Chapter Eleven
ELEVEN
Vesper had only been eight when she’d learned how to look for the tells of an approaching winter.
At nineteen, she knew what it meant when frost began collecting in the corners of shop windows; what was coming when the nights grew long and the mornings became reluctant, like a grudging child pulled from bed.
Now she stared out the window of a fine blue coach, watching winter slowly sink its teeth into Basalton with a dull but familiar sense of dread.
The autumn leaves falling from the trees should have been beautiful, but they only reminded her that everything around her was dying. She sighed.
“You all right there, Evans?”
Vesper’s eyes shot open, and she tore her gaze from the window. Maximilian was sitting across from her in the coach, eyeing her with a curious expression.
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You seem … tense.”
Vesper crossed her arms. “I might be a little less so if I believed you were taking our investigation seriously.”
Maximilian took a bite of his muffin and chewed. “I am taking it seriously,” he said. “I’m just not as alarmed by your most recent development as you clearly are.”
Vesper threw up her hands. “So you mean to tell me that you don’t find it concerning that there is no record of Francis Gladwell in three different publications where he almost certainly should be?”
“We can probably deduce that the man who called himself Francis Gladwell lied about his identity,” Maximilian conceded.
“But that’s explained easily enough: He might have come from a family of more modest means and been embarrassed.
Trust me, he wouldn’t be the first man in high society to lie about his pedigree. ”
“If Francis lied about his name and his family, he could have been lying about other things,” said Vesper. “I’m telling you, there’s something there.”
“All right,” said Maximilian. “So if Francis was faking his background the whole time, why didn’t anyone else catch him?”
“It wouldn’t have been hard,” said Vesper.
“Mr. Gladwell told everyone that his family was from the other side of the country. It’s unlikely that many members of Basalton’s elite would ever bother to verify his story.
High society people rely heavily on word of mouth and reputation, so Francis didn’t actually need to convince everyone that he was who he said he was; he only had to convince a few people and let them do the work of spreading the word for him.
” Vesper paused. “It was actually quite clever of him.”
“Except for one thing,” said Maximilian.
“Francis might have been able to lie about his background, but he absolutely lived the life of a high society gentleman. He visited the Basalton Men’s Club regularly, attended every high society event in a bespoke suit, and regularly dined at the city’s poshest restaurants.
Where did he get the money to pay for all of that? ”
“Maybe he was involved in something illegal,” Vesper suggested.
“Like what?”
Vesper pursed her lips. She imagined what Tom might say in a moment like this.
When your questions lead to a dead end, ask different questions.
“It may take some time for us to figure out how Francis bankrolled his life, but I think we also need to think about why he felt the need to lie. If he was using a fake identity, he likely had something to hide, and it’s possible that one of those things got him killed.”
Maximilian looked amused. “You think Francis was hiding something scandalous?”
“Maybe,” said Vesper. “It’s also possible that, as you’ve already said, Mr. Gladwell just wanted to create a more interesting persona to give him more credibility with high society so that he could woo them. Remember, at the exhibition he said he was openly looking for investors.”
“But we saw that Belver had already made an offer to buy the rights to his machine,” said Maximilian.
“An improved offer,” Vesper corrected him. “Meaning he’d already made one offer and been turned down. Gladwell must have felt that he could get far more for his machine than ten thousand gild, especially if multiple investors were involved.”
Maximilian cocked his head. “So what’s the theory? You think Belver got mad?”
The coach hit a hard bump in the road without warning. Maximilian caught himself in time, but Vesper nearly slid off the bench. At the look on his face as she readjusted herself, she scowled.
“Do I amuse you, Mr. Kite?”
The corners of the sorcerer’s lips quirked.
“Only when you make that face. Did you know that there is an ancient creature from mythology called Medusa? Legend holds that she was a monstress with snakes for hair, who could turn men to stone with a single terrifying glare, not unlike the one you’re wearing now.
” He paused, thoughtful. “As I consider it, maybe you’re related. ”
“She sounds like a perfectly reasonable woman,” Vesper muttered.
“In other news…” Maximilian withdrew two papers from his pocket. “I have some things you may find of interest. The guest list from the exhibition, and a list of the staff who worked the event.”
Vesper looked up, all previous thoughts abandoned, and snatched the papers from him.
“I also wrote to Mrs. Oelrich about the blueprint of the maze, but haven’t heard back yet,” he noted.
Vesper skimmed the exhibition’s guest list, then shuffled the papers to look at the list of waitstaff.
“You don’t really think a member of the staff did this?” Maximilian asked. “Blaming the servants is a little clichéd, Evans, don’t you think?”
Vesper looked up. “Clichés exist for a reason, you know. Sometimes they’re right.
” She opened her notebook and began to take notes.
“You’re focused on Belver because you think he’s a shrewd businessman who wanted control over Gladwell’s machine, but rich people aren’t the only ones with ambition.
” She pointed to the list of waitstaff. “Someone could have easily disguised themselves as a server, lured Mr. Gladwell away from the partygoers, and killed him.”
“Fair enough.” Maximilian pulled something else out of his pocket wrapped in a napkin. It was an apple cinnamon muffin. Vesper stared.
“Exactly how many desserts do you carry on your person, Mr. Kite?”
“One for every occasion,” he replied solemnly. “The wise man is never caught without sustenance.”
Vesper rolled her eyes and went back to the list of waitstaff.
“And what about you?” he asked.
“Me?”
“What kind of desserts do you like?”
Vesper deadpanned. “I don’t eat dessert.”
“Liar!” Maximilian looked scandalized. “Come now, Evans, indulge me.” He waggled his brows. “If I’m supposed to be courting you, this is the kind of thing I ought to know. Besides, I’ll only keep asking if you don’t tell me.”
“Fine.” Vesper set the lists down. “My favorite dessert is a raspberry tartlet, sprinkled with sugar.”
Maximilian cocked his head. “Interesting choice. Why raspberry?”
Vesper swallowed hard. A lifetime ago, her father had brought her and her sister raspberry tartlets from the market as a special treat every other Friday.
That had been before everything had gone wrong, and she hadn’t had one since.
She’d just decided to make something up, when the coach suddenly lurched forward again.
A yelp escaped Vesper as she was thrown forward.
She splayed her hands out instinctively, trying to brace herself to keep from falling, but instead her palms pressed flat against Maximilian’s chest. The coach rocked from side to side, and his hands flew to her waist to steady her.
As abruptly as it had started, the coach righted itself.
For several seconds, the two of them stared at each other, perfectly still.
“You all right, Evans?” Maximilian’s voice was low, barely a whisper.
“I’m fine.” Vesper didn’t understand why her heart was now beating like a hummingbird’s.
She didn’t know why she was fixated on the way Maximilian’s fingertips felt pressing into her sides, or why the longer her own hands stayed against his chest, the warmer the coach seemed to become.
Their faces were only inches apart. The sorcerer’s eyes were hazel today, framed by dark lashes.
How?
The door to the coach swung open, and the footman stuck his head inside.
“Oh!” Vesper pushed herself back so fast she nearly lost her balance again. Maximilian appeared slightly dazed. The footman looked between them a moment before pointedly clearing his throat.
“Sir,” he said in a formal voice. “I wanted to let you know we’ve arrived at our destination.”
“Right.” Maximilian blinked several times, as though he’d just woken from a dream, then combed his fingers through his dark curls. “Yes, of course. Thank you. Miss Evans?” He gestured. “Please, after you.”
Vesper couldn’t get out of the coach fast enough. The morning’s brisk breeze resharpened her senses. Once outside, she looked around.
In all her life, she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen an expanse of land so large, green, and flat. She turned to Maximilian. “Where are we?”
“Just past the northern city limits of Basalton,” he said as he ducked out of the coach. “That’s the only place there’s room for a polo field.”
“Polo?” Vesper spun back around and squinted.
It was difficult to see with the fog reaching over the bordering pines, but sure enough, when her eyes settled, she could make out people on the field, along with several horses.
She turned back to Maximilian. “What on earth are we doing at a polo match?”
“As I said yesterday: reconnaissance.”
Vesper frowned. “Don’t tell me our deceased inventor moonlighted as a polo player?”
“Oh no, Francis never bothered to ride when he came to the matches, he preferred to smoke cigars with Belver.” He grimaced.
“You don’t partake?” Vesper asked.