The Time Roads (13 page)

Evan tried calling, but you wouldn’t answer.

Síomón’s gaze veered to his desk. The cocaine had returned.

He had trouble remembering much after that. Morning. Night. Afternoon. The hours flickered past his eyes like pages of a book. Once he found himself crouched over his wastebasket, retching. Another time, he massaged his cramped hands, studying a list of numbers. Moments later, he stood in his bedroom, drinking coffee, bemused to find himself dressed and shaved.

He was still gazing at his carpet when someone tapped at his door. Evan or Susanna, he thought. Or possibly the long-absent Garret.

But his visitor was Aidrean Ó Deághaidh, looking grim and weary. “You must come with me, sir.”

“Why? More questions?”

“More questions than I like, sir. I cannot tell you more until we reach the Garda station.”

“Am I under arrest?” Síomón demanded.

“No, Mr. Madóc. Not unless you give us reason.”

Ó Deághaidh helped him into his overcoat and led him outside, where a cab with a sergeant waited. It was late in the afternoon, or early in the evening, Síomón could not tell which. The air felt damp and chill with impending rain, and Síomón huddled into a corner of the cab, glad for his heavy coat. Ó Deághaidh himself remained silent throughout the long uncomfortable drive to the Garda station. Fatigue lined his face, making him look much older than he had that first day, when they walked along the Blackwater. Síomón noted a scar below Ó Deághaidh’s left temple and faint hatch marks beside his eyes. How many years had he served in the Queen’s Constabulary? And why had his superiors assigned him to this obscure murder case?

They arrived just as the sun was sliding behind the Garda station, which stood on a prominence overlooking the Blackwater. Ó Deághaidh dismounted first and scanned the walkway. When Síomón climbed down, the commander took him by the elbow and hurried him inside.

Gardaí and their charges filled the outer rooms—tramps and beggars, a woman with gaudy makeup, a nervous man in evening dress explaining his possession of a gun. Ó Deághaidh guided Síomón up the nearest stairwell, along a deserted corridor, and into a waiting room. He closed the door and pointed to a chair. “Sit.”

Síomón hesitated. He had expected the same scene as last time—the several uniformed sergeants standing along the walls, the gardaí writing notes, another of Ó Deághaidh’s colleagues listening in. Instead, they were alone, and Ó Deághaidh himself remained silent, his narrowed gaze upon Síomón.

“The newest victim is Susanna Patel,” Ó Deághaidh said abruptly.

For a moment, Síomón’s mind went blank. Then the blood drained from his face and he sank into the chair. “Susanna? When? How?”

Ó Deághaidh studied him a moment before answering. “Last night. Very late, if our witnesses are telling the truth. The coroner is confirming their testimony.”

Susanna. Dead.

Síomón leaned his head against his hands. “That’s not possible,” he whispered. “She visited me this afternoon. No, wait. She came by yesterday.”

Ó Deághaidh gave no reaction, except that his features went more still than before. “Tell me everything you did this past week. Leave nothing out.”

“I … I spent them in my rooms.”

“The entire five days? Doing what?”

Five days? Another wave of vertigo passed over Síomón. He steadied himself against the tabletop and managed to meet Ó Deághaidh’s eyes. “Research. Studying.”

“For your thesis?”

“Yes. That and … something that concerns my sister.”

Ó Deághaidh regarded him steadily. “Miss Patel was last seen in the mathematics library. She bid the librarian good night just as the clock struck ten. The librarian happened to look out the window and saw a man waiting underneath one of the lampposts. He accosted Miss Patel. They spoke a few moments, then walked off together. The librarian said he had only a glimpse of the man’s face, but he swears it was you.”

“Impossible,” Síomón whispered. “I never went there. My manservant can testify—”

Ó Deághaidh stopped him with a gesture. “We spoke with Kevin Garret. You dismissed him two days ago, he claims. We also spoke with your landlady. Mrs. Drogha and the chambermaid both agree that you remained in your rooms throughout the day, but they cannot guarantee your whereabouts after sunset.”

Síomón felt a trickle of sweat down his spine. “I did not leave my rooms, Commander. I—besides my studies, I was quite ill, Commander. Ask Evan De Mora. He came to my rooms.”

Ó Deághaidh nodded. “We know. As did Miss Patel. She spoke with Mr. De Mora yesterday morning. She was concerned, as was he, about your health. He did not say it outright, but Mr. De Mora thought you had had dealings with Mr. Blácach.”

“That’s a lie,” Síomón burst out. He stood up hastily, knocking over the chair. Breathing heavily, he righted the chair. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I can only say I’m upset. Any man would be with his friends dying and his sister—” But he would not speak of Gwen to this man. “Never mind about my sister. I’ve enough to upset me these past three days.”

“Five,” Ó Deághaidh said softly.

“Three or five or twenty-five. Does it matter? My friends are dead, and you accuse me of being their murderer.”

“But I don’t.”

Síomón stopped. He had been circling the table, unaware that he did so. Now he faced Ó Deághaidh across the room. One of the windows had been opened a crack. A thin breeze filtered into the room, relieving the stifling heat. “You don’t?”

“No.” Ó Deághaidh watched him closely. His gaze was bright, disquieting in its intensity. “We have contradictory testimony, Mr. Madóc. We have other evidence I cannot share with you. Suffice to say that we do not have adequate proof to arrest you.”

“Then why bring me here?”

“To question you. Someone murdered Susanna Patel. Someone who knew her quite well, and that is telling you more than I should.”

Síomón rubbed his hand over his numb face. “I wish I could help you.”

“So do I, Mr. Madóc. So do I. Now, please, sit. I have a few more questions.”

A few questions turned into several dozen. Once more, Ó Deághaidh led Síomón through the past week. When had he entered his rooms? Who brought him meals? On which day did Evan De Mora visit him? Had Mr. De Mora appeared distressed? What about Miss Patel?

“Did you know that Mr. De Mora and Miss Patel had been lovers?”

Síomón gripped the table’s edge to steady himself. “Lovers? No. I had no idea. I thought—” He eyed Ó Deághaidh, suddenly suspicious. “Are you certain?”

“We are certain, Mr. Madóc. We have that information directly from Mr. De Mora.”

Síomón opened and closed his mouth, unable to respond to this new information.

Ó Deághaidh watched him in silence. When he resumed his questions, they seemed to come at random, skipping over the past week, then leaping to years before, including his first meeting with Evan De Mora. Gradually, as he answered questions about Evan’s recent behavior, Síomón’s panic receded, replaced by a realization that brought him no comfort.

They think Evan murdered Susanna.

At last, Ó Deághaidh let out a sigh. “Enough. We’ve had a long day, you and I, Mr. Madóc.”

“Am I free to go, then?”

“Yes. But remember, the investigation continues. I would prefer that you not leave Awveline City.”

“Of course, Commander. I only meant that I was tired and would be grateful for some sleep.”

“That you may have, Mr. Madóc.”

A garda called a cab for Síomón and escorted him home. The ride back to his rooms remained a blurred series of images. Moonlight alternating with clouds. Dusky purple skies. Faint stars pricking the darkness. Long shadows stretching over the roadway. He was vaguely aware of the garda helping him inside. Even with the man’s assistance, it took Síomón three tries to unlock his door, but at last he was inside. Safe and alone.

He scanned his rooms. Nothing extraordinary met his sight. Books, papers, and furniture all looked the same. Aside from Kevin Garret’s strange absence, and the coating of dust, his rooms looked as though the past few days had not occurred.

Save that Susanna is dead, and the Garda suspects Evan.

He dropped into the chair by his desk. After a moment’s hesitation, he yanked open the drawer and searched through its contents. Keys. Slips of paper with numbers scribbled upon them. An inkpot. A pair of dice he and Evan used to play statistics games. But no white packet of strange powder.

Síomón shoved the drawer closed and rested his head upon his hands.
I was upset. Confused. Nothing more.

Work. He needed to work. To distract himself from the news about Susanna. He reached blindly for the nearest book:
Numerical Theories of the Syrians.

For an hour, he was able to lose himself in reading and making notes. As one reference led him to another, he pulled out other books, until he had an untidy heap upon his desk. Metaphysical properties. Particles of thought. Time streams. The various theories hung in his mind, vivid and clear. It seemed that he had finally found the necessary strands to pull his theories together.…

The vision wavered. The brightly colored strands of his reasoning unraveled into a handful of nothing. “Damn,” he whispered. “Damn. Damn to all eternity.”

He pushed back his chair and stood. He’d go mad if he stayed alone much longer. He pulled on a hat, gloves, and overcoat as he walked out the door. There was no question of visiting Evan, not with Ó Deághaidh’s oblique accusations fresh in his thoughts. But Ó Dónaill—Ó Dónaill had strongly suggested that Síomón come to him if he had any questions.

Questions about mathematics. Those aren’t the questions you have.

Those are the ones I can bear to ask.

The hour was later, and the streets much emptier, than he had expected. After a frustrating half hour, he flagged down a cab. Síomón gave the name of a street three blocks from Ó Dónaill’s house. Mere precaution, he told himself, but the memory of Aidrean Ó Deághaidh’s sharp, disquieting gaze seemed to follow him, even now.

The cab dropped him off at the agreed upon address. Síomón paid the fare and disembarked, to continue the last distance on foot. Ó Dónaill lived in a genteel neighborhood of aging gabled houses. Most of the windows were brightly lit, but the streets themselves were quiet and the sidewalks empty. A line of yellow halos marked the procession of streetlamps.

Ó Dónaill’s house stood on a corner, somewhat apart from its neighbors and shielded by a high wall of bushes. Síomón paused at the edge of the property, where a brick walkway led up to the front porch. Lamplight glowed in one of the upper windows, but downstairs all was dark. He puffed out his breath in frustration and stamped his feet, suddenly aware how swiftly they’d grown numb.

A fool’s errand,
he thought. Ó Dónaill might be awake, but he certainly wasn’t receiving visitors at this hour.

He turned away, thinking he ought to go directly home, but stopped when a light flared in the downstairs parlor window. A silhouette appeared before the curtains. Síomón recognized Ó Dónaill by the wispy halo of hair around his head. With a few moments, he had lit the parlor lamps.

Now a second, taller figure appeared by the window. Síomón drew a quick breath and advanced a few steps along the front walkway. Who else had chosen to rouse Ó Dónaill from his early evening? Another student? Commander Ó Deághaidh?

Too curious to resist, he dropped into a crouch and ventured closer to the parlor window. Light spilled through the glass, but he told himself that no one inside could see him in the darkness.

Luck was with him. Ó Dónaill had left the window open a crack, and he heard their voices clearly.

“Not possible,” Ó Dónaill said.

“But sir, surely you’ve read the theories—”

“And just as surely I’ve read their refutations, Mr. De Mora.”

Evan.
Why had Evan come here? Ó Dónaill was not his adviser. And surely he would have remained at home, mourning Susanna’s loss.

Síomón bent over double, his head spinning from the onslaught of suspicion. Here among the dying flowers and close-clipped bushes, the air felt colder, closer than before, and the scent of moldering leaves was strong. He swallowed against the bile rising in his throat and breathed through his nose until his stomach settled. Above him, the voices continued their conversation. They were arguing—something about formulae and the properties of numbers.

“Prime numbers,” Evan said, his voice taking on that eager tone when he’d alighted upon a new and exciting idea. “You yourself wrote a paper on the subject.”

“Years ago,” Ó Dónaill said. “Others have since disproved the theory.”

“True. But remember the new research from Lîvod and Tlatelolco—”

“Incomplete—”

“
Not
incomplete.”

There was a heavy pause, and Síomón could picture the glower on Ó Dónaill’s face. It was a look that intimidated less confident students. Evan himself apparently required a few moments before he could continue.

“Begging your pardon and your indulgence, sir, but the evidence is not incomplete. Here are the newest papers, delivered just this week from a community of Iranian scholars. Have you read them, sir?”

“Not yet, Mr. De Mora. I was engaged in my own research.”

“As was I, sir. One very similar to your own, I would imagine.”

Ó Dónaill snorted. “Indeed.” But when he spoke again, his voice was oddly formal. “Mr. Madóc is your intimate friend, I believe.”

“Mr. Madóc is my dear friend and a respected colleague, sir.”

A longer silence followed, then Ó Dónaill cleared his throat. “I’m glad you paid me this visit, Mr. De Mora. Come with me, we shall go to my offices tonight. I have some papers to share—”

He broke off with an exclamation. What followed next, Síomón could not quite make out. Footsteps thudding across the wooden floor, a strange soft thump, as if a knife had been driven into a pillow, a garbled cry that robbed him of strength and sense. He doubled over, hands splayed in the cold mud outside that bright and terrible house. From afar, he heard a commotion, then a second, broken-off cry.