Chapter Thirty-Two. Crime Before Breakfast
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Crime Before Breakfast
AN unfamiliar weight lay across my body.
My eyes shot open, panic rising in my chest until I recalled the circumstances of said weight.
Ruan was fast asleep on the edge of the narrow bed.
His left arm thrown over his eyes, his right leg tangled with my own.
I’d scarcely hit the mattress before falling fast asleep—still fully dressed from the previous evening’s misadventures.
Too tired for ravishment indeed. There ought to be a word for that level of pure exhaustion.
Fiachna had positioned himself at his usual spot at the back of my knee. Ordinarily, it was not a problem, as I hadn’t shared a bed with anyone in a scandalously long time. I leaned over Ruan and grabbed my pin watch. It was still dark out—but I had an appointment with Hari and the imposter.
Six o’clock.
I snapped it back shut.
I’d have to hurry. I wriggled out of the bed gently. As soon as I was up, Ruan rolled over onto the warm spot I’d left. I quickly changed into a fresh set of clothes and started out the door.
Fiachna meowed at me, stretching in the bed.
“Take care of things will you, old man?”
The cat meowed again and nestled himself against Ruan’s chest, purring loudly.
My cat and I were in accord when it came to Ruan Kivell.
OUR CAPTIVE REMAINED bound in the kitchen, but this time he was awake.
A pang of conscience struck me. In my utter exhaustion, I’d left a probable murderer with my octogenarian employer.
What sort of a reckless fool did that? Mr. Owen, for his part, was enjoying himself immensely, sitting guard with his Webley revolver in his left hand, a teacup in his right.
His dark brown eyes met mine. “How’s the lass?
“Same as last night. She’s awakened but isn’t speaking sense. At least, not yet.”
He lifted a piece of buttered toast from a plate, casting Inspector Beecham a dark glance.
Beecham’s nostrils flared and he struggled against his makeshift restraints.
Mr. Owen must have changed his bindings, as now his wrists were held fast by a leather belt.
An old dust cloth was jammed into his mouth.
I quirked a brow. “And him? I take it he’s been talking a great deal.”
“Aye, I didn’t care to listen to his blathering,” the old Scot grumbled, gesturing with the revolver. The inspector let out a squeak through the gag.
“Anything enlightening come up during said blathering?”
Mr. Owen rubbed his thick white beard with the back of his hand. “No, but I managed to find this in his other pocket when I replaced the twine with the belt.” He handed me a familiar notebook.
I took it and flipped open the journal to a middle page. My own reassuring script looked back at me. From page to page, I scoured the book for clues I might have forgotten. My hand stilled.
“What’s wrong, lass?” Mr. Owen took another bite of his toast.
I wet my lips. “A page … a page is missing.” I ran my finger over the rough edge where it had been cut out of the journal with a blade. I flipped back a page, then returned to the missing one before going forward a few more. Cold dread inched up my spine.
Hari’s address.
The page they took had Hari’s address, along with Leona’s.
I was going to be sick.
Certain words had been underlined by an unfamiliar hand.
L. A. Leona.
ARTIFACTS
HARKER
MUSEUM
THE RANDOLPH
Tiny words, meaningless on their own, but together it told the killer that I was on his trail.
It also told them where to find Hari.
Had that stolen page inadvertently led him to Leona as well? Guilty tears pricked my eyes. “Mr. Owen, tell Ruan I’m meeting my friend early this morning like we discussed. I’ll be back soon.”
He wiped a few crumbs from his lap. “Of course, lamb. Is something wrong?”
Everything. But there was no time. There never was enough time. “I’ll likely be back within the hour. Two at most.”
Mr. Owen’s eyes glittered merrily as he took another sip of his tea. Inspector Beecham’s brow grew damp despite the damnably cold temperature in the kitchen. Good. The bastard deserved to be uncomfortable.
“Aye, my love. Go on and see your friend. I’ll be fine.” The mirth in his voice did not match the dangerous gleam in his eye. He was enjoying this far more than a man ought.
I brushed a kiss to his temple. “See if Ruan can make heads or tails of him, will you?”
Mr. Owen cheerfully shooed me out the door, as if we weren’t breaking dozens of laws before breakfast.