Maelstrom (8 page)

I’d fortified myself with cup after cup of
coffee, but my interrupted sleep was making itself known
nonetheless. Perhaps I’d grown immune to the stuff after so many
years of consumption. “Thank you, Christine.”

“You look awful,” she said bluntly.

“How kind of you to say.” I signaled to Miss
Parkhurst. “Could you bring more coffee, please?”

“Of course, Dr. Whyborne, Dr. Putnam.” Once
she’d bustled off, I said, “Detective Tilton came knocking at our
door in the wee hours of the morning.”

Christine’s dark eyes widened in alarm. “Are
you all right? I swear, if the police think they can just—”

“I appreciate your concern, but his visit
concerned Griffin’s case,” I said, before she started threatening
Tilton with bodily harm. I gave her a quick summary of the
details.

“I’m going to have lunch with Father,” I
finished, as Miss Parkhurst brought in our coffee. “Perhaps he’ll
be able to enlighten us on some details.”

Christine frowned at me. “Miss Parkhurst
made our appointment with the florist this afternoon.”

Blast. Had she told me? I couldn’t recall.
“I don’t really know much about flowers...”

“Whyborne,” Christine said
threateningly.

Miss Parkhurst looked up from stirring just
the right amount of sugar into my coffee. “I don’t mean to be too
bold, but perhaps I might be of help?” she suggested uncertainly.
“That is, I know I’m only a secretary, but I follow all of the
society columns, especially the weddings. Just...just in case.”

For some reason, she turned absolutely
scarlet. Why she seemed so embarrassed I couldn’t guess; the very
fact the newspapers ran such columns, lavish with detail, proved
many people shared her interest.

“And I have a good eye,” she hurried on.
“For colors and the like.”

Recalling the puce scarf she’d knitted me, I
had severe reservations. The gift had probably saved our lives, but
it wasn’t the most flattering of shades, to put it mildly.

Christine, however, looked relieved. “If
you’re willing, then please, join us. I’ve no head for this sort of
thing, and Whyborne is even more hopeless.”

Miss Parkhurst pinked again. “I suppose I
could take the afternoon off, then, if Dr. Whyborne agrees it’s all
right.”

“Don’t be absurd!” Christine exclaimed.
“You’re his secretary. This might not be within your job
description, but if anyone asks, we’ll just pretend he had you
cataloging something in a distant storeroom or some such. There’s
no reason for you not to get paid, especially as you’re doing a
favor to us.”

“Agreed. Thank you, Miss Parkhurst,” I said,
taking the coffee she passed to me. “I appreciate all the
kindnesses you’ve done me over the years, this latest one not the
least.”

“Oh.” She turned even pinker and all but
fled the room. I watched her go, a bit mystified.

Christine shook her head. “Poor girl.”

“What? Why? Is something wrong?”

“Never mind.” Christine sipped her coffee,
then prodded the envelope with the photographs. “Are you going to
take those to show your father?”

“I ought to, I suppose.” I picked up the
envelope and pulled out the photos, shuffling through them.
Iskander had captured several angles of the standing stones as a
whole, before taking a number of photographs of each side of the
altar stone. As I inspected the worn carvings, one image caught my
eye.

I opened the codex, flipping hurriedly
through the pages. “Christine, look. This image—the swirl symbol on
the altar and the one in the book.”

Her eyes widened. “They’re identical.” Then
she frowned. “If the symbol is from some European system of the
arcane, that must mean the stones date from the colonial period at
the earliest.”

My heart beat very loudly in my ears.
“Perhaps.” I turned to the folded page, slowly unfurling the image
of the Mother of Shadows. “But the Eltdown Shards from England and
the city of umbrae in Alaska were connected.”

“Which doesn’t mean that’s the case here,”
she replied firmly. Then she wavered. “Although it does raise the
possibility. Damn it.”

“Yes.” I closed the codex again carefully.
“I’ll take the codex with me when I meet Father. Perhaps we’ll be
lucky, and he’ll have the answers we require.”

And, I added silently, not be behind it all
himself.

Griffin

Dryden & Sons,
Tailors
proclaimed the sign above the neat
shop on River Street. The electric trolley rolled past behind me.
Shoppers, mainly women and servants at this hour, went in and out
of the large department store nearby. The omnipresent smell of fish
strengthened as the wind blew from the direction of the market,
replaced a moment later by the more noisome scents from the
cannery.

A small bell rang above the door as I
entered the shop. A man in an excellent, though somber, suit
immediately came forward to greet me.

“Good morning, sir, welcome to Dryden and
Sons,” he said with a smile. The electric lights lent a sheen to
his receding gray hair, and sparkled from the rims of his silver
glasses. “How may we be of service?”

“Mr. Dryden?” I guessed as we shook hands.
“My name is Griffin Flaherty. I’m afraid I’ve come with unfortunate
news concerning one of your employees.”

Dryden paled and glanced about, although I’d
taken care not to speak anything specific in the hearing of any
other customers. “I see. Please, join me in my office.”

Small and cramped, the office was filled
with cloth samples, catalogs, and other tools of the tailor’s
trade. “This is about Mr. Lambert, isn’t it?” he asked as we sat
down. He didn’t sound at all pleased, and I noted he didn’t bother
to offer me any refreshments.

“I’m afraid Mr. Lambert is dead,” I
said.

Dryden went even paler. “Oh no. How?”

“Heart failure,” I said dryly.

“I see.” Dryden stared off into nothing,
then shook himself. “Forgive me, Mr. Flaherty, but are you with the
police?”

“I’m a private detective. Mr. Lambert hired
me to clear his good name.” A small lie would go farther to explain
my investigation than the more fantastical truth. “He paid me
before I had chance to render services to him, and as a result, I
feel I’m still in his employ. I would prefer he not go to his grave
with a stain on his reputation.”

Dryden frowned. “You didn’t come here to
give me the news of his death. What is it you want, Mr.
Flaherty?”

Here was where things became tricky. “Were
there any customers dissatisfied with Mr. Lambert?”

“Certainly not!” Dryden seemed shocked by
the very idea. “We at Dryden and Sons pride ourselves on seeing
that every customer leaves this shop happy.”

“If I may be blunt, that seems a bit of a
tall order, people being as they are,” I said. “You could give some
men a free suit cut from gold cloth, and they’d complain about the
fit.”

The corner of his lip twitched in an attempt
not to laugh. “True. But there were none who complained
particularly about Mr. Lambert. Certainly not to the point where
they’d go to such lengths to discredit him.”

“Was Mr. Tubbs—the man who originally
accused Mr. Lambert, and whose murder Mr. Lambert was arrested
for—among your clientele?”

“No.” Dryden’s lip curled slightly. “We
serve a...more refined class of gentlemen.”

In other words, poor clerks just starting
out in life weren’t welcome. “Of course,” I said. “It would be a
great help to have a list of the customers Mr. Lambert served in
the last few months, if you have such a thing about.”

Dryden’s brows climbed toward his receding
hairline. “We would never share the details of our clients without
their permission,” he said. “I cannot believe you would even
suggest such a thing.”

I had expected as much, but I’d hoped he
would cooperate. Time for a bit of bribery, then. “I understand,” I
said soothingly. “Your customers are all gentlemen of a certain
station in life. Although you’d never simply give out their names,
their recommendation of your shop to others is valuable to your
reputation.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“Naturally.”

“And of course, having persons of a certain
caliber being seen to patronize this store helps a great deal as
well.”

“Your point, Mr. Flaherty?”

Whyborne was going to kill me. “What if I
said I could ensure that Dr. Whyborne—Niles Whyborne’s son, heir to
the Whyborne fortune—acquired his next suit from you?”

Greed flashed through Dryden’s eyes,
although he struggled to conceal it. “That would be a coup,” he
allowed, “but I can’t imagine how you would accomplish such a
thing.”

At least everyone in Widdershins didn’t
instantly associate the two of us. “We belong to the same society,”
I lied, twisting my wedding ring to draw his attention to it. With
the protective runes and white pearl, it looked like the sort of
thing a secret society might bestow on its members. And in
Widdershins, no one would dare question which society, for fear of
drawing the wrong sort of attention.

“I see.” Dryden looked torn for a moment,
then nodded. “Very well, Mr. Flaherty. So long as you’re
discreet.”

“Absolutely,” I promised.

“Then allow me to get Mr. Lambert’s
appointment book for you.”

Whyborne

“Good afternoon, Master Percival,” Fenton
said as I stood on the stoop in front of Whyborne House. “Your
father awaits you in the dining room.”

“Thank you, Fenton.” I stepped inside and
handed off my hat to the maid who silently appeared to take it. My
Gladstone with the codex and photographs, I kept with me.

Fenton led the way, as though I might get
lost in the house I’d grown up in. I watched his straight back as
we walked, his bearing perfect, as though not a moment passed when
he wasn’t conscious of the part he played in upholding the dignity
of the family.

I’d never been particularly good at doing my
part for the dignity of the family. First as a sickly child, my
health embarrassing in a house concerned with raising robust sons
to become captains of industry. Later, as a scholar who turned his
back on the masculine struggle of business to read dusty tomes
locked away in a museum. As a result, Father had always looked at
me with a certain amount of disdain, while fawning on Stanford.
Fenton followed Father’s lead, of course.

And now Stanford was locked away with madmen
for the murder of our sister, while I remained.

We entered the dining room, and Fenton
bowed. “Master Percival,” he announced me unnecessarily.

Any other family would have chosen a smaller
room to eat in, and reserved the dining hall for entertaining. Not
us. No, we had to sit at one end of a table long enough to seat
twenty, our voices echoing amidst the high rafters.

“Percival,” Father greeted me as I took my
seat. “It’s good to see you.”

“Thank you, Father.” Despite the summer heat
outside, the dining room felt cold. Or perhaps it was I who was
cold. With Mother gone, what little warmth that penetrated this
mausoleum of a house had faded as well. Nothing about it seemed
like a home to me any more—not that it really ever had.

The servants laid out our meal of poached
fish in a parsley sauce. “How is Griffin?” Father asked.

“A pair of strange deaths—and more—connected
to one of his cases is why I’ve come,” I replied. Hadn’t I said as
much in my note?

Father gave me an irritated look. “I know
that, Percival. I was merely enquiring after his health.”

“Oh.” It was unspeakably odd, to have my
father asking after my lover. The younger version of myself, who’d
suffered through endless meals at this table, while Father
dissected my every failing, couldn’t have imagined it. “He is quite
well. He purchased a motor car not long ago.”

Father’s eyes lit up. “Oh? What model?”

I told him, and he asked a number of
questions about the infernal thing that I was wholly unqualified to
answer. The subject took us through the meal, at least, and at the
end Father rose to his feet. “Let’s retire to the study, and you
can show me what you’ve brought.”

Once in the study, he seated himself behind
the massive desk. I sat across from him, feeling even more uneasy
than usual. None of my memories of the room were pleasant, but the
last time I’d set foot in it, I’d nearly destroyed it with wild
magic. All the while screaming at Father that I hated him.

If he recalled the incident, he gave no
sign, merely waiting while I passed him the photographs and
explained the circumstances surrounding Griffin’s case. “The
standing stones are very like those on the Somerby Estate,” I
finished. “So I must ask: is the Brotherhood regrouping?”

“No,” Father said, but he frowned as he
studied the photographs. “But you’re right about the stones. These
are very similar. According to the Brotherhood’s lore, the standing
stones predated the founding of the town. Blackbyrne took the lake
and the land around it for his own precisely because of their
presence. But I wasn’t aware there were more such ruins in the
area.”

“I see.” I believed him...or thought I did,
anyway. He might employ subterfuge when it suited him, but
answering a direct question with a lie wasn’t in his character.
“And the ritual murder?”

“Could have been performed for a number of
reasons.” He sat back in his chair. “I was never involved in the
sorcerous aspect of things, you know that.”

“But you were at certain gatherings.” I’d
not absolve him so easily. “The one on Walpurgisnacht, when Leander
drowned in the lake. The one where Blackbyrne meant to bring
something in from the Outside and clothe it in Leander’s
resurrected flesh—and feed Griffin to it, may I remind you. I’m
sure many more of which I’m unaware.”