Chapter Thirty-Five. The Die Is Cast
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Die Is Cast
HARI quickly came around to my way of thinking.
But it took far longer than I would have liked to convince Mr. Owen of the rightness of my plan to let the inspector go and to see where he led me.
If the man wanted Annabelle dead, it meant he was working for our killer.
The same killer who likely held both Leona and Ruan.
There was no time to waste and no alternative.
It was a perfectly simple plan, though Mr. Owen bristled at the mere thought of it.
He furrowed his brow in that way of his, hands on hips and coffee-colored eyes wary.
Mrs. Penrose, on the other hand—with her beloved pellar in peril—was eager to join the scheme.
And once she agreed, Mr. Owen slowly came around as well to our way of thinking, especially after my attempt at questioning our prisoner failed.
Inspector Beecham was incapable of doing anything but to smugly sit there and refuse to answer any of my questions.
He believed he had the upper hand—and a part of me feared he did.
Later that evening, before bed, Mr. Owen readjusted the inspector’s bindings, leaving the rope a fraction of an inch too loose. All the while I prepared myself to track a murderer across the darkening streets of Oxford.
Mr. Owen closed the door between the snug and the kitchen and gave me a skeptical frown. “Are you certain you want to do this, my lamb?”
I was. There were no other alternatives. It was the only outcome.
Mr. Owen let out a sad sigh before handing me Hari’s small bulldog pistol. I tucked it into the pocket of my skirt as he helped me into my coat.
He pressed a bristly kiss to my cheek, brushing my dark curls out of my face. “Be careful.”
“Take care of them.” I tugged a dark blue kerchief from my coat pocket and tied my hair back before hurrying out the door and into the street beyond.
Doubt clung to me like woodsmoke, pricking at my throat. I could only hope the man would take this window to try to escape. If he didn’t … I didn’t know what I would do or how I would find them.
I pulled the dark coat tight, obscuring all of my cream-colored dress. I ducked into the alleyway behind the house to see if my gamble would pay off. I settled myself into the shadows, swallowed up by the ivy, and waited to hear the groan of the window sash.
It wasn’t long before I was rewarded with the wooden creak followed by the soft thump of boots hitting the pavers below.
Inspector Beecham’s footsteps grew softer as he darted out and around the far side of the house as expected.
I eased myself out of the shrubbery, brushing the chaff from my jacket, and followed a killer into the night.
The moon was bright overhead in the cold December night—the wind cutting through the layers of my clothing.
My coat did little to keep me warm. A thick haze veiled the world around me, giving it a dreamlike appearance.
Icy air pricked my lungs as I hurried along after him, keeping to the shadows as best I could.
From somewhere in the distance, low church bells announced the hour.
Nine o’clock on Christmas Eve. No wonder the streets were so empty.
The inspector carried on down High Street at a breakneck pace before starting to turn toward the river.
During the summertime the Thames would be full of geese and swans and rowers and canal boats moving up and down the river.
It was a busy hub of people. Even in winter, bicyclists would take the path alongside the river to hasten their journey.
It might be lovely, but now the stillness of the dark water gave an ominous tinge to the evening.
I remained about a hundred yards behind the inspector, watching as he turned off onto the riverside path.
We passed a small field with fluffy sheep huddled together against the cold.
Homes grew farther and fewer between, replaced by the occasional barn or cottage set off the path.
Each step I took transformed the urban sounds of the city to a wilder hue.
Night in winter was always still, with all the creatures asleep.
Only the occasional nocturnal beast calling out its eerie warnings.
A twig broke behind me, and I caught the shadowy shape of a dog darting off into the nearby wood.
Voices from somewhere ahead drew my attention back to the river.
A glow of lights came from a canal boat docked some thirty or more yards ahead.
There was a lorry idling beside it, the lights cut on illuminating the space between the two vehicles.
A pair of men carried boxes and loaded them onto the boat.
The inspector slowed as he approached them.
I fell farther into the shadows. So this was where he was going.
Beecham called to another man who was silhouetted in the lights from the small craft.
I couldn’t be certain, but I’d wager that those were the stolen crates from Julius Harker’s museum.
Ruan had mentioned that several boxes had disappeared along with the canopic jars filled with God only knew what. Cocaine or natron, it made no difference now. The only thing that mattered was finding him and Leona and bringing them safely home.
I couldn’t make out their conversation, only the furious intonation of the inspector’s voice. An occasional word here or there.
“… Shipment.…”
“… Already late…”
I edged closer, dipping beneath the leafless canopy of a willow tree, counting the men and straining my ears in hopes I’d hear mention of any captives.
Two. No, there were three men now. One on the boat, and another on land speaking to the inspector.
The pair of them were pointing back toward town.
I swallowed hard, fingers curling around the pistol in my dress pocket.
Another man had left the lorry and headed for the boat.
Could this be where Leona and Ruan were being kept?
A faint bubble of hope welled up in me. I was close—I could feel it.
An owl called out, piercing the silence of the night, and I froze, watching the men slowly disappear into the canal boat, one by one. Once they were all inside, I finally exhaled and took a step from the shelter of the tree and darted for the truck.
I approached from the far side, steps silent in the snow as I climbed up into the lorry and began rummaging about seeking something—anything at all.
My fingers found a familiar sheet of paper lying on the seat.
Holding it up in the moonlight I made out my own writing—it was the missing page.
I scanned over it before hastily shoving it into my pocket.
Four crates remained in the back bearing similar painted markings to those I’d seen in the museum’s basement.
Heart thundering in my ears, I quickly pulled off a lid, shoving the straw from the top and revealing large, wrapped bricks.
Bricks? Head spinning, I picked one up and had started to unwrap it when I felt the cold pressure of steel against the wound on my temple.