Page 36 of Unbroken
Dear Alex,
Excellent news! The ward held through Walpurgisnacht without so much as a whisper from the Book of Blood. I believe our thesis has been proven, as it were, though of course send word if you feel anything through the bond you now have with it.
Of course, I understand why you couldn’t be here with us, but the timing was very unfortunate. Although I suppose the timing was the point, as you had rituals of your own to conduct. Your presence was sorely missed.
In other news, Phoebe has fallen violently in love with a salesman from New York, here to peddle paint, of all things. I fear this romance is doomed to be a short one, but of course she will hear nothing of it, from either myself or her brother. And perhaps I am wrong! I certainly never imagined I would find love at my age, so how can I claim to know her fate?
I anxiously await your return, as always. Travel in all safety, my dear.
Yours,
Nathaniel
“Anything new?” Mortimer asked from the doorway to Sebastian’s office. He carried a newspaper tucked under one arm.
Sebastian sat back, then took off his glasses to clean them. Without the profusion of architectural drawings and Irene’s presence, the office felt more spacious than it had since he’d first taken it over. “No. Just the mention of a man I presume was my grandfather.” At Mortimer’s confused look, he clarified. “Traveling salesman. My mother never met him.”
“How scandalous,” Mortimer said, not sounding particularly scandalized. “Vesper told me about your adventures last night. Have you seen the morning paper?”
Sebastian put aside the cup of coffee he’d refilled twice in the last hour. It didn’t seem to be doing much to help with his exhaustion, but at least the warmth was a comfort. “No. It was quite late when we got to bed, and we ended up sleeping late and rushing to the trolley.”
Mortimer offered the newspaper to him. “Take a look.”
The death had garnered a front-page placement and a screaming headline:
TRAGIC DEATH MARS CELEBRATIONS
Financier Daniel Rulkowski dies after fireworks accident.
No others injured.
At approximately nine-thirty last night, Mr. Daniel Rulkowski suffered a terrible accident at the bonfire constructed on the sea cliffs to the north of Cranch Bay. According to onlookers, Mr. Rulkowski thought to liven up the proceedings by setting off fireworks he brought with him. The fireworks went off prematurely, and in his panic Mr. Rulkowski leapt from the cliff into the sea, where he perished. Alcohol is thought to be a factor in the incident.
Mr. Rulkowski was born in Syracuse, NY. After early hardships, he relocated to our fair city, where he quickly rose through the ranks at the Third Bank of Widdershins. He was also a long-term member of the Widdershins Horticultural Society known for his interest in cultivating orchids, and in March was awarded a Gold Medal in the Midwinter Flower Show held in Boston.
“Damn his stubbornness.” Sebastian handed the newspaper back to Mortimer. “If he’d just spoken to you freely. Or if I could have confronted him myself and compelled him to tell the truth…”
“Rulkowski’s assistant Tom Berry might know something. He seemed…close…to his employer.”
“Sleeping with the help? Talk about scandalous.” Sebastian settled back in his chair, considering. “We’ll try the other members of the WHS first. Hopefully Rulkowski’s death will shake them enough to talk. I assume you never received a reply to the letter you sent Mr. Fuller?”
“Oh, you mean the reply where he outlined everything the WHS has done, who the killer is, and how to find the Book?” Mortimer said. “It completely slipped my mind.”
“Very funny. Is there any other way to reach him?”
Mortimer considered for a long moment. “He can’t hide inside his mansion all the time—he must have business interests and the like. I’ll ask around. We’ll find somewhere to ambush him.”
“Excellent idea.” Hopefully they could do it somewhere private, so he could compel Fuller to tell them the truth.
“Mr. Tubbs might know, or his brother, so we should consider asking him as well.”
“Less excellent idea,” Sebastian muttered.
There came a light knock on the half-open door. One of the fresh-faced junior librarians stood there; surely Sebastian hadn’t looked half so young when he came to work at the Ladysmith, had he? “Letter for Mr. Waite,” the boy said, thrusting out an envelope.
“Thank you.” Mortimer accepted the letter, and the junior librarian hurried off to his next task. “Oh! It’s from Mrs. Norris.”
“Rulkowski’s death must have frightened her.” Sebastian leaned forward eagerly. “What does she have to say?”
