Chapter Seventeen #3
The immaculate tidiness of the place told her that Belver was probably a disciplined man, someone who appreciated order.
Her eyes fell to the floor-to-ceiling shelves on either side of the desk, and she leaned forward to inspect some of their titles.
Most of the books were collecting dust, which suggested that Charles Belver wanted to appear well-read, even if he wasn’t.
Vesper noted the mounted ivory tusks against the wall too, and scowled.
He killed for sport. A chill ran the length of her body at that thought.
Carefully, she tugged open the narrow drawer in the middle of the desk.
There was a business ledger, as well as an array of papers.
She picked up one of them and read. The letterhead was from the Bank of Basalton.
Dear Mr. Belver,
We regret to inform you that we are unable to extend your line of credit due to your unpaid balance.
Vesper frowned. Unpaid balance? Charles Belver was supposed to be one of the richest men in the city. She picked up another letter, this one from the Basalton Men’s Club.
Dear Mr. Belver,
Our records indicate that your membership fee for the month of October has not been remitted. Please contact our director to resolve this at your earliest convenience.
The furrow in Vesper’s brow deepened. All this time, she’d believed Charles Belver was wealthy—Francis Gladwell and Maximilian had separately confirmed it—but these letters told a different story entirely. Charles Belver wasn’t rich at all.
He was … bankrupt.
Vesper’s thoughts began to race. If Charles Belver was in truly dire financial straits, he wouldn’t have been able to improve his offer to Francis, which could have made him desperate …
She was about to close the drawer, when something else caught her eye.
A journal. It was covered in plain brown leather, just larger than her hand.
Vesper opened it carefully and flipped through the pages.
There were more sketches of the Gladwell Machine inside, but also a series of what looked to be complex math equations.
She frowned. Was this Francis Gladwell’s?
And if Belver had this, what else might he have?
Her eyes panned the room, then stopped on an oak armoire in the corner.
Vesper tucked the journal under her arm and opened the armoire’s door with her uninjured hand. She drew in a sharp breath.
The wooden box was scuffed and splintered in one corner as though it had been dropped, and the glass dome affixed to its top right was cracked, but Vesper would have recognized the Gladwell Machine prototype anywhere.
Chief Stettner had said his men hadn’t found it at the museum, and now she knew Charles Belver had taken it—why?
Footsteps echoed down the hall, approaching fast. Vesper closed the desk drawer quickly, then ducked into the wardrobe.
She barely had time to hide before the office door opened.
Through a crack, she made out Charles Belver.
He was frowning, as always, but now he looked particularly perturbed.
Slowly, he surveyed the room. Vesper froze when his eyes fixed on the wardrobe, but then he looked away and moved around the desk to stand where she had been just seconds before.
He opened the drawer and sifted through the papers.
His frown deepened, and Vesper drew in a sharp breath.
There was a spot of blood on one of the papers.
Vesper glanced down at her hand, her stomach tight.
She had bled through the handkerchief. Her breath hitched as Mr. Belver studied the bloodstain.
Then abruptly, he looked up, shoved the paper back into his desk drawer, then charged out of the room.
Vesper stayed crouched inside of the wardrobe, her heart drumming hard against her rib cage.
That had been too close. If Belver had found her in his office, if he’d found out what she’d been looking for …
Another chill ran the length of Vesper’s body.
If Charles Belver really had been the one who’d murdered Francis Gladwell, she had no doubt that he’d murder again to protect his secrets.
She needed to leave this place, fast. She waited a few more minutes to ensure he wasn’t going to return, then carefully crawled out of the wardrobe.
She rewrapped her bandaged hand to ensure it didn’t bleed anymore, tucked the journal into a hidden pocket of her dress, then peeked outside.
The hall was, to her immense relief, empty again.
Vesper slipped through the doors, then practically ran down the steps two at a time. She was on the last step when:
“My wife tells me you had an accident in our new aviary.”
Vesper whirled around so fast she nearly lost her balance.
Charles Belver was standing at the top of the stairs.
There was a coolness in the man’s eyes that immediately set Vesper on edge.
Did he know she’d been in his office? Did he know she had the journal?
She took a deep breath and schooled her expression.
“Just a small scratch,” she said with a cheer she certainly didn’t feel. “Fortunately, I believe I’ll make a full recovery.”
Mr. Belver nodded slowly. “That’s very good to hear.” He began to descend the stairs. Nothing in his expression or posture changed, but there was menace in every step. Vesper had to fight the urge to step back as he approached her.
“Do be careful, Miss Evans,” he murmured. “I would hate for you to have a more serious accident due to … carelessness.”
“Of course,” said Vesper. “I will.”
The barest hint of a smile touched Charles Belver’s face as he offered a final bow, then skirted around her to go down the hall.
Vesper watched the man walk away, unease prickling down her neck.