Page 54 of House of Salt and Sorrows
I needed to track down Edgar and apologize. I didn’t care what Camille thought. I believed his story about the shadow on the cliff, and together we’d uncover who it was.
A silver bell tinkled overhead as I stepped into the shop, out of the rain.
“Coming, coming,” a cheerful voice called from the workroom. Or perhaps it came from behind the stack of metal hands near the corner. They were taller than me, used for clock towers in town squares.
Cogs and gears littered every available surface in the shop, and rows of clocks lined the walls. The staggered ticks of passing seconds overlapped, forming a symphony of beats. It was a soft, subtle sound, but once you noticed the ticks, they became impossible to ignore.
“How may I help you today—” Edgar emerged from the workroom. When he saw me, he came to a full stop, nearly crashing into a case displaying pocket watches and chains. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his tone coloring. “Come to kick me out of my own place of employment? You’ll find the Thaumas reach does not extend this far. Good day.”
“Edgar—wait! I’m so sorry about that. I should have stood up for you, I should have stopped Camille. I came to apologize and…and also to talk.”
“Talk?” He glared at me through his tiny eyeglasses.
“About Eulalie, about the shadow.”
“I already told you everything I know.” His hand raised against the swinging door.
“Not everything,” I said, stopping him before he could retreat. “I saw the way you reacted when Camille called for Roland.” He stiffened as I mentioned the valet’s name. “Why?”
Edgar turned back, reluctance on his face. He removed his glasses and polished them on the edge of his canvas apron, biding his time.
“Could he be the shadow?” I guessed.
He squinted through the lenses as though they were still unclean. “I don’t know who the shadow was…but I must admit, my first guess would be him.” His fingertips trembled as if fighting the urge to wipe the spectacles again. “Every time I was at Highmoor—helping Mr. Averson with that grandfather clock, delivering a fixed pocket watch or mantel clock—he was always about, lurking, listening. Eulalie said it was just part of his job, waiting to be needed, but it felt like more than that…. It felt…”
“Yes?” I whispered, leaning in.
“Like an obsession.”
I watched the rain fall on the soggy market outside, thinking about our day-to-day life at Highmoor. It was true, Roland was always nearby, ready to help, but as he was one of Papa’s most trusted servants, that seemed only natural to me. I didn’t know much about Edgar, but I’d hazard a guess he’d not grown up in a house like ours, full of more servants than family members.
“Did Eulalie keep a diary?” Edgar asked, trying a different approach. “She learned something she wasn’t supposed to. Perhaps she wrote about it?”
Eulalie wasn’t the type to pour her heart out onto the page, as Lenore and Camille did. She’d hated penmanship lessons when we were girls and had to be cajoled into writing letters to aunts and cousins.
“I never saw her with one.”
His pale eyebrows creased together. “The more I think about it, I’m certain the shadow was Roland,” he said, circling back. “He never liked me. If he somehow found out we were eloping…”
“Wouldn’t he try to stopyou,then, not Eulalie?” I asked. Edgar’s accusation didn’t feel right to me at all. It had too many holes. Even if Roland had been wildly in love with Eulalie, he must have known nothing would ever come of it. She was the heir to Highmoor. Papa would never have let her court one of its servants.
Besides…he was just so old….
One by one, the clocks’ gears turned, chiming out the quarter hour. The cacophony set my teeth on edge, reminding me I’d been gone too long already. I reached for the door.
“Miss Thaumas, wait! I—I need to know…You do believe me, don’t you? About the shadow? Eulalie didn’t trip, and she would never have hurt herself. You know that.”
After a beat, I nodded.
“I want to find out who did this to her. Who…murdered her.” His said the word with an intense precision, as if trying not to stammer over it. “Will you help me? Please?” His eyes, suddenly bright with righteous fervor, fixed me in place like a butterfly pinned onto a shadowbox board.
“Yes,” I whispered.
He toyed with his spectacles again. “I know you don’t think Roland was involved, but promise me you’ll look into it? Ask around. Even if it wasn’t him, he must have seen something. He sees everything.”
The final clock chimed, its notes slightly sharp, giving a strange importance to Edgar’s idea.
“He does,” I echoed in agreement.
