Page 36 of Betrayal from Beyond
Wooten stooped to examine it. “You’re sure it belonged to Tom Hawkins?”
Preston nodded. “Clémence gave it to him. He wore it always.”
“Would you object to one of the constables doing a quick sketch of it?” the inspector asked.
Preston agreed, but he kept his gaze locked on the pendant as the constable examined it and began to sketch a likeness. “It’s St. Simeon Solas, the patron saint of holy fools,” he told Kara and Niall quietly. “Tom is such a buffoon. He never stopped trying to make us laugh. He would grease the headmaster’s chair, hoping to make him slide off, but he only ever kept ruining the man’s coats. Once Tom filled all Hanlin’s desk drawers with apples, each with a single bite taken out of it. One spring day, he found a dead pigeon in the garden, strapped it to his shoulder, fashioned an eye patch, and spent the day stamping around, insisting he was a pirate.” He snorted. “Clémence gave him the pendant and told him he was going to have to convert and become a holy fool. Dedicate his absurdity to God.”
“It sounds as if you did grow up as siblings,” Kara said.
“A strange set, but as close to siblings as you can get without blood.” Preston frowned. “It’s just…something is odd here. Where is Tom? Gone for days, and without telling Mouse? And without his St. Simeon?”
“And where is Petra?” asked Niall.
“Exactly.” Preston glanced around again. “Clearly, she has been here.” Straightening, the engineer breathed deeply. “Listen, I will cast about and see if I can find anything about Tom. You continue your search for Petra. You know where to find me. We’ll agree to contact each other if we find anything. Yes?”
Kara looked to Niall, who gave the other man a frank look. “We would certainly agree, if we had a notion of where else we might look for her. Have you a suggestion?”
“Have you sought out William?”
“William Barnstable has not been seen since he found a way to release Petra from the custody of the Crown,” Kara told him.
“Unless you know where he is?” asked Niall.
“No. We were never close. The last time I saw him was when Tom tricked me into attending one of the recruitment meetings for their League of Dissolution.”
Kara raised a brow. “We thought neither of you had any involvement with the League?”
“I certainly did not. Little better than thugs, the lot of them. I am much more interested in building things, rather than tearing them down. But Tom? He flirted with it occasionally. Usually when he was low on funds and the others had some dirty work needing done.” He sighed. “If I don’t find word of him amongst his gambling cronies, I’ll try to track down some of the League men he knew.”
The constable, finished sketching the medal, gave it back to Preston, who looked at it a long moment before tucking it away. “I hope to heaven that Tom is merely hiding away somewhere.”
“Mr. Preston?” Wooten, his notebook at the ready, beckoned the man. “If I may ask you a few questions about Tom Hawkins? And Your Grace? I know you are a duke now and due all courtesy and whatnot.” The inspector grinned. “But would you help Berne turn over that bed? Just so we know what’s beneath it?”
Chuckling, Niall went, but Kara was in no laughing mood. She went back out into the passage to see if Mouse was still lingering, but there was no sign of him. As her eyes adjusted, she noted a paned window at the end of the passage, letting in a bit of weak moonlight. She’d just started toward it when she heard a board creak.
She spun around, but there was no one there.
“My apologies, to be sure. It was just me, indulging my curiosity.”
She looked up. A thin, untidy man peered down at her over the railing above.
“I say, is he quite all right? Mr. Hawkins?”
“He’s not at home. Do you know him well?”
The man grimaced. “Just as neighbors. Passing on the stairs and all of that.” He drifted toward the stairs, and she followed, in similar fashion, on her own level.
“Are thosepolice constablesin there?” he asked.
“Indeed, they are. Won’t you come down? They might want to question you.”
The man’s hands fluttered, but he shot her a grin and headed down. “Good evening to you. I am Sculley. Mr. Douglas Sculley. I live in the north corner rooms at the top of the house.”
Kara curtsied. “Kara Kier.” She left off her title. She noted the stains on his fingers and cuffs and the distinctive smell of linseed oil. “Are you a painter, Mr. Sculley?”
“I am!” He sounded delighted. “Have you heard of me?”
“I am sorry. I haven’t—yet. But I am a great art enthusiast. I should love to see your work.”
