Downtime (14 page)

“Doesn’t appear I’ve got much of a choice.”

“I cannot bring the book home, Morgan.”

“I didn’t say you should.”

“No, you didn’t. I just….” He avoided my eyes. “Thought you might.”

“Reading my mind again?” I cracked.

Pensive gave way to exasperated. “I’m not a mind reader. I’ve never been a mind reader—”

“No?” As we drew up to the museum gates, I saw the crowd of policemen and onlookers scurrying around inside. “This may be a good time to start.”

Ezra
pushed out of the cab and, paying the driver, shot off across the courtyard so fast I had to run to catch up. Henry, on the museum steps with a group of co-workers, came down as soon as he saw us. He acknowledged me with a nod and turned to Ezra. “You’ll never guess—”

“Henry, please.” Ezra latched on to his arm and drew him to the edge of the crowd. “What’s happened?”

“Adam Whitby. He has been pilfering books right out from under our noses and selling them to collectors. Can you imagine? The curators are livid.”

“Henry, our book. Did Adam have it?”

“Good heavens, how am I to know that? They wouldn’t let anyone talk to him or come anywhere near the offices this morning. I daresay he’s already sold it,” Henry added, with an uneasy glance at me.

The curators might not let anyone else talk to Whitby, but I was going to have a word with him, one way or another. “Where did they take him?”

“The police station—”

“Which one?”

Henry shook his head. “He won’t be permitted visitors.”

I moved Ezra to one side with a firm push and fixed Henry with the stare Sully used to refer to as “hard-assed G-Man”. “Which one?”

Henry backed up a step and cleared his throat. “Bow Street. Or Brunswick Square. I don’t know. You’ll have to inquire of the constable. I have work to do.” He smoothed down the front of his vest with not-quite-steady hands and eased himself around Ezra to break for the door.

I let him go. I should have known what would happen. I should have staked out the museum last night instead of letting Ezra haul me home to bed. Damn it. “Guess you’ve got to get to work. Lend me the money for a cab?” I hated asking but I had no idea how far it was to the station.

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll come with you.”

“You’re not going to get into trouble for this?”

“I’ve taken a man over a hundred years away from his home. I don’t believe I could get into any more trouble at the moment.”

Ezra inquired of a handy constable and got us a cab. Soon I stood in what Ez termed the “charge room,” listening to his unproductive chat with the officer at the desk.

“No visitors,” the man placidly repeated without even a glance up at us.

“Oh for the love of….”

Ezra’s fingers around my wrist in a warning grip shut me up. I had a feeling he was about to give up on the man, but then he leaned down and, lowering his voice, asked for an Inspector Saffery, with clear reluctance. The officer looked up from his ledger and eyed Ezra narrowly for an instant before waving his pencil in the direction of a corridor off to the left.

With a grim sigh, Ezra led the way to an office, where we found Saffery issuing instructions to a group of lounging constables. Saffery himself sat casually on the corner of a desk, a long, lanky figure with a drooping black moustache and matching brows. He threw an inquisitive glance our way as we came inside and a sly grin lifted the moustache a good inch. “Well, well. Mr. Ezra Glacenbie. There’s the fellow with the answers, gentlemen. They haven’t called you down to Bishopsgate yet?”

With that comment, all eyes were on us. Ezra doggedly avoided the stares, keeping his attention on Saffery. “I wish to ask a favor of you, Inspector.”

“A favor?” Saffery said with mock amazement. “You need our help? With all of heaven at your disposal?”

Whispers turned to snickers. The men grinned openly at us, and I knew why. I’d always had the same reaction to psychics who were brought in to assist. Ezra looked around at them too, and refused to be cowed. He turned back to the Inspector. “Yes, if you please. Adam Whitby was just brought in. He’s a colleague of mine and I would like a couple of minutes to talk with him.”

One of the young officers came forward and whispered in the Inspector’s ear. Thick black brows lifted as Saffery turned back to study us. “The museum chappie?”

Ezra nodded. “Even five minutes would be adequate.”

I fully expected another flat no. But for all his mocking tone, Saffery apparently did feel he owed Ezra something. He instructed the young constable to take Ezra back to the cells and let him have a few minutes with Whitby, warning us as we left the office that we shouldn’t be surprised if Whitby didn’t feel much like conversing. As we followed the constable, I gave Ez a nudge.

“He may not know what book you’re talking about, so just try to get the names of the collectors he sells to.” I dug my notebook and pencil out of my pocket. “Here. Write down everything he says, even if it doesn’t seem important. All right?”

“You are rather like a policeman, aren’t you?” His lips twitched but he said nothing else as the constable waved me to a bench and took Ezra away, down another hall.

Damn, I hated waiting. I wanted to be the one in there, firmly coercing Whitby to spill his guts. Five minutes stretched into ten, and despite my restlessness, my hopes rose that Ezra was digging up the information we needed. When he finally reappeared and stopped in the entrance to the charge room to thank the constable, his face gave nothing away. I couldn’t sit still any longer. On my feet, I moved toward him and, before he could say anything, I maneuvered him out the door and down to the street. “Well?”

Ezra looked up and down the street for a cab. I prodded him impatiently. “Ez?” The soft sigh that escaped him did not inspire confidence. He turned to me with so much damned sympathy in his face, I felt suddenly sick. “It’s gone. Lost. What? Tell me already.”

“He was not particularly helpful. He rambled on about all manner of things and I think he was trying to avoid facing that he’s gotten himself into so much trouble—”

“Ezra.” Talk about rambling on. I got a firm grip on his wrist, as much to steady myself as to shut him up. “Save the psychoanalysis for later, okay? Do you know where the book is?”

“Yes. Here in town, I believe. I had the impression he was frightened about that. Frightened it would be discovered.”

“Somewhere in London? Jesus. That’s not exactly pinpointing it.”

“You should be thankful it’s here and not on its way to China.”

I was trapped. Trapped in 1888 for the rest of my goddamned life. And it was my own fault. I should’ve gotten my hands on that book a whole lot earlier. I started down the sidewalk at a fast clip, wishing I could go for a run and get some thinking done.

Ezra stuck with me. “Now, Morgan, Whitby hasn’t dished your chances yet. I said we would find a copy of the book and we shall.”

“You don’t by any chance know where Whitby lives?”

“I’ve been to tea. Why do you want to know?”

“We’re going to search his place.”

His eyes widened. “We are?”

“Well, I figure the police have pretty much stomped all over any clues in the museum offices and if Whitby’s got anything else stashed or is hiding a list of contacts somewhere, it’s going to be at home. We’ve got to beat the police there, though. You ready?”

Ezra was still staring at me. “We’re going to search his house?”

“You know, Ez, for a psychic, you’re kind of slow on the uptake sometimes. Let’s go.”

Whitby lived in a cozy three-story row house on a tree-lined street with a wife, two children, a mother, a dog, and two cats. The son of a bitch. As the maid let us in, I looked around curiously. Hadn’t anyone wondered how a museum clerk could afford to live so comfortably? Paintings, sculpture, books—and probably not a single thing paid for. Well, Whitby would be paying for it now.

“You’ve been here how many times?”

Ezra, prowling the far side of the room near the piano, turned to me. “Just once.”

“And it never struck you that the guy is doing a whole lot better than the rest of you lackeys combined?”

He frowned. “He gave us to believe he had married into money. We had no reason to doubt his word.”

The maid returned to inform us that Mrs. Whitby was receiving no visitors. I took the opportunity to casually ask a couple of questions, and she wasn’t shy about answering them. With red-rimmed eyes, she forlornly confirmed that Mr. Whitby often came home with large packages, which were stored under the stairs. I told her that Mr. Glacenbie, under the auspices of the British Museum, had come to collect those packages—and the poor kid went white.

“Oh sir. I shall fetch the missus, then.”

“No need,” Ezra said with a reassuring smile. “Let us not add to Mrs. Whitby’s distress, my dear. Just take me to the cupboard where Mr. Whitby has been storing our property and we shall discreetly remove it before the police discover it.”

She hesitated, looking toward the stairs; then, releasing the handful of apron she’d been twisting in both hands, scuttled down the hall and let us into a cramped, unlit storage space. Ezra asked for a lamp and the maid provided, illuminating a little storehouse of small statues, boxes, and stacks of books. My heart skipped a beat. The book was here, somewhere. I was practically home.

We searched the stacks. Twice. There wasn’t even a book of similar subject matter, let alone anything chock full of incantations. Just dusty history tomes that were probably still in storage because Whitby hadn’t found a buyer yet.

“Morgan.”

I realized Ezra had said my name more than once. Dejected and damn near asphyxiated from the dust, I got up off the floor. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for another day.”

“It will be all right.” He steered me out and I heard him telling the maid that there was too much for the two of us to carry away and he would send a cart around to gather everything. The maid showed us to the door, and Ezra noted that Mrs. Whitby had had quite a number of visitors earlier.

“How do you know?”

He nodded toward an entry table bearing a crystal tray stacked with what looked like business cards. I scooped them up and stashed them in my pocket as the maid opened the door. Ezra looked at me in surprise but didn’t say anything until we were on the stoop, the door closed behind us. “What are you doing? Mrs. Whitby will not know who called.”