Bloodline (Whyborne & Griffin Book 5) (7 page)

“Quite striking,” he murmured. He went around his desk and
removed a magnifying glass from a drawer, in order to study the bracelet more
closely.

“Do you recognize it?” I asked hopefully.

“Yes and no.”

Well, that was spectacularly unhelpful. “Whatever do you
mean?”

“I’ve no idea what part of the world it comes from. But I
have seen something like it before.” He put the glass away. “A few years ago, I
visited a colleague who works for the art museum in Boston. A donor had
recently died and left his collection to the museum. A necklace very much like
this one was among the pieces. Like you, he hoped to learn its origins. Very
disappointed when I couldn’t tell him—made me pay for dinner.” He handed
the bracelet back to me.

“Do you know if he ever discovered its provenance?”

“No idea.” Gerritson shrugged his massive shoulders. “I can
write him, if you’d like.”

“Thank you. It’s very kind of you to offer.”

“Any time.” He smiled broadly. “Now, is there anything else
I can help with?”

“No.” I shook his hand. “Thank you again.”

“Anything for a colleague,” he assured me. “I’ll pop round
to your office as soon as I hear something. And don’t forget about the pearl!”

I spent the afternoon napping fitfully in my office,
blunting my weariness but gaining a sore neck in return. Griffin sent word for
Christine and I to meet him later, so the two of us stopped at Marsh’s Diner
after leaving the museum. While we ate, I told her about the strange creature
I’d seen at the cemetery the night before.

“Interesting,” she mused as she consumed her sandwich. “And
you’re certain it wasn’t a gh
ū
l?”

“Certain,” I agreed emphatically. “Whatever else it might
have been, it had nothing of the jackal about it. Quite the opposite.”

“There’s that, at least. Although I suppose the idea of
unknown monsters is hardly comforting.”

After, we visited her boarding house, so she could change
clothes and retrieve her pistol. I waited for her in the parlor, under the
disapproving glare of the landlady, who seemed to think I’d sneak away for an
assignation with one of her tenants if not watched constantly.

Griffin awaited us at the corner of River Street and
Blackstrap Lane. He stood beneath a streetlight, carpetbag in hand, bundled up
in dark clothing with a heavy scarf against the chill.

“There you are,” he said with a quick smile for us.
“Christine, you have your pistol?”

“Yes.” She patted her purse. “Poor Whyborne had to face my
landlady for me to retrieve it.”

“Next time I’ll wait on the sidewalk,” I said with a
shudder.

“I’m going to have to find somewhere else to live,”
Christine said. Griffin began to walk, and we fell in beside him. “I’ll never
have a moment’s privacy with Kander, otherwise. I have some savings put
away—perhaps I should consider renting a house.”

“I think there may be one vacant in our neighborhood,”
Griffin said.

What? Had he lost his mind? I tried to catch his eye, but he
either didn’t notice or chose to ignore me.

“Really?” Christine perked up. “Do find out if it’s for
rent, won’t you?”

Perhaps I could claim the place to be a vermin-infested
hellhole. But no, Griffin would just contradict me, and they’d both think I’d
gone mad. I loved Christine dearly, but I had enough of her barging into my
office whenever she pleased. I certainly didn’t want her doing the same at
home. What if Griffin and I were making love in the study, and she started banging
on the door demanding to be let in?

Maybe Iskander would keep her occupied. I could only hope
the man had stamina.

“How is Iskander?” Griffin asked. “Has he set an arrival
date yet?”

“No, he’s still settling the estate in Kent. There are
lawyers involved, so even the simplest matters immediately become complicated.
He did an initial survey of a barrow on the property, though,” she added more
cheerfully. “He suggested we might excavate it together, some day.”

“How romantic,” I muttered.

“I know,” she sighed happily.

I rolled my eyes, but she didn’t notice. “What do you have
planned for us this evening?” I asked Griffin. “I see you brought your tools.”

“I spent the afternoon loitering about the docks in
disguise,” he replied. “The
Norfolk Siren
is berthed at the farthest end
of the harbor. I take it no other ships wanted to dock near her, sailors being
a superstitious lot. There is a guard on the dock, to keep away
curiosity-seekers until her owners decide what to do with her. The man on duty
earlier was more than happy to talk in exchange for a few nips from a flask. He
didn’t know anything of note, but imagined his job would be done soon, since
the newspapers have lost interest in the story. Oh, and he doesn’t like the
night guard, who’s a notorious drunkard.”

“How convenient,” I said.

“Not as convenient as the whiskey bottle I have in my bag.
We’ll get by him one way or another.” Griffin glanced at me. “But first things
first, I’d like to stop by the saloon where Guinevere intended to meet us.”

The air grew thick in my lungs. How could I go back in
there? The place where I’d sat and drank bad whiskey, while my sister was being
set upon only a short distance away, stabbed again and again. Had she screamed
for help? God, why hadn’t I insisted we leave earlier?

I trapped the words behind my teeth. Griffin would only say
I couldn’t have known, and Christine would agree with him. They loved me; of
course they would try to reassure me.

“Why?” Christine asked with a small frown.

Griffin pursed his lips. “Guinevere asked Whyborne to meet
her at that particular saloon for a reason. I want to know what it is.
Interrogating the bartender seems like a good first step.”

“Perhaps it was the only saloon she knew of,” Christine countered.

“Or Stanford might have mentioned it to her, if he’d ever
gone there,” I added.

“Surely, he would have said so the other night.” Griffin
paused to let a group of women pass by along the sidewalk. Their dresses were
cut low and their faces heavily painted. “He was drunk, but not so intoxicated
he couldn’t follow the conversation.”

I scowled, remembering his threat against Griffin. “True.
Mother said he’d ceased to rely on drink over the summer. I suppose Guinevere’s
death was as good an excuse as any to turn back to the bottle.”

“There is another thing.” Griffin unbuttoned the top few
fastenings on his coat to draw out a folded bit of newspaper. “I don’t know if
either of you read the paper today?”

“I didn’t,” I admitted. I’d been too cursed tired to read
anything with any amount of comprehension. Christine, however, nodded.

Griffin passed the clipped article to me. “Perhaps,
Christine, you noticed the article about the horse and cab found wandering
driverless not far from here?”

“Yes. The driver’s body was found in the river, wasn’t it?
The police think he was robbed and…oh.” She trailed off, eyes going wide.

I handed the article back without more than a glance.
“Guinevere wouldn’t have walked here,” I said numbly. “You think this cab
brought her from Whyborne House.”

Griffin accepted the paper, his fingers brushing mine a bit
more than strictly necessary to take it back. Even in the dimness of the
ill-lit streets, I could see the sympathy in his eyes. “Yes, my dear. It’s not
certain, but it seems an unlikely coincidence for a cab to be found empty and
the driver murdered the same night Guinevere died, and in the same part of
town.”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“Which means either someone is keeping watch on Whyborne
House and followed her from there, in a conveyance themselves, as they couldn’t
have kept up on foot. Or they knew her destination and prepared an ambush.”

“And if she had some reason to choose the saloon, someone
else might have known it, and thus been able to lie in wait.”

Griffin nodded. “Will you be all right to go inside?”

With a start, I realized we’d reached our destination.
Griffin had brought us a different way, no doubt to keep us from having to walk
past the alley where Guinevere had died. The quiet kindness of his choice
lessened the pressure on my heart a bit. “Yes. Thank you.”

Griffin led the way inside. Nothing had changed since our
last visit, save different faces on the clientele. And on the barkeep.

Damn. But perhaps this one might still be of help.

Griffin clearly thought so, as he sauntered up to the bar
and took a seat, thankfully at the opposite end from where we’d sat the other
night. Even so, my nerves drew tight as I settled beside him. What disasters
might befall while I sat here tonight?

No, that was absurd. I was over-tired and not thinking
clearly.

The bartender glanced at us, but didn’t seem to find
anything objectionable about Christine’s presence. Given the area, he probably
saw any number of women drinking in the establishment. “What can I get you?”

“Three whiskeys,” Griffin said.

The barkeep poured and set them in front of us. Before he
could turn away, Griffin added, “My friend and I were in here the night before
last. I need to talk to the man who tended bar. Do you know when he’ll be
working again?”

The current bartender scowled. “Never. Left me in a damned
bind, he did.”

Griffin looked sympathetic. “Oh? How so?”

“I’m the owner.” The man poured himself a shot, and tossed
it back neatly. “That bastard Jerry sent a note around yesterday morning,
saying he wasn’t coming back. Now I’ve got to run the place and keep the bar
all by myself until I can hire someone else as won’t steal from the till. He
just better not come slinking back looking for pay, I don’t care if he
did
work three days this week.”

Griffin casually slipped a dollar bill from his pocket and
laid it on the bar beside his whiskey. “If you have any idea of where Jerry
might be found, it would be of a great help to us.”

The bartender looked disappointed. “I wish I did, sir. But I
didn’t inquire as to his living arrangements. One of the tenements around here,
I’d expect, but I couldn’t tell you which one.” He started to turn away, then
stopped and thrust one meaty hand into his pocket. “There is something, though.
Don’t know if it’s of any value to you or not, but I’ve the one apron for me
and whoever works the bar when I ain’t here. Found this note in the pocket the
next morning; figure Jerry must have left it there by accident. Damned if I
know what it means, though.”

The folded paper the man handed Griffin looked to have been
written on good stationary, even though it was now covered with grime. As the
barkeep turned away, Griffin unfolded the note. Christine and I both leaned in
to read over his shoulder.

Midnight tonight. Meeting others. One wet, one dry.
Prepare the back room.

“One for the land, and one for the sea.”

I stared at the paper, unable to look away. “The
handwriting,” I said. “It’s Guinevere’s.”

~ * ~

We left the bar soon after and made for the wharfs. My head
spun with questions, none of which had answers. How on earth had someone like
Guinevere met a lowly barkeep? What did her note to him mean? Had he
disappeared of his own volition, or had the same hand that struck down the cab
driver and Guinevere done away with him as well?

And what did any of it have to do with the creature from the
cemetery? The thing had taken to the water like a dolphin. Guinevere’s
references to the sea seemed to suggest there was indeed a connection.

What was it? What had it wanted? Were there more of its kind
lurking about? Perhaps clinging even now to the barnacle-encrusted pilings
beneath our very feet? I shuddered at the thought.

If only I’d gotten a better look at the thing. While
possessed by the dweller, I’d seen terrifying shark-men accompanying the
creature. There had been statues of such things at the awful temple deep under
the sea. The whole thing seemed a dream now, though, the memories fading and
fragmenting as time passed. I couldn’t be sure if the monster I’d glimpsed was
one of those which worshipped the dweller, or some new aquatic horror.

Other than the light we carried, the only illumination along
the wharfs came from the occasional lantern of a night watch aboard the ships,
the harbormaster’s quarters, and a lone lamp at the farthest end of the docks,
where the
Norfolk Siren’s
guardian kept watch. Thin clouds shrouded the
stars. The waves shifted restlessly, causing the ships to creak and groan like
restless sleepers. The scents of salt, pitch, and fish filled the air, and I
breathed deep. After the time spent in the sandy wastes of Egypt, so far from
the sea, I found the sounds and smells of the ocean more soothing than I ever
had before.

Griffin halted. “Wait here,” he murmured to Christine and me.
“I’ll see to the guard.”

Placing his carpetbag on the rough wood of the dock at our
feet, he drew out a half-filled bottle of cheap whiskey. He uncapped it,
swished a mouthful around with his tongue, then spat it out into the ocean. His
breath suitably reeking, he clutched the bottle in one hand and the lantern in
the other, and staggered toward the guard.

The distance was too great for us to hear their voices. In
the faint light of the lanterns, I saw the guard rise to his feet. Griffin
waved the bottle and shouted something distorted by the sigh of the waves.
Within moments, both men were laughing, and the guard now held the bottle. He
gestured for Griffin to join him in his makeshift driftwood shelter, to get out
of the wind and cold.

As he turned away, Griffin delivered a single, sharp blow to
the back of his head. The guard crumpled like a sack of wet laundry.

I picked up the carpetbag. “Give me a hand,” Griffin ordered
as we drew closer. Christine obliged, and between the two of them, they shifted
the guard into his shelter.

“With any luck, he’ll be out for a bit,” Griffin murmured.
“But we’d best not linger.”

He splashed some of the whiskey on the guard, perhaps in
hopes the man would think he’d passed out from drink. Or did he mean to rouse
suspicion in anyone the guard might go to for help, should he recover too soon?

Griffin took back his carpetbag, and Christine shuttered the
lantern until only a single, strong beam cut through the gloom. The black bulk
of the cargo ship loomed above us, its single stack pointing at the sky like an
accusing finger. The lines protested as low waves shifted her bulk; without any
cargo, she rode high in the water. Thank heavens the gangplank was still in
place. Griffin and Christine might be up to climbing the ropes like a pair of
monkeys, but I certainly couldn’t have managed it.

“What exactly are we looking for here?” Christine asked in a
low voice as we stepped onto the deck.

“Anything out of the ordinary.” Griffin took the lantern
from her and swept its beam slowly about us. To the fore lay the crew quarters;
midships was the chart house and galley. In between lurked coils of rope,
cleats, and equipment lockers, all of which threw odd shadows, amidst which
anything might lurk.