Page 16 of The Devil in Oxford
I cannot let him suffer for my…Leona’s cryptic words from last night came back to me in a flash.For her what?It was on the edge of my tongue to ask Leona more, and why she felt responsible for Mr. Mueller’s fate, but I kept that question to myself. Last night, she’d almost blurted it out but caught herself before lashing out in anger. I could not risk the same thing today—not when we’d come to an uneasy truce. “Have you spoken to the authorities again this morning? Have they changed their minds?”
She drummed her fingers on the top of the cabinet housing the roughly three-thousand-year-old carving. A hollow tum-tum-tum on the surface. “Without proof? I don’t even know where I would begin. It’s why I came to you.”
“I’ll go speak with Mr. Mueller. He’s the logical place to start. Perhaps he’ll be able to point me in the right direction or know who might have wished harm upon his friend.”
“And what do you think he’ll tell you that he hasn’t already told the authorities?”
“I’m not certain. But we must start somewhere, and he is the obvious place to begin.”
Before I could realize the ramifications of what I’d promised, Leona threw her arms around me, pulling me into a great hug. Her clean jasmine scent filled my nose as she squeezed. I closed my eyes and allowed myself to hug her back, all the while wondering how long before I regretted my hastily made promise.
COLD RAIN FELLin torrents, making a mess of what remained of the previous two days’ worth of snow. I ducked my head, stepping out the front door of the museum determined to make my way to the Blue Boar Street Police Station once this rain eased. I loitered beneath the portico outside the museum watching a young mother pushing a pram down the street, a big black umbrella covering them both. I tugged on the fingers of my gloves, cursing my lack of forethought.Umbrellas, Ruby. Why do you never carry an umbrella?
I was of half a mind to go back inside and peruse the galleries until the weather turned. Italwaysturned. And therewerea few intriguing Renaissance bronzes that I’d not yet inspected. At present, the thought of being warm and dry inside the museum was vastly preferable to getting soaked to my skin in search of a killer I wasn’t even certain I wanted to find.
What foolishness wouldn’t I do for the people I loved? I blew out a breath, resolved to wait for a break in the rain when I spotted a soggy newspaper discarded on the top step. Bending down, I picked it up to dispose of the thing properly when the headline on the front page caught my attention.
MUMMY’S CURSE REBORN?
I swore, scanning the article, which contained no more facts than I already possessed—fewer as it did not mention the damage to Harker’s hands nor that his tongue had been removed from hismouth. I was ready to throw the entire nonsense away until I spotted an unpleasant sentence on the very last line.
Perhaps with the intrepid Ruby Vaughn in Oxford, there is more to this murder than meets the eye?
“Oh, for heaven’s—”
“Miss Vaughn?”
I crumpled the offending paper, slipping it behind my back in time to see Frederick Reaver approach, his palm resting lazily upon the handle of a large black umbrella. He wore a deep green overcoat from the last century, and an equally unfashionable worn hat with a matching green ribbon. Yet instead of looking absurd, the combination was downright dashing on him. “I see you have noticed the headlines?” He opened the umbrella with practiced gusto.
“Can you believe this nonsense?” I held the offending paper up between us.
He inclined his head in acknowledgment, frowning at the rainy street beyond. “Indeed, I can. I only marvel they haven’t come up with more absurdities. Can I walk you wherever it is you’re headed? You appear to be in need of shelter.”
I snorted back a laugh, discomfited by the paper. “I am, aren’t I? I was debating whether to wait out the shower or give in and just get wet.” As if on cue, the mocking rain fell harder, splattering off the stone steps onto the hem of my skirt. “I was going to Blue Boar Street, though I think I may wait it out. Surely it won’t rain forever.”
The lines on his face furrowed for a half second. “That’s not far at all. Only a few minutes’ walk. I am headed to meet a colleague over at Brasenose College. It’s not terribly out of the way. Please let me see you where you’re going. I insist.”
Another bone-rattling gust of wind swept through the portico, plastering my skirt to my legs and dousing my stockings with icy rainwater. While I wasn’t sure what to make of Frederick Reaver, I could see no harm in availing myself of his umbrella for the lengthof time it took to get to the police station. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
He gave me a rakish smile, revealing that solitary dimple again. I ducked under the shelter of his large umbrella and we started down the steps. Frederick Reaver was an irritatingly attractive man and his physicality only accentuated his enigmatic presence. One couldn’t be around him for more than a few moments without feeling the draw. Perhaps that’s why I mistrusted him so. I never did care much for beautiful men after having fallen under the spell of one at sixteen years of age, and we saw where that got me—utterly ruined and shipped to another continent for my own safety.
A damp lock of sandy hair curled across Reaver’s brow as he lowered his head to speak with me, but the way his eyes glinted in the midmorning light gave me pause. There was an intensity there that took my breath away. Frederick Reaver had the eyes of an eighteenth-century missionary, burning with some unholy fire. This was a man driven by his passion and the sheer conviction of his rightness.
Unaware of my discomfort, Reaver pulled his hideous hat farther down. “Leona tells me you were an ambulance driver during the war and that is how the pair of you met.”
I tucked my gloved hands deeper into the pockets of my woolen overcoat as we crossed the busy street. “It was a long time ago. But yes. I was. Leona was the librarian at the hospital. The first time I met her, she was leading a reading circle with the soldiers there. It was quite entertaining to listen to the intense debates amongst the men over whether Austen or Brontë created a more compelling world.”
He let out a low chuckle, his stern expression softening at the mere mention of her. “I assume you both had opinions on the matter?”
“I am afraid when forced to choose, I found myself preferring Brontë every time, much to Leona’s deep consternation. It felt farmore real to me than Austen ever did. There is a darkness in human nature that cannot be forgotten, even in fiction. Leona thought it a dreadfully depressing way to approach literature, but I’ve never been afraid of the dark. For at least there is honesty in it.”
He chuckled fondly. “That sounds like her. It is our good fortune to have her at the museum. Leona is a singularly gifted young woman who never fails to see the good in even the bleakest of souls. I truly do not know what I would do without her.”
“Were you also in the war?” I asked, knowing good and well that he had been. I glanced over at him in time to catch a flicker of something in his expression.
“Here and there, but I was grateful to return home after it was done. After several years traveling the world, I found that I’d missed the comforts of Oxford.”
We continued, passing by shop windows decorated for Christmas, laden with bright colors and saccharine scenes. “How long have you and Leona worked together?”
