Page 5 of The Devil in Oxford
Laurent flashed me an answering smile before dipping out the door and into the darkened corridor beyond. He was right, of course. A little quiet would do me a world of good.
CHAPTERTHREEAmiable Lord Amberley
Iwoke the next morning fully determined to spend most of the day as horizontal as possible with the serial novel I’d picked up at the bookshop on Broad Street three days before. Preferably curled up with a plate of Mrs. Penrose’s saffron buns and my substantial black cat, Fiachna, purring at my side. Leona’s peculiarities at the mention of her employer, Frederick Reaver, weighed upon me. How was it that she worked for the most important man in the field of Egyptology, save for Howard Carter himself, and she failed to mention it to me? That was not the sort of thing one ignored. It was almost as if she didn’t want me to know. I didn’t know why the thought bothered me as much as it did. Perhaps it was simply that Reaver was at the forefront of my mind, thanks to my conversation last night with Laurent. After supper when I had rejoined the antiquarians, the conflict between Reaver and Julius Harker, the enigma who had been cast out of Oxford under a shadow of scandal, was all anyone could speak of. The men were two sides of a coin. One utterly respected, the other similarly despised. Purportedly, the disreputable Julius Harker had even once taught alongside Reaver and Laurent at the University before being unceremoniously thrown out on his ear.
No one spoke of what Julius Harker had done, but whatever it was had been bad enough that he could not return to polite society. People visited his curiosity museum, but few publicly associated with him. Which again raised more questions than answers, but I was done with my lady-sleuthing days. No more investigations. No more crimes. No more murder.
However, my dreams of saffron buns and literary assignations were short-lived, as just ten minutes after waking, Mr. Owen had come upstairs with another request, and I’d been foisted once more unto the breach of inspecting ancient tomes.
Today’s quarry was Lord Amberley’s copy of Copernicus’sDe revolutionibus orbium coelestium. An exceptionally fine piece, with no surprises and few imperfections. I had a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Owen wanted the book for his private collection and had no intention of putting it in the shop at all. Amberley was yet another of Mr. Owen’s antiquarian friends that I’d become acquainted with since arriving in Oxford.
Once we said our goodbyes and with book in hand, the two of us stepped out onto the curb and began the long walk home. The snow clouds from the night before had given way to a brilliant golden sun that made the already gold-hued town appear even more gilded. Piles of snow that had been cleared from the street this morning lay melting along the curbstones. “I do hope it doesn’t snow again tonight,” Mr. Owen grumbled to himself, tugging his long woolen coat tighter.
“Why should it matter if it does?” I tucked the carefully wrapped tome more securely against my body, cautious not to catch any errant melting ice from the eaves. “I, for one, fully intend to return to my own book now that this business is over. It’s my Christmas present to myself. And youdidpromise me a holiday, yet for the last week I’ve been so busy that I have not been able to read one single sentence for my own amusement. I deserve a plate of ginger biscuits,a bottle of wine, and my book, Mr. Owen. I daresay Ineedit after the year we’ve had.”
Mr. Owen let out a harrumph. “About that, my love…”
I paused, turning to him as a motorcar rumbled past on the cobbles, the heft of the book solid against my belly. “Aboutwhatexactly, Mr. Owen?”
“It’s only I have a pair of tickets for tonight…” His dear wizened face was downcast, hiding his expression behind the wide brim of his gray homburg hat. “I thought you’d be pleased…”
I racked my brain for what Mr. Owen might have procured ticketsfor. We often went to the opera, an occasional play from time to time, though usually those were at my insistence, not his. He had a penchant for motion pictures, but we had just been to the theater three weeks ago. Brow raised, I shifted the book in my arms. “What have you committed me to now?”
“Nothing terrible, lass.” Mr. Owen let out a dry laugh. “Last night while you were rusticating off only the gods know where in Laurent’s townhome, I promised a few of the fellows we’d go with them to the exhibition.”
“I would like to point out one cannot rusticateinsidea townhouse. I was simply enjoying a moment of peace admiring Laurent’s collection.” The familiar pinch of a headache formed between my brows. One caused by a meddling octogenarian bookseller. “And please tell me this exhibition doesn’t have to do with that Julius Harker fellow.” My heart sank. The exhibitionwassupposed to be tonight, and this Harker person was all any of the antiquarians could speak of. “Itisthe exhibition… isn’t it?”
Mr. Owen coughed, starting off down the street with a speed that only confirmed my worst suspicions.
I hurried off after his sturdy form. “Mr. Owen…”
“Aye, lass?”
“I take it wearegoing to Harker’s exhibition.” I met him step for step, shifting the weight of the book in my arms.
He made a grunt in the affirmative.
I blew my hair from my eyes. “Do you evenknowthis Harker fellow?”
Mr. Owen dodged around a paperboy and continued at his breakneck speed. For a man well over eighty, he hadn’t started to slow down one bit—that is, unless his gout flared up. He glanced back over his shoulder to be sure I was still following. “No, my lamb. But I mean to. After all, he’s quite possibly the most interesting man in Oxford and that makes him someone I’d dearly like to meet. Besides, it’s going to be quite the spectacle. He’s unveiling a cache of Egyptian antiquities stolen by Napoleon himself. Can you imagine?”
I let out a very Mr. Owen–sounding harrumph. I could indeed imagine the scene, and despite my desperation to join Howard Carter on his excavation of the Valley of the Kings, there was a darker side to archaeology. One that led to the wholesale looting of graves performed by many purportedscientists, and it wasthatsort of thing that made me ill at ease.
STANDING THERE INthe wide entrance of Harker’s Curiosity Museum that evening I immediately knew I’d made a terrible mistake. Dread clawed up my throat as the room before me opened into a sea of people. The warmth from their bodies combined with the radiant heat gave the wide-open main exhibition room a claustrophobic feel. I stretched up on my toes searching for Mr. Owen’s fluffy white hair, but he was nowhere to be found. I had sent him along to the exhibition ahead of me, as I was running late—as usual—but he ought to have been here by now.
Palms sweating, I moved quickly through the main room toward a quiet corner as a sudden peculiar sensation fluttered in my chest.My palm found its way to the spot, resting over the hidden scar on my breast. I drew in a shaky breath, then a second, before swallowing hard and moving deeper into the museum, only to be besieged by cloying perfume and a cacophony of voices springing up around me. The hard walls and exhibit cases created a world of discordant echoes, making it difficult to focus on anything at all beyond the voices rising up around me.
“Do you think he’ll show?”
“Where is he?”
“You know he’s likely drunk, or worse.”
“Could be in a gutter, knowing him.”
It was no wonder Mr. Owen had insisted on attending. He’d never been one to pass up a scene and, judging from the people already here, tonight would be quite the show.
Moonlight filtered in through the open metal and glass of the domed ceiling, helpless to compete with the old-fashioned gaslight flames burning nakedly overhead. Something about the scene—the excitement, the scent of the gaslight, the nearness of other bodies—reminded me of the traveling curiosity exhibits of my childhood. My father thought them silly but Mother adored them. Utterly captivated by the possibility of what could be, and she insisted on taking me along with her. I tended to walk a line between my parents, never fully taken in by the spectacle and never fully skeptical. I was a pragmatic, sensible girl—if terribly trusting and naïve. But despite all that, I still found an almost childlike wonder in the unknown. The inexplicable that drew me in against all good judgment.
