Bloodline (Whyborne & Griffin Book 5) (6 page)

“As you caught
me
by surprise,” he said with a wry
twist of his lips. “It’s rather startling to have one’s ordinarily mannerly
companion suddenly hurl himself on one like a wild animal. Had it been in the
service of passion, of course, that would be another matter.”

Now I flushed for reasons other than shame. “I’ve never
attacked you like a wild animal,” I protested.

“No.” He glanced up at me through his lashes. “But should
you choose to do so, I have no objections.”

“Scoundrel.” But I felt a little better. Well enough to face
Father, at any rate.

We retreated downstairs to the study, making certain to lock
the door. As we passed the second floor landing, Christine called to us. “Wait
up a moment, gents, and I’ll walk down with you.”

She strode up the hall from the guest rooms. I frowned in
puzzlement. “What are you doing up here?”

“I rather needed to wash up somewhere, didn’t I?”

Guinevere’s blood had been cold under my knees when it
soaked through my trousers. Even colder later, on the ride back to Whyborne
House, despite the blanket thrown over my legs so her body could rest across
the seat in our laps.

I must have blanched, because Christine winced. “Damn
it—I’m sorry, old fellow. I’m an insensitive clod.”

I dredged up a weak smile. “Yes, well, it’s part of your
charm.”

We trooped the rest of the way down to the study. A fourth chair
had appeared across from Father’s seat in our absence, accompanied by three
glasses of whiskey, as Mother didn’t drink, on the advice of her doctors.
Ordinarily, I would have thought it far too early in the day to indulge, but at
the moment, I was rather glad for something to brace me.

Mother rose to greet us. “You must be Dr. Putnam,” she said.

“I am,” Christine said, before I could make proper
introductions. “A pleasure, Mrs. Whyborne. I assume it’s you I have to thank
for your son not treating me like a brainless fritter head due to my sex?”

Father frowned, and I suppressed a sigh. But Mother only
smiled ruefully. “I would like to think I had some influence on him, yes.”

“Let’s get on with this,” Father growled, resuming his place
behind the desk. A whiskey of his own sat in front of him.

We seated ourselves, and I glanced at Christine. She shifted
uncomfortably. “My condolences on your loss,” she said abruptly, with a nod
first to Mother then to Father. “I lost a family member of my own recently, in
rather awful circumstances, and…well, it’s never easy. I’m terribly sorry this
happened.”

Father’s eyes darkened. “I don’t require your sympathy, Dr.
Putnam. Nor does any one else in this house. Now tell me what you found.”

Curse the man. He’d seen Christine’s display of concern in
the foyer, and now sought to remind me how unmanly it was to ever show emotion.

Mother ignored him. “Thank you, Dr. Putnam. I, for one,
appreciate the sentiment.”

“Usually the bodies I examine are far older,” Christine
said, “but I imagine I did as well as some of the medical examiners might. Lady
Gravenwold was stabbed six times in the chest. She had defensive wounds on her
hands and forearms. It was a savage attack, but there were no bruises or broken
bones. Her underthings were still in place, and she carried this.” Christine
put a small pouch on the desk, spilling a few coins out as she did so.

Stabbed six times. A savage attack. Defensive wounds…her
poor fingers had been slashed so deep I could see the bones.

“Oh,” Mother said in a small voice, and put a hand to her
mouth.

I felt faint myself, but I forced myself to stand up and go
to her. Kneeling before her chair, I took her hands. They were icy cold.

“Mother, please,” I said. She’d turned her face away,
striving for some semblance of control, but the dampness on her eyelashes
proclaimed it a losing battle. “You’ve done so much for me. Let me do this for
you.”

I wanted to take this cup from her, but no one can swallow
the dregs of another’s grief. At least I could give her the space to mourn, if
she would only let me. She wouldn’t weep in company, but Griffin and Christine
had already seen me at my worst, and Father didn’t give a damn.

She took a deep, shaky breath. “I owe it to her.”

“Not this. Not making yourself suffer to no purpose.” How
would the loss affect her health? And God, how selfish was I, to worry it would
take her from us sooner? “Needing to rest, to grieve, isn’t weakness.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Her hands tightened on mine, then
released. “Niles, would you ring the bell for someone to assist me?”

He did so. We all stood as one of the maids escorted her
out. She looked so frail, so hurt, and I wanted desperately to do something,
anything, to make it all right again. But I couldn’t.

Griffin looked equally unhappy, as if he wished to run after
her and offer some solace but had none to give. Christine only seemed sad;
perhaps she was remembering her own dead sister and how her mother blamed her
for everything Daphne had suffered.

“Well,” Father said, once Mother departed, “what do you make
of this, Griffin?”

“It seems clear neither rape nor robbery were the motive,”
Griffin said. His eyes took on the far-off expression they held when he was
deep in thought. “Whoever killed her meant murder from the start. Unless we’ve
some sort of lunatic like the Whitechapel killer on our hands, it seems likely
the motive was related to whatever she meant to tell Percival.”

“Who else knew she was meeting you?” Christine asked me.

“The maid who brought her plain clothing to wear?” I
suggested. “Perhaps the maid then told someone else…whoever Guinevere feared
would overhear the night of the party?”

“Perhaps.” Griffin reached into his coat pocket and took out
the jewelry and the silk-wrapped stone. He glanced at me, and I nodded my
readiness. My mental walls were strong.

I hoped.

Griffin tossed aside the silk. Neither Christine nor Father
reacted, save to lean in more closely to see the stone. “What the devil is it?”
Christine asked.

“We found it in Guinevere’s things,” Griffin replied, but
his eyes were on Father. “Do you recognize it?”

Father shook his head. “No.”

“What about this?” He set the bracelet down beside the
stone.

“Never seen it before,” Father said impatiently. “Some
woman’s trinket, I expect.”

Christine’s mouth turned down in to a thoughtful frown. “I
can’t say as I’ve ever seen designs like those before. Clearly they belong to
some artistic tradition, but blast if I know what.”

Griffin took them both back and put them away. Thankfully,
I’d sensed nothing further from the stone…but I had no desire to put it to the
test by exposing myself to its influence for a moment longer than necessary.
“Show your father the note,” he prompted me.

“I found this in the pocket of her dressing gown.” I passed
the note to Father.

As he read the terse lines, his face grew dark with anger.
“When I find out who wrote this, they’ll wish they’d never picked up a pen in
their life,” he growled.

“You don’t recognize the handwriting?” Griffin asked.

“No.”

Curse it. There went our last hope for a quick solution.
Griffin clearly thought the same, because he said, “I believe we’ve done all we
can today. Give our regards to Heliabel.”

“I’ll come by as soon as I can to see her. Once she’s up to
it,” I said.

Father nodded. “Very well. Stay in touch, Griffin.”

“I shall.”

A few minutes later, we stepped into the frosty air of an
October morning. I tipped my head back and breathed deeply, letting the chill
sear my nostrils. I always felt like I couldn’t breathe inside Whyborne House,
as if the air grew heavier and heavier, so gradually I didn’t even notice until
I was gasping my life out, like a fish stranded by the tide.

“Honestly, Whyborne, are you certain you’re related to that
man?” Christine asked. “I don’t mean to cast aspersions on your mother, of
course, but perhaps the fairies left you as a changeling.”

“I wish they had sometimes.” We turned our steps away from
the house. “But no, I’m afraid there’s no question about it.”

Christine patted me on the shoulder, then directed her gaze
at Griffin. “What next?”

Griffin’s curls tumbled over the collar of his coat as he
hunched his shoulders for warmth. “Guinevere mentioned the derelict ship to
Whyborne, the night she asked him to meet her.”

“What, the
Norfolk Siren?”

“Unless Widdershins has been visited by another ghost ship
in the last few days. Although, given this town, it very well might have.”

Christine snorted. “If such were the case, the newspapers
would be up to twelve special editions a day.”

“And all of them filled with speculation and outright lies,”
Griffin agreed. “I mean to find whatever actual facts I can about the ship.”

He took the jewelry from his pocket and passed it to me.
“Whyborne, I’d like you to take this to the museum. Discover what you can about
it.”

“Of course.”

“And what about me?” Christine asked.

Griffin smiled, but there was no humor to it. “Make certain
your rifle and pistol are loaded and ready. I have the feeling we’ll need both
before this is over.”

In the early hours just past midnight, Father, Griffin, and
I slipped through the iron gates of Kings Hill Cemetery. Behind us, Fenton
waited in the motor car, alert for anyone who might disturb our grim work.
Mother said her goodbyes earlier, alone in the wine cellar of Whyborne House.

Griffin picked the lock by the light of our lantern. Father
led the way through the low, stone wall, past the lines of weathered
tombstones. Griffin and I followed, bearing between us a solid wooden plank.
Guinevere’s body, shrouded in spare linens, lay atop it.

The autumn wind rattled in the branches of the great oak
trees, which in the summer months provided shade for mourners. Leaves swirled
down around us with dry whispers, brief flashes of red or orange or fiery
yellow in the lantern’s beam. The air smelled of smoke and the earthiness of
decaying leaves.

There was no moon, but the stars spangled the sky in their
multitudes. The black bulk of the Draakenwood stood out against them atop the
hill. As we climbed toward it, the sound of branches rubbing against one
another came on the wind: creaks and groans and whispers, as if the trees
communed with each other.

Perhaps they did. I’d only been past the forest verge once,
and it was not a place recommended for hikes or bird watching. Casual visitors
had a nasty habit of vanishing within its dark tangle of limbs. Surely the
lines of arcane energy laced throughout Widdershins must run through the wood.
Perhaps I’d return one day soon and map them.

Guinevere had shared Mother’s slender build, but the edge of
the board dug into my shoulder, even through my coat, as if weighed down by
stones. Stanford should have been with us, should have been the one to bear the
other end of the makeshift bier. But when Griffin and I returned to Whyborne
House in the evening, we’d found my brother too drunk to be of any use. Was he
taking Guinevere’s death hard? Or did he simply use it as an excuse to fall
back into the bad habits that had cost him his marriage and his place in New
York?

I didn’t give a damn. He’d left this task to us, not even
caring enough for Guinevere’s memory to stay sober long enough to honor her.
Thank heavens for Griffin.

We reached the hilltop. A row of family crypts surrounded an
inner wheel of headstones marking the oldest burials in Widdershins. At the hub
of the wheel lay the ostentatious tomb of the town’s founder, Theron
Blackbyrne. A necromancer of the worst sort, he’d ultimately vanished screaming
through a portal to the Outside, after the Brotherhood ill advisedly
resurrected him almost two years ago.

I felt a little flicker across my skin, like a faint
electrical charge. So the lines of arcane energy did cross the cemetery to the
wood. This one likely ran directly over Blackbyrne’s grave. No wonder he’d
chosen to be buried here.

The first generation of Whybornes lay among Blackbyrne’s
inner circle, but we’d gained enough prestige afterward to build a crypt. No
one could know Guinevere had died, but keeping her body in the wine cellar was
out of the question. Quietly—and temporarily—interring her in the
family crypt seemed the best solution. Whenever Father decided to declare her
dead at the sanitarium, an empty coffin could easily be brought in with a
public ceremony. Until then, she would at least rest peacefully among the bones
of our ancestors.

We reached the family crypt. Carved faces stared solemnly at
us from above the door. Presumably, they were meant to be angels, but their
expressions seemed a bit sinister for servants of heaven. A rusted chain and
padlock held the heavy stone door closed. I’d seen it open only once before,
when my grandmother had been interred. I’d been quite young then, and barely
remembered anything about the funeral, save for the terrible creak of the
hinges and the thud as the crypt slammed shut once more.

Griffin and I waited in silence while Father fought with the
lock. The limbs of the Draakenwood whispered, perilously close. The spot
between my shoulder blades itched, and the small hairs on the back of my neck
prickled.

Was someone watching us?

I glanced apprehensively back over my shoulder. The wan
circle of lantern light showed only Griffin, dressed in his most sober suit.

Who could be observing us, in a cemetery long before dawn?
Surely, no one would choose this hour to clamber over the low wall and visit a
family member’s grave. Resurrection men, then? Griffin had once remarked on the
startling amount of grave robbing in Widdershins, considering the university
lacked a medical school. But even the most foolhardy resurrectionist would
avoid disturbing the rest of any of the old families.

Wouldn’t they?

Griffin cocked his head; I’d stared too long. Clearly, he
didn’t feel anything amiss. It was just my nerves.

The lock clicked so loudly I would have jumped, save for the
weight resting on my shoulder. The chain rattled loose, and the door opened with
the same agonized shriek of hinges I recalled from my grandmother’s funeral.

A whiff of damp came from within the crypt: old wood and
even older stone, all returning to the dust from which it had come. Father led
the way inside, and we followed.

The space within was cramped. Two large tombs took up most
of the floor space, but the walls were lined with shelves. Many already
contained moldering coffins, but there were several empty places yet awaiting
new generations of Whybornes.

Would I join them some day? The way my life had gone the
last two years, it seemed more likely I’d end up in the gullet of some
monstrous horror, or else buried in a shallow grave. Whatever happened, I
certainly didn’t want to spend eternity here.

Had Griffin made arrangements? Perhaps I ought to make a
will specifying I be buried with him, just in case. Father wouldn’t protest; no
doubt he’d be glad to put as much distance as possible between his corpse and
mine.

“Here.” It was the first word Father had spoken since we’d
left the motor car. He indicated one of the empty shelves, and Griffin and I
dutifully shifted our burden to it

Goodbye, Guinevere.

Griffin bowed his head, his lips moving in silent prayer.
Father looked faintly surprised, but then bowed his head as well. I stared
straight ahead, reading the small plaques beneath the shelves identifying those
interred above. One in particular caught my attention.
Infant daughter,
October 31, 1870.

My twin sister. Our birth, two weeks before expected, had
ruined Mother’s health. My twin died shortly thereafter, and I’d been expected
to join her for some time. What would my life have been like had everything
gone differently, and we’d been born hale and hearty, in the proper time? Or
would nothing have changed at all?

Mostly likely the latter. It would not have altered my
nature, after all.

Griffin’s prayer ended, and he lifted his head. Father
cleared his throat and indicated the door. “We should go.”

We stepped back outside. A bird roosting at the edge of the
Draakenwood flushed, its wings fluttering frantically in the dark. Had we
disturbed it, or had I been right all along, and we weren’t alone? I stared
fixedly into the night, but nothing appeared beyond the circle of lantern light
save for indistinct shadows.

The door thudded closed behind me. I took a few steps
forward while Father fiddled with the chain and lock. The weathered headstones
looked like crouching figures. The wind gusted in my face, bringing with it the
earthy smell of the wood, along with something else. A scent of salt and the
sea, clean and crisp.

And utterly wrong. The wind blew from the landward side, not
the ocean.

I snatched up the lantern. Ignoring Father’s indignant
shout, I lifted it high, casting a wider pool of light.

Something broke cover, darting from behind one of the
nearest headstones. I glimpsed sleek skin the color of pearl, mottled with dark
gray. Gold and jewels flashed, a confusing dazzle, like a cloud of minnows.

It fled down the hill. With a shout, I gave chase.

~ * ~

The creature seemed humanoid, but ran with a curious, loping
gait. It darted around the headstones, heading for the east side of the
cemetery. I couldn’t make out anything but the pale patches of its skin, so I
focused intently on them, determined not to lose it.

And tripped over a footstone.

My hands scraped over leaves and soft earth, and I felt the
knee of my trousers rip. The lantern flickered madly but, fortunately, didn’t
go out. Griffin and Father called behind me. I ignored them, rolling to my feet
and running in the direction I’d last seen the creature. Where the devil had it
gone?

Another flash of white and gold, this time against the
stones of the low wall demarcating the cemetery’s edge. “Stop!” I shouted.

It didn’t, of course. I had the confused impression of an
almost-human silhouette as it balanced for an instant atop the wall, then
dropped to the other side.

The wall was low enough for me to scramble over. On the
other side, a long slope ran down to the bank of the Cranch River, interrupted
briefly by the road encircling the hill. The creature made for the bank, and I
followed. Surely, it would turn at bay when it reached the river.

Instead, it dove in, body cutting the water so smoothly
there was barely a splash. A moment later, a set of fins broke the water, then
vanished.

I stumbled to a halt. As the excitement of the chase drained
away, I became aware of my pulse fluttering in my throat, my breath wheezing in
my lungs.

Footsteps pounded down the slope behind me. “What happened?”
Griffin asked as he joined me.

“It went into the water. Where’s Father?”

“I left him at the crypt. You ran off with our only light.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t even thought. “I didn’t want it to get away.”

“Understandable.” He frowned at the restless water of the
river. “Did you see what it was?”

“No. Just a few confused glimpses.” I peered up the hill at
the cemetery. “I think it was watching us the entire time. What do you imagine
it was after?”

Griffin shook his head slowly. “I’ve no idea. I suppose it
could have been a coincidence, unrelated to our mission tonight.”

It was possible. For all we knew, the thing might crawl out
of the river and sit in the cemetery every night of year. And yet… “You don’t
think so.”

“No. Call it instinct, or a simple mistrust of anything
appearing to be a coincidence.” Griffin took the lantern from me. “Come on.
Let’s retrieve your father and leave.”

~ * ~

The next morning found me struggling not to fall asleep at
my desk in the museum. Our late excursion would have stolen enough sleep as it
was, but the mysterious creature I’d chased occupied my thoughts and kept me
awake until my alarm clock rang.

Griffin, on the other hand, woke just long enough to give me
a sleepy kiss. I left him curled beneath the covers, Saul purring on his feet.

Now I took yet another sip of coffee and checked the clock
on the wall. Only ten. I’d never make it through the day without a nap.

In an attempt at wakefulness, I drew out the bracelet we’d
found amidst Guinevere’s things and stared at it. Perhaps a visit to another
department would wake me. I’d contemplated whom to approach about the bracelet.
Christine would have recognized anything of Oriental origin, and I felt certain
it didn’t belong to any European tradition. Perhaps Oceania?

I tucked it in my pocket and set off for the Department of
Ethnology. Due to the eccentric nature of the museum’s architecture, this was
easier said than done. I went down several corridors, cut through the taxidermy
room—then rather wished I hadn’t—passed the director’s office,
ducked into a public wing, then back through a staff door, and finally reached
my goal.

The plaque on the office door read
Dr. J. Gerritson.
I knocked politely.

“Who is it?” Dr. Gerritson called through the door.

“Percival Whyborne. I need to speak with you a moment, if
you’re, er, available.”

The lock on the door clicked open. “Oh, of course, Dr.
Whyborne. Come in!”

I slipped inside and suppressed a sigh when I saw what Dr.
Gerritson wore. The floor plan was far from the only eccentric thing about the
museum, and the director had been forced to insist Gerritson remain in his
office with the door locked while “indisposed.” Which was a polite way of
saying the doctor’s preferred work attire consisted of women’s underthings.

Considering I’d fought off a mad cult while wearing a feminine
dressing gown, I could hardly disapprove. But I did feel a corset and stockings
were not precisely professional enough to wear to one’s office.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, thrusting out a massive
hand to me. I shook it, trying to keep my eyes on his bearded face and away
from the thickly furred chest peeking above a rather frilly corset.

“Dr. Gerritson,” I said. “I need a bit of a favor, if you
have a moment.”

“Of course.” He gestured to one of the chairs, and I sat in
it. Gerritson perched on the edge of his desk, casually crossing his legs.
Where did he even find silk stockings in his size? “Is this about the
Hallowe’en tours? I’m pretty sure we’ve got a cursed pearl around here
somewhere. Supposedly wiped out a whole line of Polynesian chiefs.”

“Er, no, not today. Although I’ll keep your pearl in mind.”
I took the bracelet out of my pocket and passed it to him. “I’m attempting to
discover the origin of this jewelry. I didn’t recognize the artistic tradition,
and so thought it might come from your part of the globe?”

He uncrossed his legs. The silk underthings didn’t go far
toward concealing the attributes beneath them. I looked away quickly, feeling
my face heat. Gerritson wasn’t really my sort, but judging from the view, his
wife must be very pleased.