Daly.”

  Catherine gave a little, choked laugh, the sound catching in her throat. “I suppose I’m not. Mr. Boyd may very well be a killer.”

  “Or,” said Owen, “he may be a perfectly kind and considerate employer.”

  “Well, yes, I’d much prefer that.”

  They reached the Invercarn Chronicle, and it was as though Catherine was seeing it anew. She hadn’t truly realized how dark the brickwork was, the grime that blotted the edges of the windowpanes, the soot-covered chimney tops. She could see the place that was once Ainsworth’s office, up on the fourth floor. The curtains were pulled across the window. Everything appeared still.

  “Take care, please, Miss Daly,” Owen said.

  Before all this had started, Bridget had spoken similar words.

  Be careful, won’t you, Catherine?

  “I will,” she told Owen now. “You take care too.”

  Inside the shop, the print floor looked the same as ever. It was too early for anyone to be at work, and the presses shone clean, the desks tidied, the row of type cabinets neat and orderly beside one another. She took to the stairs, heading up to the third floor. Easing open the door to her former room, she found Bridget fast asleep. She lit a candle and said, “Bridget. Bridget, wake up.”

  Bridget’s eyes blinked open, squinting in the candlelight. “Catherine.” She sat up against the headboard, wide-awake in an instant. “Spencer told me what happened. Are you all right? Have you come back? Mr. Boyd will surely let you work here again.”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.” Catherine sat at the desk chair. “What about the farewell service? He’s not continuing with that, is he?”

  “No. No, that’s quite in the past, he said. It’s only print work.”

  Catherine’s gaze flicked to the candle atop the desk. The flame twisted and sputtered, stirred by her breath. “Has he said anything of Mr. Ainsworth’s death? The cause of it?”

  When Bridget didn’t answer, Catherine looked back at her. She was wringing her hands, brow furrowed. Strands of her pale hair had loosened from her plait in the night, curling about her face. Finally, she said, “Mr. Boyd hasn’t spoken much of it. I don’t suppose he cares to dwell on such dreadfulness. But Spencer told me the police believe he died of apoplexy.”

  Catherine frowned. “What does that mean?”

  “Sudden death,” whispered Bridget. “They say he was bleeding on the inside.”

  Could poison do such a thing? Catherine felt at once entirely out of her depth.

  “I heard he had you searching for that timepiece,” Bridget said, still in quiet tones. “It wasn’t right, what he did.”

  Rubbing at her temple, Catherine murmured, “I never did find it. The timepiece.”

  “No one will, Catherine. It’s only a tale.”

  Catherine got up, smoothing out her skirts without meeting Bridget’s eye. The timepiece was far from a tale—that much she knew. It was magic that had brought Owen back to life. “I’m going to wait for Mr. Boyd downstairs. I’m sorry for waking you.”

  Bridget reached out, clasping one of Catherine’s hands in hers. “Don’t apologize for that. I was worried—I hadn’t any idea where you went.” She tilted her head. “Where did you go?”

  Catherine hesitated, then wondered why she did. There was no harm in telling Bridget of her time spent at the watchmaker’s shop. She’d already told Spencer about asking for Guy’s help. And yet something had changed. Now the way before her felt perilous; things she didn’t think to be secrets became so.

  Owen’s voice echoed in her mind. Take care.

  “Here and there,” Catherine replied lightly. “I’ll let you know what Mr. Boyd says.”

  Back downstairs, she wandered along the lines of presses. She remembered learning how to set type, how to lock it into a chase with furniture and quoins. It was fine work, a good wage.

  She went to her desk, but it was clear of notes. There was nothing to mark her presence, not here nor in her room. Her belongings were still packed away in her trunk in the Nolans’ flat.

  The shop door opened, the bell above it chiming.

  “Hello there.” The voice was mild, pleasant, and Catherine turned to find Boyd at the front entrance. He doffed his hat, removed his overcoat, hanging both on the rack.


  “Good morning, Mr. Boyd.” Catherine folded her hands in front of her. “I’ve been wanting to speak with you. I’m Miss Catherine Daly.”

  “Miss Daly, yes.” Boyd smiled. “Mr. Carlyle made mention of you.” He started toward the desks, gesturing for her to follow. “I was rather hoping you’d return. Most intriguing, your story.”

  Interestingly, he didn’t lead her upstairs to what was previously Ainsworth’s office. Instead, he went to the back office on the print floor, a place Catherine regarded as Spencer’s during the workday. Boyd answered her confusion, saying, “I’m afraid neither myself nor Mr. Carlyle wish to make use of the upstairs office for the time being. This is not how I imagined beginning my proprietorship, but lo! Here we are. Good gracious. Take a seat, please, Miss Daly.” He settled behind the desk, and Catherine sat in the chair in front of it.

  “Mr. Boyd, I’m not sure what Mr. Carlyle has told you about—about my dismissal.”

  “Oh, the whole of it, I believe.” He leaned back in his chair, his smile knowing. “I’m quite aware of the fact you don’t have the timepiece Mr. Ainsworth was after. I certainly doubt you would be here if you did.”

  “I don’t, sir.” Catherine held his gaze, bracing herself. “I only want to return to my work as a compositor. I did a fair job in Mr. Ainsworth’s employ.”

  “Yes, Mr. Carlyle has assured me of your proficiency. You’re most welcome back to your position, Miss Daly. I’ve enough to manage at the moment without looking for another to take your place.”

  They were the words she’d hoped to hear, but they didn’t ease her disquiet. Had Boyd been in Ainsworth’s office when he died? Had he smiled just as he smiled at her now?

  Catherine inclined her head. “Thank you, sir,” she said, grateful when her voice remained steady. “I’m much obliged.”

  “I should be thanking you, Miss Daly. I’m glad you wish to come back after what occurred.” He eyed a pile of papers set to one side of the desk before returning his attention to her. “I won’t be carrying on the farewell service this establishment offered under Mr. Ainsworth’s management. I assume that’s agreeable to you?”

  She nodded.

  Boyd went on. “I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but the way he conducted business was entirely wrong. I very much want to do better by all of you employed here.”

  Catherine did not know if he truly meant it. All the same, she replied, “That’s gracious of you, sir.”

  Outside the office door, there was movement—the scrape of chairs, the shuffling of paper. Boyd stood up to show her out. “I’ll give you the day to get things in order,” he said. “But I’ll expect you at work tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes. Thank you again, Mr. Boyd.”

  She hurried upstairs to tell Bridget the news. And after Bridget went down to the print shop, Catherine stayed in their room for a time. She sat at the desk, looking over the loose bits of paper, the collection of inkpots—most of them nearly empty—and the tidy arrangement of pens. She reached across and cracked open the window, letting in some fresh air, watching the sway of the lace curtains in the breeze. The open window also let in the noise of the waking city. People called to one another on the street, and coach wheels clattered over the cobbles.

  Catherine leaned forward, gazing at the sleek black tops of passing carriages, gentlemen crossing the road dressed in fine cloaks and silk hats. She caught sight of a familiar young man as he came into view, walking down the opposite sidewalk. He held a newspaper in his gloved hands, his head bent as he read. He seemed so absorbed by whatever was on the page, he passed right by the print shop. A laugh escaped her as, a few minutes later, he reappeared, having doubled back.

  Guy Nolan stopped in front of the Chronicle. He peered up at the windows, and Catherine pulled her own window shut, grinning as she made her way down to meet him.

  He crossed the street in all swiftness when he saw her.

  “Did you speak with Mr. Boyd?”

  “Yes. He’s expecting me back tomorrow to start work.”

  Guy smiled, but the next instant, his expression turned worried. “That’s good,” he said. “I mean, isn’t it? If he’s not a murderer, that is.”

  “If he’s not a murderer,” Catherine echoed. She nodded to the paper he carried. “Why’ve you brought that?”

  His smile returned, his eyes lighting up behind his spectacles. “I wanted to show you.” He flipped the newspaper to the advertisements. “I purchased it a couple of weeks ago, before”—he made a sweeping gesture with one hand—“all this happened.”

  Catherine studied the page.

  In a small section was an advertisement for the watchmaker’s shop:

  H. Nolan & Son

  WATCH REPAIR

  Exact and ready attention will be paid to all kinds of Watches and Clocks. Shop at 20 Oak Street.

  Guy said, “Isn’t it fine? What brilliant timing. This is just what we need.”

  Catherine looked up at him. “It’s lovely. Well printed and concise.”

  “Yes, I thought so.” Guy’s cheeks flushed pink. He tucked the newspaper into his coat, offering her his arm as they started away from the print shop. “So, pray tell, what did you find out? Does anyone know the cause of Mr. Ainsworth’s death?”

  “Apparently he was bleeding on the inside.”

  Guy gave a shudder. “That sounds unpleasant,” he remarked.

  “Perhaps there’s some poison capable of doing that. I really do think we ought to go to the morgue, Guy.”

  “We can go there,” he said, “but I’m not certain we’ll get any answers.”

  * * *

  They first paid a visit to the chemist’s shop.

  Guy doffed his hat, opening the door. Inside, wall-to-wall shelves were laden with glass jars and bottles. An elderly lady was making a purchase at the counter. While they waited, Catherine asked, “What do you need in here?”

  “My father’s medicine. It helps him sleep.”

  Catherine looked about at the medicines: small, neat labels on the vials, bottles with cork stoppers, cloth-covered jars. They crowded the countertop as well as the shelves, glass catching the light of the lamps. Dust drifted in the air, but the counter was quite clear of it, the dark wood polished. The man standing behind it was gray-haired, his forehead lined with deep wrinkles. As the lady left the shop, the man glanced to Guy. He turned back to the shelves, fetching a vial and setting it on the counter without Guy needing to ask for it. The glass clicked against the varnished wood.

  “Thank you, Mr. Brooke,” said Guy, taking coins from his pocket.

  “Sir,” Catherine started, “this may seem an odd question, but could any medicines here bring about apoplexy?”

  Brooke’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed, an odd question. Why are you concerned about such a thing?”

  “Apologies, sir.” Catherine shook her head. “I was only curious.”

  She and Guy left the shop, stepping back outside, and Guy patted the pocket that held his father’s medicine. He said, “This whole thing gives me the shivers. Mr. Smith’s murderer could still be alive and well, for all we know. It could even be the same person.”

  “It’s possible.”

  Guy was quiet for a moment. “I can’t help but wonder,” he said, “if more dreadfulness is yet to happen, if we’ve only just stepped into the dark.” He brought a hand to his heart. “It’s like a shadow hanging over me, and I don’t much care for it.”

  * * *

  The city hospital was a two-story building of gray stone and brick near the university. The front gates opened into a courtyard, and a few carriages were stationed outside the carriage house. Catherine gazed up at the sash windows as they headed for the entrance. Once they were inside, the double doors swung shut behind them with an ominous thud.

  “Which way to the morgue, do you think?” asked Guy.

  There was no sign of where it might be located. Catherine started down a dimly lit hall, noting the rooms that lay beyond the doo
rs. In most, there were rows of simple iron beds, doctors tending to patients. They ended up circling back, trying another hallway, before they happened upon the marked room for the mortuary.

  Guy tried the door. It was locked.

  He said, “Do you suppose we should just wait until someone comes along?”

  Catherine peered through the glass set into the door. Whereas other rooms in the hospital held neatly made beds, the morgue contained only a row of metal tables, the bodies atop them covered in white sheets. The lamps burned brightly in their wall brackets, illuminating instruments on the counters, a washstand and basin.

  “Catherine,” Guy whispered urgently. Then, sounding overly cheerful, he said, “Good day, sir.”

  Catherine turned around in a hurry. A young man made his way toward them, his expression guarded. He looked to be about twenty or so, perhaps one of the attendants. He said, “Good day. Can I help you with something?”

  “Yes,” said Catherine. “My late employer, Jonathan Ainsworth—is he here?”

  “Ainsworth?” There was a flash of something in his expression, a spark to his gaze. “No, I’m afraid not, miss. The examiner already signed off on his report.”

  “What was the cause of his death? Do you know it?”

  The attendant came over to where they stood. “We detected arsenic in his stomach,” he said after a pause. He glanced past Catherine to the mortuary door. “It can be mistaken for apoplexy, or cholera. The quantity would’ve killed him quickly, similar to apoplexy.”

  Catherine felt her insides twist. “Arsenic?”

  “Do the police know?” Guy asked.

  “They have the report, yes.”

  Catherine’s heart hammered. She saw again the shattered teacup on the floor, the blank stare of Ainsworth’s gaze.

  Neither she nor Guy spoke until they were back outside the hospital. Standing in the courtyard, Guy said, “It’s not the way Mr. Smith was murdered, if his dream was indeed a memory.”

  “I don’t think it’s the same killer.” Catherine turned to him, dread working through her veins. “It’s likely someone at the print shop poisoned Mr. Ainsworth.”