Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(76)

The woman stood. “What’s wrong? I . . . We don’t have one just for us. You have to go to Foxstone.”

Elsie swallowed, blinking rapidly until her unshed tears sank down into a hard ball in her throat. “I will pay a florin to whoever will drive me.”



“I don’t know, miss,” the young constable said when she, with the help of a man from Juniper Down, stopped him outside a small millinery. The shop had already closed for the day. Without the patience to introduce herself properly, Elsie had immediately barraged him with questions about the recent sequence of murders and opus thefts.

Adjusting his hat, he continued, “We’re just small folk, even here in Foxstone. If you want to know more, you’ll need to head to a city. Reading, perhaps?”

And so Elsie did.



Elsie was tired yet restless as she rode a mail coach to Reading. Her urgency had not been enough to convince someone to take her so late on the Sabbath. At least the constable had been generous in letting her take a room in his home, but she’d returned to the streets before dawn, eager to travel at the first opportunity. It took every bit of control she possessed to keep from weeping in the privacy of the cab.

She clung to the notion of a misunderstanding. It couldn’t be her. It could not be Ogden.

She went first to the police station on Friar Street, but the constable was not in, and the only other officer available was young and uneasy with her request, so Elsie got directions to the constable’s home from the post office. She went on foot and, after finding it, knocked incessantly on the door. A nearly grown child answered, looking perturbed, as Elsie had apparently interrupted their luncheon. Their table was set, food barely touched. A woman leaned forward to get a better view of her, but the man rose and came to the door, dismissing his son.

He was tall and broad shouldered, with a severely receding hairline. He wore a blue peelers coat, so Elsie had no doubt she’d found the right house. The lines on his forehead suggested he was annoyed by the disturbance, yet his eyes were quizzical.

“Mr. Theophile Bowles?” Elsie asked, heart hammering.

“I am.”

She took a deep breath. “I know I am interrupting, but I badly need to speak with you concerning the recent crimes regarding aspectors and their opuses.”

He drew back. “The journal is hiring women now?”

Normally Elsie 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.”