Gas lamps burned in this murky place. Heavy velvet curtains lined the windows. One could never see the passing of time here. He hunched over his glass and wished for… what?
He thought of his dream to become a detective and realized that he no longer cared. Without Poppy, and the joy she brought into his life, any happiness he might find as an inspector would be a shadow of the real thing.
“It’s hopeless,” he muttered into his glass.
Foxed as he was, it took him a while to realize that the sounds around him had stopped. Completely, as though a thick blanket had been thrown over everything. His head heavy, Win had a bit of a time getting it to lift. When he did, he gawked. The cafe had gone still. Still as in every soul inside of it had simply frozen, as if they’d turned to marble. Now that was a trick. He looked about, blinking to clear his eyes. But the woman at the table beside his remained bent forward, her mouth stretched in a silent laugh, her bosom nearly falling out of her low, green velvet bodice. The waiter’s eyes remained glued upon those white mounds as his hand hovered an inch above the tabletop, the coffee cup in his hand steaming.
Footsteps echoed in the ringing silence, and Win wrenched his gaze toward the sound.
A man strolled toward him, his gait easy as he wove between the frozen patrons. Wearing a black walking suit and a waistcoat of scarlet satin, he appeared neither young nor old. His form was trim, his features almost indistinct. Dark hair hung unfashionably long from beneath a top hat that hid his eyes. And while Win stared, the man’s thin lips curled in a smile. The man’s chin lifted, and Win caught sight of his eyes. White. White irises that looked anything but human.
Win inhaled sharply. But the man blinked, and the eyes turned a normal hazel brown. The strange smile he wore, however, remained. The click of his boot heels stopped as he stood before Winston.
“Mr. Lane.” The man inclined his head. “So sorry to keep you waiting.”
Waiting? Perhaps absinthe wasn’t the way to go. Perhaps opium would be better. Winston tried to reply and found his voice did not quite work. Decidedly, he’d imbibed too much.
Not waiting for an invitation, the man pulled out the chair opposite Win and sat. A slim, pale hand extended toward Win. “You may call me Mr. Jones.”
Win stared at the hand, and then at the man. He could not make himself move to shake hands. Mr. Jones let his hand fall and smiled again as though Win’s rudeness amused him. “Your glass is empty, Mr. Lane.”
Was it? Win hadn’t noticed.
“Let me get you another.” Jones’s fingers snapped, and like that, the cafe buzzed with life once more.
A waiter appeared at their table as if he’d been there all along. Win tried to think but found himself unable as the waiter set down a fresh glass of absinthe. Jones tapped the marble tabletop with one long fingernail. “Nothing is hopeless, Lane. Drink up.” His hand dipped into his coat pocket, and he pulled free a rolled length of foolscap. “Then we can discuss terms.”
Win touched his throbbing head. “Pardon, sir… I am a bit… muddled.” He took a deep, clearing breath. “Do I know you?”
Again came that smile, curling and dark with promise. Again the eerie flash of white in his eyes. “No. But you will.”
Chapter Twenty
Come with me.” Winston waited impatiently at his dressing room door as Jack Talent put aside a pair of boots he’d been polishing.
“Where are we going?” Talent asked as they traversed the long, wide upper hall.
“As Mrs. Noble proves elusive for the moment, we are going to question one of the other guests.”
“Wouldn’t you rather question the servants?” Talent asked.
Most guests were preparing for dinner, and the light of the day was fading fast. Around them, maids were lighting the lower gas lamps as tall footmen attended the upper sconces. A golden glow began to rise through the house. Drinks were being served in an hour, but Poppy refused to dress with Win in the room—another change that chafed his nerves—so he had dressed first.
“Not now. No servant likes to be questioned during the busiest hour of the day.” He’d track them down mid-morning, in that slim hour between breakfast and luncheon. “Besides, I’ve heard tell that a Colonel Alden has just arrived.” Five bob to the lower footman