Chapter Seven. An Unearned Trust
CHAPTER SEVEN
An Unearned Trust
TWO cups of black coffee, a slice of buttered toast, and several hours later I was finally ready to seek out Leona to make amends for the way we’d left things when she stormed out of my kitchen.
While she was behaving suspiciously, she was right on one score—I had changed.
I’d grown skeptical, seeking connections and conspiracies everywhere I turned.
She had reason to be worried about Mr. Mueller, and the fact I’d not immediately jumped to her aid sat in my gut like a stone.
The Ashmolean Museum rested gracefully on Beaumont Street, its smart classical lines presumably modeled after some ancient Greek temple adorned with frieze work and decorative pilasters.
Had I not known better, I’d have thought the whole building had been scooped up from Greece and planted here in the center of Oxford, were it not clad in the signature golden-hued limestone of the rest of the city.
The oldest public museum in Britain, and with a sterling reputation, it commanded the respect of the world.
Its immense collections were meticulously cared for by the preeminent scholars of the day.
Truthfully, it was a coup that Leona had secured a position here at all, and part of me envied her that.
I glanced up at the portico, shielding my eyes against the gray morning sky before running up the stone steps to the front doors.
The first drops of rain hit the pavement behind me as I reached the shelter of the entrance.
I cursed myself for forgetting my umbrella.
After this many years living in England, one might be prepared for the changeable weather, but not I.
Muted sunlight filtered in through the windows of the museum creating a cozy glow inside the quiet of the bustling space.
The main hall had been adorned with festive ribbons and greenery.
Sprigs of mistletoe bound in red velvet ribbon hung from the doorways.
Only a few more days to Christmas and to 1923 and all the fuss and bother that comes with a new year—though if the last few months of 1922 were any measure, I dreaded to find out what the new year would bring.
I hurried down the slippery stone stairs to the basement reading room where Leona usually worked.
Nudging the door open with my shoe, I stepped inside the cramped room with its low ceiling.
The walls on all sides were lined with overburdened shelves holding bits of stonework and books stacked upon books, at least two deep.
Leona shared this space with a middle-aged librarian named Mary.
Mary, for her part, scarcely ever said more than three words to me—instead politely peering at me above her glasses, before returning to her work.
Leona sat on the far side of a long study table with her forehead resting upon her palm—her long dark hair was braided and wound around her head, pinned up and out of the way.
Silver spectacles sat on the tip of her nose.
Her crisp white blouse and navy skirt were a far cry from the similar dusty and torn outfit she’d worn in my kitchen this morning—though the dark bruises of exhaustion beneath her eyes told me she’d slept no more than I had.
“Tommy, I told you—” Her expression fell as she saw it was me rather than Tommy who had interrupted her studies. She gave an exasperated snort and returned to her book. “Come to tell me I’m overreacting again?”
Perhaps coming here was a mistake. Leona was nearly as stubborn as I was when in a temper.
She closed her book loudly, then turned to her colleague. “Mary … might you give me a moment with my friend.”
Mary eyed me with protective suspicion, before slipping out the door and shutting it behind her. It echoed in the room, rattling the framed prints on the wall. I startled, biting my tongue in the process.
Leona came around her desk and leaned her hip against the low-slung wooden case housing larger bits of broken stone awaiting translation. I tilted my head to examine them better. They were very old—perhaps …
“It’s from Saqqara, yes. Sixth Dynasty. Did you come with a purpose, or did you just want to ogle the antiquities?”
I flushed. She was not going to make this easy for me. She never had. I drew in a breath of stagnant air. “I came to apologize for the way I behaved last night. I had no right to talk to you that way.”
She frowned, smoothing her skirt, refusing to look me in the eye.
Heart pounding in my chest, I took a step closer, hands outstretched.
“I thought of what you said—and of what I saw inside Harker’s museum and…
” I glanced over my shoulder to be certain the heavy wooden door was closed, even though Mary had slammed it hard enough it might never open again.
“You’re right. It doesn’t make any sense for Mr. Mueller to have killed Julius Harker, then immediately expose his own crime to the world.
You should have seen his face, Leona. He was horrified at what he found in that box.
Anyone who witnessed that could attest to it.
Not even the best actors in West End could have feigned that.
The only logical answer is that someone wanted both Julius Harker and poor Mr. Mueller out of the way—and they certainly picked a tidy way to go about it. ”
Leona’s expression softened in relief as my words sank in. She furrowed her brow, debating whether to trust in my words. “Then you agree with me?”
Unfortunately, I did.
I nodded, lower lip caught between my teeth.
“And you’ll help me prove that he didn’t do it?
” The unbridled hope in her question was too much to bear.
Soft voices came from outside the door, followed by a pair of men laughing as they made their way down the hallway.
I waited until after they passed by—not that they’d likely overhear us through the thick walls of this place.
Despite my bone-deep hesitation to get involved, Julius Harker’s death bothered me. Something peculiar had happened, and the disinterest of the police in finding the truth in it—unable to probe beyond the simplest hypothesis—was enough to drive me mad.
I cannot let him suffer for my … Leona’s cryptic words from last night came back to me in a flash.
For her what? It was on the edge of my tongue to ask Leona more, and why she felt responsible for Mr. Mueller’s fate, but I kept that question to myself.
Last night, she’d almost blurted it out but caught herself before lashing out in anger.
I could not risk the same thing today—not when we’d come to an uneasy truce.
“Have you spoken to the authorities again this morning? Have they changed their minds?”
She drummed her fingers on the top of the cabinet housing the roughly three-thousand-year-old carving. A hollow tum-tum-tum on the surface. “Without proof? I don’t even know where I would begin. It’s why I came to you.”
“I’ll go speak with Mr. Mueller. He’s the logical place to start. Perhaps he’ll be able to point me in the right direction or know who might have wished harm upon his friend.”
“And what do you think he’ll tell you that he hasn’t already told the authorities?”
“I’m not certain. But we must start somewhere, and he is the obvious place to begin.”
Before I could realize the ramifications of what I’d promised, Leona threw her arms around me, pulling me into a great hug.
Her clean jasmine scent filled my nose as she squeezed.
I closed my eyes and allowed myself to hug her back, all the while wondering how long before I regretted my hastily made promise.
COLD RAIN FELL in torrents, making a mess of what remained of the previous two days’ worth of snow.
I ducked my head, stepping out the front door of the museum determined to make my way to the Blue Boar Street Police Station once this rain eased.
I loitered beneath the portico outside the museum watching a young mother pushing a pram down the street, a big black umbrella covering them both.
I tugged on the fingers of my gloves, cursing my lack of forethought.
Umbrellas, Ruby. Why do you never carry an umbrella?
I was of half a mind to go back inside and peruse the galleries until the weather turned.
It always turned. And there were a few intriguing Renaissance bronzes that I’d not yet inspected.
At present, the thought of being warm and dry inside the museum was vastly preferable to getting soaked to my skin in search of a killer I wasn’t even certain I wanted to find.
What foolishness wouldn’t I do for the people I loved? I blew out a breath, resolved to wait for a break in the rain when I spotted a soggy newspaper discarded on the top step. Bending down, I picked it up to dispose of the thing properly when the headline on the front page caught my attention.
MUMMY’S CURSE REBORN?
I swore, scanning the article, which contained no more facts than I already possessed—fewer as it did not mention the damage to Harker’s hands nor that his tongue had been removed from his mouth.
I was ready to throw the entire nonsense away until I spotted an unpleasant sentence on the very last line.
Perhaps with the intrepid Ruby Vaughn in Oxford, there is more to this murder than meets the eye?
“Oh, for heaven’s—”
“Miss Vaughn?”
I crumpled the offending paper, slipping it behind my back in time to see Frederick Reaver approach, his palm resting lazily upon the handle of a large black umbrella.
He wore a deep green overcoat from the last century, and an equally unfashionable worn hat with a matching green ribbon.
Yet instead of looking absurd, the combination was downright dashing on him.
“I see you have noticed the headlines?” He opened the umbrella with practiced gusto.
“Can you believe this nonsense?” I held the offending paper up between us.