Page 15 of The Devil in Oxford
“Did he show an interest in you… know what you can do?”
Ruan’s expression darkened. “No, Owen made sure no one was told what I was. He was concerned what might happen if someone found out the truth. He worried they’d use me, keep me for their own curiosity. I’m grateful now that he took me away from Cornwall, even if I wasn’t at the time. It wasn’t long after the first mine collapse when he arrived in Lothlel Green and told my mother what he intended for my future. By that time people had begun whispering about my abilities. Strangers would come bringing their sick and dying to our village expecting me todosomething about it. It wasn’t long after when he sent me away to school, and then on to Oxford to finish my education. I was a boy then, with no idea what I was doing or how to control it. Gods, I scarcely know what to do with it now or even what Icando.”
My heart ached for him each time he mentioned his childhood. Of how hard it was to be so very different, without anyone to confide in.
“It was for the best I had a chance to grow into a man away from that world—away from people who knew what I was. So, no. Harker could not have known the truth about me, and he certainly never treated me with any interest. I was beneath him.”
It was for the best that he escaped notice of such a horrible person. “Do you think whatever Harker was involved in back then has to do with his death?”
“I don’t know. But I sense we are going to find out, aren’t we?”
“I suppose it’s good I’ve summoned the Pellar then.”
The lines at the edges of his eyes creased with a faint smile and I could have sworn he started to move closer to me, but I should have known better. Ruan was a far stronger soul than I. He allowed the moment to end, turned, and went back to bed. And with that, I took another bite of my sandwich, sat down at the table, and plotted out my next course of action.
CHAPTERSEVENAn Unearned Trust
TWOcups of black coffee, a slice of buttered toast, and several hours later I was finally ready to seek out Leona to make amends for the way we’d left things when she stormed out of my kitchen. While she was behaving suspiciously, she was right on one score—I had changed. I’d grown skeptical, seeking connections and conspiracies everywhere I turned. She had reason to be worried about Mr. Mueller, and the fact I’d not immediately jumped to her aid sat in my gut like a stone.
The Ashmolean Museum rested gracefully on Beaumont Street, its smart classical lines presumably modeled after some ancient Greek temple adorned with frieze work and decorative pilasters. Had I not known better, I’d have thought the whole building had been scooped up from Greece and planted here in the center of Oxford, were it not clad in the signature golden-hued limestone of the rest of the city.
The oldest public museum in Britain, and with a sterling reputation, it commanded the respect of the world. Its immense collections were meticulously cared for by the preeminent scholars of the day. Truthfully, it was a coup that Leona had secured a position here at all, and part of me envied her that.
I glanced up at the portico, shielding my eyes against the graymorning sky before running up the stone steps to the front doors. The first drops of rain hit the pavement behind me as I reached the shelter of the entrance. I cursed myself for forgetting my umbrella. After this many years living in England, onemightbe prepared for the changeable weather, but not I.
Muted sunlight filtered in through the windows of the museum creating a cozy glow inside the quiet of the bustling space. The main hall had been adorned with festive ribbons and greenery. Sprigs of mistletoe bound in red velvet ribbon hung from the doorways. Only a few more days to Christmas and to 1923 and all the fuss and bother that comes with a new year—though if the last few months of 1922 were any measure, I dreaded to find out what the new year would bring.
I hurried down the slippery stone stairs to the basement reading room where Leona usually worked. Nudging the door open with my shoe, I stepped inside the cramped room with its low ceiling. The walls on all sides were lined with overburdened shelves holding bits of stonework and books stacked upon books, at least two deep. Leona shared this space with a middle-aged librarian named Mary. Mary, for her part, scarcely ever said more than three words to me—instead politely peering at me above her glasses, before returning to her work.
Leona sat on the far side of a long study table with her forehead resting upon her palm—her long dark hair was braided and wound around her head, pinned up and out of the way. Silver spectacles sat on the tip of her nose. Her crisp white blouse and navy skirt were a far cry from the similar dusty and torn outfit she’d worn in my kitchen this morning—though the dark bruises of exhaustion beneath her eyes told me she’d slept no more than I had.
“Tommy, I told you—” Her expression fell as she saw it was me rather than Tommy who had interrupted her studies. She gave an exasperated snort and returned to her book. “Come to tell me I’m overreacting again?”
Perhaps coming here was a mistake. Leona was nearly as stubborn as I was when in a temper.
She closed her book loudly, then turned to her colleague. “Mary… might you give me a moment with myfriend.”
Mary eyed me with protective suspicion, before slipping out the door and shutting it behind her. It echoed in the room, rattling the framed prints on the wall. I startled, biting my tongue in the process.
Leona came around her desk and leaned her hip against the low-slung wooden case housing larger bits of broken stone awaiting translation. I tilted my head to examine them better. They were very old—perhaps…
“It’s from Saqqara, yes. Sixth Dynasty. Did you come with a purpose, or did you just want to ogle the antiquities?”
I flushed. She was not going to make this easy for me. She never had. I drew in a breath of stagnant air. “I came to apologize for the way I behaved last night. I had no right to talk to you that way.”
She frowned, smoothing her skirt, refusing to look me in the eye.
Heart pounding in my chest, I took a step closer, hands outstretched. “I thought of what you said—and of what I saw inside Harker’s museum and…” I glanced over my shoulder to be certain the heavy wooden door was closed, even though Mary had slammed it hard enough it might never open again. “You’re right. It doesn’t make any sense for Mr. Mueller to have killed Julius Harker, then immediately expose his own crime to the world. You should have seen his face, Leona. He was horrified at what he found in that box. Anyone who witnessed that could attest to it. Not even the best actors in West End could have feigned that. The only logical answer is that someone wanted both Julius Harkerandpoor Mr. Mueller out of the way—and they certainly picked a tidy way to go about it.”
Leona’s expression softened in relief as my words sank in. Shefurrowed her brow, debating whether to trust in my words. “Then you agree with me?”
Unfortunately, I did.
I nodded, lower lip caught between my teeth.
“And you’ll help me prove that he didn’t do it?” The unbridled hope in her question was too much to bear. Soft voices came from outside the door, followed by a pair of men laughing as they made their way down the hallway. I waited until after they passed by—not that they’d likely overhear us through the thick walls of this place.
Despite my bone-deep hesitation to get involved, Julius Harker’s death bothered me. Something peculiarhadhappened, and the disinterest of the police in finding the truth in it—unable to probe beyond the simplest hypothesis—was enough to drive me mad.
