would have bristled at the comment, but she didn’t have the strength to be indignant. She might as well encourage the assumption. “I assure you, the story is crucial. My own employer was nearly a victim. I’m ready to pay you for your time.” Her life savings might as well go to some use.
Mr. Bowles paused, then glanced back at his family. Rubbed his eyes. “Come in, Miss . . . ?”
“Camden. Thank you.” She stepped inside, tripping over her own relief that he was inviting her in. She knew the records were public if they were in the papers, but she wouldn’t know where to go next to access them if he turned her away.
To his wife, Mr. Bowles said, “Just a moment,” and gestured toward a back room, barely large enough to be a bedroom. It had within it a desk, a bookshelf, and a small harp in the corner. Mr. Bowles sat behind the desk. Elsie remained standing.
He pulled out a thick book from a desk drawer and flipped through it, silent enough to make Elsie feel awkward, before pausing near the center of the pages. “Which are you concerned about? Only one occurrence happened in my jurisdiction.”
“But you’re made aware of others, yes?”
He paused, nodded.
“From the beginning, if you would.”
He raised an eyebrow at her, but he did as she asked, listing off an unfamiliar name and location, and the crime: murder. The next crime, a robbery, had happened in a town Elsie had never heard of. Another name, location, minute details. He turned the page. “Baron Halsey attacked and murdered in his bedroom, opus stolen, May 4. Viscount Byron attacked and murdered at the London home of Walter Turner, opus stolen, May 10. Theodore Barrington—”
“Wait.” Elsie stepped forward, knees stiff. “Did you say Turner?”
Mr. Bowles rescanned the passage as though he’d already forgotten it. “Walter Turner, yes.”
“London home?” The words came out on a whisper. “The viscount was . . . murdered there?” She recalled what Mr. Parker had told her, and the article in the paper. A witness claimed he’d been struck by lightning. And—
“I believe the viscount’s sister is married to him. He was visiting.” He looked up as though waiting for permission to continue.
Elsie stepped to the side so she could lean on the bookshelf. It took every ounce of courage she could muster to keep her face smooth. Hadn’t she disenchanted a hidden door on the back wall of a Mr. Turner’s home? So someone could sneak inside, find his room, and use a lightning spell . . .
The constable read three more names before another caught her attention, and she again requested he repeat it. He did, with dwindling patience. “Alma Digby, missing person, believed to be potentially connected.”
“You cannot share the details?”
He sighed.
“Just for this one, and I’ll leave you to your meal,” she promised, hearing the desperation in her voice. “E-Even if it’s only what I’d find in the papers, should I take the time to research.”
Mr. Bowles leaned onto his fist, and Elsie thought he was trying to remember. “She was—is—a spiritual aspector traveling for a holiday. Went missing en route. I believe there was evidence of a highway robbery. Miss Digby had ordered a magic-armored carriage, which we found, but the spell protecting it had been removed.”
Elsie couldn’t breathe.
Mr. Bowles stood. “Are you quite all right?”
She managed a nod.
“Let me get you something to drink—”
“No.” The word was too forceful. Her lungs felt like blacksmith bellows. “No, I’ll see myself out. Thank you.”
She stormed back through the house, not even bothering to thank Mr. Bowles’s family for their time. The hot afternoon air slapped her as she stepped outside. She kept walking, unsure of her destination, needing to expend the energy building inside her.
She had snuck into a carriage house and broken spells on its vehicles.
She had created an easy path into Mr. Turner’s home.
She had broken the water staffs that could put out the fire at the academy.
She had cleared a path into the London Physical Atheneum, where Professor Clive was murdered.
Pausing, Elsie gasped for air, her ribs aching. A cab passed by her.
How many more was she connected to? And each one assigned to her by the Cowls.
By Ogden.
“Oh God,” she whispered, holding her middle. “It’s him.” He was behind it all. He had sent her those letters. He had never once complained about her time away, because she’d been doing his bidding.
The American had been right. She was a pawn.
And the attack on