Page 65 of The Devil in Oxford
“Ruby…” Ruan called, breaking my train of thought. He slowly descended the narrow wooden stair, a lockbox from the last century cradled in his arms.
Now that was an intriguing find, certainly more interesting than a pile of past-due bills.
He set it down on the floor beside me with a thud. The strongbox was around eighteen inches high, and about twice as long. Made of some sort of metal—tin perhaps—over wood, and painted a middling green. Metal bands curved over the lid, reinforcing it. It was the sort of chest a shopkeeper might have had to keep important documents. Paper money, contracts. Valuables. “What’s in it?”
“That was why I brought it to you.” He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers, dropping his gaze to the satchel where I’d tucked my roll of lockpicks.
I pulled out the smallest of the picks and began to fiddle with the stubborn built-in locking mechanism. My hand grew damp, causing the pick to slip. “Damn and blast!”
It gave on the second try with a satisfying click. I lifted the lid, half expecting to find something truly grotesque inside, but instead was met with more paper.
Ruan shone his light into the box. Correspondence mostly. Bound in ribbons and separated into stacks. A great leather-bound diary for his schedule lay atop a thick layer of newsprint. I shifted the paper aside and hissed.
For there, at the bottom of the chest, hidden beneath his correspondence, lay a substantial number of twenty-pound banknotes.Bound and counted in thick little parcels just as his letters had been. There were at least ten of them sitting mingled amongst stray receipts and handwritten promises to pay. I quickly counted until my head began to spin. “Ruan… there are thousands of pounds in here…”
“Is that unusual?”
I let out a strangled sound. “For a man who is in monumental debt, yes. Yes, I daresay it is. Will you count it all for me, add it to these other promises to pay, and let me know how much money he had all together, mmm?” I set the money aside and picked up the parcel of letters. “With all he owed, he must have kept his money here for safekeeping. Hidden.”
Ruan settled himself cross-legged and pulled out all the money. The two of us sprawled out like a pair of highwaymen taking stock of our quarry. I wedged the flashlight under my jaw, scanning over the letters. These were from a different correspondent than the letters I’d taken from the museum. Not the fellow from Cambridge. This was a Mr. Aldate, whoever that might be, the pair of them discussing a transfer of artifacts.
The previous letters had been stale, sterile almost. These letters, however, were all dated within the last three months and possessed an entirely different tone than the ones I’d stolen from his office, ranging from intensely intimate to violently heated. Passionate letters, written by someone who cared deeply about Julius Harker and his work. Any fool could see it. The intimacy was in the casual turns of phrase. The little jokes, and references to past events that only two friends would share.
The only two people I knew of who gave a damn about the man were poor Mr. Mueller and Leona. One of whom was dead, and the other—a knot lodged itself in my throat at the thought. No. She was not dead. I would not allow it.Couldnot allow it.
I swallowed hard and continued reading, eyes burning from exhaustion until I came to one particular phrase. My heart sank. “Good God…”
“What did you find?” Ruan leaned closer to get a better look at the letter.
I handed him the paper. “I don’t know. It’s mostly about movement of artifacts into Harker’s collection. Purchases and loans, quite boring reading material—but…”
He arched an eyebrow.
“It sounds mad—I cannot even believe I’m thinking it—but I don’t believe Professor Reaver is who he says he is.”
“Why would that be mad?”
I glanced down at the letter in my hand. “What if this Aldate fellow is Reaver? Or Reaver is Aldate?”
Ruan gave me a skeptical look.
“See here?” I pointed at the words typed on the paper:
You keep increasingly unpleasant bedfellows, old friend. I beg you, cease in this endeavor. If you do not, then not even I can keep you from your sorry fate. You will deserve it for your recklessness. If you will not cease for my affection for you—think of her safety. Or that of your associate. You are not the only life on the line here.
Ruan glanced from the paper to me, his brow furrowed and that endearing divot appearing between his brows.
“Reaver said the same thing to me the day after Harker was found dead. That he kept unpleasant bedfellows and deserved whatever fate befell him. Reaver was concerned for Leona, he was concerned for Mueller. The piecesfit.”
Ruan let out a sound of amusement. “It is a common sentiment. I would wager that most of Oxford agrees with him. Frederick Reaver loathed Harker.”
I licked my teeth, still trying to make sense of the letters. “But what if he didn’t? What if it was a ruse to protect Reaver’s reputation? A connection to Julius Harker would have ruined him. It’s why Leona kept their acquaintance a secret.”
“Ruby, we are discussing a man who very likely was storing cocaine in his museum’s basement.” Ruan gestured to the growing pile of paper money spread across the floor. “This is not complicated. He was dealing with unsavory people and he was killed for it. It is as straightforward as it can get. The only question to me is what has happened to your friend and the extent of her dealings with Harker. Did she know of the drugs, and if so, when?”
“But what if it isn’t drugs at all? Neither you nor I have actuallyseenthe cocaine. We’ve seen natron, a natural salt.” Suddenly I realized I’d been jabbing my finger into Ruan’s chest while talking. Flushing, I closed my fist, pulling it back and folding my arms.
The edge of his mouth curved up. He was humoring me in my wild suppositions—tolerating my conjecture—but the truth was that it was nearly two in the morning and I was no closer now to Harker’s killer than when we started. With a defeated groan, I tucked Harker’s diary and the package of letters into my pocket.
