Page 28 of The Devil in Oxford
Fiachna meowed pointedly.
“‘He who is without sin’ and all that…”
The great black cat purred loudly in acknowledgment that there were quite a few fluffy black kittens scattered around the city. He stretched before hopping off the bed and wriggled through the cracked-open door without even getting his morning scratch behind the ears.
It was early. The sun had not fully risen, and the street outsideremained sleepy and quiet. I gathered my purloined evidence from last night’s misadventures at the museum and made my way downstairs.
The rich dark scent of coffee greeted me as Mrs. Penrose pulled a loaf of bread from the oven. “The lad left an hour ago if you’re wondering.” Her back remained to me as she placed the steaming loaf on a nearby wooden board.
“Ruan?”
“Who else would it be sneaking out of your room in the wee hours? I don’t recall you having any other suitors.”
“He’s not a suitor,” I grumbled, glaring at my housekeeper. “Besides, nothing happened.”
Her long gray hair was loosely pinned up at the nape of her neck, a few stray wisps falling from the knot. “Oh, I’m not judging, maid. You know I love the lad as my own—something happeningmight do the both of you some good.”
I slid past her, grabbing a cup from the highest shelf in the cabinet, and poured my own coffee with feigned disinterest. “He’s returning, I presume.”
“Oh, most certainly. He had something on his mind. He ran straight past me saying he’d be back for supper, he had to go see about a book.”
I let out a startled laugh. Ruan was beginning to sound like Mr. Owen. Then again, Ruan’s interest in old books was precisely the reason we met in the first place. “Did he say what book he was after?” I began to lay out my day’s work on the worn tabletop. Time was short, and the tea-stained ledger was as good a place to start as any.
“No, my lover. He didn’t say much of anything. But who everdoesknow what he’s after? He’s a dear one, but Ruan Kivell’s always been a bit odd. A good and righteous woman might hope that taking up with you would settle him down, but I’m afraid there’s no hope in that corner.”
I grinned at Mrs. Penrose. “I cannot decide if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
She smiled back, shoving a generous slice of yesterday’s ginger cake at me. “A compliment, my lover. I never said I was a good and righteous woman. Now eat, there’s no problem in this world that a slice of cake can’t fix.”
SEVERAL HOURS ANDtwo pots of coffee later, I was still seated at the kitchen table poring over the letters I’d taken from the museum. I rolled theborrowedmilpreve in my palm, something about the stone’s smooth grain aided my focus. Had Julius Harker done this too? I frowned, setting one letter down on the table and picking up another.
“Any luck, maid?” Mrs. Penrose asked from the far side of the room. She’d spent most of the morning baking, her fingers sticky with butter and flour as she worked dried cherries into her scone dough.
I dropped the stone on the table.Protect against evil indeed, the rock was little more than a rustic paperweight.
“That was a pretty song you was humming just now.”
I blinked, turning to face her. “I wasn’t humming.”
“Ah but you were, maid. An old melody too. I cannot think I’ve ever heard you hum before. Nor sing for that matter. You must be feeling better. Makes my heart soar to hear you happy.”
I couldn’t bear to tell her she was mistaken. If anything, I was more adrift than ever before. I picked up the milpreve again and held it to the light. “My mother used to sing when she was happy…” I said softly, staring at the stone. I’d not thought of it in years—perhaps it was the imposter’s presence that brought it back to the forefront of my mind.
“You don’t speak of her much.”
No. I scarcely did, though she was never far from my thoughts,especially with this most recent imposter. “She would sing to us when we were small—my sister Opal and I. She had the most beautiful voice I’d ever heard. My father loved to listen to her. I can still recall how he’d lean in the doorway, watching her each night as we fell asleep.”
Mrs. Penrose gave me a sympathetic glance. “She sounds like a lovely woman.”
“She was. She loved my sister and I more than anything in this world.”
Mrs. Penrose washed her hands in the sink, scrubbing at the dough beneath her nails. “Do you need some help? I am not certain what good I’ll be to you, but perhaps between the two of us we might find something in all that mess you’ve made of my scullery table.”
Blotting the memory of my mother from my mind, I handed the tea-stained ledger to Mrs. Penrose. “You’ve a head for numbers. See if you find anything odd in there, hmm?”
“Shall I fix us a pot of tea while we work?”
She didn’t wait on my response as she set on another kettle before taking the seat across from me, and we set to work. The sun was hanging low in the sky by the time I finally gave up on the letters. Over the course of the morning, I’d learned all sorts of useless facts about Julius Harker: He was separated from his wife, who currently lived in Bath with their two grown children. He also was in possession of a vast collection of Egyptian artifacts—not a surprise as he was exhibiting said artifacts at the time of his murder—and he had an aversion to turnips. I couldn’t blame him on the final point for I disliked the root vegetable myself. Beyond that, the sum of my investigation had left me with a pile of various receipts and descriptions of objects that meant nothing. The man’s existence was utterly boring.
