CANCER

15

THE DUVAL HOME was a squat house with the dignity of a matriarch who buried two husbands and nearly all her children yet still went on with life. This street was solidly middle class, and took pride in it, from the clean sidewalks to the shiny lampposts.

Black didn’t drape the door, but mourners had already come to visit. As the wagon drew to a stop, the front door opened. A woman clung to a man’s hand, her face buried in her handkerchief. But when she lowered it, her face was dry, and she sniffed as she adjusted her clothes. Both overlooked the three of them even as they walked past the wagon.

“Rude or suspicious?” Hetty asked Benjy.

“Rude,” Benjy said as he got up from the driver’s seat, looping the horses’ reins together. “And looking for money they don’t need.”

“Dry eyes with hysterics.” Hetty nodded. “Pure theater. Probably not the only one.”

“I thought we are here about the body?” Oliver asked as he hopped off the wagon. He took care to brush invisible dust off his sleeve. “These people are hardly our concern.”

“Wrong,” Benjy said. “Everything in that house is worthy of our concern until we discover what we need to focus on.”

Oliver sighed. “Why did I think coming here would be interesting?”

Despite his grumblings, Oliver followed after them, taking on the role of a humble assistant.

When Benjy knocked on the front door, an older woman peered out. Her neat appearance and dress had marked her as the cook, but she clearly didn’t often greet guests. Her eyes swept over them with clear bafflement.

“Are you teachers at Mr. Valentine’s school? Miss Adelaide wasn’t expecting anyone from Olmstead until tomorrow.”

“We’re not teachers,” Hetty said. “We’re from the funeral home.”

The woman nodded. “No one told me a thing, but then, I don’t pay much attention other than what requests are for dinner. Come around to the back. I can’t let you in through here; you don’t want to talk to any of these people in here.”

They walked around the house, entering through a small gate in the back. Once inside the yard, they passed a small kitchen garden ripe with summer vegetables and greens. It would have attracted a great deal of scrutiny from Penelope, because it was overgrown in a few places. A well was in the corner, and a path made of bricks weaved its way around, leading to the back door.

The cook from the front door stood there, looking at them with more scrutiny than she had previously. “You’re not from Brown’s, are you?” the cook asked.

“No,” Hetty replied.

“Good. They were terrible with Mr. Raimond before. If you aren’t from Brown’s Funeral Parlor, who are you?”

“We’re from the Rhodes Family Funeral Parlor, and here to take care of Valentine Duval. A friend of the family invited us.”

“Which ones? It’s a full house.”

“Full house?” Hetty echoed.

Smugly, the cook pulled open the door. The sight nearly rocked Hetty back on her heels. She had expected a handful of visitors, but this was much more than that. People were everywhere, and at first glance it was hard to say who were relatives, who were friends, and who were merely curious.

Then she saw someone who didn’t neatly fit into any group: Eudora Mason, the medium from New Jersey.

Of the list of people Hetty expected to see, Eudora never crossed her mind. But it clearly was the medium. Her brightly colored shawl and turban stood out against the crowd of mourners, but her features were schooled into a suitably somber expression.

Standing next to her was Horace Duval. While he certainly belonged there, he looked upon the crowd with suppressed glee, rubbing his hands together in an eagerness most unbecoming. Although Hetty recognized him at once, he didn’t seem to notice her at all. Which was fine by Hetty.

“All these people in this house,” Oliver said. “Didn’t he die last night? How can they all be here already?”

“Because they weren’t here for Mr. Valentine,” the cook said rather helpfully. “There was supposed to be a séance to speak with Mr. Raimond’s ghost. Plans changed, of course. Not that I thought Miss Adelaide would let a séance occur in the first place. But the cousin pulled a sly one.”

“Is that so,” Benjy said. “Where is the deceased?”

“In the back room. Miss Adelaide said no one was to come in. Doesn’t want anyone to see her brother like this. Can’t blame her. Such a sad thing.”

It was.

With no visible marks of injury, Valentine Duval looked like he was merely sleeping. Stretched out on the cot, years weighing heavily on now careworn features. A sight so different from their vibrant conversation. Jay had come to them clearly believing that Valentine was murdered, but this sight had Hetty hesitating. People did drop dead, after all, and it wasn’t always foul play. Maybe Benjy was right about Jay’s intentions and reasoning?

Benjy and Oliver went straight to the body, but Hetty’s attention fixed on something else that nearly had her scrambling backwards out of the room.

“Benjy,” she murmured, “there’s a mirror in here.”

“What mirror?” Benjy turned around, looking for it, only to stop when he found the small disk against the wall. His reflection looked back, rather bewildered. “Is a mirror important?”

“It should never be uncovered around a dead body or it’ll collect the soul and hang on to it.” Hetty picked up the mirror and turned it around. Uncertain if she needed to do more, she patted it uneasily. “Don’t you remember Roger Cummings?”

Whatever protest might have been on her husband’s lips died at the mention of the name.

Even Benjy, adamant as he was about ghosts not being real, could not deny that among the many things that had gone wrong during the Cummings funeral, some went beyond understanding. A casket had popped open. Voices drifted in the room. It went bitterly cold without a clear reason. And the only explanation for it was a mirror left naked and facing the body.

“Although it might not be entirely bad if his spirit got trapped in the mirror,” Benjy said. “He could tell us who poisoned him.”

“Poisoned?”

“Why do you have to spoil everything,” Oliver growled. With a flick of Oliver’s wrist, Duval’s right hand lifted into the air. Oliver twisted his own hand and a sphere of light appeared in his palm. He passed it over the dead man’s hand, revealing shiny patches of green.

“What poison is that?” Hetty asked.

“Jaley.” Oliver grunted. “It’s not a particularly dangerous one on its own​—​it’s used to accentuate the potency of certain potions. But it is the easiest magical poison to get on short notice. Without looking too closely, I’d say it’s likely a larger dosage than usual did him in.”

“He died last night.” Hetty glanced around the room, neat and orderly to show to guests if they dared come in. “It could still be in the house. I wonder if I can find it.”

“Wouldn’t hurt to try,” Benjy said. “Check for something he might have touched. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to those gathered here. We need to eliminate suspects.”

Hetty nodded. She brushed her fingers along her choker.

The Swan star sigil expanded around her, cloaking her from sight.

“After you,” she said to Benjy.

Bemused, Benjy led the way out into the crowd. Striding forward, he walked right up to the nearest group of people. As he struck up conversation, Hetty drifted around the room, making her way to the door.

The spell may have hidden her from sight, but it didn’t mean it was easy to move through the group, especially when people clustered in tight knots.

Hetty found herself wishing she’d suggested that Benjy clear the way for her, but in the end she decided that drifting like a ghost allowed her to pick up traces of interesting conversations. Like the one between Horace Duval and the medium.

“I’m sorry about my cousin,” Horace said to Eudora Mason. “I thought she would be fine, given her frayed relationship with her brother. But I suppose a loss is a loss.”

“I have faced my fair share of difficulties,” Eudora assured him. “You can bring me to her later. In the meantime, tell me more about your other cousin. It’ll help me contact him from the great beyond.”

“And my uncle?”

“The recently dead is more receptive to the living. I know you cannot take me to his room, but perhaps a place where his spirit dwelled?”

“I think I might know such a spot,” Horace said.

They moved away, and Hetty was glad for it.

The only thing she would learn from them was just how good a liar the medium was. Because while it wasn’t obvious to Horace, Eudora Mason was clearly here to swindle him, and if he didn’t realize that now, Hetty wasn’t about to inform him otherwise.

Deciding that was enough gossip, Hetty worked her way around the room, heading for the doorway. It led into the hallway. A few folk lingered at the foot of the stairs. Careful to make as little noise as possible, Hetty squeezed her way through the gaps and headed upstairs. She wasn’t afraid of being caught as much as she didn’t want to attract attention.

No sounds reached her ears, and no voices, for that matter.

Just silence all around.

The second level had four bedrooms. The first had a suitcase open on a bed and men’s clothing piled on a chair. The other room had a battered and worn trunk, closed but not securely. That room smelled of flowery perfume with a touch of musk. Was this Adelaide Duval’s room? And did the other belong to her horrid cousin?

It seemed so.

The next door opened to a room shrouded in darkness. The curtains were tightly drawn, and old cigar smoke and aged whiskey clashed with a scent that reminded Hetty of the shaving cream Jay favored. Books crowded and overspilled from a nightstand by the bed, and a writing table was pushed in a far corner. But the thing that drew Hetty’s attention the most was the striped dressing gown hanging from a wardrobe’s door with slippers resting right below. It made an odd sight. One in which it seemed an invisible man stood, ready to ask why a stranger entered this room.

The more she looked around, the more it became clear. This room was Raimond Duval’s.

Raimond Duval did not die in this room, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t information to be had.

Hetty stepped inside, feeling as if she were crossing hallowed ground in a sense, disturbing a place she should not be in.

However, this was not the first time she’d entered a space where it wasn’t polite to be.

A poke inside the wardrobe showed Raimond had a simple and frugal taste, as the clothing there was sparse and was all geared to comfort. The table had a small lamp, and an inkwell with some pens nearby. An old copy of the Eventide Observer was on the table as well, folded over so the Miss Carole column could be seen. Hetty skimmed the words, and had only a vague memory of the letter in question. There were a few alchemistry books on his table, either for his classes or personal study. There were letters from old students, both in town and as far away as Toronto, plus an unfinished letter to Octavius Catto with advice for some matter that would never get resolved. And on the corner of the table was a scribbled note to Bernice about the ball.

After making sure everything was as she’d found it, Hetty left the room and went back into the hallway to check the last door.

This last room was the one Valentine stayed in.

It wasn’t an idle guess.

Not only was the process of elimination in her favor, but the door was covered in wards. Showy wards, in her opinion, made with boldly drawn magic.

Ursa Major and Orion pulsed as she drew near, the combined spells forcing her back with a firm but gentle push.

But like any obvious star sigil, they were easy to dismantle.

Hetty drew out her first spells to pull the wards away from the door, allowing the spells to remain intact when she put them back when she left.

With the collection of spells hovering in the hallway, Hetty slipped inside the room.

A large bed took up a corner of the room, with pillows stacked to the side. There was a book on the table next to the bed, a slim volume of The Wild Escapes of Peale Straits, a book Hetty knew was also on their shelves at home.

A small chalkboard slate lay there on the table as well, nestled against a tin of chalk. All the pieces were broken little stubs. Numbers were written on the chalkboard, although it didn’t appear to be an equation. They looked like they were written at random.

She ignored it at first, but her eyes kept returning to the chalk.

When Oliver had pointed out the poison, he’d lifted up Valentine’s hand, splotched with revealing magic.

Could the chalk have traces of poison on it?

It was worth finding out.

The tin went into her pocket, but the chalkboard she left behind. She studied the numbers until she knew she could replicate them later.

She rifled through the drawers, but there was little left that was as interesting as what she’d already found.

Except the folded-up note on the table.

On it, Valentine had written a short list of tasks, with the following at the top:

 

Check and secure the well to make sure no one can come through.