Magic Dark and Strange

by Kelly Powell

  A sharp gust of wind lifted the fallen leaves off the ground. They tumbled over the cobbles, fetching up against the carriage house. Catherine pulled her coat close. “When I return tomorrow,” she said, “I’m going to search.”

  “For arsenic? Catherine, you can’t be caught poking around. If whoever did this knows you suspect something, I can’t imagine they’ll be pleased.”

  She started for the front gates. Just down the street, there were the university buildings, weather-darkened and imposing, their clay chimney pots set against the overcast sky.

  Guy fell into step beside her. “Where are we going?”

  “I’d like to pay a call on Mr. Williams,” she said. “I saw Mr. Boyd at the university the other day. I want to know what he was doing there.”

  “You suppose he’s after the timepiece as well?”

  “When I spoke to him, he said he knew I didn’t have it.” Catherine ducked her head against the wind. “He may have said that because he knows it’s still out there. Perhaps he discovered where it might be from someone at the university.”

  “Mr. Williams didn’t seem very knowledgeable on the subject,” Guy put in.

  They reached the same building Sydney had brought them to. Up on the fourth floor, Catherine knocked on Francis’s door, and this time, he answered.

  “Well, hello,” he said. “Miss Daly, yes? And Mr. Nolan?”

  Catherine smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Williams.”

  He was dressed tidily—his shirt collar starched, his trousers pressed—but he also looked like he’d been up half the night and then some. “What can I do for you? Is Mr. Mallory here?”

  “No, it’s only us,” said Catherine. “May we come in?”

  Francis scratched the back of his neck, his expression more than a little puzzled. “Of course,” he said, his tone well mannered despite his bewilderment. “Would you like tea?”

  Guy had been gazing down the hall, but now he looked over and said, “Yes, thank you.”

  They settled in chairs around the fireplace, the flames flickering in the grate. Catherine felt cold nonetheless; she hadn’t taken off her coat. Fear had burrowed into her heart like a splinter. “Mr. Williams,” she said, “last time we were here, I noticed Mr. Boyd from the Journal. Are you acquainted with him?”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Boyd. He’s a fine fellow, I think.”

  Catherine clutched her teacup. “Do you know what he was doing here? Was he asking about the timepiece?”

  Francis tipped his head to the side, regarding her. “Still looking for it, are you?”

  “Mr. Ainsworth, my former employer, wished to find it. Now he’s dead. Someone poisoned him.”

  His eyes widened a little. “Poisoned? How so?”

  “We’ve just come from the hospital. An attendant there told us it was arsenic.” Catherine didn’t look away from him. “Was Mr. Boyd inquiring about the timepiece or not, Mr. Williams?”

  “I don’t believe so,” he replied. “But he was—about a fortnight ago. There was word going around it was buried in an unmarked plot.”

  Catherine sat back in her chair. When she closed her eyes, she saw Owen as he looked in the cemetery, pale-faced, standing at the edge of his grave.

  “What about Mr. Ainsworth? You said he was here the other day.”

  Francis frowned. “Mr. Ainsworth? I haven’t seen him in some time.”

  Catherine lowered her teacup, narrowing her eyes. “You mentioned a man from the Chronicle was asking around about the timepiece.”

  “Oh, but not Mr. Ainsworth.” Francis’s gaze shifted to the fire as he took up the poker. Shadows flitted across his face. “I can’t recall his name now. I thought he was a student.”

  Catherine shared a look with Guy. His eyes met hers, dark and wondering, but Catherine could venture a guess as to who Francis meant. “Mr. Carlyle?” she said.

  “Ah, yes.” Francis smiled, placing the poker back against the wall. “That might’ve been it. As I said, I didn’t speak to him myself.”

  Catherine pressed her lips thin, staring into her tea. Spencer could’ve been on an errand for Ainsworth, but if so, she wondered why he hadn’t told her of it.

  In the chair next to her, Guy said, “Thank you, Mr. Williams.” Turning toward Catherine, his voice quieted, rising softly in a question. “Shall we be on our way?”

  But when they got outside, they were met with rain falling in sheets. The two of them waited beneath the entranceway, watching it pour down across the curve of stone above their heads. The courtyard was already miry, marked with puddles, the sight to the road a blur of gray, rain striking the wrought-iron fence in the distance.

  “It’ll let up in a moment,” Guy said. He held his hat at his side, and his hair was tangled, made wavy by the damp air. He pushed a lock of it out of his eyes, looking over at her. “Are you all right?”

  Catherine put her hands in her coat pockets. “I don’t know why Spencer would be asking about the timepiece. Unless he was asking on Mr. Ainsworth’s behalf.” She gazed out at the rain, and the steadiness of it, however battering, calmed her nerves. This was the way it rained back home, too—consistent and relentless in the colder months.

  Guy said, “Are we going to the cemetery tonight? We’ve yet to ask Mr. Smith.”

  “And what are we to do if he does remember? If he did hide the timepiece?”

  “Then we’ll know,” Guy said simply. “And if he did not, it’s possible he might remember who did.” He surveyed the way ahead of them, his expression creasing in concern. “I do hope he’s not caught in this rain.”

  They fell silent, waiting, both of them looking out from the shadows of the arch. Guy stood near to her, near enough Catherine felt the brush of his arm against hers. The sound of carriages on the street was muffled by the pounding rain, and the world seemed small, close, just she and Guy in the slate-gray November morning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  IT WAS MIDAFTERNOON by the time Catherine and Guy made it through the rain to the watchmaker’s shop. In the back room, Guy sat at the worktable, carefully piecing a pocket watch together after having cleaned it. Catherine sat on the sofa behind him, wishing she could piece together what she’d learned at the morgue with what she was still missing as easily as Guy could reassemble watches.

  Henry Nolan was upstairs in the flat, but at times he came down to the shop. He polished the clocks or looked in on them, considering Guy’s work. Catherine understood little of the conversation when the two discussed watch repair, but she liked listening all the same. It was always pleasing, she thought, to see someone doing what they did best, how it steadied them, the light in their eyes. She knew Guy enjoyed his trade, enjoyed it as she did hers. It was evident in the carefulness of his hands, the earnestness in his voice.

  Henry didn’t seem to mind her being there, either. He brought her tea, smiled at her, and Catherine was reminded of her own father making her tea in the mornings.

  Owen had yet to return. When Catherine noted his absence, Guy said, “He’s likely going about shops all over the city. Someone will take him on eventually, I’m sure.”

  “Certainly so,” replied Catherine.

  Guy adjusted the magnifying loupe he wore over his spectacles. The watch was secured in a movement holder beneath the glow of his lamp, light shining through its emerald glass shade. “I wonder if he might be interested in watchmaking.” He glanced back at her. “Or do you think he might like print work?”

  “I suppose if he’s not printing obituaries. It’s too morbid for his liking. He doesn’t wish to work as a coffin maker again.” Without meaning to, Catherine thought of the dream Owen had described to them, and a shiver crept up her spine. “Why would someone murder him, Guy?”

  Guy paused in his work. “I’ve wondered the same,” he said, voice low. “But it was years ago. We might never know.”

  Catherine couldn’t bear it, the not knowing. She leaned forward on the sofa. “Do you think his murder has something to do wi
th the timepiece?”

  Putting aside his tweezers, Guy rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t see how it could be—unless the timepiece belonged to him. He could’ve been murdered for plenty of other reasons. I’m not sure how we’ll solve it when we’ve so little information to go on.” He ran his fingers along the desk’s edge. The dark wood was scratched in numerous places, marks from watchmaking tools and years of use. “I do think it strange that the timepiece didn’t bring him back any sooner. Why now?”

  Catherine swallowed. “And why hasn’t it worked on anyone else?”

  Guy took off his spectacles, turning around to face her. The lamp behind him hissed softly, the clocks in the next room all ticking at once. Catherine wanted quite badly to ask what Henry Nolan’s nightmares were about, why he’d allowed himself to lose so many memories selling time to people. Instead, she said, “If the timepiece is in that cemetery, it must be in the church. It would’ve likely been picked up by now if it were elsewhere on the grounds.”

  “Perhaps Mr. Williams is right.” Guy fidgeted with his glasses. “Perhaps it’s tucked away in a shop someplace.”

  From outside the back room, the bell above the front door chimed. And then there was Owen’s voice, saying, “Mr. Nolan? Hello?” He reached the doorway, looking in at them, and evidently he’d been out in the rain. The shoulder cape of his overcoat was damp, the hat in his hands dripping water onto the floor. He winced. “Sorry. I’ll clean that up. Hello, Miss Daly. How did things go at the print shop?”

  Guy looked despairingly at the puddle as Owen shrugged off his coat and took a seat beside Catherine on the sofa. She said, “Well, I have my job back. And we visited the morgue. Mr. Ainsworth was poisoned with arsenic.”

  “My word, have you two just been sitting here discussing murder?”

  Guy grimaced and began tidying his work space. Catherine said, “You seem in a pleasant mood, Mr. Smith. Did you secure an apprenticeship?”

  With a sigh, Owen fell back against the cushions. The color was high in his cheeks from the chill air, his hazel eyes dark. “Unfortunately, no one had need of me.” He turned his head to look at her. “What am I to do, Miss Daly? I need direction.”

  “You can accompany us to the cemetery, if you like. We’re going to have another look in the church ruins.”

  Owen blanched. He looked Guy’s way and stood up, leaning his hands upon the worktable. He gazed over the strewn instruments and pocket watches. “You’re set on this venture as well, Mr. Nolan?”

  Guy took the magnifying loupe from his glasses and put it aside. The watch remained suspended in the movement holder, golden gears exposed. “We were rather hoping you’d come with us, Mr. Smith. All the better to have you along—and you might remember something.”

  “Watchmen patrol the cemetery, don’t they?” said Owen.

  “Sometimes,” Guy said, and then added, “We’ll be careful.”

  Owen frowned. “I’ve already been murdered once, thank you very much. I’m not keen on giving someone else a chance.”

  Standing up, Catherine placed a hand on his arm. “We won’t be there all night. Mr. Nolan and I already had a look around. We need only search the rest of the church.”

  * * *

  When the three of them reached the cemetery gates, the sun had set. Clouds and coal dust obscured the starlight, and the shadows stretched long across the dirt pathways. The old church looked to be another sepulcher in the darkness, a mass of weathered stone between the trees.

  The lantern Guy held was their only light source. Catherine walked beside him, the flame within the glass illuminating the muddy earth and rain-slicked grave markers. They moved off the trail, heading over the wet grass. Owen slipped, and Guy caught him by the arm, hauling him upright.

  “I did not think I’d be back here so soon,” said Owen. “After—after that night, I did not want to set foot here again.”

  “Well, eventually, we all head back here, don’t we?” Catherine said.

  “My, that’s grim. Though,” Guy added, raising the lantern, “we ought to take care. I’ve heard one of those stones fall, and the sound alone almost sent me to my grave.”

  Catherine saw what Guy meant as they approached the church. Large blocks of stone were scattered about the grass, some of them grown over with moss and lichen. The church was missing a piece of exterior wall, the roof partly caved in. Perhaps in time it would wear away to nothing.

  As they neared, Catherine caught movement at the entrance. She held out an arm, bringing Guy and Owen to a stop. “Wait,” she said.

  A person stood at the doorway, a man indistinguishable aside from his dark coat and hat. He started back toward the main gates, head ducked, walking across the grounds with the same confident familiarity as she did.

  It was her foreman, Spencer Carlyle.

  She almost called out to him—yet the surrounding quiet and the briskness of his pace brought her up short. In a whisper, she said, “It’s Spencer Carlyle. I don’t know what he’s doing here.” She looked around to Guy and Owen, the two of them standing wide-eyed and still. Guy’s lantern light flickered over their faces, turning them ghostly.

  “He was asking about the timepiece,” Guy said, his voice hushed. “He’s likely looking for it, just as we are.”

  Once Spencer was out of sight, they made their way toward the gloomy heap of stone. At the doorway, Catherine peered inside.

  Timber beams arched across the ceiling, the floor space cleared of pews. Dead leaves and branches collected at the base of the rough stone walls, carried in by the wind. She took a step over the threshold, Guy following with the lantern. There was no evidence of what Spencer could’ve been doing in here. Guy’s light made strange patterns against the walls, flashing upon the twisted branches on the floor, the uneven stone. Owen came after them, and Catherine turned to see him holding on to the brim of his hat, his head tilted back as he peered into the broken rafters.

  His voice cracked as he said, “What if there’s something up there?”

  Catherine shuddered. The words painted a visceral picture in her mind of someone watching from above, clinging to the rotten beams like a nightmarish gargoyle.

  “Yes,” replied Guy. “Dust and cobwebs. That’s all.”

  Catherine headed through the empty nave to where the roof had collapsed, the jagged hole revealing the night sky. A gust of wind blew in, the splintered beams groaning.

  “Catherine,” Guy said, his tone threaded with anxiety. “Be careful.”

  “Bring the light,” she told him. “I can hardly see.”

  Guy and Owen walked over the detritus toward her. The lantern light shone across a section of wall that enclosed a small room, as dark and empty as the rest of the church. Catherine ducked under the lintel, her stomach giving a sickening lurch as she missed a step at the threshold. “Mind,” she told the boys, “there’s a step here.”

  Hatless, Guy’s head almost brushed the ceiling. Owen stepped in after him and asked, “What is this? A cellar?”

  “Coal cellar, possibly,” said Guy.

  The room was chilly and smelled faintly of rot, the stones holding in the damp. Catherine studied the ground, hoping to catch the shine of glass, a metal casing. Instead, Guy’s lantern flashed upon soot marks on the wall, bits of coal left in the corners. A hatch door was set into the floor. There was a ring pull handle, heavy and rusted. Catherine crouched down, bringing her hand to it, feeling the chill of the metal through her glove. She gave the handle a tug, but the door wouldn’t shift.

  “Here,” said Guy, putting his lantern down. “We shall try it together.”

  He took hold of the ringed handle alongside her. She glanced at his face—so close to hers, his cheeks flushed from the cold—before fixing her attention on the door. They pulled hard, and the door swung free, so suddenly Guy lost his balance, tumbling against the stone wall behind them. He sat up and rubbed the back of his head.

  “Are you all right?” Catherine asked.


  “Fine,” he said with a grimace.

  She looked away from him, peering down at the hole in the floor. The light of the lantern didn’t offer much illumination; there was a ladder at the opening, and below it, darkness.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to climb down there,” said Owen.

  Guy stood up, dusting off his hands. “I’ll go,” he said. “It’s likely another part of the cellar, a storeroom.”

  Catherine reached down and pushed at the ladder, testing it. It held firm, but she said, “I don’t know, Guy. How far down does this ladder go? What if it breaks?”

  “Then you’ll have to rescue me.” He smiled brightly.

  Owen said, “Oh, goodness.”

  After Guy took the first couple of rungs of the ladder, Catherine passed him the lantern, the light withdrawing from the room as he went farther down. She shivered, knowing that if he dropped it, they might be left in the dark.

  A sharp, splintering crack sent her heart hammering. Guy let out a short cry, the light swinging wildly down below. Catherine’s hands gripped the edge of the opening.

  “Guy!”

  “I’m all right,” he called. “The last rung just broke. I’m at the bottom now.”

  “What’s down there?” asked Owen.

  “Not much of anything.” Guy coughed. “Lots of dust. There’s some old crates.” He moved away from the ladder, his voice growing muffled. There came a rasp of wood, a thud, as though he was searching the boxes.

  Yet there was another sound—quiet but unmistakable—from beyond the church walls. Footfalls, boots squelching through mud. Catherine stood, her gaze flitting to the doorway, to the darkness of the field past the missing piece of wall. A light flashed between the graves, and her blood went cold.

  “Miss Daly?” said Owen.

  She turned back to him. “Get down there,” she told him, pointing to the ladder. “There’s a watchman just outside.”

  His eyes widened. Wringing his hands, he started, “Miss Daly, I—”