Chapter 6
Mr. Kinloch scrubbed a hand over his face. It shook. When it came away, he looked older, more haggard, and less like a refined gentleman.
Oscar moved up beside him, a calm act of solidarity. Whether Mr. Kinloch appreciated it, I couldn’t be sure from where I stood, a little back from the scene. I appreciated it, however. Oscar’s self-assured capability was a balm to my frayed nerves.
Oscar addressed the intruder. “You can’t just accuse someone like that. What evidence are you basing it on?”
“I wrote about my theory in this evening’s—”
“You wrote that!” Mr. Kinloch cried. “You scoundrel. I’ll sue you and the publication for defamation.”
The journalist lifted his chin in defiance. “You weren’t named.”
“The implication will be enough for some to identify me.” Mr. Kinloch wrenched open the front door. “Throw him out, Redmayne.” As the butler muscled the journalist forward, Kinloch added, “If you return, I’ll have you arrested.”
The journalist put a booted foot to the doorframe to resist Redmayne’s efforts. “History repeating itself—the Kinlochs arresting folk they dislike.”
Was he referring to Thomas Kinloch, the Scottish version of the Witchfinder General? Good lord. His accusations and article weren’t based on evidence. They were a witch hunt based on an ancient family connection.
With a sneer, he lowered his foot and succumbed to Redmayne’s efforts to manhandle him down the front steps to the street where the butler released him. Redmayne shoved him for good measure.
Mr. Kinloch tossed the man’s hat after him. “You’re a disgrace to your profession.”
The journalist swiped up his hat and shook it at our host. “Where are they, Kinloch? Where are the women?”
The neighbor’s front door opened and two men emerged.
The one wearing a smoking jacket must be the master, while I suspected the other was his butler or footman.
I assumed they’d assist Redmayne to remove the journalist from the area altogether, but both seemed more intent on watching Mr. Kinloch with rather nasty expressions.
Mr. Kinloch pretended he hadn’t seen them, but I was quite sure he had. A flicker of relief cast over his face upon the return of his carriage, driven by Blackburn. It was driving so fast that the journalist had to quickly step back onto the pavement or risk being hit.
Mr. Kinloch cleared his throat. “Good evening, gentlemen. My coachman will take you to your hotel. I do apologize for this business.”
“Good evening,” Oscar said.
I was about to repeat the farewell, but Mr. Kinloch disappeared inside before I could.
The butler escorted us down the steps and opened the coach door. “Blackburn will retrieve your luggage from the mews before taking you to the hotel. It’s not far.”
I glanced along the street to see where the journalist had got to, but he’d disappeared.
Oscar addressed the butler. “Who were the two abducted women?”
“I have to return inside, sir.”
“Were they housemaids? Residents? How old were they? Where were they when they were taken?”
The coachman turned on his perch to glare at us. “Get in,” he growled.
I hurriedly climbed into the cabin.
Oscar peered up at Blackburn. “You must be out and about on this street a lot. Have you noticed anything untoward? Anyone who shouldn’t be here?”
Blackburn barked an order at the horses, and the coach lurched forward.
Oscar had to jump into the carriage as it rolled away. He pulled the door closed and sat alongside me. “Bloody hell. That was suspicious behavior. Forget Kinloch. My money’s on Redmayne or Blackburn. Perhaps they’re both in it together.”
“Oscar! You can’t say that, even in jest. They were merely reacting to the tense situation.
They’ll be worried about the trouble that article stirs up.
” We turned a corner so fast that I slid into Oscar who found himself crushed up against the side.
Fortunately, it was well padded in green velvet so if he hit his head, it wouldn’t hurt.
He assisted me back to my side. “Still got the book, I see.”
I looked down at the volume in my hand. I held it so tightly my fingers ached. “Oh, yes. I’m not putting this beauty at risk.”
When we turned another corner at an equally frenetic pace, Oscar banged his fist on the roof before gripping the leather hand strap. “Steady on, Blackburn! We want to arrive in one piece.”
His words had no effect, and we spent the rest of our journey trying not to collide with one another.
Later, after finally eating some cold leftovers the hotel kitchen staff sent up, I lay in bed and read through the Mackenzie book. Oscar had gone to bed in the room next to mine. I ought to be tired after such a long day, but found I couldn’t sleep. The book was far too interesting.
Finally I found the reference to the real magician Sir George Mackenzie had discovered.
He called her a witch, but from the description, it was clear she was a carpenter magician.
I climbed out of bed and pulled on my trousers and a shirt.
I tucked it in, sort of, and drew up the suspender straps, then picked up the book.
I stepped out of my room and tiptoed to Oscar’s door. I lightly knocked. If he was awake, he’d hear it. If he was asleep, I’d keep my findings until the morning. I hoped he was awake, however.
The door opened, and it was clear from his attire that he hadn’t yet gone to bed.
Not that he was dressed. Not completely.
He wore no shirt, just an undervest tucked into his trousers.
He had a more muscular physique than I expected for a man whose former occupation required him to sit at a desk for a large part of his day. Much more.
He crossed his arms over his chest, making the muscles bulge. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “Everything all right, Gavin?”
“Everything’s fine. I wanted to show you something in the book.”
“You found the reference to the other book that mentions tattoo magic?”
“No.” His face fell. “I found the reference to the real magician Mackenzie encountered.” I glanced past him to see an array of newspapers spread across the bed. “You’ve been doing some late-night reading yourself.”
He dragged his hand through his hair, ruffling the locks. He looked tired. I probably did, too. “Come in,” he said, stepping aside.
I brushed past him and inspected the newspapers. I picked up the one I’d seen Redmayne remove from the drawing room, the one with the provocative headline. “Those poor women. I hope they find them.”
“That’s the article written by the journalist we met at Kinloch’s.” Oscar stood behind me and peered over my shoulder. “He doesn’t name Kinloch, but he points out that the abductions occurred very close to the house where the descendant of Scotland’s most notorious witchfinder general lived.”
“There was no such occupation. It was a self-appointed title, or perhaps one given to Thomas Kinloch by the public.” I was being pedantic, but I felt strongly that journalists ought to strive for accuracy.
“Sensationalism sells.” Oscar sat on the bed against the pillows, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He picked up one of the other newspapers. “That masthead is very popular, so the night porter told me when he gave me these copies.”
“So poor Mr. Kinloch will soon have an angry mob brandishing pitchforks on his doorstep.”
“When the public work it out, he will.”
We both knew they would, sooner or later.
I sat on the bed, too, and rested a hand on his shin. “This is none of our business, Oscar.”
His gaze fell to my hand. I quickly withdrew it. “I know.”
“And yet you want to investigate.”
“Do I?” he said idly.
“You have that look in your eye.”
He pressed his finger and thumb into his eyelids, as if that could erase the feverishness. “What look?”
“The same one that appeared when you first heard about tattoo magic.” I brandished the book. “You won’t rest until you get what you want, and in this case, what you want is to find those girls.”
“Women, not girls. The first to be taken was a nineteen-year-old maid who worked in the house next to Kinloch. She took some scraps out for the horses late yesterday and never returned. The bucket was found in the mews beside one of her shoes, an effigy made of straw propped up against it. The second was the twenty-two-year-old niece of the owner of the house next to that one, two doors from Kinloch. She was visiting from Aberdeen and went out for an early walk this morning in the garden opposite. A cry was heard by a passing coachman, but when he went to check, there was no sign of anyone, just a ‘small doll made of straw dressed like a lady.’ Those are the exact words of the witness.” Oscar picked up one of the other papers and handed it to me. “The witness’s name was Blackburn.”
“Kinloch’s coachman?” I took the newspaper and read. “I wonder what else he saw or heard. Hopefully the Edinburgh police are thorough and learned all they could from him.”
“As a witness or suspect?”
I gasped. It was shocking to think we may have ridden in a carriage driven by an abductor, but the more I thought about it, the more I agreed that Blackburn must be considered a suspect. He could come and go from Moray Place and the mews behind the townhouses without raising suspicion.
I lowered the newspaper and regarded Oscar, surrounded by more newspapers on the bedspread.
His hair fell over his forehead as he read, and he lightly tugged on his lower lip.
He was completely absorbed. I didn’t think it was healthy for him to take such an interest in the abductions, particularly since we were leaving Edinburgh the day after next.
Now that we had the book, we could have left in the morning, but we had tickets for the train for the following day, so had decided to spend our spare time sightseeing instead.
It was beginning to look like the only sights we would see would be Moray Place and the mews running behind it.
Oscar glanced up, his intense gaze connecting with mine. I couldn’t look away, even if I wanted to. “You’re watching me.”
“No, I’m not.”
“It’s all right, Gavin.”
“I wasn’t watching you.”
His lips curved up at the corners. “Then why are you blushing?”
“It’s hot in here.”
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”
“That’s because you’ve taken your shirt off.” I tugged on my collar. It felt too tight all of a sudden. I considered removing my shirt, too, but decided against it. It was an action that could be misconstrued.
Oscar set the newspaper down beside him. “Gavin—"
“We could contact Willie’s husband, D.I. Brockwell, and ask him to offer his assistance. He’s an excellent detective.”
“Gavin—”
“Brockwell and Scotland Yard can advise the Edinburgh police by telegram. I’m sure it will help. That way, we don’t need to get involved.”
Oscar sank back into the pillows with a sigh. “Brockwell’s advice will be invaluable, I agree. I’ll send a telegram in the morning.”
“And we’ll leave the following day, as planned?”
He gave me a flat smile, the sort someone gave when they wanted to placate. “We have the train tickets for an early departure.”
I knew him well enough to know that I wouldn’t get a direct answer, no matter how many times I asked. Oscar wasn’t prepared to commit to leaving while there was a mystery to solve.
I admired him for his strong sense of justice. I truly did. It was a rare quality, and it set him apart from most people. Indeed, it raised him above them. But I worried where that desire for justice would lead him, and what lengths he would go to see it served.
It turned out that I had cause to worry.
The following morning, I awoke to a sense of foreboding, but it wasn’t until I finished shaving at the washstand and went to put on my shirt that I realized why.
The book was missing.
After leaving Oscar’s room, I’d returned to mine and stayed up a little longer to read more.
I was so tired, however, that I’d read for a mere fifteen minutes before going to bed.
I’d not locked the book away in my valise but left it on the table beside the valet stand where my clothes hung. The table was now empty.
Oscar must have come in and taken it. But how had he got into my room without a key?
I checked the door, only to find that it was indeed locked.
I tried the window. It opened easily. I leaned on the windowsill and looked over Princes Street, already bustling with carriages, carts, and pedestrians below.
Well below. My room was on the fourth floor.
No one could have scaled the external wall and got in.
Whoever took the book had entered via the door.
It must have been Oscar, having got a key from one of the staff because he didn’t want to wake me.
I quickly threw on my shirt and tied my tie. I slipped on my shoes and went to open the door when there was a knock from the other side.
“Gavin? Are you awake?”
I wrenched the door open. “Oscar, do you have the book?”
“No, you have it. How tired were you last night when you left?”
“I don’t have it.” I indicated the table. “I left it there. You didn’t come in and take it while I was asleep?”
His face drained of color. “No.”
I pressed my fingers into my temples where a headache was starting to bloom.
Oscar pushed past me. “What’s that?” He picked up something from under the table. “Gavin.” The ominous tone clanged a warning and set my heart thudding in my chest.
“Yes?”
“Was this here when you went to bed?” He held up a small effigy made of straw and wearing a pair of spectacle frames fashioned from thin wire.
My stomach dropped. My mouth went dry.
“It must have fallen off the table,” Oscar said.
“What does it mean? Am I the next person to be abducted?”
“I don’t know, but it is a message.”
“Message?” I said weakly. My brain was having difficulty grasping his meaning. Usually sharp, it was failing me badly.
“A message that says the abduction of those women is linked to last night’s theft of the Mackenzie book. I don’t know who would want those women or why, but I do know one person who desperately wanted the book.”
So did I—John J. Defoe.