Chapter Four

For a few hours after Danik's departure I fidgeted, fretted, and thought. As I predicted, I came up with new questions a few minutes after his departure: whether I neglected to ask them out of simple forgetfulness or fear I still do not know. Why, exactly, did Andra choose me in the first place? How will Danik use what he has learned here to prove Andra correct? Did she intervene in my life in some way that I'm not aware of, the way Danik did with Simon? If he did, it would explain a lot of things….

After berating myself for my absent-mindedness (or cowardice), I realized that I could simply ask Danik the next time I met him. At the moment I had a far more pressing matter to deal with: my imminent departure. Danik may have said that I could join him at my convenience, but I doubt his patience with me will go that far. With that in mind, I constructed, considered and discarded countless possible excuses I could give to Simon for leaving on short notice. In desperation I considered simply stealing away and leaving behind a letter of apology for my departure and my inability to explain my reasons for it; vanishing without a trace; telling him the truth. But if I departed without warning, whether I left a letter or no, I would be betraying Simon's trust in me. I cannot do that.

I don't think telling him the truth would be a good idea. If Simon knew about the wager, he would think very ill of me indeed. Not to mention that Danik probably didn't consider the truth to be in the category of "whatever I think is best" to tell my partner.

Most of the excuses I thought of were no better than nothing at all. Those that seemed inoffensive and vaguely plausible would not stand up to close inspection by the average person, let alone a cursory inspection by Simon. Just about every scenario I could think of ended with him realizing that I lied to him, and hating me for it.

You have the potential to be so much more than you are. From the outset I knew that I would have to leave in the end, whether I succeeded or failed in my task. Danik never said in so many words that realizing my potential would mean departing from my life as I know it, but I am almost certain that I will not be able to continue as I am. I must sacrifice one way of life for another, and I am not at all prepared. Heaven help me.

At midnight Simon was still in the think tank. I gave up waiting for him, and went to bed. Of course I have not slept much, and when I did sleep I had nightmares which, thankfully, I am unable to recall. Morning has not brought me any enlightenment – only aching muscles and a dull pain in the head. Though my own worries are no small thing, I elect to shelve them for the time being: I have work to do today, and I have gotten off to a bad start by oversleeping.

The face I see in the vanity glass after I have washed, dressed and put on makeup is only marginally less haggard and worn than it was before. I cannot help but be afraid that Simon will know everything the instant he sees me in this state. It's an irrational fear, I know – even taking Simon's preternatural deductive skills into consideration – but as my partner himself once said, excessive paranoia is often the curse of those who have something to hide.

I make my way down to the kitchen for breakfast. As I approach the slightly open door I am met by the aromas of toast and tea, and the crisp rustling sound of a newspaper page being turned. Usually I wake up at dawn or not long afterward, and Simon, who rarely goes to bed until well after midnight, is not to be seen until at least nine or ten o'clock in the morning. If he is up and about by now then he probably didn't sleep at all. This is by no means the first time he has stayed awake through the night, or even the hundredth: I have come to accept it, and only really worry when he goes without sleep for two or three nights in a row.

Simon lowers his newspaper and glances up at me when I enter the kitchen. After taking note of the rather frightful state I am in, he leans backward in his chair and looks at me with a hint of a smirk on his face. "I would wish you good morning, but I think you would beg to differ with me."

I have not been in his presence for five seconds and already I am severely irritated with him. "Shut up," I creak as I stumble to the chair across from his, jerk it roughly out from under the table and collapse on it. The sudden movement briefly intensifies my headache and makes my vision swim. I wince and cover my face with my hands.

"Come now, Emma," he says with exaggerated cheerfulness, "I expect you to come up with a more creative retort than that."

I drag my fingertips down from my temples to my cheeks and glare balefully at him. "I do not have the energy to be creative at the moment," I answer in a leaden voice, "but I do have sufficient energy and ill temper to do something violent if you continue to mock me. So don't," I growl.

Simon parodies a thoughtful expression. "Hmm. I suppose that's good enough, for now." He goes back to his paper.

I sigh. Since I really don't have the energy to continue bantering with him, I take the napkin from beside my plate and put it on my lap, pour myself a cup of tea and get a piece of toast from the large plate on the centre of the table. Though I am not actually that hungry, I don't want Simon to know that something is amiss with me, nor do I want to suffer from a lack of food as well as sleep.

A few bites of buttered toast and a cup of tea serve to clear my head somewhat and put me in a more civil mood. I address Simon in a perfectly neutral tone, as if our exchange a minute ago never took place. "Is there anything about the robbery at the cathedral?"

Simon lowers the paper again. "No. The Church has managed to keep it out of the papers, at least for the time being."

I nod. "You obviously developed some insight into the case last night, or you would not be in such a good mood now."

"I did not discover the solution," he confesses as he closes and folds the newspaper, "but I have a theory – and some ideas about where to go next."

"Hmm." I take a sip of tea. "Care to share them with me?"

"The theory I shall keep to myself until I have more evidence to support it," he says, placing the paper on a corner of the table.

I know from previous experience that pressing him to disclose his theory will only lead to trouble – he is religious in his reticence – so I move on to a safer question. "What plans have you made, then?" I ask conversationally as I pour myself some more tea. Will they include me, or will you be disappearing to carry them out on your own?

"First, we shall have a talk with Adeline."

That wakes me up a bit more. "Simon, the last time you spoke to Adeline I had to distract her mother while you climbed through the window. I don't think that trick will work again." I wonder if Mrs. DeWinter ever figured out who I really was – if she did, I never heard tell of it.

Simon gives me that vaguely smug look I know so well. "The last time I spoke to Adeline we were fugitives, and it was winter. Neither of those circumstances apply now."

"Which means…?" I take a small bite of my toast.

"Adeline's governess takes her to the park every afternoon," he says. I'm not going to ask how he knows that. "We will be able to see her then."

I swallow my mouthful of toast. "All right. Since you said we would consult Adeline first; I assume that she is not the only person you have in mind?"

Simon folds his arms and does his geste de pense. "There is one other. That will be somewhat more difficult: the man I wish to consult is Fenton Crombie."

CROMBIE!? I burn my mouth by swallowing too much hot tea, sputter, choke and nearly drop the cup and saucer. After putting them down on the table I grab the napkin from my lap and start coughing violently into it. I almost make myself sick, but the tickling in my throat won't allow me to stop.

I did not notice Simon getting up from his chair, but I feel it when he taps me on the shoulder. Through watery eyes I see that he is offering his own half-full teacup, the contents of which have cooled enough to stop steaming.

Taking the hint, I remove one hand from the napkin crammed to my face and take the offered cup. I remove the napkin and manage to suppress my coughing fit just long enough to swallow some of the tea. The irritation in my throat eases considerably, and after a few more feeble coughs I am free to catch my breath. I lower the napkin to my lap once more and return the teacup to Simon.

Only then does it occur to me to be surprised by what he has just done.

"Th…thank you," I say hoarsely as Simon returns to his seat across the table.

"Be more careful how you swallow," he replies sternly, picking up the teapot and refilling his cup. "Next time you may not have sufficient presence of mind to keep from dropping the teacup."

"Well, please excuse me for putting your chinaware at risk." My effort to deliver these words in the form of an intimidating hiss is foiled by the weakness of my still-recovering vocal chords, so it comes out as a pitiful, raspy whisper. "That's what comes of springing nasty surprises on me while I'm drinking tea." I dab around my mouth with the napkin and smooth it across my knees.

"I shall endeavour to keep that in mind. Now, let us return to our original subject."

Still discomfited from the events of the past two minutes, I am for a moment unable to remember what we were talking about before. But the lapse is, fortunately, quite brief. "Right. Fenton Crombie. Is he related to…"

"Yes."

"And is his opinion of you the same as…"

"It is. I've checked."

I frown at Simon. "And this is the man we must consult?"

"Fenton Crombie knows more about gargoyles than anyone else in Partington, perhaps the world – so yes, we must consult him."

For a few moments I simply look at Simon with an expression of mixed confusion and irritation. He returns my look with a neutral one of his own, interlaces his fingers and puts his hands on the table, sending the clear message that if I want any more information, I shall have to ask him.

"And how," I say dryly, "do you propose to consult a man who won't so much as give you the time of day?"

A brief shrug from Simon. "I am still working on a strategy for that."

"Oh. Wonderful."

As the last syllable passes my lips the phone in the outside hall begins to ring. I sigh, put the napkin on the table, and stand up from my chair. "I'll answer it," I say desultorily as I walk out of the kitchen.

This is shaping up to be a very bad day.

Between my misadventures at the breakfast table and the unbearable heat outside I cannot help but entertain the notion that I have entered some outer circle of Hell without being aware of it.

The phone call came from Commissioner Theopolous Thornton, asking us to come investigate a robbery. Two robberies, actually, in different parts of the city. Both incidents in private residences, though in different parts of the city – the first at the mansion of the Verinders on the edge of the city, and the second at a townhouse belonging to Mr. Eismore, one of Partington's most prominent lawyers. Eismore's house is closest to the Residence, so we visited him first.

Investigation of the house and inquiry of the Eismores confirmed that Mrs. Eismore's jewellery and some other small items had been taken the night before, when the Eismores were out of town and all the servants were asleep. The safe in Mr. Eismore's office, which contained a significant amount of money in cash and banknotes, had not been touched. The small wooden cupboard in Mrs. Eismore's bedroom, which had contained her jewellery, had been smashed open and looted. I was the one who saw it first, and noticed the small claw marks in the wood. The window had been broken, but not smashed to pieces – only a single pane near the latch had been shattered, so that the latch could be opened from the outside.

Simon did not tell the Eismores that gargoyles were the culprits: they would not have believed him, I think. Instead he told them that he would have to look into it further, and that he might find out more after investigating the robbery at the Verinders', which he believed was related to this one. Mister Eismore was good enough to be patient and respectful – something we have rarely seen these past few months – and wished us the best of luck when he exchanged cards with Simon.

Upon leaving the Eismores' we find a police cab waiting for us, compliments of Commissioner Thornton. As we settle ourselves in the cab and start off for the Verinders' mansion a few miles away, I look at Simon gravely and remark – very quietly, so the constable driving the cab will not overhear – "They're getting better at it."

Simon has his elbow on the back of the seat, his chin in his hand and a pensive expression on his face, which is directed not at me but out at the passing scenery. "Or rather, the one controlling them is getting better at it," he replies, in similar low tones, "unless the wreck made of the Museum Obscura was done deliberately, in order to create confusion."

"Yes, he certainly managed that very well," I agree. "But he is ruining the effect by committing more robberies." Simon turns his head to face me, looking mildly interested. "Judging by what he has stolen thus far – the Museum's artefacts and the jewellery – I would say that he is either getting carried away by avarice, or the power at his disposal has made him arrogant enough to believe that he will never be caught. The artefacts he took from the Museum Obscura alone are probably worth a staggering sum of money. Professional thieves, or at least prudent ones, tend to lay low after taking such spoils. But he robbed the Eismores and presumably the Verinders as well."

Simon's continued attention indicates to me that I am on the right track, or at least the same track he is following. "Every fresh incident increases his risk of being caught. Even if he knew that the Epiphanic Church would keep it quiet, he should have known that someone would eventually…"

"You keep saying 'he,'" Simon interrupts, sounding more as if he's talking to himself than to me. "I thought you suspected Miranda Cross."

Oh, hell. Emma, that was positively idiotic of you.

I want to say that I know it's not Miranda Cross, but I can't do that without letting Simon know about my conversation with Danik yesterday evening. Fortunately both training and experience have made me quite good at improvisation. "You said yesterday that Miranda Cross was a likely suspect, but that we should not jump to conclusions. I jumped to conclusions, and I am trying to force myself away from them." Even as I say it I feel just slightly nauseated with guilt. There is no reason now to conceal the truth from Simon, except to preserve his good estimation of my merit.

Is that worth deceiving him for? He may never know I lied to him – but I always will.

For a moment Simon does not reply – he just looks at me with an unreadable expression. I cannot discern whether or not he was taken in by my falsehood. "I can aid you in that endeavour," he says at last, "by assuring you that Miranda Cross was probably not responsible."

Whew. If Simon did not press me, it almost certainly means that he believes the explanation I gave him – almost certainly. Simon continues with his explanation. "The Baroness would not use her power in such a crude fashion. She'd think it beneath her, and she wouldn't want to catch my attention. No, this is not her doing. So please stop fretting about it."

"Easier said than done," I mutter as I turn away and look out of the carriage on my side. I wish I were still fretting about Miranda Cross. It was better than what I'm worrying about now.

I assure myself that I was not wrong in deceiving Simon just now. This is not the time or place for saying such things – not where the cabdriver or any passers-by may hear. But a mercilessly honest voice in the back of my head tells me that I would have lied to Simon even if there had been no risk of anyone overhearing, and I shouldn't pretend otherwise.

For the rest of the trip I am sunk too deep in my thoughts to notice the heat, the noise, the thronging people in the streets or the gargoyles flitting from rooftop to rooftop above.

I return to the world of the living as our cab arrives at the wrought-iron gate of the Verinder manor. The policeman guarding the gate welcomes us and pulls it open so that we can pass through. From there we drive down a neat, wide dirt avenue lined on both sides by tall elm trees. This part of the grounds is a small meadow, with a lake off to the left – the elegant house itself, which is a good distance down the road from the gate, is located on the border between the meadow and the estate's small woodland. There is a great windmill tower attached to the west side of the mansion – probably to supply power for their water-pumps and electric lights – but because of the weather there is nothing more than a feeble breeze now and then, so the arms of the windmill do not move.

I count half a dozen policemen outside the house when our cab draws to a stop just outside a courtyard. We disembark and pass through the open gate. In the courtyard there are rows of flowerbeds with stone benches beside them. The flowers are mostly dead and shrivelled from the oppressive heat. The plain stone fountain in the courtyard's centre is dry. I look around for broken windows, but all the ones facing onto the courtyard seem to be intact. If this was another gargoyle robbery – which I am sure it was – then they must have gotten in through a window in another part of the house.

One of the courtyard doors opens, and much to my surprise, Commissioner Thornton emerges from it. Well, the Verinders are certainly prominent enough to merit his personal attention – their coal mines up north make them one of the five richest families in the city. With the money from the mines, the now-deceased Harrison Verinder had more than enough to purchase this substantial estate, modernize the great house and get himself a title.

Theopolous strides across the flagstones to meet us. "Simon! Emma! Glad to see you've arrived at last!" He reaches us as he finishes his greeting, and shakes hands with Simon. I offer him my hand, which he kisses quickly but politely. "Early this morning Lady Verinder and her daughters were robbed of their jewellery by – understand that we don't want to advertise this, though there's little hope of keeping it quiet – by…"

"Gargoyles?" Simon finishes dryly.

The Commissioner blinks in surprise. "You have construed it already?" As always, I have to hold back a wince at Theopolous's attempt to make himself seem an intellectual by dropping bits of sophisticated vocabulary in awkward places. He's not stupid, but when he tries too hard he sounds that way. "Archard, you'll never cease to amaze me."

Simon, of course, does not even pretend to appreciate the compliment – in fact, he doesn't even acknowledge it. "I did not deduce it from what I have seen here. The Eismores were also robbed by gargoyles last night. I was just at the scene."

"Ah." Theopolous nods. "Well, as you see, it's quite an anomalous situation. The whole house is in an uproar because – excuse me…" Here Theopolous pulls a handkerchief from his coat pocket to mop his brow. "Perhaps we should talk inside. It's a veritable inferno out here," he says.

That brings the heat to my attention as well. "It's quite all right, Theopolous. Let us go inside," I say as he folds up his handkerchief and replaces it in his pocket. Theopolous then directs us through the door he came out of, into the parquet-floored (and, thank God, cool) front hall. From there he takes us to a lavishly furnished inner parlour. On the way we pass some of the household staff, who regard us with no small amount of interest, as the monks in the Epiphanic Cathedral did yesterday.

There is here a low table with a sofa on either side. Simon and I sit on one, while Theopolous sits on the one opposite us. "There, much better," he says. "Now, down to business. At about three o'clock this morning, Lady Verinder and her daughters were rudely awakened by the sound of their windows being smashed. I interviewed the lady and the two girls, and found that all their cases were more or less the same: a flock of screeching gargoyles flew in through the windows and swarmed about the room. Fortunately they all succeeded in exiting their rooms before they incurred more than a few minor lacerations."

"The gargoyles didn't pursue them?" I ask.

Theopolous shakes his head. "No. The gargoyles stayed more or less in the ladies' rooms. They stayed just long enough to make a thorough mess of everything, and then defenestrated themselves as suddenly as they had come in. A few servants looking out the windows saw them fly off, but they didn't all go in the same direction."

I can see the look of disappointment on Simon's face – we would get no clue from the direction of the gargoyles' flight.

"After my men picked through what remained of their rooms," Theopolous continues, "we confirmed that all their jewellery had been taken."

"Was anything else stolen?" I ask.

"Only the jewels," Theopolous answers.

"Much the same thing took place at the Eismores'," Simon remarks, "save that they were not in the house when it was robbed."

"Theopolous," I say, "Simon and I should speak with Lady Verinder and her daughters, to see if we can get any further details that – no offence meant – you may have missed."

At this Theopolous looks somewhat embarrassed. "I'm not offended, but…I am not sure it would be a good idea for you to speak with them directly."

Simon raises an eyebrow at him. "Why not?"

"Err…you see, I trust you, and I brought you here to help with the investigation, but the Verinders themselves may not be so amenable to your presence. They engaged the services of…"

"…Iain Crombie?" Simon finishes. One who does not know him as well as I do would not catch the ice in his voice or the slight disdain betrayed by his countenance.

Theopolous actually colours and clears his throat. "Affirmative." I resist the urge to sigh in frustration. Theopolous was one of those who stayed loyal to Simon after Holey Thursday; Lord Verinder, apparently, is one of those who did not.

Simon and I exchange serious glances for a moment. I turn back to Theopolous. "But they cannot object to letting us look at the crime scene?" I'm actually not sure about whether they can keep us out or not. This particular situation has never come up before.

"Not lawfully, no," Simon says as he gets to his feet. "Not if we are here at the Commissioner's behest."

"Quite right," Theopolous agrees as he gets up from his seat and adjusts his coat. I too stand up. "I shall take you to Lady Verinder's room first. I do hope you can make something more of this than we can – it is a most abstruse case." He leads us back out into the hall.

And there we get a rather nasty shock.

I had not actually heard Theopolous say that Iain Crombie had left the house, but I had assumed that the man was already gone. And yet here he is, with his assistant Charity Wyndham in tow, standing in the hallway and looking daggers at my partner.

This is going to be ugly, I know it. I just pray that it won't be too ugly.