Chapter Twenty-Four
Arriving at Bram’s manor, Cricket stepped from the carriage to find the gardeners cutting hedges and placing weeds into wicker baskets. She’d removed her wig and adjusted the collar of her dress to continue hiding the bruises that were slowly fading. Before leaving the inn, Bram had questioned a few of the people downstairs, to which no one had seen anyone or anything suspicious the prior day when Cricket had received the murderer’s letter.
Bram welcomed her into the sitting room, empty but for Breeta embroidering. The woman glanced up, blinking as she stared up at Cricket. “You’re all right,” she said. “Anika’s been worried sick.”
“Where is she?” Bram asked, removing his hat and placing it on the rack.
“Stress painting somewhere, I believe.” Breeta quickened her pace with the thread.
Bram turned to Cricket. “I’ll tell her you’re here. Please, make yourself at home, and the servants will bring tea shortly.
“Thank you, Bram.” Cricket took a seat opposite Breeta as he ascended the stairs. A few moments later, a servant placed a cup of tea on the table in front of her.
After a long stretch of uncomfortable silence, Breeta finally glanced up from her embroidery, her shoulders rigid as she studied Cricket’s bag. “I’m sorry to hear what happened. Are you returning to the carnival?”
“No, Bram invited me to stay here for a little while.”
Breeta’s lips pinched. “Are you sure that’s wise? I don’t think you should return to the carnival, but—”
“But what, Mother?” Anika snapped as she entered the room.
“I don’t think this is the place for us to have this conversation.” Breeta lowered her voice. “But if you insist, it isn’t appropriate for Cricket to stay here since Bram once courted her.”
“Oh, hush, Mother. She will stay as long as she wishes, and you will make this feel like a home to her.” Anika motioned Cricket to follow her up the stairs. “Now, come on.”
Breeta didn’t argue as she returned to her embroidery, but her shoulders didn’t relax.
Cricket wondered if she should’ve just remained at the inn after all or at least tried to find another one while still helping Bram in whatever way she could.
“It’s quite obvious your mother doesn’t want me here,” Cricket said softly as they reached the top of the stairs to walk down the long hallway.
Bram slipped out of the bedroom, straightening the cuff of his sleeve. He kissed Anika on the cheek as he explained, “I’m going to report the new note to the authorities. We’ll discuss matters further when I return.”
As Bram disappeared down the hallway, Anika opened the door at the opposite end. “This room is already prepared for you.”
Cricket stepped inside and took in the dancing portraits hanging on the wall, the dark purple silk sheets on the bed, the ivory writing desk tucked in the corner—all her favorite things. Her lips tilted up at the edges as she rested her bag beside the desk. “How long have you had this room ready for me?”
Anika grinned. “After I found out you were still alive, I had it done this way for if you ever needed it. This house has so many unnecessary rooms that surely we can spare one for our dearest friend.”
Cricket’s smile fell as the images of Juniper’s broken body drifted through her mind like a lone ship lost at sea. “I don’t see how you or Bram would want me here after what happened to Juniper. Wherever I go, something terrible happens. Bram seemed to have already told you about the letter I received at the inn. What if a letter is left here, or worse, a body? Aren’t you frightened?”
“None of this is your fault.” Anika pressed a hand to Cricket’s shoulder, reassuring her. “Servants will be on duty every night outdoors and indoors. If anyone slinks onto our property, attempting to cause you harm, I have a gun, and I will use it. I’m quite a good shot. Bram taught me how to use it when we were searching for Clancy.”
Cricket smiled. “Perhaps you can show me after the child is born.”
Anika placed her hands on her hips. “I’m perfectly fine to shoot, and I’ll teach you today. But first, I have a question for you. What about Zephyr? Are you truly not going to tell him you’re here?”
“No. Bram will let him know I’m safe.” Cricket bit her lip, not wanting to think about Zephyr now or remember the guttural sounds he’d made when discovering his sister’s slain body.
“I know you have a heart that always wants to run away, but I think he would prefer you run toward him. Especially now. Wouldn’t you?”
Cricket honestly didn’t know if she would or if she would blame the person and want to be left alone. Or perhaps she would want to be held as she cried, but either way, she didn’t want Zephyr to worry about her. When Cricket remained silent, Anika nodded and said, “Come on. Let’s paint a while, and then we can go shoot.”
Cricket was relieved by the momentary escape as they entered the room across the hall. Canvases decorated its entirety—some finished, others halfway painted or barely holding a few strokes of color. Even as children, Anika could never focus on only one art piece. She would bounce between canvases but always completed what she’d started, regardless of how long it took. The days when Cricket would dance as Anika painted seemed long ago now.
“I want to show you something.” Anika gestured to the other side of the room, where a large canvas hung in the center of the wall. It was the art piece that she’d painted of Cricket in mid-pirouette while dressed in a lavender dress from when they were both thirteen years old.
Cricket’s breath caught as she trailed a finger down the side of the golden frame. “You still have it?”
“I’ve had several customers offer to purchase it, but I could never get rid of this piece or the one of Bram.”
She studied the painting beside it of Bram when he was about fifteen years old, running a brush through his horse’s mane. “I would love it if you painted me a piece that I can take with me one day.” Or at least she hoped she would make it to that day…
“Of course.” Anika brought a hand across her growing belly as she pulled out a set of paintbrushes from the desk drawer. “Now, would you like to dance while I paint?”
Cricket lifted one of the thicker brushes. “I’d like to paint this time.”
“Then we’ll paint.”
They sat beside one another and worked on their art pieces, but as Cricket moved the brush, dipping it into various shades of reds, blacks, and greens, she couldn’t stop herself from painting vines covered in red roses and black dahlias.
Cricket lost track of time as the hours ticked by. Eventually, Anika stood, stretching, and said, “Should we get something to eat in the garden? Then we can proceed to target practice.”
A thrill coursed through her at the thought of pulling the trigger of a gun, and Cricket found herself eager to begin learning to use the weapon as she and Anika shared cucumber sandwiches and lemon tea. Anika proved herself to indeed be an excellent shot, striking the target through the center before handing the rifle to Cricket. “Calm your nerves,” she said. “Exhale. Focus just below the center.”
Cricket took a deep breath, holding the gun steady as Anika had told her to do. She then aimed, the bullet piercing not far from Anika’s.
“Brilliant!” Anika grinned.
They took turns firing shots until Bram’s voice echoed behind them. “I suppose asking you both to rest would be too much.”
“This was something I should’ve been teaching Cricket already. She’s a natural,” Anika said.
“I’m sorry to have to end your entertainment, but there may be a new lead and I need Cricket to come with me to meet with someone who says the Dahlia Murderer attacked her. Leslie specifically asked for Cricket and refused to talk to us without her present.”
Cricket furrowed her brow. It couldn’t be the same woman, could it? “Leslie? From the Garland?”
Bram nodded. “It happened last night, but she says she was afraid to come forward until today. She doesn’t trust us since word spread about the incident with Charles, and she’s uncertain what the other authorities are capable of, so she wants you there. The main reason is that you survived your murder.”
“Leslie does realize that my murderer was a different person, right? And even then, I only lived because a necromancer brought me back to life.”
Bram shrugged. “She doesn’t care and is very adamant about it. She just wants to talk to you.”
“Yes, of course I’ll go,” Cricket said. It would be a way for her to possibly find out more and could help the case.
Anika took the gun from her. “Be careful. I’ll have the servants prepare a meal for when you return.”
Cricket walked beside Bram to the carriage and sat opposite him. He picked up a notebook to read over as the horses took them away from the manor.
“Still no matches on the handwriting?” Cricket asked.
He sighed. “No. Miles and the other authorities have been going from home to home, questioning and searching. But they keep coming up empty. There’s also a chance the murderer isn’t a resident here. In a city of thousands, a stranger wouldn’t easily stand out, it’s true—especially if they’re attempting to blend in.”
There had to be a way to uncover something faster. “And no luck on finding another necromancer?”
“We’re still hoping to find one.”
If they ever did, maybe they could revive Juniper. That possibility led to hope blossoming in her chest, that maybe a necromancer would come out of hiding and journey to Nobel.
The carriage drew to a stop in front of the authority building, and Cricket followed Bram inside to a room at the end of the hall where Leslie waited. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a plait, and her pale blue eyes lit up as they met hers. She straightened in her chair, blinking with a content expression. “Cricket,” she said.
Cricket took the woman’s hands and sat. “Oh, Leslie, are you all right? What a horrid trial you experienced.”
“Yes, I’m fine. May I talk to you alone first, though?” She stayed facing Cricket, but she watched Bram out of the corners of her eyes.
Cricket nodded to Bram, and he shut the door, leaving the two of them alone. “You were attacked last night? What happened? Was it after you left the pub or somewhere else?” She was lucky she escaped the bastard when no one else had.
“It was late, and I was walking home from the pub when someone attacked me from behind, strangling me until I couldn’t breathe,” Leslie said, her voice calm, her expression almost dreamy.
Cricket wrinkled her nose as she stared at Leslie for a long moment. “You were walking alone after a murder just took place behind the building?”
Her eyes ticked side to side before she batted a hand in the air. “I don’t live far from there and kept on the main street. The others were too busy at the pub.”
“Did you get a look at the person’s face?”
“No. We were cloaked in shadows, so I couldn’t see anything clearly.” Leslie paused, wiping her palms against her skirt.
“What else happened after you were strangled?” Her pulse raced, and she couldn’t stop from thinking about Clancy’s blade piercing her chest, followed by his macabre dahlias brushing her flesh.
Leslie took a breath, her calmness wavering as she stuttered, “The murderer took out the dahlias from a satchel and placed them over my eyes. That was when I had time to escape.”
Cricket froze. That didn’t make sense… If the person was practically mirroring the way her death had been, the dahlias would’ve come last. Besides that, the dahlias would’ve most likely fallen from her eyes as the murderer cut into her body and cracked open her rib cage. Leslie was lying… She could feel it.
It wasn’t only the dahlias, though… The route to Leslie’s home was well-lit—she should’ve caught some sort of feature about the attacker. It also seemed as if Leslie had spun the story beforehand of precisely what to say, and now that she was asked questions that she wasn’t expecting, she was becoming more nervous.
Cricket studied Leslie’s neck—not a single bruise or mark there. If she’d been choked that hard, the way Cricket had been, there would’ve been at least one by now. “The Dahlia Killer puts the flowers over the eyes after they slice into the victim, not before. If you did suffer strangulation, as you say, there would be a ring of bruises around your throat. But yours appears as blemish-free as a baby’s bottom. And if it did happen in the way you described, regardless, the murderer wouldn’t have just let you flee. They would’ve gone after you and made sure you were dead. Now tell me the truth, did you encounter anyone, or is all this an elaborate game to seek attention? There have been victims. Real victims.” Cricket’s chest tightened as she spoke the next sentence, “And one I was very fond of.”
Leslie chewed on her lip, her eyes flicking side to side again before her body trembled. “It happened. Maybe I imagined the dahlias…”
“Please tell me the truth, Leslie. I need to find the person who is doing this. So tell me, did it really happen?” If Cricket hadn’t previously known Leslie, she might not have noticed the small things that didn’t seem right with her and her story.
“I made it up,” she whispered, her lower lip wobbling. “It was a charade.”
Cricket inhaled sharply, loosening her clenched teeth. “Why?”
“There’s nothing truly special about you or the others, yet you were chosen, and so were they. I have blonde hair and blue eyes, so why not choose me?” Tears beaded Leslie’s lashes.
Cricket stared at her in horror, taken aback by this revelation. “You want to be slaughtered?”
“I don’t have anyone who truly sees me,” Leslie sobbed. “Day in and day out, my life is at the pub, and for once, I wanted to be seen as something special.”
“As a victim, I wouldn’t consider myself special—I would consider myself unfortunate.” Cricket couldn’t sit there any longer, or she would shout things that would get her put in manacles. She pushed up from the seat and glanced over her shoulder before opening the door. “And not all of the victims have been blond and blue-eyed. Each of them is very different from you in that they will never have the opportunity to laugh, cry, sing, or dance—or enjoy a single drink in a pub. Ever again.”