Maelstrom (20 page)

“Whyborne?” I snorted. “You know he hates
anything that involves more than one or two other people.” I would
have preferred a church wedding, to have stood with him in front of
the world and declared my promise to spend the rest of my life at
his side for all to hear. But even if I couldn’t do that, I
believed the vows we’d spoken were as sacred in the eyes of God as
any others.

“Was it strange for you?” Iskander asked.
“Christine and Whyborne’s affection for each other, I mean. I’ve
grown used to it, but at first it was odd, to have the woman I love
so devoted to a man not related to her by blood.”

“A bit,” I allowed. “Mainly frustrating, as
she always takes his side in an argument.” I glanced up at the
museum entrance. The crowd streaming out of the doors had
thickened, and I spotted employees among them now. “I was very
grateful when you joined us. Two against one were frightful
odds.”

Iskander laughed. “I shall endeavor to even
them out when the situation calls for it, then.”

Mr. Quinn’s somber figure appeared amidst
the departing employees. “Look. There he is.”

We folded our papers once he was past, and
set ourselves to following him at a distance. Quinn hastened
through the streets, sliding through gaps in the crowded sidewalks
like an eel. I cursed silently—we could only hurry so fast
ourselves without drawing unwarranted attention. I’d foregone
shaving that morning to help alter my appearance, but too close a
look and he’d surely recognize one or both of us. I didn’t want to
give him any reason to take that closer look.

He boarded one of the electric trolleys,
which gave us an excuse to hurry to catch it. We slipped onto the
rear and paid the conductor. Quinn, near the front of the trolley,
never glanced back.

The trolley left behind the banks and
offices that surrounded the museum, and reached a more residential
neighborhood. Mr. Quinn disembarked, and we followed. He walked
quickly without looking around, as the streets gradually grew
narrower, the houses older. The paving began to vary wildly,
changing from brick to stone slabs to cobblestones. The inhabitants
moved quickly, almost furtively, and none of them exchanged
greetings.

At last Mr. Quinn came to an enormous
colonial heap that looked to have been converted to a boarding
house. Yew trees bordered the walk, and mighty oaks leaned close
together, as if attempting to conceal the house from prying
eyes.

“Do you imagine this is where he lives?”
Iskander murmured. “Or is he meeting someone here?”

“He went inside without a knock, so I would
guess he rents a room,” I replied. “Perhaps we can discern which
belongs to him.”

I removed a pair of binoculars from my bag
and cast about for a vantage point to discreetly survey the house.
Or as much of it as I could make out past the trees.

Most of the windows were open to let in the
evening breezes. The rooms at the front of the house appeared to be
empty at the moment, so I went around the back while Iskander kept
watch on the door. An alley let onto the back yard, which sported
an assortment of plants I didn’t recognize. Certainly there seemed
to be no carrots, beans, or tomatoes, let alone any of the common
herbs.

A small garden shed offered some
concealment, as did the tall oaks. Through my binoculars, I spotted
a woman who must be the landlady airing out a room, and a cook in
the downstairs kitchen. On the second floor, I finally glimpsed Mr.
Quinn’s dark form, moving about on the other side of the gauzy
curtains.

I held my breath as I watched him. He was in
the process of fastening his tie, having changed into yet another
severe suit. He paused at a washstand to apply oil to his hair,
then, apparently satisfied with his appearance, left the room.

I hurried around to the front, just in time
to glimpse him making his way back up the street. I slouched and
stuffed my hands in my pockets, but he didn’t so much as look my
way.

Iskander rejoined me, and
we followed him back through the neighborhood, until reaching River
Street. I’d hoped Quinn would lead us to other cult members, but
instead his night took a turn for the decidedly ordinary. He ate
dinner at a modest restaurant, briefly visited the department
store, and finally disappeared into the theater to attend a
performance of
The
Tempest
.

“Could we be wrong?” Iskander asked as we
watched Quinn vanish inside.

“Possibly,” I said. “At least it’s dark now,
which means I might have a chance at sneaking into his room in the
boarding house. I think one of the oaks was close enough to
climb.”

Iskander offered me a dubious look. “Do you
think it safe? Not that I question your courage, old chap, but the
place did seem rather, well, sinister.”

I had the same misgivings, to be honest.
“I’ll try not to get caught,” I said, clapping him on the arm. “You
stay here and keep an eye on the theater. If he leaves, follow him.
Otherwise, I’ll return as soon as possible.” I paused. “And if I
don’t return within the hour, fetch Christine and stage a
rescue.”

When I arrived back at the boarding house,
the place seemed quiet from the outside, save for the sound of
someone playing a viol in one of the garret rooms. Still, I took my
time, observing from both the front and the back. Even if the
inhabitants reacted with nothing stronger than indignation to my
prying, I couldn’t afford to let Quinn think anyone suspected him
of wrongdoing.

The street had grown quiet, and no one
seemed inclined to enter or leave the house. I slipped into the
dark backyard. Some of the flowers in the garden proved to be
night-blooming plants, and their sickly sweet scent twined about me
as I made my way through the overlong grass. The light coming from
inside provided just enough illumination to allow me to climb the
tree nearest Mr. Quinn’s room. The oak’s bark was rough beneath my
fingers, and its leaves seemed to caress my face. The sturdy branch
I crawled out onto was as thick as many lesser trees, and didn’t
groan at all beneath my weight.

It was a bit of a stretch to reach the open
window, but a copper downspout offered assistance, and soon I stood
inside. The room was dark, both to normal vision and shadowsight. I
held myself very still, listening for any indication my entrance
had been noticed. The viol wailed from somewhere above, the music
like nothing I’d ever heard before, alternately soothing and wild.
Did it annoy Mr. Quinn to have such an upstairs neighbor, or did he
enjoy the unorthodox tunes?

When I was certain no one was on their way
to investigate my entrance, I groped carefully forward. The floor
creaked beneath my weight as the oak had not, and I froze. There
came no alarm, however; no doubt in a house this old, creaks and
groans were the norm rather than not.

My searching hands found a bed and the back
of a chair, then the door. Removing my coat, I laid it along the
base of the door, to keep any light from showing through the gap.
Then I returned to the window and pulled the shutters closed. Only
after they were secure did I switch on the lamp.

The small room offered only a bed,
curtain-top desk, chair, washstand, and wardrobe. Why did Quinn
choose such dreary surroundings? His salary at the museum must
surely be commensurate for a man with a wife and children to
support; more than enough for a bachelor to purchase a small house
or nice apartment. Even Whyborne had lived in a modern apartment
when we first met, complete with its own kitchen and water
closet.

Then again, as his ignorance of our
neighbors had proved, Whyborne hated interacting with others.
Renting an apartment meant for a family made a certain amount of
sense when it came to a man of his temperament. Perhaps Mr. Quinn
was simply more sociable.

I did a hasty search of the wardrobe,
finding nothing inside but Mr. Quinn’s funereal suits, an adequate
supply of collars and cuffs, and a row of identical shoes. The suit
labels confirmed they had all been purchased at Dryden and Sons;
apparently, Quinn was a man of habit. There was nothing concealed
beneath the bed, so I turned my attention to the curtain-top desk.
Locked.

Fortunately, I was an old hand at picking
locks from my Pinkerton days, and soon had it open. I slid the top
up as quietly as I was able. The cubbyholes were stuffed with
papers, and more papers lay scattered across the surface of the
desk, including a train schedule. Quinn had circled a midmorning
departure for Boston. Beside it was written tomorrow’s date.

Was Mr. Quinn leaving town? And what
business did he have in Boston?

It might have nothing to do with the cult.
It could be perfectly legitimate business for the museum, even.

I picked up the train schedule. Beneath it
lay a bit of scratch paper with a sum on it. In the corner, almost
as a doodle sketched during a moment of idle thought, was the same
swirl pattern from the altar and the codex.

Whyborne

“It’s beautiful,” Christine said, holding up
the rifle. “The perfect wedding present.”

The train had returned us to Widdershins
long after nightfall. As I’d expected, Father had chastised me for
cutting the visit with Stanford short. Given my mood, I’d snapped
at him in return, and we’d spent the return trip in angry
silence.

Still, I’d accompanied him back to Whyborne
House, giving some vague excuse of not wishing the day to end on a
sour note. It had mollified him to the point he hadn’t questioned
any further. I’d arrived to find Christine admiring her new
rifle.

I sat on a chair in the ballroom—one of
many, in fact, delivered by a rental company for the wedding the
day after tomorrow.

“Jack sent it?” I asked, with a nod to the
rifle.

“Yes. A shame he couldn’t make it,” she
added, testing the bolt action. “I imagine his assistance would
have come in handy.”

Privately, I thought poor Jack was better
out of it. He’d had one brush with sorcerers and monsters; surely
that was enough for anyone.

The bell beside the front door rang, echoing
through the house, and both of us stilled. A few moments later,
Fenton led Griffin and Iskander in. “Look what your brother sent
for a wedding present,” Christine said, holding the rifle out to
Griffin.

“Very nice,” Griffin agreed
distractedly.

“You found some evidence,” I said. A bit to
my surprise, a weight settled over my heart. Mr. Quinn was strange,
even a bit frightening, but a part of me had hoped no one at the
museum would turn out to be involved after all.

“I’m afraid so.” Griffin related his
findings, then said, “I’m going to take the motor car to Boston
tomorrow and await him there.”

“I’ll come,” I said immediately.

Griffin shook his head. “I appreciate the
offer, but Quinn knows you too well. There aren’t many men of your
height and build. I can blend in far more easily.”

“Then I’ll come with you,” Christine
offered, patting the rifle.

“Your wedding is the morning after
tomorrow,” Griffin replied.

“To hell with the wedding!” Christine
snapped.

Iskander’s expression grew dark. “I
see.”

Christine paled. “Kander, you know I didn’t
mean...”

“I know I’ve worked very hard, arranging
menus, sending out invitations, composing announcements for the
paper.” He folded his arms over his chest. “Whereas you’ve left
everything to Whyborne’s secretary and a-a fish-woman!”

“I—”

He held up a hand, cutting
her off. “I want to belong here, Christine. In this town, with
these people. I want to belong here for
us.
But you refuse to take it
seriously! Sometimes I feel as though you’re deliberately
sabotaging my efforts!”

“There’s no need for anyone to accompany me
tomorrow,” Griffin said soothingly. I rather thought he had missed
the point.

They ignored him. “Blast it, Kander, I’m not
sabotaging anything!” Christine exclaimed. “It’s just that I don’t
give a fig for the trappings. I’d be just as happy going in front
of the magistrate in my field outfit.”

Iskander ground his teeth together. I’d
never seen him lose his temper before. I took a step toward the
foyer. “Griffin, I think we should leave.”

“No, don’t. I’m going home.” Iskander pushed
past me. At the door, he paused and looked back at Christine. “You
might not care, but I do. Perhaps you can pretend our marriage
won’t affect your career, that there’s no need to win over the
people who matter in this bloody town, but I can’t. Not when your
own parents refuse to come, for no other reason than I have
Egyptian blood.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll see you here tomorrow
night.”

Christine sank slowly into a chair. “Should
one of us go after him?” I asked Griffin uncertainly.

Griffin shook his head. “No. Give him a
chance to calm down.” He patted Christine on the shoulder. “Don’t
fret. He loves you.”

Griffin took his leave. I sat down beside
Christine, unsure what to say. After a few moments of awkward
silence, she said, “I never wanted a society wedding.” She sat with
her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on them, as if she
didn’t recognize them as belonging to her. “That was always
Daphne’s dream.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I tilted my head back
and stared at the ceiling. A swirl of painted cherubs and angels
with unusually menacing expressions stared back. “If it helps, I
think Iskander is motivated by concern for you.”

“I suppose.” She smoothed her skirts. “I
hadn’t really thought of things from his perspective. I was angry
at my parents, of course, but I never thought it might make him
feel as if he needed to prove himself.” She sighed. “I’ve been
rather thoughtless, haven’t I?”