The Fruit of the Poisonous Tree: Stoker & Bash, #2

by Selina Kray

  The very idea of descending the stairs daunted her. Callie wanted her bed, her room, her familiar things. Strange she would want to be enclosed after her ordeal, but such was the nesting nature of instinct. She couldn’t afford more than a couple hours’ rest, if that, given the echo of Hiero’s brooding from three floors below. But now that the doctor had finished his examinations, and Minnie and Jie had settled the three refugees in the guest wing, Callie could finally, blessedly, shed the tattered vestiges of her white uniform and cozy under her sheets.

  If she could cross the sitting room without toppling over.

  “How is she?”

  Han’s titanic frame engulfed the entranceway to the attic apartment. A gentle giant, Callie once would have had no qualms about pushing past him. Now she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes.

  “Recovering. It pains me to say, but I think Mama’s itinerant relationship with reality helped her cope.”

  “I hope that is so, for her sake.”

  Callie nodded, continued to stare at the floor, considered flinging herself out the window.

  “How is he faring?”

  “As expected. I very nearly tied him to a chair.”

  “Do you think...”

  “I have no earthly notion.”

  “If we’d all of us attacked...” She let out a heavy, quavering sigh. “He wouldn’t have abandoned us.”

  “No. But he would have insisted we get the others to safety before seeing to him, and that was not possible.”

  Callie laughed mirthlessly. “He’s right, you know. We’re the furthest thing from a team.”

  “We’re still becoming.”

  “Becoming what?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Callie did look at him then—tall, dashing, deferent Han—and wanted to scratch out her eyes. How could such a man go about the world unseen when he was the only one she ever looked to? How was it that in the course of a fortnight, she had lost everything she had ever loved?

  The door opened and shut behind her, Shahida’s presence like a bucket of ice water poured over her head. Callie turned to welcome her... friend. Yes, her friend. Whom she would rally behind. Shoving her greener impulses aside, she latched on to her arm.

  “You should rest. I’ve written to Mama’s old nursemaid. She’s agreed to return for a day or two, that you might recover.”

  “Food first, then rest. I could murder a curry. Where’s your own mum when you need her, eh?”

  “Would you like me to send for her?” Han asked.

  “No, no. I might pop round to visit them tomorrow, if you can spare me. We have... things to discuss.”

  Feeling as if a swam of wasps were trapped under her dress, Callie stifled a shudder and glared at Han, who affected his usual impassive expression, as if no one had spoken at all. Callie cleared her throat. He didn’t flinch. Wishing the phantom wasps would put her out of her misery, she gave Shahida’s arm a squeeze.

  “Why not put it off a few days, that Han might accompany you,” she suggested.

  Shahida frowned. “Mr. Han’s been more than passing kind through this ordeal, but it’s time I take responsibility for my decisions.”

  Outraged, Callie demanded, “And what of his responsibility?” She whirled around to confront Han. “What of your responsibility? Are you really going to let this stand?”

  He raised a quizzical brow. “Miss Kala’s made her choice. Far be it for me to question it.”

  “No, but you are content to leave her to it!” Exhaustion helped Callie give over to her upset. “You make her no show of support, no offer... I thought you were a man of honor! You’re no better than the half-hour gentlemen who give over their get to the Daughters’ care.” She turned back to Shahida, wrapped a protective arm around her. “I will go with you, whenever you like. Though I hope you know you will always have a place here.”

  To her astonishment, Shahida giggled. So fervently and so manically that for a time she could not speak. Callie fought the urge to recoil from her, glad when she doubled over, giving her an excuse.

  “Oh, my dear heart.” Shahida pressed her fist to her mouth but still could not stop laughing. “Han, she thinks you’ve tupped me.”

  Callie heard his strangled sound but could not bring herself to look his way. Lest he see her flaming cheeks.

  “But I thought...”

  “No, no. Of course not. Do you think me daft?” Shahida inhaled deeply, sobering. “Seems I haven’t been quite honest with you. Reason enough for me to be gone. The day your mum was taken... not the first time I’d left her with the Daughters on market day. I had a fella. The clerk what used to do the books at my parents’ inn. Thought the world of him, didn’t I? But we seen nothing of each other since my pops sent me here. Sundays were our only chance on account of his job.

  “Well, he’s cut me now. I was late getting back that day because I just couldn’t believe...” She sniffled into her sleeve. “Oldest story in the book, I know. All those girls the Daughters take in are proof of that. I went to Mr. Han to see if anything could be done. Deep down, I knew my beau wouldn’t keep me if I had the babe. I thought Mr. Han would know someone safe.”

  “I expect he does.” Callie, to her surprise, hugged her fiercely. “And if that is your desire, I will take you myself. But I will also have you know your place is here, with us, regardless. I don’t care to be without my only lady friend now I’ve finally found one.” Both would later blame it on the fatigue, but they found themselves sobbing into each other’s shoulders. “And should you choose to add to our household, Hiero would be over the moon.”

  “I second that,” Han confirmed.

  Rubbing her eyes with her palms, Callie found the wherewithal to glance at Han, who wore an expression of indulgent bemusement. She resolved to beg his forgiveness in private after she’d had a decent sleep and regained sway over her emotions. Not that he would begrudge her anything, she knew. And so admired him for it.

  Admired him for so many things, really. And as Shahida tugged her back into her consoling embrace, Callie let relief overwhelm her.

  Hiero stirred his tiny spoon around and around his cup of coffee, the clink-scrape of the motion soothing. As a very young child, he would squirm between the gigantic pillows in the cushioned area at the back of his parents’ coffeehouse and fall asleep to the sound of the patrons sugaring their beverages. Back before his world went topsy-turvy, before he earned his coat of many scars. Back when he answered to a name whose utterance was a curse to him now. Even if he could turn back time, Hiero wouldn’t want to be that innocent boy again, dreaming of a life he could never have.

  Even his hardships were hard-won.

  Or so he attempted to persuade himself as he watched yet another cigarette burn down to ash. Straddling a chair at the table in his vacuous kitchen—unable to settle in his study, site of Kip’s triumphs—Hiero retraced the events of the past few days over and over, trying to pinpoint where it all went wrong. Every speck of his being screamed at him to return to the Daughters’ compound, to storm the barricades and rescue his Kip in a spate of derring do. Or, rather, the deftest sleight of hand he had ever accomplished. But even he knew better than to embark upon quite so quixotic a mission. For once he would listen to the logic of his confrères. If only he could convince his heart to do the same.

  As the grandfather clock on the floor above struck one, heavy, familiar footsteps descended the stairs. Han, with a fish fresh from who-knew-what midnight market slung over his shoulder, nodded in Hiero’s direction before setting to work. On so many nights, under so many different sets of circumstances, Hiero had watched him perform the same ritual of gutting, deboning, and slicing. Of lighting the stove—sometimes a campfire, sometimes a sheet of metal set over hot coals—and setting a pot of water to boil. The scent of fresh herbs roused Hiero’s senses as Han built his stock. Hiero could have recited the steps if asked. Han’s motions echoed those of the grandmother who taught him and the great-great-gra
ndmother who taught her, the living dance of his ancestry.

  All the while Hiero stirred his coffee and cursed his father’s name and fought the tears that pricked the back of his eyes.

  By the time the spices from Han’s secret pantry misted the kitchen air, the family had collected around the table, bowls and spoons at the ready. Aldridge, the house sommelier, poured out a dry white wine. Minnie helped Ting slice up a loaf of almost-stale bread while Angus and Jie, moony and disheveled, cheered their approval. Callie, sharp as a guillotine’s blade, waited for the right moment to strike up the conversation they should have had hours earlier. But then Han, with what little flourish he permitted himself, deposited the pot of fish stew on the table, and no one dared speak a word till the slurping was done.

  Though Hiero dismissed them once they’d cleared the bowls, only Angus and Jie carried a fitful Ting off to bed. Minnie, ever the night owl, moved to the counter to make the week’s bread, and Aldridge settled into his hearthside rocking chair with a stack of newspapers in case he was needed. Han set a crystalline bottle of Chinese baijiu—a grain liquor similar to vodka—on the table and distributed three shot glasses. Though tempted, Hiero turned his over. Callie threw back a quick shot, tapping her glass for another. Han obliged her with a smirk Hiero had not observed for some time, reminding him of the small successes of their last mission.

  Not that he would forgive the losses.

  “A question to begin.” Callie wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, relishing her release from captivity. “What is the goal of our present course of action? To rescue Tim or to unmask the murderer? Or both?”

  “Are you suggesting we allow Little Bean’s death to go unavenged?” Han asked

  She let out a blustery breath. “A life is at stake. One of our own. We’ve blown our chance with the Daughters. If our only objective is to retrieve Tim, then I believe we may do so without impediment. To attempt more is to risk his life.”

  “He may already be dead. If we focus only on him, we might be wasting our last opportunity to find answers.”

  Hiero stared determinedly at his coffee cup, unable to debate what was unquestionable to his mind.

  “We agreed to help Tim in order to retrieve Mama,” Callie reminded them. “She is safe; he is not.”

  “And justice is thrown to the wolves?” Han sighed. “You would not be so cavalier if you had met the boy’s grieving father.”

  This tempered her.

  “Likely not.” She tapped the tabletop at the speed of her thoughts. “I propose we pool our evidence to see if a suspect emerges. If one does, we make our plan. If not, we resolve to liberate Tim and, once his health is restored, support him in any action he might take. Agreed?”

  “Very well,” Han answered.

  Hiero gazed into the umber swells at the bottom of his cup, wishing for a few leaves to read. The random distribution of sodden flecks seemed more reliable than his judgment where Kip was concerned.

  “There is madness to your method.” He lifted his head, rallied. His Kip required him, and he would not fail him again. “I approve.”

  “Good.” She clapped her hands together. “Han, you’re in Tim’s confidence. What deductions has he made?”

  “Our search of the compound and his interviews yielded little in the way of evidence,” Han said. “We cannot connect the little coded wings found on the body to a classification system used by either the Daughters or the orphan asylum. All babes sent to Mr. Crook at the asylum over the past six months have been accounted for. Amos Scaggs is responsible for delivering them there. He transports them in the back of a wagon. I myself searched Sister Juliet and Sister Nora’s offices—albeit not as thoroughly as I would have liked—but could find no document listing the names of the parents of the children born under the Daughters’ care. However, Tim is confident such a document exists, and it will resolve the question of Little Bean’s paternity.”

  “There is also the map,” Callie noted.

  “Our untapped resource, yes.” Han spread their copy of the map across the table. “Our theory is Little Bean was being held in one of the underground chambers, either under the farmhouse or under the tree. The cellar is too public.”

  “I saw no trace of children being kept there whilst I was captive.”

  “That fits with Tim’s theory that there is one killer. Otherwise it’s a conspiracy of silence, and they are all guilty.”

  “An attractive prospect, but no. Their reactions on the day the murder was discovered were too genuine.”

  “All but one,” Hiero noted. “An exception that disproves the rule.”

  Han nodded. “The tunnels need to be explored. There is also the question of who knows they exist and who has access.”

  “With no easy answers.” Callie scrutinized the map, tracing out different routes and muttering to herself. “The night guardian.”

  Hiero and Han shared a look at this pronouncement.

  “How now?” Hiero queried.

  “Shahida and I were hardly idle despite our imprisonment. We snuck about under cover of darkness, trying to find Mama. The Daughters and the novitiates are locked in their rooms from evensong to sunrise, making communication and mischief impossible. We posited that a night guardian walks the halls, providing whatever care is required and escorting anyone in need of emergency help around the building.”

  “Terrible yet fascinating,” Han commented.

  “As with most things related to the Daughters.” Callie shrugged. “We eliminated Sister Juliet immediately as a candidate due to her numerous daylight duties.”

  Hiero scoffed. “And pretentions.”

  “Precisely. She doesn’t cater to anyone, let alone at night. Sister Zanna examined me in my room and was let in by Sister Nora, so she doesn’t have free access to the house. Odd since she delivers the babes, but there you are. Also, she seems...”

  “Honest,” Hiero said.

  Callie chuckled. “You’ve taught me to presume otherwise, but...”

  “Some exceptions are truly exceptional.” His shoulders sagged. “Kip, for one.”

  She reached across the table, hand open. Hiero shook his head.

  “We can forget this,” Callie insisted. “Go for him right now.”

  Hiero shut his eyes, listened to the slow drum of his pulse in his ears. He wasn’t the sort to be tested this way. Fortitude, morality, these were not his minions. Only one man had ever challenged him to do better. The one he trusted to guide his decisions now.

  “Continue.”

  Callie returned her attention to the map.

  “Shahida and I observed Sister Nora with a heavy set of keys. She also discovered us during one of our nightly escapades, which is how we found ourselves in the cellar. Though she is currently our favorite for the night guardian, one might suppose she is even more occupied during the day than Sister Juliet with the administration of the Daughters’ affairs. Of course, we have no proof she attends to those affairs in the daytime. She may very well be a night owl.”

  “She’s a nervous sort,” Hiero said. “They often cannot sleep.”

  “She’s also one of the newer Daughters,” Han remarked. “If this is a case of baby farming, I don’t think such activities would have gone unnoticed forever. Tim also theorized the person who buried Little Bean at the tree may not be the murderer, but someone who wanted to expose another’s crimes without appearing disloyal.”

  “A better fit in terms of her character.” Callie hummed as she worked this theory through all its permutations. “So despite her freedom of access to the entire compound unobserved and the time in which to commit the crime, the night guardian may not be the killer after all. Rather, she may have seen something suspicious and wished to bring it to light without the responsibility of making a direct accusation. All of which fits Sister Nora’s sense of order and servitude.”

  “And Sister Juliet’s agenda.” Hiero clinked his fingernails along the rim of his cup. “She has the history—l
ost her son in childbirth. Perhaps this twisted something within her. Also, despite her protests, I am certain she knows who Little Bean belongs to and will not say.”

  “I concur,” Han said. “Keys or no keys, she is the prophetess. She goes where she pleases, when she pleases.”

  “But not unobserved,” Callie argued. “They worship her. No one would fail to notice her.”

  “Ah, but would they finger her?” Hiero inquired. “Speaking, not coincidentally, of Sister Nora. Who unquestionably would, given the right invitation.”

  “Stop speaking in riddles.”

  “She has been touched, you might say, by Sister Juliet’s spirit.” Hiero couldn’t help waggling his eyebrows. “And wouldn’t mind if her body followed suit.”

  Callie spared him a dubious look. “So your theory is Sister Nora exposed Sister Juliet’s crime because of her infatuation?”

  “Or as a warning,” Han said. “‘Stop this now, or next time I’ll expose you.’” He leaned in as he warmed to his argument. “One of the main stumbling blocks to our investigation, right from the start, has been too many people had the means to commit the crime. Every one of the Daughters and all the women in their care can be seen as having motive since their business involves the birthing of babes conceived out of wedlock. A case could be made against any one of them. If someone wanted to send the murderer a message, the staging of the body in a public location with easy access could not have made it clearer. If the person who buried the boy under the tree is not the killer, then they wanted Little Bean to be found with no consequences to the one who strangled him.”

  “I’m convinced,” Callie declared. “And thoroughly discouraged. By that argument it could be anyone, and we are no closer to the truth.”