Page 39

T he clock jutting out from the side of St. Mary’s spire showed they’d made it right on time.

Unfortunately.

For whatever reason, the Signature Swindler wanted to return the Gustave Courbet painting here at a church of all places.

Ollie had been dreading this moment ever since receiving the note.

Yes, he’d been a bit theatrical after reading the note, but he also knew he had to come to this blasted place, no matter how much he didn’t want to.

The thief had made a comment that he would return the painting at the location of his choosing, and this was his choosing.

He wondered, though, if the Signature Swindler knew about Ollie’s tie to this place or if it were a bizarre coincidence.

“Do you know where to go?” Evelyn asked.

“Not really,” he replied. “I haven’t been here since I was very young.” Guilt began to creep inside him. “I only remember my mother was buried somewhere toward the back.”

“Do you want to go say hello ?”

The shame worsened from her innocent question. He was a coward, and Evelyn probably thought so herself.

Resolving to get this over with, Ollie pushed through a creaky, iron gate and walked through the graveyard, reading the gravestones as he passed.

Sullivan.

Baxter.

Glover.

Sheen.

None of them were his mother’s.

“I can help if you like.” Evelyn appeared at his side. “What was her name?”

Ollie’s mouth went dry. When was the last time he had said his mother’s name out loud? She’d existed. He hadn’t known her, but she had existed. Yet he could never talk about her. Anytime he did, his brothers would tell him to stop.

“Honora McNab. Lydon before that,” he finally replied.

“Honora,” Evelyn whispered the word as if it were something precious.

And it was.

“All right.” She gave him an encouraging grin, a small beacon of light in the glumness that surrounded them. “Let’s find Honora.”

Ollie swallowed and gave her a tight nod and together, they walked the rows of gravestones, looking for his mother.

What would he say to her once he found her?

Would he even say anything? It felt silly to do so. She was long dead, wouldn’t know what he was saying, and wouldn’t care, either.

A priest came out of the church. He was tall and thin, with round glasses and a receding hairline. He waved his hand above his head with a grin. “Ollie McNab?” the priest said loud enough for them to hear.

Ollie and Evelyn exchanged a glance. Was the thief a priest ?

Ollie cleared his throat and headed in the man’s direction, Evelyn following close behind.

The man stuck his hand out to shake Ollie’s hand, then Evelyn’s. “Bartley Reilly. Or Father Reilly.” He chuckled and pointed at his collar.

“I don’t understand,” Ollie said after a moment.

“Don’t understand what?” Father Reilly replied.

“We were asked to meet someone here,” Evelyn jumped in, to his relief. Ollie was feeling rather thrown off and not like himself. “You aren’t him, are you?”

The priest blinked a few times before throwing his head back in laughter, causing Ollie and Evelyn to jump. “No! No, that’s not me. I was asked to watch out for you.” He let out a long sigh. “Ollie, you don’t remember me, do you?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“I knew your brothers. You know. Way back when. We all used to run about together, you included. You were a wee one, though. I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

“Wait.” Ollie squinted. “You were one of the street rats?” And then he remembered whom he was talking to. His eyes widened. “Sorry, I mean—”

But Father Reilly waved him off. “Yes, I was one of them.”

“And you stayed here? In Whitechapel?” Ollie really kept putting his foot in his mouth. Could he shut his blasted mouth from saying something idiotic just once? If he weren’t careful, he’d ruin their only chance at getting the painting back.

Father Reilly didn’t seem perturbed by it, though. “I’ve been all over the world, but I felt called to return. You know that madman terrorizing everyone?”

“Jack the Ripper?” The unknown man had terrorized Whitechapel by murdering several women last year. However, no one was sure if he had stopped or if he were still in the area.

“That’s the one. I felt, if there were anywhere I should be right now, it’s here.”

“But you know who the Signature Swindler is, don’t you?”

Father Reilly didn’t respond, but he studied Ollie over the rim of his glasses.

He wasn’t going to answer that. “There’s a reason he wants me here right now, isn’t there?”

The priest hesitated. “Yes. However, we do have a minute, if you wish to visit.”

Ollie understood that meant his mother’s grave. He looked over his shoulder at the expanse of weathered gravestones, names slowly wearing away as time continued on. “We’ve been looking for her, but I can’t remember where she is.”

“I can show you.” Just as Ollie remembered, Father Reilly headed toward the back of the graveyard, stopping at an expanse of brown grass void of any gravestones.

Ollie furrowed his brow as he studied the empty lawn. “But there’s no one here.”

A gentle hand touched Ollie’s arm. Evelyn. “It’s a common grave, Ollie.”

His eyes flew to hers, desperate to discover she was jesting, but all he found was worry and, worse, pity. He tried not to look as horrified as he felt. “What do you mean?” But he knew.

“It’s where someone is buried if there’s no money to put them in their own grave.”

Horrified, he looked back at the blank lawn.

All this time, his mother had been in a common grave?

Thrown into an open pit with strangers? Why couldn’t Fergus and Marjory—but then, Ollie remembered they hadn’t known.

It would be years before they’d track down the boys and learn they had been orphaned.

They hadn’t liked his mother, he knew that, but surely, they would have been able to look beyond that and use their wealth to give her a proper burial beside her husband.

“Should we visit your father, too?” Evelyn asked, trying to distract him.

She didn’t mean it to, of course, but the question made him feel worse. “He’s not here. He’s up in Scotland at the McNab family plot.”

“Would you like a moment with her?” the priest asked.

“I don’t even know her,” Ollie replied.

“That’s all right. She knew you.”

Ollie stared at the brown grass as Evelyn and Father Reilly left him on his own. What kind of conversation would he have with a mother if he’d had one?

I’m sorry I haven’t been here , he thought to himself.

Why haven’t you? that internal voice he sometimes had responded. Though he knew it was only himself, he was glad there was a response, even if he was creating it.

I didn’t feel right. I didn’t know you.

I knew you would come eventually. I had an eternity to wait, anyway.

Why did he feel amusement at his own joke? Right.

Are you happy, Ollie?

Am I happy? No, not really.

Why not? You seem like a happy person.

He considered his own question to himself. For as long as I can remember, it feels like something is missing.

Is it tied to your pub?

Maybe. Though the feeling had preceded the pub.

Are you sure?

He didn’t respond.

Who is that pretty woman with you?

Ollie looked back over his shoulder and found Evelyn meandering about. She leaned down to look at something. That’s Evelyn.

Is she the woman you’re in love with?

He whipped his head back around and frowned at the ground. Is she what?

The woman you’re in love with. I can tell you’re in love with someone; I can feel it. Don’t you feel it?

There was a very strange burning sensation in his insides, now that he thought about it. I thought that was heartburn.

He felt that vague, amused feeling again. And shifted his stance, uncomfortable by this bizarre conversation.

Is she one of them wealthy lasses? You boys seem to have a thing for them, don’t you?

Ollie blinked. “You boys”? He had never once referred to himself and his brother as boys . Ever. Though, surely, in having a mental conversation with himself, such a normal word could be used.

Yes, that was it. Because he was assuredly not speaking to his dead mother.

Erm, yes, I suppose she is , he thought back to himself. But I’m not in love with her—that’s ridiculous. I do think she’s beautiful. But love? Absolutely not.

No response.

Seriously.

If you insist.

Thank you. Though he wasn’t sure why he was thanking himself.

It’s almost time, Ollie.

Time for what?

You’re a good lad. You’ll be happy soon, but you have to let it in, too.

Sorry?

Follow her, always, as she is guiding you to her heart.

Ollie waited for more—what in the blazes did that mean? But there was no further thought.

A flood of emotion filled Ollie suddenly at the absence of the voice, as if years of pent-up anguish had been released by his visit.

Tears welled up in his eyes and he wanted to feel embarrassed by it, but he didn’t.

He sniffed and rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes to wipe away the moisture.

“Ollie?” a hesitant voice called from behind him. Evelyn.

He cleared his throat and straightened his back. “Yes?”

“Father Reilly wishes to speak to us inside the church.” Evelyn appeared at his side again, looking sheepish. “I hope you don’t mind, but I gathered up some flowers for you to leave. If you want. They’re mostly autumn weeds I found around here. You know, nothing special.”

“You made her a bouquet?”

Evelyn met his eye but quickly looked away. “I’m sorry. Did I offend you?”

“No,” he replied immediately, and he clasped his hands around the small fist that held the bouquet of weeds.

They were flowers one found growing along the walls of decrepit buildings or in the cracks between cobblestones, yet it was the most beautiful arrangement of flowers he’d ever seen.

A surge of warmth pushed away the despair that had flooded him only moments ago.

“No, you didn’t offend me. This is very thoughtful, Evelyn.

Thank you.” In truth, it was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for him, though he couldn’t very well tell her that.