Her Dark Curiosity (The Madman’s Daughter #2)(53)
Author: Megan Shepherd

“Is the professor still awake?” I asked, swallowing back a feeling of foreboding. “I’d like to talk to him.”

At the sound of his name, she sobbed harder and pulled me close. Over her shoulder, I saw the policemen shifting nervously, then noticed several more people inside the house.

All these men just because we were a little late?

“Oh, Juliet. The professor . . .”

My eyes fell on the broad side of the police carriage. It had bright white lettering painted over blackened wood, two words that seemed to sear themselves into my soul.

Police Morgue.

“The professor is dead,” came her strangled voice. “He’s been murdered.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

THE POLICE HAD NOT yet moved the body. Dimly, I was aware of them explaining about a “crime scene” and a “murder investigation.” Words that reduced the professor’s life to pages in a report. It wasn’t a crime scene; it was the professor’s tidy little study where the cat liked to nap in the worn depression of his chair. He wasn’t just another victim, as the police kept referring to him—he’d given me a life again. In time, he could have been the father I should have had.

As they explained the murder, Montgomery kept his arms tightly around me, as though he feared the news would make me slip away into nothing. Elizabeth shivered in the professor’s oversized coat, despite the warmth in the house.

“I want to see him,” I said.

“Oh, Juliet. I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Elizabeth said. “I wish I hadn’t seen. Coming home from supper at the ladies’ club and walking into that study to find . . .” She turned away before her voice broke.

“I have to,” I said.

Montgomery said nothing, just took my hand and exchanged a few words with the police, who followed us into the study. I recognized the shape of the professor’s head, sitting like he always did in that chair. He was as cold and silent as the rest of the room.

Beneath the chair dripped a pool of blood.

I stumbled forward, one shaky step at a time, until I could see him. His wire-rim spectacles were missing, his eyes still open. His murderer hadn’t touched his face, only left three deep slashes across his chest.

I turned away with a cry, collapsing into Montgomery’s arms.

I thought of how the professor had made me tea once when I’d been ill, and how he loved to tinker over that old clock with a plate of Mary’s gingerbread.

“Don’t look,” Montgomery said, pressing his hand against the back of my head. “It’s better if you don’t.” Even his voice, normally so calm in the face of any crisis, sounded hollow.

“He’s dead,” I said, coiling my fists in Montgomery’s rough shirt, anger sparking through the nerves of my muscles.

“I’m so sorry.”

“He’s dead, Montgomery! Heart clawed out, just like the rest . . .” I choked on the thought of the bodies in the morgue. I thought the Beast only killed those who had wronged me, but the professor did nothing but provide for me, believe in my chance for a future, treat me as a father should treat a daughter. Those thoughts turned to the Beast’s snarling lips as he’d held me down in my workshop, twisting Edward into a fiend before my very eyes.

I never should have forgotten what he really was.

“You know who did this,” I hissed.

Footsteps sounded in the doorway. I looked up to find Inspector Newcastle, dressed in finery as though he’d been called away from a state supper. His copper breastplate was gone now, as was the revolver at his hip, and it made him look younger somehow. He paused in the doorway, exchanging a few low words with Elizabeth before taking in the body with the calm eyes of an inspector who had seen this sort of thing countless times.

“Miss Moreau. How sorry I am for your loss, and in such a manner . . .” He swallowed, looking for once unprepared. I doubted he’d had much practice speaking to ladies on Highbury Street about murder.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, stepping forward and extending his hand to Montgomery.

Montgomery introduced himself and added, “I’m Juliet’s fiancé from Portsmouth. I’ve been staying here a few days.”

Elizabeth cleared her throat and excused herself, though as she left the room she gave Montgomery a careful glance, her eyes settling on the bulge at his side where his revolver was holstered. She was a shrewd woman. Before the night was out, she’d want an explanation for why my supposed fiancé was carrying a pistol.

“I’ll have to examine the body before we move it,” Inspector Newcastle said. “Terribly sorry. It would be best if you weren’t here for that, Miss Moreau.” He raised his hand as though he might give my shoulder a reassuring pat, but Montgomery cleared his throat, and the inspector let his hand fall. “Perhaps you might stay, Mr. James, for a few questions.”

Montgomery turned to me, a question in his eye. I nodded.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” I said, and started to leave.

“You’ll have to be questioned as well, I’m afraid, Miss Moreau,” Newcastle said. “They’ve already taken Elizabeth’s statement.” But he must have seen the look on my face, because he quickly added, “I’ll get what I need now from Mr. James, and you and I can speak later, at a more appropriate time.”

I didn’t answer, just slunk into the hallway. I heard the cuckoo clock squawk on the hall landing, then squawk twice more in quick succession, and looked up to find Elizabeth standing before the clock, winding it again and again to make the little wooden bird pop out so she could pet it as the professor used to do. It made my heart clench to see her so lonely, so lost, capturing this echo of his habits.

My dress shoes echoed too loud in the quiet room, so I kicked them off and walked in my torn stockings to the kitchen. I’d always felt comfortable there, among the roaring fire and Mary’s herb box in the windowsill. But I stopped in the doorway. The two chairs at the kitchen table were already taken.

Balthazar sat in one. I’d been so distraught over the professor’s death that I’d scarcely given him a thought since we came home. He kneaded his big hands together, mumbling soft reassurances.

In the other chair sat Sharkey. He must have slipped inside during the commotion. I realized that Balthazar wasn’t just mumbling to himself; he was assuring the little dog that everything would be all right.

“Balthazar,” I said, though my voice cracked.