Harper hunched under the eaves of the Chapel carriage house. He and three other men had relinquished their seats indoors for a chance to smoke and to escape a cluster of loud schoolgirls who had taken shelter inside. Water soaked into Harper's left sock through a crack in the heel of his boot. The animal odor of wet wool emanated from his black Inquisition coat. Harper pulled his cap a little lower.
He didn't like waiting, particularly not for a carriage that he had no real desire to take. It wasn't pleasure so much as habit and obligation that drew him back to his family estate once every year. The Foster Estate was his only connection to his natural father. It should have meant something to him. Instead, he found himself searching for reasons not to go.
The decision to stay in the capital would have been easy if Belimai had asked him not to go, but he hadn't.
Harper took another drag of his cigarette. It was the last one he had on him. The rest were packed away in his luggage. He closed his eyes and savored the warm smoke.
Beside him, Acolyte Stewarts dragged at his own cigarette and attempted to draw Harper into a conversation. Stewarts smiled a little too hard every time Harper paid him much attention. It made Harper uncomfortable and added to his desire to abandon the carriage house. Stewarts was only a year or so from becoming quite handsome, and his worshipful exuberance could easily mislead a susceptible man. Harper had no desire to be that man.
"Our first day of vacation, and it's raining like the Great Flood. I'll have to spend the entire time trapped indoors with my wretched Aunt Lucy." Stewarts wiped hopelessly at the water cascading off the brim of his cap and down his nose.
Harper suspected that Stewarts was only moments from asking if he could accompany Harper to his estate house. Stewarts had been flirting with the subject for the last few days. Harper had avoided extending any invitation thus far, but Stewarts possessed a relentless optimism.
The soothing rhythm of falling rain filled the silence between them. Distantly, Harper heard something like the shriek of a bird. He caught it again, but Stewarts' voice broke into his concentration.
"Do you know what I think?" Stewarts asked, and then went on despite Harper's silence. "I think that it would be thrilling to get outside the capital for a vacation. Perhaps go hunting or riding with another fellow. You know, just men."
Harper took advantage of the strange noise to ignore Stewarts. He cocked his head slightly and concentrated on picking it out from the rain again. The violent spattering of rain against the stone walkways and brick houses made a sound like miles of sizzling bacon. Harper leaned out from the cover of the carriage house. He was sure he heard a distant voice calling.
"Abbot Greeley said that you have an estate house north of St. Bennet's Park. That must be nice." Stewarts waited for Harper's response. Then after a moment, he seemed to notice that Harper's attention lay elsewhere. Stewarts surveyed the dim street. The pouring rain covered the normal noises of the street with a fast, crackling patter. Then, suddenly, a high-pitched cry rose out from the noise of the storm.
"A girl probably fell in the mud," Stewarts decided.
"I'd better go see," Harper said.
He stepped out from the cover of the carriage house and started up the street.
"Captain!" Stewarts called after him. "Should I come with you?"
"No. Enjoy your vacation. If I miss the carriage, send my luggage ahead!" Harper shouted back.
He didn't look back to see Stewarts' expression of disappointment. Stewarts, the annoyance of the weather, and even Belimai's indifference to his departure no longer troubled Harper. He poured his concentration into finding the woman.
Mud and filthy water splashed up around his calves and sucked at his boots as he rushed through the open street and crossed to the cobblestone walkway. He only paused to listen, and then he raced on. He could hear the woman's voice clearly now.
"Please, someone help! He's going to kill her! God, please!" Her voice broke with a sob. A loud burst of thunder swallowed her further cries.
Harper sprinted after the sound of the woman's voice. He searched the lines of stately houses, iron-worked gates, and flowering hedges for any sight of her. The walkways were empty. Rain and darkness had driven most people indoors.
Harper noticed a motion, a dim white form almost buried in the mud of the street. She pulled herself up to her feet and stumbled forward.
"Please, help." Her voice broke in ragged exhaustion.
Harper reached her in a moment.
"Thank God," she moaned as she saw his Inquisitor's coat and emblems.
She staggered to him. For a moment, Harper simply supported her frail body. Her white serving dress sagged with rain and mud. The filthy hem of her petticoat tangled around her legs. Harper felt tremors of exhaustion shudder through her legs as she leaned against him.
"Are you all right?" Harper asked.
"It's Miss Leticia. You have to help her." The old woman collapsed against Harper. He lifted her easily and carried her to shelter. He lowered her to a decorative bench beneath an iron gateway. The surrounding boxwood hedge offered them a little cover from the rain.
"Please," she whispered to him, "help Miss Leticia."
"Where is she?" Harper knew better than to question the old woman further.
"The Rose House. 834." The old woman closed her eyes as tears began to flood down her creased cheeks. "He's going to kill her this time. I know he is."
"834. North or South Chapel?" Harper asked quickly.
"North," she whispered. "Please hurry."
"I will." Harper took off running. After two blocks, Chapel Street forked into north and south branches. Harper sprinted up the north branch. The houses grew steadily more opulent, and the gates more formidable. He ran another four blocks before reaching the addresses in the 800s.
Harper didn't know how long the old woman had been staggering down the street calling for help. He silently prayed that it had been a matter of minutes rather than hours. Harper ran with all his strength, knowing that no matter how quickly he went, time was not on his side. Wounds were inflicted in moments; lives could be taken in a matter of seconds.
When Harper reached the elegant marble gate of 834, he expected that he might have to climb it. To his surprise, he found it unlocked. It seemed wrong that the gate should be left open, but he did not stop to think about it. He sprinted past the line of curling willows, took the stone stairs to the house two at a time, and at last stopped in front of the entry doors. Light radiated from the windows on the first floor, but only two windows on the second floor were illuminated. Harper slammed the polished brass knocker against the wood with a resounding blow.
A well-dressed servant opened the door immediately. He looked pale and deeply unhappy. He glanced at the silver Inquisition emblems on Harper's collar and quickly stepped aside to allow Harper in.
"Thank you for coming so quickly, Captain," he murmured.
"Should I take you up to Miss Let...to the body?" The man looked horrified at the words that had come out of his mouth.
"I can show myself up." Harper felt a change in himself the moment he knew the woman was dead. The pounding blood in his veins and his racing heart all suddenly went flat. The moment when he might have arrived in time to save the woman had passed. His passion and hope cut off like the gas in the safety valve of a streetlamp.
"Which room is she in?" Harper asked.
"I don't know. I haven't been up. They...She...I don't know, sir." The doorman flushed, clearly unsure of how to treat Harper, or how to even address the body upstairs. No rules of etiquette dictated polite behavior in the wake of a murder. The doorman foundered into a series of apologies. Harper was accustomed to such awkwardness and carried on.