The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (28 page)

Ana’s voice was quieter when she asked her next question. “Do you think my Mother had a good reason for hiding it?”

Chris looked over to see her looking down at her hands in her lap. He hurt for her, he did. She suspected something horrible, something that no matter how much she hated her mother, she couldn’t bear to imagine could be a possibility. But he had to be honest with her. “I haven’t the slightest,” he said. After all, if the Duke had been killed by his creditors to set an example for other owners of Old Debts, that exonerated the Duchess. Why would she hide the evidence? It had to have something to do with the letters addressed to “Evie,” from whoever this “HC” person was. He needed to show this all to Olivia as soon as possible. A touch of smugness licked along the edges of his mind as he considered how she’d react when her little tantrum turned up something so substantial.

Just as he was about to stand up and excuse himself, Ana blurted out, “There—there’s one more thing.”

Chris tried to hide his eagerness to leave and instead helped himself to another scone. At least the grumbling of his stomach was resolved. “What is it?” he asked.

Ana visibly struggled to raise her eyes to his face, and when she did, she stared up at him from under her eyelashes. She looked defeated, guilty and terrified. “It’s…” She took a trembling breath. “On the night my father died, my mother―” And then she deflated, dropping eye contact and sighing all her air out in a great
whoosh
. “My mother
left
,” she said in a tiny, pitiful voice. “My mother told me to say she and I walked together after we fought at the gallery, but I lied. She made me lie!” She took a shuddering breath. “We didn’t walk. We fought, and Ethan stomped off, and then Mother just left. When I got home…she was already here, and she seemed…” The girl sniffled, and said no more.

The silence in the room rang. Chris clutched the file, trying to put together what he’d just heard. The Duchess’s presence at the gallery had been the main thing that had made Olivia’s suspicions seem unfounded and paranoid. If she’d left, if no one could vouch for her whereabouts at all, and if she had asked someone to
lie
for her…

“Christopher?” Ana murmured, and when Chris refocused himself, she was looking up at him again. Unshed tears shone in her dark eyes. “Do
you
think my mother killed my father?”

At the moment, he didn’t trust himself to answer.

Darrington passed by, and Chris barely saw it.

Tomorrow
, Olivia had said after devouring the file like a starving man at a banquet,
we are going to see this Rayner Kolston fellow, after I’ve had a good, long look at these files.

Whatever demon had possessed Olivia Faraday earlier in the day, Maris Dawson had apparently exorcised it. Even before he’d passed her the file and recounted everything Analaea had told him, she’d been brimming with good cheer and playful grins. The police officer had fallen back into her comfortable role as the beleaguered supervisor, and the two of them had bantered back and forth the entire trip to Olivia’s office in the winged carriage, arguing endlessly about the contents of the folder and making little progress.

Neither of them had seen fit to involve Chris, and that suited him fine. He’d gathered his shadows around himself and sat in the corner, entertaining ghosts until they’d reached the office. And then he’d left before Olivia could find something for him to do, taking the ghosts with him into his cab; he hadn’t trusted himself to walk.

He looked out the window and he saw nothing. He was dizzy and sick to his stomach, and his mind kept going back to the last page in the Duchess’s secret file.

Evie
, it had begun.

It always pleases me when I have time to write you these longer letters, instead of simply penning quick notes and directions. However, this letter is not a social, pleasant affair, and for that I am sorry.

Two months from now is the anniversary of the night of the Floating Castle. I know it is a difficult time for you, and I will not attempt to understand. James was close to me, as well, but I realize women are made of softer stuff than we men, and I would be amiss if I did not respect that. Nevertheless, I will seek to share wisdom with you so that good can come of this difficult time.

You know that what we do seeks to right the wrongs that were wrought that night. I know it is your instinct to push away painful memories, but I advise that you, instead, bring those memories close to you. Instead of dismissing thoughts of what it must have been like as the Castle fell, entertain them. Use them to strengthen your resolve. Difficult as it may be, you do James’s memory a disservice by shying away from the reality of that night.

Force yourself to picture the screaming crowds. Imagine James’s terror. Imagine what he must have felt like as he felt the Castle plunge to the ground, how he must have run and tried to escape. Picture him calling out for your father, or even you, to come and save him. Make all of that real to you. And then, know that he was only one of five hundred who were in the Castle that night, good men and women all, their lives permanently cut short. And know, too, that the trauma caused by the fall of the Castle into the city caused the deaths of many, many more.

Those responsible for all of that pain must be brought to justice.

This will not be easy, Evie, but it will be best for all of us.

Yours,

HC

Whether or not the advice had been helpful for Evelyn val Daren, it had not been meant for Christopher Buckley. Like a woman, he was made of soft stuff—softer than the Duchess, for certain. Just remembering it, his fingers gripped to the handle on the door, and he dug the nails of his other hand into the seat cushion to ground himself. His breath came out short and his head spun. He kept trying to push it all aside, to focus on the case, on how he was going home to Rosemary, on being there in time for dinner, on the tide that was rising around them, on the funny, flat expression Officer Dawson wore while dealing with Olivia.

But try as he may, he couldn’t get that night from his mind.

Through the fog of distress hanging over his thoughts, he was vaguely aware that the cab had pulled onto his road, that soon he would have to get out and walk and eat and speak to other people like a normal human being. The thought seemed impossible. How could he deal with today when he was always and forever caught reliving that night?

Stop being ridiculous,
he told himself, but he wasn’t being ridiculous.
Stop living in the past, then,
he tried, but the thought of living anywhere else seemed inconceivable.
Just handle it,
was his last desperate plea to himself, and he made it savagely tear into him, reminding him of where he was,
when
he was, and who was relying on him being able to function.

When he climbed out of the taxi and paid the cabbie, his smile felt not quite feigned, and he managed to unlock the gate and put one foot in front of the other all the way up the walk. The feeling of his hair stirring when he passed through the soundshield and the subsequent peace as the city outside went silent made his world feel real. By the time he opened the front door and stepped into his family’s home, he was his usual self, living in stubborn denial of how many jagged pieces swirled dangerously beneath his surface.

There was a stylish bowler hat and a half-cape on the coat rack. Chris blinked at both, trying to piece together what they could mean.

“Mister Buckley?” He heard Miss Albany’s prim, controlled voice call to him from the parlour where they’d argued the night before. “Rosemary is resting, for now, and you have a guest.”

A guest, of course. He swallowed hard, trying to dismiss the last of his anxiety with it. “Ah, I see,” he said, not quite together enough to wonder who his guest was. He set his notebook on the table beneath the magic mirror and strolled into the parlour. Miss Albany set down a biscuit on a tray and met his eyes over the dark hair on the back of the head of the other person in the room. “And who would this guest be?”

The man stood from the chair he occupied and turned about to greet Chris. He was young, darkly handsome, impeccably dressed and stylishly groomed. His face was also very familiar. Chris had seen it a hundred times on the front page of the newspaper, next to articles headlined,
SIR COMBS CALLS LIVINGSTONE THEORY “RIDICULOUS,” SENDS SON TO ADDRESS LOWRY.
The man smiled broadly, disarmingly, and extended a welcoming hand. “Christopher Buckley, I presume!” he said in a smooth, pleasant baritone. “My name is Avery Combs. You might have heard of my father? Please, sit down.” He grasped Chris’s hand, and his grip was like a vice. “I think it’s past time you and I talk about dear little Rosemary.”

hris’s mind raced. Why now? Why did this have to happen
now
?

“I hope you haven’t waited overlong, Mister Combs,” he said, seating himself and crossing his legs.
Smile,
he reminded himself, and he smiled.

“Oh, not terribly!” Mister Combs replied. His voice was immensely pleasant to listen to, musical and confident. It was well known that Assembly member and traditionalist movement leader Sir Hector Combs sent his son to handle most of his social or public affairs, and it was immediately visible why. Everything about this man projected charisma and solidarity. His smile dismantled Chris even as he clearly recognized what was happening. “I was just talking to your governess, here. I’ve been trying to convince her there would be no harm in letting me talk to Rosemary, but she’s been a bit resistant.”

Chris projected his grateful feelings at Miss Albany, and he felt her shift in her chair in response. “I’d prefer if you talked to me first,” he replied.

“Well, I suppose that’s only reasonable,” Mister Combs agreed. He gave a firm nod, as if seeing great wisdom in Chris’s words. “You’re her guardian, after all.” He squinted at Chris suddenly, sincere curiosity and concern displayed on his handsome face. “Has that been difficult for you, Mister Buckley? You were still very much a child yourself, when the Floating Castle happened. I can’t imagine just what you’ve gone through, bringing up a little girl on your own in addition to all the other matters your father left behind. Was there really nowhere else she could go?”