Chapter 6
Lachlan’s office was just as messy as his wild curls.
Papers were scattered over the surface of his large desk. A coat dangled haphazardly from the arm of a small settee shoved into the corner of the room. A side table next to the couch was covered with books, a magnifying glass, and something greasy wrapped in wax paper. A meat pie, perhaps.
A flickering lamp illuminated a mahogany bookcase dominating the far wall. Superintendent MacDougal himself stood next to the shelves stuffed with books, thumbing through a tome containing ghastly drawings of decomposing bodies.
‘What the blazes are you reading?’ Thomas tried not to smile as Lachlan startled. His eyes, the colour of rich earth, lifted from the book to focus on Thomas.
‘Thomas! I was just about to send you a message.’ Shutting the book, he balanced it precariously on the windowsill next to a battered leather satchel that threatened to spill its innards at any moment.
Striding across the room, he shook Thomas’ hand and gestured for him to take the seat across from his desk.
When he realised the chair was already occupied by yet another stack of books, he picked them up, turned right, left, then shrugged and plopped the tumbling pile next to the settee.
Thomas lowered himself slowly into the chair. ‘What about?’
‘We got the report back from the coroner on Viscount Beachley. I was going to speak with you and Clio about it together, but you’re here now.’
‘Yes. I’m here. Now.’ Thomas tried to keep his tone calm, but just thinking about Miss Blair set his nerves jangling.
He had revisited their interaction in front of Gunter’s as his hack crawled along glutted streets to Scotland Yard.
And it wasn’t just then. Something odd had happened when she was driving them to Gunter’s as well.
The longer he considered, the more certain he became.
Miss Blair was keeping secrets about herself.
‘There was a fair amount of blood found on and near Beachley’s body.’
Thomas shrugged. ‘Blood is to be expected when a man is murdered.’
Lachlan sat in his chair, watching Thomas carefully. ‘No’ when the cause of death is poison.’
‘Poison?’
‘Poison,’ Lachlan confirmed. ‘And he had no lacerations on his body. No evidence of blood in his nasal passages or throat. No reason for there to have been any blood at the scene. Unless it wasn’t his.’
It made no sense.
Blast and damn.
Was Miss Blair right? Could the blood belong to the viscountess? Were they dealing with two murders?
‘I need the addresses of his staff. Have any of them remained at the house?’
Lachlan frowned. ‘We spoke with them already.’
‘I want to speak with them again.’
‘A skeleton staff remains until the new viscount takes over the residence. Beachley’s cousin will inherit the title and property. He’s already applying pressure for us to move things along as swiftly as possible.’
A greedy relative waiting in the wings to inherit. Brilliant.
‘I’ll start with the remaining staff, then.’
Lachlan took a quill, dipped it in ink, and made a list of names. ‘Here.’ He handed the parchment to Thomas, who flicked his gaze over it. ‘When shall I tell Clio to meet you at Viscount Beachley’s?’
Thomas hesitated, unsure of how to broach the question burning in his mind.
Because it defied logic. A woman could not create sparks from her hand, cause streetlamps to spontaneously light, or cast an invisible shield against the rain.
And yet he saw it all with his own eyes.
Parts of him might be irrevocably broken, but there was nothing wrong with his vision.
The echo of an old conversation tickled Thomas’ memory.
‘Didn’t you once tell me you came to London because of some bad business in your village in Scotland?’
Lachlan’s body hardened, and Thomas didn’t miss the way he shifted in his chair, readying for a fight. ‘Aye. But what does this have to do with meeting Clio at Viscount Beachley’s?’
Thomas forged ahead even when his survival instincts were screaming for him to retreat.
‘I remember now. It was after the battle of Balaclava. What a nightmare that was. Funny what men will share when they’re soaking in cheap spirits and convinced their death will arrive on the morrow. Do you recall what you said?’
Lachlan slowly shook his head. ‘No.’
‘I almost didn’t remember myself. Confessions made when staring at the abyss are uncomfortably honest, don’t you think?’
‘I would no’ trust anything I’ve said after too many drams of whisky. Scotsmen love to tell a tale, and we’re no’ above embellishing.’
‘You told me you fell in love with a woman in your village. You said she had bewitched you. That she held the power of the earth in her hands, and she was an all-powerful sorceress. One of her sisters was murdered, and the other died before her thirtieth year. Both women left daughters she took on as her own. You swore to always protect this witch and her nieces. Such an odd term of endearment. Witch.’
Lachlan pressed his lips together, his eyes flashing dangerously.
Thomas knew how deadly his friend could be.
He was reasonably certain he wouldn’t attack Thomas, but one could never tell.
‘It was a long time ago. I barely remember the conversation I had with my secretary this morning.’ His voice was strained.
‘You said your only regret if you died in Balaclava would be not fulfilling your promise to her. What was her name?’ Thomas asked, though he knew Lachlan wouldn’t answer. ‘Women are named after flowers, but rarely trees. Rowan, wasn’t it?’
The small smile creating creases on either side of Lachlan’s mouth held no humour. ‘What does this story have to do with Clio?’
‘Aunt Rowan.’
Lachlan’s brow drew down in a question.
‘On the first day we met, Miss Blair told you her Aunt Rowan didn’t need her at the apothecary until later. Strange for two women you know to share such an unusual name.’
‘Strange indeed.’ Lachlan leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his solid weight. ‘Are you asking me if Clio’s aunt is a witch? According to the law, witches are no’ real, Thomas. Nothing more than superstition.’
‘I’m not asking what the law thinks. I’m asking what you think. Do you think witches are real?’ Thomas’ chest was tight, his ribs frozen as he waited.
‘I think only a foolish man pretends to know the mysteries of the universe.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’ He couldn’t voice his real question. Is Clio a witch? Because it was madness. As impossible as sparks flying from a woman’s fingers, or rain sizzling into steam on a cold London street.
‘Some answers can only be found when you’re ready.’
Thomas shook his head. ‘You sound like a bloody mystic yourself, Lachlan.’
His friend merely shrugged, then leaned forward. ‘Why are you asking me these questions? It’s a strange thing to be wondering abou’. Witches and magic.’
This was his opportunity to put forward his suspicions. But he couldn’t do it. He would sound like a madman. Or worse. He might be proven right. And then what?
Lachlan waited a beat. When Thomas refused to answer, Lachlan dipped his chin in curt acknowledgement, disappointment clear in his small frown.
‘One thing is certain. Accusing a woman of witchcraft is a dangerous thing no’ matter what the laws say abou’ it.
If any man made such a claim abou’ my family, it would no’ end well for them.
’ His expression could have been carved from stone and left no doubt: Lachlan’s vow to protect Rowan and her nieces still held true.
Tucking the list of Viscount Beachley’s servants into his pocket, Thomas stood and nodded. ‘My sister is arranging an invitation to Lady Langley’s country estate for a house party. Your niece is included, as am I. In such close quarters, secrets won’t be easy to keep.’
‘The perfect setting for investigating a murder.’ Lachlan narrowed his gaze. ‘Which is the only mystery you need to solve.’
‘Are you certain you still wish for my help?’
Standing, Lachlan tucked his hands in his pockets. ‘Are you certain you still want to help?’
And that was the sticking point. He should walk away.
This was far more than a murder investigation.
If he found the answers he sought – and despite Lachlan’s warning, he knew he could not let the mystery of Miss Clio Blair remain unanswered – it might threaten his only remaining friendship and destroy the life of an intriguing woman…
who might also be a witch. But discovering Miss Blair’s secrets was quickly becoming an obsession.
A need, not a want. He was determined to find Viscount Beachley’s killer.
But he was equally committed to revealing the truth about Clio Blair, no matter the consequences.
‘Tell your niece to be at Viscount Beachley’s house tomorrow morning, ten o’clock sharp. I’ll not wait for her if she is late.’
Lachlan nodded. ‘Remember what I said, Thomas.’
He returned the man’s frank stare. ‘I remember everything you’ve said, Lachlan.’
Turning, he walked out of Superintendent MacDougal’s office, his shoulder blades hitching as if a pistol were aimed at his back.
Clio was the silliest witch in all the covens.
She left Sir Robin at home, a rare occurrence that strained nerves already twanging with anxiety.
But after her ridiculous display with Grey outside of the tea shop, she thought it wise to minimise her occult accruement.
It might also help to put Viscount Beachley’s staff at ease.
Sir Robin could have a certain effect on people.
It would hardly help her cause if he was shouting, Murderer, or, Bastard during questioning.
I don’t understand how anyone isn’t charmed by him.
Feeling the absence of her familiar most acutely, she cursed herself for letting Grey provoke her anger. In her need to verbally decimate him at Gunter’s, her powers had slipped free unbidden. Which was unacceptable.