Page 10 of Unbroken (Rath & Rune #4)

While places such as Boston might have a city directory including the names and addresses of its inhabitants, Ves had quickly learned that Widdershins citizens valued privacy over convenience.

The telephone company, on the other hand, was far more free with its directory, and the members of the WHS had the sort of money and business dealings that necessitated a private phone line.

The members Mrs. Siewert had listed all lived on the same privileged side of town at least, which would make walking house-to-house convenient. Sebastian had taken the train to Ipswich first thing that morning, so it was up to Ves and Mortimer to interview them.

They began with the house nearest the trolley stop. Ves tipped his head back as they walked, feeling the sun on his face, breathing in the heady fragrance of the flowers. Bees hummed contentedly in the blooms spilling through wrought-iron fences, and birds sang in the trees above.

He’d never wanted to return to the little shack where he and Noct had been raised. But the countryside around it, the deep forests and steep ravines, the thousand little brooks winding past mossy boulders…

“This is Mrs. Rice’s home,” Mortimer said, breaking Ves from his reverie. “I know her—not personally, but we were introduced at one point.”

“But she isn’t one of the old families?” Ves asked. The social structure of Widdershins tended toward the Byzantine, and he was still unsure of the intricacies.

“Heavens, no,” Mortimer scoffed. “I believe she was born in Salem and married a Widdershins man—also not from the old families, before you ask. He made a fair amount of money through some sort of factories—brassworks, I believe. Then he invested in railroads and shipping, and made even more.”

“Hence the mansion.”

“Indeed. Unfortunately, their only son was murdered…I can’t recall exactly how long ago. Fifteen years, a decade, something like that.”

Ves glanced at him. “Do you think what’s happening now could have any bearing on the son’s death?”

“Oh no, that matter is settled and done. Philip Rice became involved in things he had no business dabbling in. He was a social climber, he had money, and the old families found him…useful.”

“To do their dirty work?” Ves knew enough of the old families by now that it wasn’t much of a guess.

“He might have done well for himself in such a role—others certainly have.” Mortimer shrugged. “Unfortunately for Philip, he got cold feet at the worst possible time.”

“So your family murdered him?”

“Well, not my family,” Mortimer said, looking offended.

Then he winced. “Not directly, of course. I don’t know the details.

I was far too young to be admitted into the…

fraternity, let’s call it. Rice was silenced before he could cause trouble, and though the case was never officially solved, I understand justice was served in a fashion.

The fraternity was disbanded by the survivors, and Mrs. Rice seemed content with that, so far as I know.

At any rate, she resumed socializing once her period of mourning was over.

Her husband died a few years later, something with his heart, I believe.

Since then, she’s been a wealthy, respectable widow. ”

“But the horticultural society wasn’t involved?”

“The parvenus on the list Mrs. Siewert gave us? Good lord, no,” Mortimer said, as if he didn’t live in a boarding house and have to take the trolley like the rest of them these days.

Mrs. Rice’s mansion was surrounded by an iron fence with roses planted on the other side, perhaps to discourage anyone from climbing over.

If so, these would certainly do the job: the canes were thick as his wrist, with thorns like daggers and blooms the size of bowling balls.

Whatever the WHS was doing with their plants, it was causing them to flower out of season; the roses should have dropped their petals a month ago.

They disturbed Ves, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Perhaps it was simply because humans couldn’t leave things alone, wanting flowers out of season, or a certain color, or a larger size, rather than letting the rhythms of nature take their course.

A maid answered the front door when they knocked. Mortimer produced his card and said, “Mortimer Waite, calling on Mrs. Rice. Is she in for visitors?”

The young woman shook her head. “No, sir. I’m afraid she’s out on her own visits. But I’ll make certain to give her your card.”

Damn it. Mortimer showed no sign of frustration, however, merely said, “Thank you. I’d be much obliged if she could contact me—at home or at the Ladysmith Museum, either is fine.”

Their luck failed to improve. Mrs. Norris’s door was also answered by a maid, who explained her mistress was unwell and not accepting visitors, but promised to pass along Mortimer’s card.

Ian Fuller’s mansion was shut away behind a high brick wall and closed iron gates, which proved to be locked when Mortimer tugged on them.

As there was no bell or any other way of alerting the occupants someone was at the gate, sending a letter would have to suffice.

Ves was beginning to worry their walk would be for nothing, when they reached the abode of Mr. Daniel Rulkowski.

The house was one of the more modest on the street, which wasn’t saying much since it was twice the size of Bonnie’s.

A large conservatory was attached to the house like an additional wing, the copper trim on its iron bones turned green from verdigris.

Exotic plants lined the walk, many of them in pots so they could be moved inside during the harsh New England winter.

All of them flourished with the same wild abundance they’d seen at the homes of the other WHS members.

A young man answered their knock. “Yes? Can I help you gentlemen?”

Mortimer held out his card. “Mortimer Waite, here to see Mr. Rulkowski. Is he in?”

“Dan’s just upstairs.” The man seemed to catch himself. “Mr. Rulkowski doesn’t put much emphasis on formality. I’m Tom Berry, his secretary. And cook, and valet, and sometimes his butler.”

That seemed odd to have only one person perform all those roles, at least based on the houses of the wealthy Ves had visited. But perhaps Rulkowski’s income didn’t extend to a small fleet of servants.

Berry began to usher them inside. As he did, a voice from behind called, “Wait for me!”

Startled, Ves turned, and saw Paul Tubbs hurrying up the sidewalk, a sheen of sweat on his face from the hot summer day.

“Mr. Tubbs,” Mortimer said, with all the effusiveness of greeting an old friend. “I’m so glad you were able to join us after all.”

Tubbs didn’t get the hint. “Really? I rather thought you librarians were intent on cutting me out of the investigation.”

Berry frowned. “Is everything all right, gentlemen?” he asked, voice noticeably colder.

Damn. Ves put on a smile and hoped it looked remotely genuine. “It’s a, uh, joke.”

“Indeed,” Mortimer said, and elbowed Tubbs hard in the side. “We’re old friends who sometimes forget not everyone is privy to our humor.”

Thank the trees, Tubbs finally seemed to catch on. Rubbing his bruised ribs, he said, “Yes. Old friends.”

“Of course.” Berry stepped back and gestured for them to enter. “Follow me—Mr. Rulkowski is just up in his study. Working on his masterpiece.” He rolled his eyes fondly. “A book on cultivating orchids, of all things.”

They followed the butler/cook/secretary up a sweeping flight of stairs, then another smaller stairway. A short corridor took them to yet more stairs, these a tight spiral leading up to a sort of tower at the back of the house.

“Sorry for the walk,” Berry said in a hushed voice. “He likes to work somewhere he won’t be disturbed.”

“Lucky man,” Tubbs muttered.

At the top of the stairs was a short landing, the door leading off it cracked slightly open. Berry knocked on the door, then stuck his head in. “Mr. Rulkowski, visit—no!”

Propelled by the horror in his voice, Ves surged forward and flung open the door, so hard it hit the wall behind with a resounding crack!

Sunlight streamed in through an open window. A man crouched half-in it, one foot on the sill, his expression one of utter terror.

* * *

After disembarking from the train, Sebastian’s first destination was the offices of the Ipswich Monitor newspaper, which fortunately lay within an easy walk of the station.

The sun beat down on his straw hat, and the sea air was heavy with a humid stickiness.

He’d brought an Oxford bag with him, in case he needed to stay overnight, and began to resent its presence within a block of carrying it in the heat.

A sprightly young man sat at a desk just inside the relatively small brick building; when Sebastian entered, he smiled and said, “Good morning, sir! Are you looking to place a want ad?”

“No, actually.” Sebastian took out his card and passed it over. “I’d like to examine your archives, if I may.”

The secretary studied his card. “An archivist! Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“Your issues from 1830—I’m afraid I don’t know the month. I’m doing a bit of research concerning recent donations to our fair museum.” Which wasn’t entirely a lie, though to call the Books of the Bound donations might be stretching the truth quite a bit.

“I can show you to the archives, but I’m afraid I can’t help you much more than that. I don’t go down there very often—no one does, really, unless they need to refer back to an older article for some reason.” He stood up. “Just follow me.”

They went into the back, past a few offices and the switchboard, to a door marked Boiler - Archive. Behind the door, stairs led down to a basement with a vaulted brick ceiling, the boiler room to one side and the archive to the other.

“Good luck,” Sebastian’s guide said. “Stop by my desk on your way out.”

Sebastian opened the door to the archives and immediately understood why the young man had wished him luck. The state of the place was appalling; decades of newspapers were folded—folded!—in order to fit into cubby holes, or piled haphazardly on shelves.

His eye twitched, and it was all he could do not to march back upstairs and demand to see whoever was responsible for the mess.

Folding paper, instead of laying it flat!

Leaving it all to be exposed to dust and silverfish, with no eye toward preservation!

The place was probably filled with generations of mice who had constructed their nests from irreplaceable articles.

And that wasn’t even touching on the effects of humidity…

But no—he wasn’t here to start a fight over the state of the archive, which would likely lead to him getting thrown out of the building. Once he was back in Widdershins, he’d send a stern letter to the publisher. For now, he needed to find out what he could from the year Gregorio died.

The material closest to the entrance seemed to be the newest, so he worked his way back, checking dates from each shelf until he found himself in a corner tucked behind one of the brick pillars supporting the building above.

The Monitor had begun publication in the 1820s, and the issues from that decade and the next were stuffed into cubbyholes roughly by month.

He started with January of 1830, carefully unfolding the pages while silently cursing the creases and decay that had set in over the last eighty years.

Fortunately newspapers had been shorter in length back then; unfortunately, they were solid walls of text rather than the picture- and advertisement-heavy pages of the modern day.

Some issues were missing altogether, and if Gregorio’s death had been mentioned immediately after his demise, it must have been in one of those. The first mention Sebastian found of him came in the form of an article titled TRIAL FOR MURDER OF GREGORIO HOLLOWELL.

Murder. Not consumption, then, as would have been expected for someone later accused of being a vampire, at least in New England. Sebastian turned his attention to the article itself.

TUESDAY MORNING - The prisoners, Mr. John Knapp, Mr. Steven Black, and Mr. Joshua Walters, were placed at the bar. After the indictment was read, all three pleaded “Not Guilty.” A jury was then impaneled, and in the afternoon…

The article ran on for most of a densely packed page, which would take considerable time to read and digest. Sebastian hesitated—then glanced guiltily around, confirming he was alone.

Of course he was—no one cared about the archive. If he…liberated…an issue or two, he could see they were properly preserved, not left to rot in a basement.

Mr. Tubbs would lose his mind if he knew Sebastian was stealing archival material.

Cheered by the thought, he stuffed the issue, along with the next four, into the bottom of his bag.

He placed his clothing and shaving kit on top in case the secretary wanted to make sure he wasn’t making off with anything.

He needn’t have bothered. When he returned to the upper floor, the young man gave him a cheery smile and a wave. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I did; thank you,” Sebastian said. A woman came in through the front door and caught the secretary’s attention, so he slipped out behind her and back into the sunshine.

So Gregorio had been murdered. That, at least, the papers would print. Digging him up later seemed less like the sort of thing anyone would want publicized. For information on that, he would have to try the historical society.