Page 77 of The Devil in Oxford
I pulled the dark coat tight, obscuring all of my cream-colored dress. I ducked into the alleyway behind the house to see if my gamble would pay off. I settled myself into the shadows, swallowed up by the ivy, and waited to hear the groan of the window sash.
It wasn’t long before I was rewarded with the wooden creak followed by the soft thump of boots hitting the pavers below. Inspector Beecham’s footsteps grew softer as he darted out and around the far side of the house as expected. I eased myself out of the shrubbery, brushing the chaff from my jacket, and followed a killer into the night.
The moon was bright overhead in the cold December night—the wind cutting through the layers of my clothing. My coat did little to keep me warm. A thick haze veiled the world around me, giving it a dreamlike appearance. Icy air pricked my lungs as I hurried along after him, keeping to the shadows as best I could. From somewhere in the distance, low church bells announced the hour. Nine o’clock on Christmas Eve. No wonder the streets were so empty. The inspectorcarried on down High Street at a breakneck pace before starting to turn toward the river.
During the summertime the Thames would be full of geese and swans and rowers and canal boats moving up and down the river. It was a busy hub of people. Even in winter, bicyclists would take the path alongside the river to hasten their journey. It might be lovely, but now the stillness of the dark water gave an ominous tinge to the evening.
I remained about a hundred yards behind the inspector, watching as he turned off onto the riverside path. We passed a small field with fluffy sheep huddled together against the cold. Homes grew farther and fewer between, replaced by the occasional barn or cottage set off the path. Each step I took transformed the urban sounds of the city to a wilder hue. Night in winter was always still, with all the creatures asleep. Only the occasional nocturnal beast calling out its eerie warnings. A twig broke behind me, and I caught the shadowy shape of a dog darting off into the nearby wood.
Voices from somewhere ahead drew my attention back to the river. A glow of lights came from a canal boat docked some thirty or more yards ahead. There was a lorry idling beside it, the lights cut on illuminating the space between the two vehicles. A pair of men carried boxes and loaded them onto the boat. The inspector slowed as he approached them. I fell farther into the shadows. Sothiswas where he was going. Beecham called to another man who was silhouetted in the lights from the small craft. I couldn’t be certain, but I’d wager that those were the stolen crates from Julius Harker’s museum.
Ruan had mentioned that several boxes had disappeared along with the canopic jars filled with God only knew what. Cocaine or natron, it made no difference now. The only thing that mattered was finding him and Leona and bringing them safely home.
I couldn’t make out their conversation, only the furious intonation of the inspector’s voice. An occasional word here or there.
“… Shipment.…”
“… Already late…”
I edged closer, dipping beneath the leafless canopy of a willow tree, counting the men and straining my ears in hopes I’d hear mention of any captives.
Two. No, there were three men now. One on the boat, and another on land speaking to the inspector. The pair of them were pointing back toward town. I swallowed hard, fingers curling around the pistol in my dress pocket. Another man had left the lorry and headed for the boat. Could this be where Leona and Ruan were being kept? A faint bubble of hope welled up in me. I was close—I could feel it.
An owl called out, piercing the silence of the night, and I froze, watching the men slowly disappear into the canal boat, one by one. Once they were all inside, I finally exhaled and took a step from the shelter of the tree and darted for the truck.
I approached from the far side, steps silent in the snow as I climbed up into the lorry and began rummaging about seeking something—anything at all. My fingers found a familiar sheet of paper lying on the seat. Holding it up in the moonlight I made out my own writing—it was the missing page. I scanned over it before hastily shoving it into my pocket.
Four crates remained in the back bearing similar painted markings to those I’d seen in the museum’s basement. Heart thundering in my ears, I quickly pulled off a lid, shoving the straw from the top and revealing large, wrapped bricks. Bricks? Head spinning, I picked one up and had started to unwrap it when I felt the cold pressure of steel against the wound on my temple.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-SIXBoom
“YOUtruly are the most impossible woman…” Frederick Reaver growled, dragging me backward away from the boat and the truck full of what I could only guess wasactuallycocaine. I stumbled, falling into his sturdy form. Reaver was more fortress than man—a fortress who presently had a gun pressed into my freshly scabbed wound. The cold metal disturbed the healing flesh, sending a warm trickle of blood down my cheek. “And do not eventhinkof warning your friends or I will shoot you now.”
Friends? Good grief, Reaver must think I’m somehow working with the dreadful inspector.
“Let me go. You misunderstand.” I wriggled against him, but he simply tightened his grasp upon my upper arm, pulling me along beside him until we were back under the shelter of the large willow tree that I’d paused beneath earlier.
“I think not. I finally understandalltoo well.” He let out a dark and angry sound.
My mind raced over the past few days, over every single clue. Every crumb I’d collected that led us to this point, and I came up empty. I’d not once done anything to give the impression that I was in league with the inspector. “Where is Leona? What have youdone to her?” I growled, wriggling again—but he jerked me tighter against him.
“That is what I’m hoping you will be able to tell me.” He pressed the gun tighter to my temple.
My breath hitched in my chest. Reaver was also looking for Leona. “I don’t know. But I am looking—”
He shushed me angrily. “Be quiet, I’m trying to concentrate.”
Concentrate on what?I followed his gaze, struggling to make sense of him. Ofthis. A shadowed figure appeared in the distance, pausing alongside the lorry. There was a shout, then a second and third fellow arrived to assist with bringing in the final boxes from the truck. I could scarcely believe my eyes. Julius Harker must have managed to intercept the shipment of cocaine, as Leona feared. It was the only thing that made sense, especially in light of the crates I found inside the truck. Andthesemen, whoever they might be, had stolen it right back. But I still did not understand how Frederick Reaver and Leona figured in. Were they truly in league with Harker? As the former currently had his pistol digging into my flesh, it certainly was a plausible theory. I also doubted he’d enlighten me anytime soon.
I ought to be afraid. And yet I could not summon the sentiment. Not with both Leona and Ruan still out there. They needed me, and I had to keep focused on escaping. On saving them.
Within seconds, all the inspector’s men, along with the remaining boxes from Harker’s museum, had disappeared into the belly of the canal boat. Reaver exhaled loudly against my skin, warming the side of my neck as another trickle of blood oozed out from my raw scab. My eyes pricked from the cold wind.
“Now,” he murmured.
But before I could comprehend the word he uttered, Reaver jerked me to the side, thrust me hard upon the ground, and covered me with his own body. We landed with a grunt, his weight crushing the air from my lungs.
The ground beneath us shook as a blinding flash lit the night sky bright as day. A rush of heat chased after with the ferocious roar of a munition going off. The intensity of the blast whirred loud enough that my eyes watered. Something hot and sticky oozed from my right ear, slowly making its way down to the collar of my cream dress, soaking through to my skin. For a moment—only that—I thought I’d been blown back to France and was lying there on the muddy ground. That the last few years had been a fever dream from which I’d finally awoken. Dazed, I stared into Frederick Reaver’s face. His own eyes were closed. He lay like a stone atop me. While he’d anticipated the blast, he’d evidently not expected the intensity of it.
