Page 40 of The Devil in Oxford
Ruan opened his mouth to protest, but I was faster. “Oh, I’m perfectly fine, Doctor. You go help the authorities. I need a moment to gather myself after my recent ordeal.” I held him with a meaningful gaze.
Ruan’s expression went from mutinous to murderous.
“What is the problem down there anyway?” I asked before Ruan’s damnable integrity could give us both away.
Jack frowned, folding his arms. “There’s been an accident with one of the prisoners.”
Something in the simple statement struck Ruan, I could see it in the subtle shifting of his expression and the stillness that came over him. Whether it was my desperation for him to go to the cells or if he could sense what was going on below, I couldn’t tell.
“What’s happened?” Ruan said softly, leaving my side and heading toward the long police desk. His dear West Country accent smoothed to the point I scarcely recognized his voice.
“One of the rioters got loose this morning and somehow got in with another prisoner. The inspector has been down there for a while now trying to keep the peace, but it might do some good to have a physician there to see if there’s anything that can be done for the poor fellow who’s been attacked.”
That didn’t sound good. Not good at all. The constable wiped a bit of sweat that had beaded at his brow. “I must warn you, the inspector… he can be…stern. He likely won’t appreciate my calling you in—but it was only right, considering. I hope you don’t take offense if he says anything unpleasant.”
Nowthatwas an understatement. Inspector Beecham was an utter nightmare. I sat on the bench watching as the two men disappeared through the heavy door to the stairway that led to the cells below. Leaving me and my slowly weeping wound utterly alone in the police station.
I shot to my unsteady feet, bracing myself on the arm of the wooden bench before hurrying to the police desk and lifting the counter as I’d watched Jack do earlier. I had a minute, perhaps two at most, before someone returned. Not that I even knew what I was hunting, but surely there were records somewhere pertaining to Harker’s death. Perhaps a coroner’s report? Something to illuminatewhy the police remained convinced Mr. Mueller was guilty. I made quick work of the desk, which had nothing of import other than what appeared to be a dried-out half-eaten cheese scone and the morning paper. It seemed that Harker and my own appearance in Oxford continued to dominate the news, sharing the front page with the rioters. Both articles written by the same person. V. E. Devereaux. I blew out an aggrieved breath, skimming the headlines.
MUMMY CURSE!
DEATH AND DISHONOR!
Good grief. Perhaps it was best that the tea destroyed my copy. I left the papers behind and moved to the inspector’s office in hopes of finding something more enlightening. A half-empty cup of tea rested precariously atop a towering stack of papers on the desk. I took a sniff.
Not tea.
Whisky. My stomach knotted. I moved on, carefully scanning through the files on the surface. Nothing. How could they be holding Mr. Mueller in the cells below without even a hint of an investigation going on above? One would at least expect an autopsy of Harker orsomethinguseful lying about.
A haphazard vertical wooden filing system sat behind the desk. Some documents were kept in folders, others crammed into envelopes, and others still lying loose between things. Fiachna kept his playthings tidier than this office. I huffed out a breath in annoyance. Heart pounding in my ears, I began sorting through the papers, fingers flying over the pages.
It was foolish to think I would find something in this short amount of time—but I would never have a better opportunity. Distant voices came from behind the door, growing closer by the second as I spotted the typeset wordsHarker, Julius on a folder label. Without a thought or even checking to see what the file contained, I lifted it and tucked it into the waistband of my torn skirt, then hurried back to the bench.
I sank down on the hard wooden surface, wrapping the blanket around me seconds before Ruan stepped through the doorway. His stern expression was unreadable, but I caught the traces of silver fleeing from his pale green eyes. Something happened down there.
What is it?
He ran his hand over his jaw and shook his head. Jack followed him through the door, his face equally grim. Out of habit, I reached for the pocket of my skirt where I’d kept my own notes.
Empty.
I touched the other one, as casually as possible.Alsoempty.
Good God. All of my notes inventorying what I’d discovered in Harker’s storeroom, the meticulous transaction details that Mrs. Penrose had found. All of it was gone.
“Terrible business.” Inspector Beecham’s voice boomed from deeper in the stairwell. His heavy boots echoed against the walls. “Would you mind making sure this one gets home without further incident, Doctor?”
Ruan made a sound of agreement low in his chest. “I’ll see to it and be sure she doesn’t find herself in any more mischief.”
My nostrils flared.Mischief?
“Be sure she doesn’t. We’ve enough trouble for one day.”
For once, Inspector Beecham and I were in complete agreement.
CHAPTEREIGHTEENA Sweet Distraction
ONCEthe door to the police station closed behind us, Ruan’s feigned professional concern for my well-being returned to his usual quiet determination. Hand on my elbow, he tugged me down the alley and back onto the bustling High Street. The sidewalks were packed with shoppers running last-minute errands to the butcher or the toy store. A workman walked down the street whistling a merry song. All the discordant sounds and scents made my headache all the worse.
