CHAPTER 18
The woman might as well have slapped Cuthbert in the face.
“Pardon?” A mind-reading spell—an intermediate one, subtle, skimming the surface—went out almost of its own volition, scanning her for truthfulness. But that was exactly what he got. Honesty. Shock. Emergency. Her emotions were strong. Her information rang true, at least to her.
“Master Lily Merton is dead,” Miss Prescott repeated, and this time, instead of a slap, it felt like a bullet to his chest, right where that bloody spell had been all those years. “I . . . They didn’t know much. I was eavesdropping. She was an older woman, yes, but seemingly in good health. Still, it might have been natural causes, or the murderer could have struck again—”
“She is the murderer!” Cuthbert slammed his hand on the table hard enough to make the plates rattle. Elsie gaped at him. Emmeline squeaked, then touched Reggie’s shoulder and whispered to him. The two left the room, giving the others blessed privacy. Hopefully Emmeline would explain what the boy needed to know so Cuthbert wouldn’t have to. He was sick of reviewing what they already knew without adding to it.
“Many of the stolen opuses were found in Master Phillips’s London home—”
“Of course they were. But they didn’t find all of them, did they?” Cuthbert pulled his hand back and ran it down his face, feeling old. “There is no doubt it’s a ruse, Miss Prescott. What better way for Merton to hide herself, to assuage any guilt, than to fake her own death?”
Miss Prescott looked as though she might cry. “But, Mr. Ogden. She left an opus.”
“What?” Elsie blurted.
“That’s what I heard. She had a summer home she recently purchased in Rochester—”
Rochester. So she hadn’t been far.
“—and her neighbors heard a clatter while passing by. Called the local police, and they found her opus . . . along with shattered windows and”—she grimaced—“well, signs of a struggle. Blood. There will be an investigation, of course.”
Master Kelsey growled, “If someone murdered her, they would have taken the opus.”
Cuthbert nodded, frustration boiling beneath his skin.
“Unless she had fortifications to stop him, or defended herself before giving up the ghost.” Miss Prescott met Cuthbert’s eyes. “I-I’m sorry, I don’t wish to cause you grief. I’m merely repeating what I heard.”
Elsie hugged herself. “Master Phillips in jail and Merton dead? But surely she’s the one who arranged his arrest, just like she did with me!”
“Yes, it’s far too convenient.” Cuthbert gripped the table edge and leaned over his barely touched dinner. “Are we truly to believe she met with some unfortunate fate less than a day after we found Elsie and unmasked her pawn?”
“Found Elsie?” Miss Prescott was baffled. “What?”
Elsie sighed. “I was the unfortunate victim of an abduction by Master Phillips. That’s how we know about him. I will tell you all of it momentarily. But this . . .” She glanced to Cuthbert, her blue eyes bright and afraid. “I agree. This is too easy.”
“There’s only one way we can know for sure.” Cuthbert’s fingernails dug into the wood. “We have to see that opus.”
They were silent for a moment, until Master Kelsey spoke.
“It will not go to auction,” he said, his tone low and dark, reflecting Cuthbert’s feelings perfectly. “But Master Merton has no family, from what we understand.” He gestured to Elsie. “Which means the London Spiritual Atheneum will do her rights for her.”
Miss Prescott nodded. “There may be an estate sale, like there was for Master Quinn Raven. Whatever happens, the opus will be heavily guarded for a viewing before being taken to the atheneum.”
“Unless they skip the viewing and take it straight to the vaults,” Master Kelsey said. “There’s no family to complain.”
Cuthbert grabbed both sides of his head. Pain bloomed under his skull above both temples. “She’s not dead. Damn it all. She’s acquitting herself.”
And he wouldn’t let that happen.
Pushing off the table, he went to the back door to retrieve his coat.
Elsie limped after him. “Where are you going?”
“To Rochester.”
She glanced out the window. The sun had nearly set. “Now?”
“Yes, now.” His tone was sharp, but he couldn’t reel it in, even for her. “I have to know. I have to, Elsie.” He sighed. Set his jaw. “Don’t wait up for me.”
He wrenched the back door open and stepped into the cooling night, thankful that Elsie had twisted her ankle.
It was likely the only thing that kept her from going after him.
Reggie knew now. That made six of them.
Bacchus graciously helped Elsie up the stairs to the sitting room, where Emmeline had taken Reggie. Elsie refused to lose her dignity and be carried, but she did allow him to keep a firm grip on her elbow. Irene followed behind.
Once they were seated comfortably, Elsie filled in the holes of the story, though in the interest of saving time—and face—she was somewhat less forthcoming than she’d been with Emmeline and Irene. Neither woman corrected her, thankfully. Irene, in turn, gave full details of Master Phillips’s arrest and the announcement of Merton’s supposed demise, though those details pertained more to such logistical concerns as what she had been doing and where she had been standing. Nothing that would help Ogden, in the long run.
Ogden. Elsie prayed he’d be all right. If he was caught snooping around . . . well, Bacchus couldn’t marry both of them.
“I didn’t see him myself,” Irene said, concluding her story, “but I saw the prison wagon pull away. They had aspectors to keep him in line.”
Because a master physical aspector could easily decimate any vehicle that tried to apprehend him.
Leaning back against the settee, Elsie said, “Thank you, Irene, for everything.”
The woman nodded, and it seemed like she wanted to say more—to ask for details on Elsie’s abduction, perhaps. But she must have sensed the mood in the room, for instead she said, “I should probably go. I’ll be in contact.”
“Your efforts are appreciated,” Bacchus said. He sounded almost as tired as he had while under the influence of the siphoning spell. Another thing they needed to address.
Irene left first, followed by Reggie, who insisted he had to get back to London for work in the morning—his days started early—despite the necessity of riding back in the dark. Once Emmeline saw him out, the candles burning low, Elsie said, “Seven Oaks.”
Bacchus sighed. He sat beside her on the settee, his arm draped across its back, a few inches above Elsie’s shoulders. She hoped it would lose its balance and plop down on her.
He rubbed his eyes. “I need to write to the duchess and explain. She’s likely worried. First thing in the morning. You’ll have to show me where the post office is.”
“It’s not hard to find.”
Emmeline slipped in, stepping carefully as though they were sleeping. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”
“Reggie is smart and good with his horse,” Elsie answered. “He’ll be fine.”
Emmeline smiled, but it soon faded. “I meant Mr. Ogden.”
Elsie’s heart sank. “I . . . yes, I’m sure he will be. He’s made it fifty-five years yet. I would be shocked if he had anything less than another fifty-five in him.”
Emmeline seemed comforted and dropped into a chair across from them, thumbing listlessly at the edge of yesterday’s newspaper. Bacchus asked after her family, and Elsie was filled with a keen awareness of how close he sat—his voice in her ear, his body inches away from hers. A halo of warmth emanated from him, and she wondered how a man could burn so hot and still be comfortable in a frock coat.