The Timeseer's Gambit (The Faraday Files Book 2) (18 page)

“I wouldn’t worry,” Olivia said lightly, but even she couldn’t manage one of her macabre, bloodthirsty smiles. “I have it on good authority that certain individuals want to see him get a salamander instead.”

“You mean Hector and Avery Combs,” Chris mumbled, turning away from her.

“I mean
Tarland
,” Olivia said with a sigh. “Public opinion may be divided on whether Livingstone did it or not, but no one disagrees that if he did, he deserves the worst punishment that can be contrived. We should all just be grateful that they aren’t contriving to bring out the hippogryphs for an aerial drawing and quartering.”

Chris’s spirit deflated. He was every bit as useless as he had been before he’d learned all of this, only now the knowledge taunted him. “What do we do, then?” he asked. “We can’t just let an innocent man…” He trailed off.

Olivia’s ribbons and rosettes rustled as she shrugged. “He may not even be innocent,” she said. “It’s just a theory.”

But Chris knew she was saying that for his benefit. Olivia always knew that she was right, even when she was wrong.

“I think I’m going to get Rosemary a pony for her birthday,” Chris said after a long moment of silence.

“Oh, good,” Olivia replied. “My bloody mother will stop harassing me about the matter, then.”

The carriage pulled up again.

Chris took time to hand Olivia down from the carriage, feeling especially endeared to her despite how she’d ultimately written off the Livingstone matter. She’d only looked into it for his sake, after all. He couldn’t stay upset at her for keeping her life private when she let him in a little bit more every day. She gave him a teasing smile and tipped her ridiculous red hat at him in thanks, and Chris looked around to survey the neighbourhood they’d come to this time.

They’d moved up in the world. The cobbles of the streets were well-maintained, and each streetlight glowed faintly orange, salamander-powered rather than alp. The walks were lined with gardens, all carefully maintained, and the fine estate houses that lined the road were all equipped with soundshields. Chris felt the telltale brush of wind against his skin, ruffling his hair, as they passed the barrier, and the traffic from the road went silent, leaving only the simple peace of the estate. Without the interfering sounds, they could clearly hear someone inside practicing the cello. Drawn, not plucked. This was no upbeat swing music like what he’d danced and drank to last night.

They were met at the door by a liveried servant, who took Olivia’s request to fetch young Mister Huxley’s categorization records only after she presented her categorization card. He then left them in the fine foyer alone for only moments before the entrance of a lovely woman elegantly done in a day gown. She introduced herself as Josephine Huxley and had clearly been crying. She gasped and nearly swooned when Olivia introduced herself. A Deathsniffer was investigating Lachlan’s death? Why? Hadn’t he died in a spiritbinding accident? The way the poor woman looked at them broke Chris’s heart, even as Olivia continued to be every bit as indiscreet as Maris had warned them they shouldn’t be.

Missus Huxley attempted to offer them tea, and Olivia declined. Missus Huxley breathed deep, preparing herself for the inevitable barrage of questions. Yes, she had been disappointed when Lachlan hadn’t found a categorization. But no, Lachlan himself had not been petty or miserable about it. He had been very gracious, as he always was, and they had been so proud. Yes, she and her husband and their daughter had seen Lachlan since his placement. They all attended Heart Church, after all. They loved seeing him work. He took to it so well. He cared for his new family, Mother Greta and Father Otis and his grandparents. He adored his Maiden, Elisabeth. No, he certainly hadn’t mentioned any troubles or difficulties or strange occurrences. The funeral was in two days, yes. No strangers had asked to attend. No, he certainly wasn’t well-acquainted with any spiritbinders―they were upper-class, but not
that
upper-class. What was this about? Lachlan
had
died in a spiritbinding accident, hadn’t he?

Missus Huxley stared at them with her hands tied into knots in her skirts, and Olivia looked back at her with the expression of a dog who had been told not to jump and was resisting the urge.

“Missus Huxley,” she said, and Chris saw it coming like a train barreling down the tracks. “We believe your son may have been―”

“A very good priest,” Chris interrupted. They both turned to him, Missus Huxley with a desperately hopeful expression and Olivia with a brows-lowered glare. Chris swallowed the remainder of his hangover as well as he could. He gave his best smile. “It’s admirable how quickly he adapted. We’re just doing a routine investigation, but it has to be said that your son truly was something remarkable.”

Missus Huxley burst into tears. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you…” And without another word, she wandered away as Olivia glared and Chris glared back. Their standoff ended when the servant reappeared with Lachlan Huxley’s categorization report. He gave them a suspicious look, but handed them over.

“I’ll get more information if we tell the truth,” Olivia said.

Chris shook his head. “People deserve not to have their grief tarnished,” he said, and Olivia did not seem to miss the emphasis. She sighed and grudgingly nodded.

Back in the carriage, Chris shielded his eyes from the sun and collapsed back onto the seat. “Thank you for not―trampling all over me,” he murmured, closing his eyes. His stomach was starting to settle, but the headache was persistent.

Olivia made a small noise of acknowledgement. “Well,” she allowed, “if you hadn’t valiantly stepped in, Maris would have shown up at my office tomorrow morning with a vat of tar and ten pillows’ worth of feathers. So.”

There was silence. Chris finally cracked his eyes open, wincing at the sun. Across the way, Olivia was studying him as if she were a Lowry scientist. She took off her hat and patted at her hair, done up becomingly in tucked and pinned braids. She fanned herself with her hat, looking out the window, and she sighed. “I’m a very private woman, Christopher.”

“… yes. I know,” Chris said.

“Do you know where I live?”

“Ah, no.”

“Do you know if I own a home and land, or rent a flat?”

“No, I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Do you know how old I am?”

“I don’t.”

“And have we
ever
seen one another outside of the context of work?”

“We haven’t.”

She gave him a tight smile. “Well, good,” she said lightly. “The reason you gave that answer to every question is because I made it that way. I
want
it that way. I
like
it that way.”

“Then I suppose that’s the way it is.” He tried not to be hurt, and failed.

But Olivia gave a little growl. “No, no, that won’t do,” she rebuked. “You need to tell me why it shouldn’t be that way, and then we’ll argue about it, so that I can decide if I agree with you or not.”

“Gods, Olivia, you are bizarre. I am most certainly not going to do that.”

She threw her hands in the air and turned away from him, setting her face into a scowl. “You are
insufferable.
Fine! Have it your way. You’ll never know how old I am, and what do I care? You’re the one missing out. It’s scintillating information!” She shot him a look from the corner of her eye, as if checking to see if she had changed his mind.

Chris smiled faintly, torn between hurt and fondness. “Do you know what’s happening to the priests yet?” he asked, directing the discussion back to the investigation.

Olivia’s scowl deepened. “I have no idea,” she admitted. “
Still
. I’m twenty-four hours into this one and I haven’t the foggiest. This has never happened to me before. It’s entirely unpleasant.”

“You must have a suspicion,” Chris said. He was having a hard time keeping his mind on the case himself. Not even a spiritbinder killing priests―including a priest that had once been his friend―could easily draw his mind away from the Livingstone trial next week. But maybe if he helped Olivia immerse in it, he could drown himself, too, and forget how unfair this all was. “You always have a suspicion.”

“None of my suspicions make any
sense
,” Olivia sighed. “I can’t come up with a single reason a spiritbinder would have any desire to kill priests. And something keeps telling me…” She shook her head, finally opening Lachlan Huxley’s categorization report. She scanned the first page, her lips folding into a line. “No,” she said. “It doesn’t make any sense, and I’m not getting into the habit of sharing my especially unlikely theories with you for your amusement and later ability to make fun of me for them.”

“As if I would ever make fun of you, Olivia.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, you say that.” She sniffed. “But I’ve yet to give you an especially tempting possibility!”

The hackney jolted to yet another stop, and when Chris looked out the window, he was struck dumb by just how familiar the Edison estate looked six years later. The four-story house still towered over even its finest neighbours, with its gables and trim and balconies decorated by beautifully styled wrought iron. The hedges were still perfectly trimmed, the dozens of chimneys still reached up toward the sky, and the statue of Richard Lowry still stood proudly in the midst of a fountain in the front yard. Chris could almost imagine himself and Georgie running through the fountain, her skirts hitched up and his pant legs soaked, both of them laughing and whooping until Georgie tripped and fell into the water, Chris gasped and ran to help her, and Missus Edison and his mother came bubbling out of the front door scolding them both.

He smiled faintly.

Olivia stepped down at his side and surveyed the mansion. “It’s very impressive,” she murmured.

“I didn’t expect…” Chris replied. “That is, it looks so…” But he couldn’t finish the statement. For the first time, he really allowed himself to think of Georgiana Edison, his childhood friend, frozen to death in the summertime, far from the glittering world she’d loved so much.

Olivia laid a brief hand on his shoulder, shockingly kind for her, and Chris swallowed the lump in his throat. Grief seemed to find him everywhere, lately, didn’t it?

“Driver,” Olivia called over her shoulder. “We might be at this one a while.”

They started up the walk.

hey were greeted at the front door by a pretty little maid in a pristine black and white uniform. She curtsied deeply and gracefully to them, sliding nearly to the floor in her obeisance. From the corner of his eye, Chris saw Olivia’s eyebrow climb.

“Good noon, Miss. Sir,” she said, her voice even and quiet. Her eyelashes flickered becomingly upward. She didn’t rise from her curtsey. “Might I see your categorization cards, please?”

“We’re here to speak to Missus Edison,” Olivia said, not moving to retrieve her card. “It’s about her daughter.”

The maid’s eyes darted from Olivia to Chris and back. Chris could practically see the gears turning in her pretty head as she assessed their relationship, their request, and, finally, their station in life. He was very glad he’d taken the time to fetch a new set of clothes after his nocturnal adventures. “I’m sorry,” the maid finally murmured. “Miss Edison’s suitors were all approved by Missus Edison after her coming out ball. If you wish to petition to go walking out with Miss Beatrix, you’ll need to schedule an appointment to make a case for your suit, after which―”