Page 8 of Unbroken (Rath & Rune #4)

“I suppose you could call it that,” Ves said. The sharp, piercing pain, followed by the horrible sucking had invaded his dreams last night. “As to why my blood seemed to have such a negative effect on it, I couldn’t say.”

“You’re resistant to sorcery,” Sebastian said. “Maybe your blood negated the magic keeping it animate?”

“Fascinating.” Mr. Quinn steepled his fingers. “What else?”

“I’m placing Alexander Dromgoole’s architectural plans in the archives,” Sebastian said. “They’ve told us all they can, and are taking up a great deal of space in my office.”

Dromgoole’s work was completely undone; there was nothing more his designs held for them.

They’d go back into storage, perhaps never to be looked at again.

The final legacy of a man whose brilliant mind was slowly warped out of true by the Books he’d Bound himself to, until he ended his days in the madhouse at Taunton.

Mr. Quinn nodded. “And Ladysmith’s letters?”

“I’d like to keep them a bit longer. Ladysmith had some idea of how to destroy the Books—one of the letters says he was going somewhere remote. He may not have committed any more to paper, but I can’t be certain without going through the rest of his correspondence.”

“But wherever he went, he didn’t find anything,” Ves pointed out. “Otherwise, he would have destroyed the Books instead of merely walling them away.”

“It never hurts to be thorough.” Mr. Quinn leaned back in his chair. “How do you propose finding the Book of Blood?”

“We don’t have much choice except to interview the people who were at Penelope Tubbs’s party,” Sebastian answered. “Find someone who had a grudge against her and David Siewert. Perhaps figure out who the corpse belonged to, before they became a vampire. Er, hematophage.”

“I like leech,” Ves said, resisting the urge to rub his chest where it had attached to him.

“Hmm.” Mr. Quinn splayed his spidery fingers on the desk in front of him. “Why do you think our foe left the undead to watch over the place? The Book was removed—what were they guarding against?”

“Or was it simply drawn to the place where the Book used to be?” Ves asked. “Pulled there by its lingering magic?”

Sebastian bit his lip uncertainly. “My ancestor, Gregorio, the one the siblings came here to resurrect, was accused of being a vampire back in Ipswich. His corpse dug up, body desecrated. From what little I know, that was ordinarily done when the ‘vampire’ had died from consumption, and subsequent family members also took ill. It was thought the vampire was feeding on their life force from the grave, not literally rising from it and drinking their blood. But we don’t actually know any of the details surrounding his death and the accusations that led to him being dug up again. ”

“I doubt he was anything like the leech we encountered last night,” Ves objected. “He studied at the Scholomance, so he must have been a powerful sorcerer. The leech…” He suppressed a shudder at the memory of the raw, desperate hunger in its eyes. “No one would turn themselves into that willingly.”

“You’d be surprised,” Mr. Quinn said dryly. “But I concede your point—it hardly sounds like the best of the options available to a sorcerer. Mr. Rath, a trip to Ipswich might shed some light on the subject, if you deem it relevant.”

“I do,” Sebastian said. “I’ll make arrangements to leave tomorrow. In the meantime, we need to interview Siewert’s widow, since Tubbs is being obstinate about giving us the list of people who were at the memorial dinner.”

Mr. Quinn nodded. “Very well. Good work, gentlemen. Carry on as you have, and soon all four of the Books will rest in our safekeeping.”

* * *

While Ves returned to the bindery and conservatory, Sebastian and Mortimer took the trolley to the late David Siewert’s address.

It lay not far from Penelope Tubbs’s home, in the new money section of High Street.

The architect had taken his cue from Grecian temples and included as many marble columns as possible on the entryway and facade.

Lush flower gardens unrolled to one side of the house, disappearing behind its stately bulk into what was no doubt an equally lavish back yard.

Even from a distance, it was clear the Siewert gardeners had taken their cue from those employed by the Tubbs, as all the flowers were abnormally large.

Mortimer’s lip curled beneath his thin mustache. “The newly rich always have such poor taste.”

“It looks lovely to me,” Sebastian said, glancing around as they made their way up to the door.

“As I said, ‘poor’ taste.”

Sebastian clapped him on the arm. “Well, since you’re now one of the great unwashed like myself, it’s past time to lower your standards.”

“Never.” Mortimer rang the bell.

A stern older woman answered, wearing a simple black dress with white apron and cap, a band of black crape around one arm. “Yes?”

All of Mortimer’s earlier disdain vanished, replaced by a solemn expression as he passed over his card. “Mortimer Waite and Sebastian Rath. We’re here to see Mrs. Siewert regarding her husband’s death.”

The woman frowned, but said only, “If you’ll follow me. I warn you, though, Mrs. Siewert is accepting few visitors at this time.”

The implication being a woman in mourning shouldn’t be bothered by impertinent persons such as themselves.

They followed her to a small sitting room off the foyer.

At least a dozen vases of fresh flowers crowded the room: hollyhocks like spears, dahlias half the size of Sebastian’s head, tulips large enough to use as soup bowls, and lilies like trumpets.

Their cloying perfume was so thick Sebastian knew he’d smell it on his clothes long after they left.

Most of the paintings on the periwinkle walls were of flowers, with the sole exception of a portrait of a man standing in a garden holding a normally sized rose.

Ice went down Sebastian’s back at the sight of the painting. As soon as the woman had left, he nudged Mortimer. “That man—I think he was the leech who attacked Ves last night.”

“You think? Or you’re certain?”

Sebastian studied the portrait. The artist had given Siewert a proud expression as he gazed out at the viewer.

The mustache seemed the same, as did the hair and basic facial features…

but given the bloating of death, the damage from the saltwater in the basement, he couldn’t be entirely sure. “He wasn’t exactly in good condition.”

“You said his grave was vandalized,” Mortimer mused. “If someone dug him up, or he crawled out himself—”

The door opened behind them, admitting the stern woman from before. This time, she was followed by a youthful woman dressed in full mourning. A black veil obscured her features, revealing just enough for Sebastian to surmise she’d been much younger than her departed husband.

“Mrs. Siewert?” Mortimer asked. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. I hope you’ll forgive our intrusion during this sad time.”

“Mrs. Haddock, will you have Jane bring us some coffee?” she asked the older woman. Once she departed, quietly closing the door behind her, Mrs. Siewert gestured to the chairs arranged around a small table. “Please, have a seat. You’re here on some business involving my husband?”

“I’m afraid so.” Sebastian settled on a chair across from her and Mortimer took the one between them. “First, please allow us to express our condolences on your loss.”

Behind the gauze of her veil, she blinked rapidly.

“I asked him to stay home that day, or to at least take the train. The fog was so bad, and the road to Salem isn’t the best. But he loved driving his automobile—he was very fond of machines, and once he had an idea in his head…

” She broke off. “Did you know him well?”

The door swung open, admitting a young maid carrying a tray laden with cups, carafe, sugar, and cream. “Thank you, Jane—I’ll serve,” Mrs. Siewert said, and the girl departed silently. “Sugar? Cream?”

“One lump, and yes, please,” Sebastian said, while Mortimer demurred any additions. Mrs. Siewert served them, then put back her veil in order to sip her own coffee. Her eyes and nose were both red, presumably from weeping.

Rather than answer the question as to whether they’d known her husband, Sebastian said, “We’re here because…well…” He glanced at Mortimer, who sipped his coffee rather than offer to help. “I don’t wish to be indelicate, but was there anyone who might have wanted to harm your husband?”

Her eyes widened in shock. “What do you mean? Are you saying it wasn’t an accident? Did someone sabotage his auto?”

Mrs. Siewert’s voice grew louder and wilder with every question. Sebastian hurriedly held up his hands for calm, before her distress summoned Mrs. Haddock and the grim woman threw them out.

“We’re not certain,” he lied frantically. “Do you, er, do you know Penelope Tubbs?”

She stared at him blankly for a moment. “Mrs. Tubbs? I don’t understand.”

Mortimer finally joined the conversation. “Mrs. Tubbs was recently injured in a manner calculated to look like an accident, but which she assures us was not. The incident occurred at a dinner in honor of your late husband.”

“I…I think I read something about that?” She looked around, as if expecting a newspaper to appear. “I’ve kept to myself since…”

“Of course, of course.” Mortimer leaned forward slightly. “You weren’t acquainted with the lady in question, then?”

“Not really—that is, she was here several times, whenever it was David’s turn to host that stupid society of theirs.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I mean—that is, it wasn’t stupid.”

“Those we love often have interests incomprehensible to us,” Mortimer reassured her. “What society was that?”

“The Widdershins Horticultural Society.” Her gaze went to the portrait.

“David was wild about gardening. The rose he’s holding—he bred it himself.

I couldn’t tell you what’s special about it, but he called it the Julia, after me.

” A sniffle escaped her. “I don’t even like flowers!

They make me sneeze terribly. I should tell the servants to stop bringing them inside, but…

” She stared at the outsized flowers in something like despair.

Sebastian winced. “I’m sorry to cause you pain, Mrs. Siewert. It’s just that Mrs. Tubbs’s brother-in-law is an acquaintance of ours, and if it is true her accident was anything but—”

“David’s might have been as well.” She took out a black handkerchief and delicately dabbed at her eyes.

Grief, or allergies? “Did his killer desecrate his grave as well? I wish I’d paid more attention to what David said about the society.

There was always some sort of argument going on between the members—disputes over the best methods of hybridizing plants, or cultivating orchids, or God only knows what.

” A tiny, wistful smile touched her lips.

“I know the WHS—that’s what they call their society—won a gold medal for their display at the Massachusetts Horticultural Society’s Midwinter Flower Show.

David was so happy…well, for a little while, anyway. ”

“I see. Were any of the arguments between members serious?” Mortimer inquired.

“I don’t think so. Though, as I said, I didn’t pay the best attention.” She wiped her eyes again. “We hosted a society dinner in late April, so I at least remember the names of all the members who attended. Shall I write them down for you?”

“That would be very helpful.”

She withdrew to a small desk, where she inscribed the list on a sheet of thick stationery watermarked with a floral design. “Here.”

In a neat, elegant hand she had written:

Widdershins Horticultural Society

Mrs. Penelope Tubbs

Mr. David Siewert

Mrs. Olivia Norris

Mrs. Emily Rice

Mr. Ian Fuller

Mr. Daniel Rulkowski

“Thank you.” Sebastian carefully tucked the paper into his inner coat pocket. “Is there anything else you can think of?”

“No.” She gazed at the nearest vase stuffed with enormous flowers. “Is this the sort of thing that might come to the courts?”

“Probably not,” Mortimer said delicately.

“I see.” The widow wiped her eyes again. “If you learn anything unpleasant, I don’t wish to know of it. My husband died in a tragic accident as far as I’m concerned.”

They took their leave of the grieving woman. When they returned to the museum, Sebastian went straight to Ves to tell him what they’d learned.

Ves stood at one of his numerous worktables, carefully sponging a stain from the edges of a book. When Sebastian entered, he looked up. “Mr. Tubbs sent word around shortly after you left,” he said. “Penelope is dead.”