SCULPTOR

17

THERE ARE TWO STORIES Hetty told when people wondered how Darlene got the job as an artist’s assistant. The first involved chasing after a jewel thief, a gust of wind that knocked everything into the street including Darlene’s sketchbook, and Hetty jumping from a streetcar, tackling the would-be thief to the ground. The second involved Darlene sketching Hetty feeding birds on the banks of the Schuylkill, and Darlene’s sketchbook falling into the hands of her future employer and mentor.

The first tale was the truth, but no one believed Hetty. Then again, few believed Darlene had gotten the job in the first place.

The Academy of Fine Arts was currently on Chestnut Street, but plans were in the works for it to move to a new location. Construction on the new building on Cherry Street was under way, and already parts of the school were closed off. All of which made it easy for Hetty and Benjy to slip in, attracting little notice.

Hetty had visited once before with Darlene, and it had been a hurried affair, with both of them uncertain of where exactly to go. Hetty was still uncertain even now, but with Benjy watching, she pretended she wasn’t as she strode through. At the end of the hall, Hetty glanced between the door before her and the door on the far left before choosing the latter to knock on.

It opened at her touch, and she pushed further into the room. Everything was covered in fine white powder. And the places that weren’t held chunks of white stone.

Most were just shapeless lumps of rock, but some looked as if they were part of something larger. Fingers? A face? A claw?

“Well, would you look at that,” Benjy whistled. “It’s Winged Victory.”

He could only mean the marble statue of a woman with outstretched wings flowing from her back. It was breathtaking in both scale and detail, and the woman made of stone looked ready to launch herself into the air.

“That is lovely,” Hetty said.

“But not Darlene’s work,” Benjy said, moving between the other statues that were arranged. Not all were completely done as the first, but she could see the statues emerging from the stone, even half finished as they were. “This artist has recently arrived to town.” Benjy stopped in front of a deer emerging from a block of stone. “From Vienna, although a considerable time has been spent in Greece.”

“You don’t know which city,” Hetty teased. “Why, dear husband, you’re losing your touch!”

Hetty lost sight of Benjy as he disappeared behind a statue, but his voice still rang clear.

“There isn’t much trace here. This is a person who spends all their time working. All I can tell are simple details. She’s shorter than you, has a wealthy patron allowing her to live in style, lost her parents at a young age. Her mother was Chippewa, her father was born a slave, and she has few living relatives.”

Hetty laughed, impressed despite herself. “Only that? I could have guessed all that myself!”

She expected to hear protests on this fact, but heard nothing.

Hetty walked around the statues and found Benjy in the very back of the room gazing up at a statue that made all the others look like a child had made them.

Unlike the rest of the stone around the room, this was black rather than white. It wasn’t shiny like the pieces of jet Hetty had seen used in jewelry, but it still had a polished finish. The figure carved in stone was no Greek goddess. It was a mother gazing adoringly at the lump in her arms that was the size and shape of a young child. Every line and curve of the stone was so true to life that Hetty almost expected the stone woman to lift up her head and ask why she was being stared at.

“What stone is this?” Hetty whispered reverently.

“Basalt,” Benjy supplied. “I cannot imagine all the logistics involved getting it here.”

“It pays to have patrons who support my work,” said a voice seething with acid.

Hetty swung around and came face-to-face with Adelaide Duval.

She was clearly the artist, dusted as she was in white powder from head to foot. She wore a thick leather apron with a few tools sticking out of the pockets over her dress, and a scarf protected her hair. She also pointed her chisel directly at Benjy.

While this was a rather interesting sight, it baffled Hetty to see Adelaide in the first place.

The woman’s brother was dead. Jay had told them that Adelaide was there when Valentine was found. So what exactly was she doing here in this art studio instead of being back home mourning this great loss?

“What are you doing here?” Adelaide demanded. “Don’t think I shall be fooled with your ‘we’re lost’ gambit. I have seen too many cunning thieves who run off with my work.”

Privately, Hetty found herself impressed that anyone could steal a statue.

Something of this must have shown in Hetty’s face, for Adelaide wagged the chisel with the promise of violence.

“Miss Duval, we met the other day at​—”

“I know who you are,” Adelaide interrupted. “It doesn’t change my question. Why are you here? There’s no fire for you busy­bodies to poke your noses in or anyone to make excuses for you.”

The chisel had lowered, but the older woman’s voice shook with suppressed emotion.

“I’m sorry,” Hetty said, the picture of contriteness. “We opened the wrong door. We’re looking for Darlene Needham.”

“And did not expect to see me,” Adelaide remarked.

“I did not know you are an artist,” Hetty said quite honestly.

“You are quite talented,” Benjy added.

Adelaide’s twisted scowl untangled itself into a smug smile. “I am an artist of many talents. These days I sculpt mostly. But my paintings grace the halls of kings, dukes, and an exiled queen. Would still do so if claims of forgery did not follow at my heels at every step.”

“But sculptures can be forged as well,” Benjy said, studying the nearest statue.

With a growl, Adelaide flicked her fingers to draw Ursa Minor into the air. The star sigil flashed and a sheet threw itself over the statue. “Go. I will throw you out!”

“Miss Duval,” Benjy interjected. “We’ve heard about your brother.”

Adelaide did not react at these words. “What have you heard?”

“Only that he unexpectedly passed last night,” Hetty said. “Pastor Evans told us what happened. Because he knew your father and your brother quite well, he hoped that we could do Valentine’s funeral, if that suits you.”

“That’s right, you own a funeral home.” Adelaide squinted. “Bernice Tanner says you’re still figuring out how to run the place. She said that’s why she went with Brown’s for my father’s funeral. I didn’t get here in time for it. But it was all done in a way I knew he would not have wanted. Will you be better?”

“We aim to be.”

“Good.” Adelaide grunted. “You have my permission to do what you wish with my brother. Your usual work​—​no, the best work you have. The funeral will be Monday. That’s all I can decide right now. We can talk later.”

“Here?”

“No, at my father’s grave, over in Elmhurst. I’ll be in better sorts to talk then, and I’d rather speak of the dead around the dead.”

There was clear dismissal there, and one that Hetty was inclined to take. They’d gotten their funeral, and confirmed they would have the body as long as they needed. After setting a time to meet in the morning, they went to finally seek out Darlene.

In contrast to the studio next door, this room was rather bare. There were sketches pinned to the wall​—​of coastlines, and ancient buildings, old towns with rustic charms, and interesting animals that Hetty had never seen before. At first glance Hetty knew this was not Darlene’s work. The sketches didn’t have Darlene’s keen attention to detail in them. But the pages drying on a nearby table held the vibrant colorings Darlene was known for.

With her back facing the door, Darlene worked in the middle of the room. Light from the wide windows streamed around her, leaving little shadow to interfere with her work.

Perched on a stool in front of her easel, Darlene hummed to herself. A few sketches bobbing around her head, jockeying into view with the slightest twitch of her finger. She dabbed paint to the foliage around a crumbling European castle.

So intent was she in her work, Benjy managed to get right behind Darlene without being noticed. “Now, this is quite lovely.”

The papers fell to the floor as Darlene let out a small squeak. She nearly fell off the stool, but Benjy put out a steadying hand to keep her from toppling over.

Darlene looked up at him, then across the room at Hetty.

“You both are here. I feel as if I should be worried.” Darlene flicked her fingers and a small star sigil flashed in the air. The sketches lifted from the floor and settled on the nearby table. Darlene picked up her paintbrush again, but instead of turning back to the canvas, she twirled it over and over in her hand as she watched them very closely. “Nothing’s happened? At least nothing that directly concerns me, right?”

“You needn’t worry. We came about the map,” Hetty said. “I know you said you were going to draw one, but could you get us a list of names​—”

A withering glare cut off her words. “Who do you take me for?” Darlene asked. “I said I was going to draw a map, and draw it I did.”

“Good. We came here because we found another tunnel,” Hetty said.

“Another tunnel?” Darlene asked.

“Yes,” Hetty said. “And we have a new case. Valentine Duval died last night. Oliver thinks Valentine was poisoned, and we’re trying to piece together what else might be going on.”

Darlene’s gaze darted to the next room. “Does she know?”

“We spoke to her,” Hetty said. “If she says anything interesting . . . or incriminating, do let me know.”

“Of course.” Darlene nodded.

“What an interesting thing to say,” Benjy remarked. “You should be insulted that we consider your employer a suspect.”

“Why? You consider everyone a suspect.” Darlene stuck her paintbrush in the jar of water next to her and jumped off the stool. From the nearby table she went to her satchel and pulled out a long tube. She popped it open and a tightly rolled piece of parchment fell into her hand.

Darlene drew the Libra star sigil. The constellation flashed for a moment in the air before washing over the table. The items there arranged themselves on the side, leaving enough space for her to spread out the map.

Darlene had actually drawn out a full map, though it wasn’t highly detailed. She had drawn the key landmarks of the city, but marked only the major streets’ names. There was more detail on the southern and eastern parts of the city compared to the rest. But that was more than fine considering the most important bits were the trails of bright paint that showed the locations of the different tunnels.

“Blue is for tunnels used by the Vigilance Society,” Darlene said as she pointed to each line. “Yellow for shops, gray for tunnels known to be used by various gangs in the area. Red for places that are no longer in friendly territory. Slashes mark places that I know to be closed.”

Hetty traced the lines with the tip of her finger. She had hoped to find some answers, but what she found were not the ones she needed. “So many of these tunnels are localized. I was hoping for more connections.”

“It’s all about getting in and out of certain places without being seen.” Darlene nudged up her glasses. “I hope this isn’t an excuse to go exploring. Some of the tunnels are sure to be falling to ruin. You don’t know what lies in wait.”

“Traps wouldn’t be surprising,” Benjy murmured. “Even after all these years.”

“I’m more interested in where they go,” Hetty said. Her eyes went to Barclay Street. There was no line for a tunnel there, although she’d expected that.

“If you do go into the tunnels, be wary of those marked with an anchor,” Darlene said.

“Aren’t those just shipping routes to the river?” Hetty asked.

Darlene shook her head, and while her expression remained pleasant, worry shot through her eyes. “Those are marked territory. There is no magic in the marks, but it’s a warning.”

“I’ll be careful.”

Benjy cleared his throat, and Hetty smiled.

“We will be careful,” she corrected. She gave the map another look and frowned, as she glanced at the lines. “So where do we begin?”