swelling across his brother’s face had blossomed into a kaleidoscope of color. Sometimes he jerked a finger or a foot, but he’d still not opened his eyes. The doctor told him, with each day that passed, he was less likely to awake, but Damen refused to give up. Somehow he had to reach him and pull him back from the abyss.
“Your mistress said you were looking for Strathford’s plans before you were attacked. Now Lady Strathford needs to find them and prove she didn’t kill her husband. But she has refused my help. She fears the gossips will call us lovers. Imagine that.” He gave a half-hearted laugh. “I know you could have easily talked her round.”
Damen leaned forward, placed his elbows on his knees, and rested his chin in one palm. Now more than ever, he believed finding the plans would lead to his brother’s attackers and probably Lord Strathford’s killer. How could he persuade Lady Strathford to work with him and let him search her mansion? He leaned back, barely seeing the intricate plasterwork marching across the ceiling. “What did you find, Cory, that made someone want to kill you?”
His brother’s slow, almost imperceptible breathing was the only answer.
Damen stood, walked around the end of the bed, and barked his shin on Cory’s sea chest. “Blast! What’s that doing here?” As he rubbed his leg, he noticed the trunk’s open latch and lifted the lid. Inside lay Cory’s navigating equipment, a bundle of letters, several books, two old newspapers written in a foreign language… and a worn, leather-bound journal.
He opened it and read the first entries dated five years before, right after Damen had seen Cory off in Liverpool. His brother’s pencil scrawl recorded the weather, the ship’s speed, other incidentals, and a few surprisingly good likenesses of porpoises.
He thumbed through more dry discourse, and turned the journal on its side to admire landscapes Cory had drawn of ports he’d visited, notes about the geography, maps and charts and a few portraits of the inhabitants. He flipped to the back pages. There he found the date, two weeks before, where Cory had recorded his arrival in London. An entry three days later said:
Grancliffe party. Saw Dante’s acolyte!!
“Two exclamation points,” Damen mumbled.
He turned to the last entry, the day Cory had been attacked. He read the words aloud. “‘Half ten. Meet Dante’s acolyte. Strathford coda.’ What does that mean?” He read it several more times.
Dante. Who was Dante?
Could it refer to Dante’s Inferno? Or the devil? Perhaps hell or fire? What about acolyte – a follower or assistant? And what did ‘coda’ mean? Maybe a dance, or a concluding event of some sort? If he interpreted the words correctly, it appeared his brother knew the ‘acolyte’ of the ‘inferno’ that was ‘Strathford’s end.’
He searched more of the journal for clues to the mystery. On a page dated three years earlier he found another entry:
Bird will sing.
At two years earlier, an entry said:
Strathford coda.
He could only guess at what these pencil scratches meant while his mind spun with darker questions. Damen reached up and rubbed the taut muscle in his neck. Cory was supposed to have been on a merchant ship during that time. Yet his journal made it appear he’d slipped back into England without contacting him or their father.
A cold chill skittered across his shoulders. It appeared his brother was somehow connected to Strathford. And most disturbing of all, it made him wonder if Cory might have been involved with the laboratory explosion and fire that killed the inventor?
A vague recollection surfaced of Sarah saying his brother ignored her at the Grancliffe party. His attention had been pinned to the doorway. That didn’t sound like Cory. Beautiful women always took precedence. This acolyte must have been very important indeed. No doubt a dangerous character as well.
He raked his fingers through his hair. How could he find out who’d been present at the party?
***
Sarah rubbed her temple. “Difficulties, problems and annoyances. That’s all I seem to have these days.” As her carriage rumbled down the street, she jotted down another item on her list of things needing attention. She’d risen early this morning to consult with Mrs Billings before her mission school began for the day. Lately, they’d made a few changes, and she was anxious to know if they’d brought more children into the school.
The carriage finally pulled to a stop. Her driver opened the door and let down the stairs. “Mind your step, my lady.”
She alighted onto the murky sidewalk and glanced about. Her mission sat in St Giles, one of the poorest parts of London, close to those most in need. Wagons and working-class pedestrians bustled along the grimy street. Shops lined the first level of the soot-coated buildings. Small factories, boarding houses and tenements packed the dilapidated neighborhood as well.
Sarah climbed the steps and entered the mission’s front door. The Spartan front entry doubled as a greeting room and Mrs Billings’ office. Her second-hand desk and side chairs showed wear, but all seemed neat and tidy.
Her mission manager bustled out of a classroom. “Oh, good morning, my lady!”
“Good morning, Billings. Might I have a word?”
Sarah followed her into the classroom and shut the door. “Are you happy with the new teacher and cook?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mrs Billings smiled. “The new teacher is enthusiastic, yet still maintains discipline and the children seem to like her. The new cook is quite proficient as well. She manages to make a balanced and very tasty free dinner for the children.”
“But have we seen any increase in enrollment?”
The mission manager bit her lip. “This may seem somewhat roundabout, but that nice young couple you gave arithmetic lessons to stopped by with a few of their friends. There appears to be great interest in learning how to calculate the cost of their loans. The adults are seeking knowledge. Perhaps if parents see the value of education, they will send their children.”
“Excellent idea, Billings!”
“Thank you, my lady.”
“The adults need education even more desperately than their children. They have to use it every day. Perhaps we can give lessons in the evenings after their work.”
Mrs Billings gave her a worried expression. “Classes at night might not be safe. The tailor down the block was attacked last night in his shop. The gang that’s been terrorizing the neighborhood demanded protection money or they’d do it again.”
“Surely they wouldn’t attack a mission. This is a charity,” Sarah said in disbelief. “We help people.”
“These are despicable villains, my lady. I doubt they have any scruples whatsoever. I told our workers to keep a sharp eye out for anyone who looks suspicious.”
***
The sun had reached its zenith by the time Damen arrived at the dim alley where the coachman said Cory and his footman were found. Today he’d dressed in the shabby shirt, trousers and boots he used to blend into the seedier parts of Liverpool and its dockyards.
He started at one end of the pathway and paced to the other. Both opened out to larger streets. Little more than a dirt-lined drainage gap between buildings, the track hardly seemed wide enough for three men abreast, much less seven knocking each other about.
Damen stretched out his arms, easily touching the long clapboard building to one side and the high brick wall on the other. Apart from children’s laughter and the sounds of a play yard nearby, nothing seemed particularly untoward or out of the ordinary. He dug into his workman’s smock for his pencil and small notebook to make notes.
“Mr Ravenhill? My goodness, I barely recognized you.”
His