The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (12 page)

Analaea studied them both, and then lowered her head in an unspoken apology. “Mother didn’t want to take them away from their work all at once. She said the estate would have to shut down. She said she’d send them, one after the other, once you spoke to me.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Of course she did.”

Analaea flinched at the venom in Olivia’s tone. “Is that a problem, Miss Faraday?”

Chris saw Olivia preparing to launch another of her acerbic barbs and he took a chance, stepping between them. “Lady Analaea val Daren,” he said, sweeping his best courtly bow. “I’m Miss Faraday’s assistant, Christopher Buckley. We know there’s nothing you can do about your mother. From you, we want only a few questions answered.”

“Oh…” Analaea whispered. She looked him over and then turned back to the window. “It’s just Ana. Only my father ever called me Analaea, and he stopped a long time ago.”

Chris glanced at Olivia. He tried to convey a silent apology in his gaze but, to his surprise, she didn’t seem bothered by his interruption. “Ana it is, then,” she said agreeably. “That might be easier on my overly charming assistant, because I can’t even
imagine
how to spell your full name. What a
swamp
of vowels.” The girl didn’t react. “Mind if we have a seat?”

“Please,” Ana murmured.

Olivia folded herself down in the middle of a spacious settee, spreading her layered, old-fashioned skirts out all around her. Chris chose a seat below both Olivia and Ana in quality, an old rocking chair with a padded back. He opened his notebook and turned to the first fresh page.

“Were you close to your father?”

“No.”

Chris could hear the raised eyebrows in Olivia’s reply. “That’s all? ‘No?’”

“No, we weren’t close. We haven’t been for a long time.”

“And why is that?”

“If you know about the sort of man my father became, you know why.” Ana sighed. “I wasn’t one of his sopranos or his painters or his actresses or his ballerinas or his poets or his harpists. I wasn’t interesting to him, and he grew tired of trying to make me so.”

“But there was a time when you
were
close.”

Ana flinched. “…yes,” she said. “But as I said, that was a long time ago. Before he changed.”

“Do you miss him?”

The girl growled and pressed a shaking hand against her forehead. “Why are you asking me these questions? Of course I miss him! How couldn’t I? I was his darling and everything was fine, and then one day he was just sad all the time and there was nothing I could do. The night he agreed to go to the opera with us, I was so happy! I thought things would be better! But he just sat there and stared at nothing. He didn’t even acknowledge anything I said! He only looked up when
Kristin
came onstage, and then he lit up like he was hearing Maerwald the bloody Maiden sing!” Her voice had turned to a snarl and her eyes flashed. But when Olivia only stared at her, the anger on the young woman’s face melted and then drained away. She slumped. “I thought it had been bad when he didn’t care about anything. I thought that was as bad as it could get. I was so wrong. When he cared about them and not us, it was worse.”

Olivia relented.
he cared about them and not us
, Chris weaved, and Olivia changed tack.

“Were you here at the estate on the night he died?”

“No. None of us were. Ethan…that’s my beau. He’s so wonderful, and so talented.” She smiled a dreamy little smile. “He’s a worldcatcher, and his paintings…they’re like you’re right there. Sometimes, I swear I can feel wind on my face or hear the sea in the distance. I know that’s not supposed to be possible, that’s not what worldcatching
does
…but it’s not just movement with him. It’s so much more.”

“I do hope this is coming to a point.”

Ana trailed her fingers along the windowpane. “Ethan had some of his paintings accepted to a gallery in the city. It was the first time. I was
so
proud of him. I even convinced Mother to come along. She
despises
Ethan. She always has, so I thought she wouldn’t accept…but she did.” She leaned her head against the glass. “We spent the whole night there, surrounded by his admirers, and then we all went for a walk together in Lowry Park.” Chris saw her reflection in the window twist into a pained expression. “It was…it was nice.”

“How late was that?”

“Oh, very late. It was long past midnight by the time we got back.”

“All three of you were there?” Olivia asked. “You’re certain?”

“Of course I am. It isn’t like I’d remember something like that wrong.”

“Is there anyone we could talk to and confirm that?”

“Plenty,” Ana said. “Our staff. We took the winged, so there was no driver that night, but the gallery owner can tell you all about Ethan’s paintings. The attendants would mention us having been there, too, if you wanted to check with them.” Chris was certain to get all of that down.

“What about your father, Ana?” Olivia asked. “Why wasn’t he there?”

The girl scoffed. She laid her chin on her knees, curling her arms around her legs. “He didn’t care. He liked that I loved an artist, but only because he wanted me to learn something from him. Father doesn’t think art is art when it’s created by a man. Men aren’t pure enough to make true art. There isn’t enough innocence or beauty in their souls. That’s what he always said.”

“He sounds like he was a right bastard,” Olivia proclaimed.

Ana started, and then glared. “Who are you to say so?” she demanded.

Olivia raised her hands helplessly. “I’m only echoing what you’re not quite saying, darling. Don’t
you
think he was?”

Ana hauled her tiny body tight against the window and closed her eyes. “Go away,” she murmured. “I’ve answered your questions. Or do you want to ask if I killed him, too?”

“Did you?” Olivia asked with genuine curiosity.

“
No.
”

A small smile crept over Olivia’s thin lips and she drummed her fingers against her elbow. “Well,” she pronounced with great care, “forgive me if I don’t just take your word for it. If I made it a habit, I’d never manage to sniff out killers like you.”

It was a ploy.

It worked.

Ana shot to her feet. She stood on bare toes as she stalked over to Olivia, trembling with anger and grief. “Would you blame me if I had?” she demanded, voice cracking. “My mother’s always hated me. All I had was my father, and then Kristin came and stole him away. I thought when she left, I’d have him to myself again, but then it was Jillian and then it was Coral and then it was Gwen and then it was Elizabeth and then it was Vanessa and he never, ever looked at me again!”

She towered over Olivia, fists clenched and tears streaming down her cheeks.

Olivia didn’t react. She picked at her skirts, examined her nails, and then, “Vanessa,” she said, and rolled the name on her tongue as though she were tasting it.

The name was confirmed by everyone else in the val Daren household. Vanessa Caldwell was a poetess, the Duke’s newest project. She’d been a household fixture for months, giving orders to the staff and treating her benefactor’s wife and daughter like unwanted guests in their own home. None of the Duke’s protégées had ever been so bold—or so hated. The Duchess had been only too glad to give them the address for the woman’s flat, full of recriminations. Perhaps the Duke had decided to no longer sponsor her. Perhaps he’d spurned her unwanted, disgusting romantic advances. Or perhaps she’d simply snapped.

Olivia said her fill on the matter as they travelled back into Darrington with the val Daren winged carriage. “If she knew someone capable of killing her husband, and that person was involved in a curious relationship
with
her husband, why didn’t she say as much when I asked her if she knew anyone who might have done the deed?”

Chris had no answer, but he was eager to meet the diva who’d turned an entire household against her.

However, no one came to the door of Vanessa Caldwell’s flat, no matter how hard Olivia pounded her fist and glared at it.

It was the most depressing building Chris been inside in his entire life. Plaster was coming off the walls in dusty white chunks, showing the old clay brick beneath. Every footstep taken on the scuffed wood floors groaned like an old man shifting in his sleep. The hallway was lit with flickering, jittery lights surrounded by a black haze, a sure sign of alp lamps, the poor man’s salamander.

“It doesn’t seem like the Duke’s patronage has improved her lot very much,” Chris mused, leaning against the wall.

Olivia gave up on her pounding and looked over at him. “I’d noticed the same,” she said. “This place is an absolute dung heap. A little low-end for someone who lorded over Old Blood nobility, don’t you think?” She
hmm
ed. “Is that a reason to kill him? Maybe she thought he left the entire fortune to her. Middle aged men have been promising pretty young women that sort of thing since we all lived in mud huts.”

Chris watched the sterile, nervous light of the bound alp. “Where is she now?”

“Maybe she fled the city!” Olivia’s eyes gleamed with excitement at the thought. It seemed to ignite new fire in her, and she turned back to the door, laying into it once again. The crumbling walls shuddered.

It wasn’t long before they were invaded by a glaring, wrinkled woman holding a candle in one hand and a croquet mallet in the other. She held the former like a shield and the latter like a weapon as she peered at them out of half-blind eyes. The candle flickered as it shook in her palsied hand. “What’s all of this bloody racket?” she demanded in a crackling voice. “You’re disturbing my tenants!”

Olivia looked pleased. She immediately stopped assaulting the door and extended a hand to the old woman. “Ah, finally, the landlady arrives! Pleased to meet you. I’m Olivia Faraday.” She smiled toothily. “Deathsniffer by trade.”

The woman recoiled and made the symbol of Three in a warding gesture. “Bloody cursed thing! Get out of my building!”

“Where is this particular tenant?” Olivia asked as if she hadn’t heard. She took a step forward, hand still outstretched.

The old woman backed far out of Olivia’s reach. Her little eyes were wide and her toothless mouth worked without sound. Finally, she shook her old, wrinkled head. Her grey braid swung. “Vanessa aren’t in Darrington. She goes to the capital by and by, days at a time. Usually comes back. Eventually.” She jutted her chin forward. “None of your business, either. Get the hells out of here, or I’ll call coppers on you. I know all about you ‘sniffers! The investigating kind! Police give you a long leash, but when they haul you back, you go with your sad little tails ‘twixt your legs.”

Olivia tipped her hat to the old woman. “Now, now,” she pronounced, voice dripping with feigned innocence. “No need for threats, old bat. If Miss Caldwell isn’t here, then neither are we. Come along, Mister Buckley.” She started off, beckoning to him as though he were a dog. Obedient as one, he followed.

“And don’t come back without a permit!” the old woman shouted after them, shaking her croquet mallet.

Olivia erupted into great peals of laughter the moment they were outside, bending at the waist. “Oh, something from a
story
, that one!” she crowed. “How else could this day have ended? Brilliant, bloody brilliant! Is this ever a case!”

Chris didn’t see anything funny and had actually been rather unsettled by the old woman. He stepped away, arm outstretched to hail a cab. Immediately, Olivia seized his wrist and yanked him to her side. “No!” she protested with fierce conviction. “We’re two blocks from the office! Let’s just walk
,
shall we? Oh, I love the fresh air!”

He didn’t want to walk. He was tired. He’d stayed up too late last night, thinking this would be a relaxing day at White Clover with Rosemary, not a dash around the Tarlish countryside. The rain had held off so far, but it was only a matter of time. He hated being rained on. It did awful things to his hair, and his aged leather shoes couldn’t take much more water damage.

But all of a sudden Olivia was in a fine mood. All day, she’d been irritable and surprisingly serious in turns, but now she skipped down the street, pulling him along without waiting for him to agree or disagree. She greeted every person they passed with a jaunty salute, none of whom appeared to recognize her. She chattered at him about absolutely nothing while he watched the lowering clouds with trepidation.

The first drop hit the end of his nose and snapped his thin temper. “Do I at
least
have tomorrow off?”

Her bubbling voice went flat. “Oh, don’t be like this. You’ll have your day off when we find the killer.”

He sighed. “It’s
Godsday
, Olivia.”

“And naturally, you’re fervently religious and will spend all day in a church, repenting your sins before the Three and Three.”

The statement caught him off guard. “Well—no.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “Then why do you care if it’s Godsday?”

“Because any
normal
person would―” Chris cut himself off before he could launch into an ill-considered tirade. Gods, it was like arguing with a child. Abruptly, he realized she wanted this. The conflict, the fun of pinning him into a corner, tackling and wrestling him. She was a bored puppy and he was giving her precisely what she wanted. “All right, then. Fine. First thing in the morning. Though I’m not sure what we’re going to do with Vanessa Caldwell not in Darrington.”