Chapter Thirty. An Unexpected Conspirator #2
Ruan settled himself cross-legged and pulled out all the money.
The two of us sprawled out like a pair of highwaymen taking stock of our quarry.
I wedged the flashlight under my jaw, scanning over the letters.
These were from a different correspondent than the letters I’d taken from the museum.
Not the fellow from Cambridge. This was a Mr. Aldate, whoever that might be, the pair of them discussing a transfer of artifacts.
The previous letters had been stale, sterile almost. These letters, however, were all dated within the last three months and possessed an entirely different tone than the ones I’d stolen from his office, ranging from intensely intimate to violently heated.
Passionate letters, written by someone who cared deeply about Julius Harker and his work.
Any fool could see it. The intimacy was in the casual turns of phrase.
The little jokes, and references to past events that only two friends would share.
The only two people I knew of who gave a damn about the man were poor Mr. Mueller and Leona. One of whom was dead, and the other—a knot lodged itself in my throat at the thought. No. She was not dead. I would not allow it. Could not allow it.
I swallowed hard and continued reading, eyes burning from exhaustion until I came to one particular phrase. My heart sank. “Good God…”
“What did you find?” Ruan leaned closer to get a better look at the letter.
I handed him the paper. “I don’t know. It’s mostly about movement of artifacts into Harker’s collection. Purchases and loans, quite boring reading material—but…”
He arched an eyebrow.
“It sounds mad—I cannot even believe I’m thinking it—but I don’t believe Professor Reaver is who he says he is.”
“Why would that be mad?”
I glanced down at the letter in my hand. “What if this Aldate fellow is Reaver? Or Reaver is Aldate?”
Ruan gave me a skeptical look.
“See here?” I pointed at the words typed on the paper:
You keep increasingly unpleasant bedfellows, old friend.
I beg you, cease in this endeavor. If you do not, then not even I can keep you from your sorry fate.
You will deserve it for your recklessness.
If you will not cease for my affection for you—think of her safety.
Or that of your associate. You are not the only life on the line here.
Ruan glanced from the paper to me, his brow furrowed and that endearing divot appearing between his brows.
“Reaver said the same thing to me the day after Harker was found dead. That he kept unpleasant bedfellows and deserved whatever fate befell him. Reaver was concerned for Leona, he was concerned for Mueller. The pieces fit.”
Ruan let out a sound of amusement. “It is a common sentiment. I would wager that most of Oxford agrees with him. Frederick Reaver loathed Harker.”
I licked my teeth, still trying to make sense of the letters. “But what if he didn’t? What if it was a ruse to protect Reaver’s reputation? A connection to Julius Harker would have ruined him. It’s why Leona kept their acquaintance a secret.”
“Ruby, we are discussing a man who very likely was storing cocaine in his museum’s basement.
” Ruan gestured to the growing pile of paper money spread across the floor.
“This is not complicated. He was dealing with unsavory people and he was killed for it. It is as straightforward as it can get. The only question to me is what has happened to your friend and the extent of her dealings with Harker. Did she know of the drugs, and if so, when?”
“But what if it isn’t drugs at all? Neither you nor I have actually seen the cocaine. We’ve seen natron, a natural salt.” Suddenly I realized I’d been jabbing my finger into Ruan’s chest while talking. Flushing, I closed my fist, pulling it back and folding my arms.
The edge of his mouth curved up. He was humoring me in my wild suppositions—tolerating my conjecture—but the truth was that it was nearly two in the morning and I was no closer now to Harker’s killer than when we started.
With a defeated groan, I tucked Harker’s diary and the package of letters into my pocket.
No one would miss them here. The entire place was coated with a fine sheen of dust. It didn’t look like anyone had been here in months. And yet if that was the case, then how did these letters get into the box to begin with?
Peculiar, when you come to think of it.
“Where do you suppose he’s been living?” Ruan asked, evidently overhearing my train of thought.
“Would you stop that?” I grumbled, shaking my head before letting out a weary sigh. “I suppose we’ll have to figure that part out too, won’t we?”
“Ruby…” Ruan asked softly. “You asked if Aldate was Reaver, but what if this Aldate person is actually Leona?”
I opened my mouth to say no, then paused.
I laid a hand over my pocket. They were typewritten.
Unsigned. The cadence, the sentences. He was right.
It could easily be Leona—and if it was, then I’d learned no more than I already knew.
I raked a hand through my hair, tugging at the roots.
Both Reaver and Leona worked at the Ashmolean, both were experts in ancient Egypt.
However, of the two, Leona cared for Julius Harker.
Cared for Mr. Mueller. Suddenly her guilt for Mueller’s fate became clear, and why she did not want him to suffer for what she’d done.
My mind raced. Scrambling to piece together all the tiny clues I’d amassed over the last few days.
The conversations. The things I’d seen. The things I’d found.
Reaver and Leona had been arguing. Mary had said it was growing worse by the day until Harker died.
Leona was not supposed to be at the exhibition that night—she had hidden her presence from Reaver, had likely been hiding a great deal more than that.
I squeezed my eyes shut. The rage in Frederick Reaver’s expression tonight took on a far more sinister light.
“My thoughts exactly,” Ruan finished.
My jaw worked unpleasantly as I realized I’d not spoken in quite some time.
“Sorry.” He gave me a rueful look.
“You think Reaver went to her house, they argued … Annabelle got in the way…” I searched his eyes, wishing that the grim possibility was not the likeliest answer.
“Now we just have to wait for Annabelle to wake, so we can prove our hypothesis.”
I turned away, snapped the trunk shut, the sound echoing in the tomb-like sitting room. “Then we’d better get back, hadn’t we?”