Chapter Eight. A Soupçon of Subterfuge #2
Mr. Mueller blinked away the dampness in his eyes.
“Oh, turning friends to enemies was Julius’s forte to be sure.
I have thought upon the matter all night long.
And while he had dozens of enemies, I cannot think of a one who would wish him dead.
He might have crossed people but…” He caught himself, shaking his head.
“But what…?”
“But he was right.” Mr. Mueller weighed his words cautiously as he searched my face for any sign of sympathy. “Julius never truly harmed anyone who didn’t deserve it, and even then, it was more a matter of nicking their pride.”
I raised an eyebrow. People have killed for far less than wounded pride. “Professor Reaver told me that there had been some scandal about forgeries lately. Do you know anything of that?”
He ran his hands over his face roughly. “Of course, but tell me, Miss Vaughn, how much sympathy do you have for the sort of man who would empty another’s grave to decorate his dining room?
It did not bother me in the least what Julius did to those men.
I only wish he’d have left them unaware of the false sarcophagi and forged marbles they’d squandered their fortunes upon.
” He sighed, wary eyes darting to the closed cell door behind me.
“I did notice that he had been secretive as of late. More than usual. He kept going on about how he’d finally figured out how to get us out from under the yoke of oppression. ”
“Yoke of oppression?” I raised my brows. “That sounds rather radical for an archaeologist. Was he the revolutionary sort?” Politics might be a motivation, at least the start of one.
“Heavens, no. Julius stayed clear of politics for the most part, more interested in his scholarship than anything else. I can only think he meant Reaver. The two men had been at each other’s throats since their time together at Oxford.
I half wonder if it wasn’t their disagreements that sent Reaver fleeing for Egypt before the war.
But since Reaver’s been back … he and Julius had been constantly fighting.
” Mr. Mueller winced, shaking his head. “I told Julius he shouldn’t tweak Reaver’s nose so, but each month there would be another new public quarrel between the two.
There were wagers whether they’d come to fisticuffs at the lecture that Julius missed a few nights ago.
” His voice cracked at the dawning realization that Julius missed said lecture because he’d been dead.
“They had been rivals for decades, but after Julius was thrown out of the University, he’d only grown more captious.
I think a part of him resented Reaver for his own misfortunes. ”
Captious. What a delicious word. I filed it away for future use with a frown.
Frederick Reaver had gone missing before the body had been revealed.
Convenient, as he was not there for questioning.
I wet my lips cautiously. “Was Reaver the reason that Julius was thrown from the University? He’d mentioned something about Mr. Harker having stolen something. ”
Mueller gave a slow shake of his head. “Julius was innocent of the crime of which he’d been accused. Of that I am certain.”
We were running out of time. I glanced back to the door behind me. A minute, perhaps two remained? I had to hurry. “Do you think Professor Reaver could have been involved in poor Mr. Harker’s death?”
Mr. Mueller inhaled sharply. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Reaver is not the idealogue that he’d have you believe.
He’s every bit the radical Harker was, not that anyone in the academy would believe it.
” Mr. Mueller glanced past me to the closed cell door.
“If I had to guess … knowing what I do, with how erratic Julius had been as of late, I think he was about to sell something worth a fortune.”
“Sell?” My brows shot up. “What would make you think that?”
“Money buys freedom, Miss Vaughn. With enough of the stuff, one can do as they please.”
As plausible as any hypothesis and certainly more than I had thus far. “Do you know what he was going to sell, or to whom?”
“If only.” He rubbed his thumb over the sores on his wrist from his iron restraints.
“He’d spent hours in his office—staying long after we closed, arriving hours before we opened.
I think he’d taken to sleeping there rather than at home.
He had to be doing something—perhaps he left some answer in his papers or perhaps it is hidden somewhere in the collection. ”
I wet my lips. “You truly believe Mr. Harker was doing business with his killer.”
“I do. It is the only thing that makes any sense.”
“Someone he’d offended, or … cheated?”
Mueller made a sad low sound in his chest but did not respond. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Everyone was at the museum that night. And probably half of the people in that room had reason to hate him. But why should any of them kill the only truly interesting man in Oxford?”
Mr. Owen had said something similar about Harker. I gnawed on the inside of my cheek. Why indeed?
Angry voices outside the cell door drew closer. Time was running short.
“Do not fear for my future, Miss Vaughn.” He gave me a hopeless smile.
“I have lost my dearest friend in this world in the ghastliest way imaginable. I do not care much what happens to me. But tell Miss Abernathy to be careful. Tell her I thank her and appreciate her kindness more than she could ever know. And yours.”
Careful of what? was on the tip of my tongue when the door burst open.
It sailed into the yellowing wall behind it with a crash.
Jack, the young constable, stood in the doorway, his earlier carefree expression marred with worry as an older man grabbed him roughly by the sleeve of his woolen uniform jacket and shoved him into the cell with us.
Jack stumbled on the stone floor but caught himself before falling and gave me an apologetic grimace.
My ten minutes had ended earlier than expected.
The older man glowered behind him, clad in a freshly pressed police uniform.
Buttons shining in the dim light of the cell.
The fellow’s face was sour and round, flushed pink with anger.
There was no doubt in my mind that this was the inspector that Jack had been worried about.
Beecham, I think he’d said. The man was a sturdy enough fellow with a mean expression—taller than me with a chest like a whisky barrel.
The sort of man a romantic soul might imagine serving as a boatswain on a ship a century ago—with likely the same amount of humor.
He had a bristly mustache covering his thin lips.
“Out.” He pointed at me with a thick forefinger.
“I don’t know what you said or did to make this idiot allow you to be alone with a murderer—but out! ”
“Accused murderer,” I replied hotly, oddly protective of both Mueller and the poor young constable. It wasn’t Jack’s fault that I’d manipulated him into allowing me down here. “Mr. Mueller didn’t kill Julius Harker, he had no motivation to do so!”
The inspector glared at me, a bulging purple vein in his neck pulsing visibly. “Would you like to have a permanent room in the adjoining cell, Miss Vaughn? I could arrange it for you.”
I kept my mouth shut and stormed out of the cell, Inspector Beecham at my heels.
“Lock him back up or else it’s to the cowshed with you, you bloody idiot,” Beecham spat at Jack as the inspector pushed me up the stairs to the main lobby of the police station. “As for you … I read all about you and your unnatural habits in the paper this morning.”
My spine straightened and I paused, spinning around on the narrow stair, making me stand a full head taller than the inspector. “What did you say?”
He wasn’t at all affected by my biting temper. Inspector Beecham met my stare with one equally as cold. “Dabbling in police affairs, living with an unmarried gentleman—”
This again. It was always a particular narrow-minded sort that grew fixated upon my particular living arrangements. Granted, it wasn’t aided by the fact Mr. Owen had a reputation in his youth that rivaled my own. “A gentleman who happens to be my employer.”
“And who in all of Britain would be na?ve enough to believe that the notorious Ruby Vaughn needs some old viscount’s money?”
Mr. Owen’s title still sat uneasily with me. I’d not known that Mr. Owen was the Viscount of Hawick until only recently. Nor had I known that the old man had been a bit of a rake in his youth. Neither of which bothered me in the least.
“He had better take you in hand soon. A woman of your age should have her mind to rearing children. Obeying her husband and tending to her household. Not prancing around the countryside sticking her nose in police business and encouraging wild stories about a mummy’s curse!”
My nostrils flared. Of all the insufferable, backward notions.
“Only the vilest, weakest, and most cowardly of men seek to control another, and I assure you that Mr. Owen is none of those things. The only person I obey is my own conscience. And if my existing in the same room as a corpse is enough to cause some muckraking reporter to dream up stories about curses—well that sounds as if it is your problem, not mine.”
He grabbed me hard by the arm, pulling me close to him. His breath stale. “Miss Vaughn. I don’t know what game you think you’re playing at, but this is police business. I have half a mind to lock you up alongside Mueller. And if it weren’t for the fact you have such powerful friends…”
The little bell rang above the door as an elderly woman entered the station escorted by a young man, interrupting the inspector’s threats.
I jerked my elbow from his clammy grasp. “Then it’s a very good thing I do have powerful friends.”
“I don’t want to see your face here again. Do you understand me?” he hissed.
“Perfectly.” The word was ice as I brushed past the woman and started out onto the rainy streets of Oxford.
I’d simply have to find another way to aid Leona and Mr. Mueller.
One that did not involve the authorities—but that would entail a trip back to Harker’s museum to see what the police had missed.
I checked my watch. The sun would set in a few hours, and then later, under the cover of darkness, when most people were abed, I could return to the museum to see what Harker might have left for me to discover.