The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist #4)(45)

“Completely,” I answered. “No red at all.”

In the elevator my master leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. “As I recall, there was quite a bit of red, ‘Mr. Henry.’ ”

“Mr. Faulk was referring to a conversation we had regarding the nature of love.”

One eye came open. “You were discussing love with Mr. Faulk? How extraordinary.”

“He’s a very wise man.”

“Hmm. Well, that ‘very wise man’ is wanted in three states for the crime of first-degree murder.”

“And he walks a free man. That proves he’s wise.”

He snorted. “That isn’t wisdom; that’s luck.”

“Of the two, I’d much rather have the latter.”

Once in our rooms, he proceeded to barricade us in, pushing the large dresser against the door, checking the locks on our windows eight stories above the street, then drawing the heavy curtains. He fell upon the sofa, gasping for air.

“I should check the dressing,” I said, indicating his outstretched leg.

“You should count yourself lucky I don’t throw you out on the street.”

“There is still one thing I don’t understand.”

“Just one?”

“Why such a small ransom? You must not have told Competello the true value of the prize.”

“Why would I tell a criminal overlord that?”

“Well, what did you tell him?”

“First I told him I was sorry that one of his own had been killed in the performance of an invaluable service to the advancement of human knowledge—namely, keeping an eye on the Monstrumarium pending the official presentation to the Society—and that it was my intent to make full recompense to the poor man’s family. Then I told him who was responsible. . . .”

“But that is something we don’t know—and why I thought you went to him in the first place.”

“We know they were Irish—part of an organized criminal enterprise or not, undoubtedly they were Irish, and there is no love lost between the Sicilians and the Irish. Before you arrived to seal our death warrants, I had extracted a pledge from him to aid us in our quest.”

“I thought it might be Walker.”

“You thought what might be Walker?”

“The one behind it all. The only thing he is more ravenous about than money is destroying you.”

He shook his head, waved his hand, rolled his eyes. “Hire two-bit hoodlums to snatch a specimen to which he himself had ready access? Even Sir Hiram isn’t that stupid.”

“Your reasoning rules out every monstrumologist as a suspect.”

He nodded. “Which leaves Maeterlinck and this mysterious client of his.”

“It’s not Maeterlinck. He’s in Europe.”

“As you’ve told me, though how you might know that . . .”

“Perhaps this client had a change of heart and decided to steal back his former property.” I hurried on. “He could have assumed where you would place it for safekeeping. Not a monstrumologist, since all monstrumologists have access to the Monstrumarium. But an outsider who is well-versed in our practices.”

“I would agree with you, Will Henry, except for the inconvenient fact that your premise is nonsensical. You and his agent agree upon a price, the transaction is consummated, and then he steals something he easily could have kept? As Maeterlinck himself said, there are men who would pay a king’s ransom for the prize—yet he did not offer it to them when he had the chance. In other words, why all the bother? The only hypothesis that fits the facts is the broker was cheated in some way: that you stole it rather than purchased it, and the offended party has taken back what is rightfully his.”

His accusation hung in the air. I had no doubt he took my silence as a confession, for he went on: “You have been with me for nearly six years. At times I think you understand this dark and dirty business better than I, but understanding that leads to arrogance and a willful disregard for simple human decency . . .”

“I do not think you should lecture me about arrogance or simple human decency.”

“I think I will lecture you about anything that suits me!” He slammed his open palm upon the cushions. “I don’t know why I waste my time with you. The more I try to teach you, the more you take from me the wrong lessons!”

“Really? What lessons would those be? What exactly are you trying to teach me, Dr. Warthrop? You are angry with me for killing those men—”

“No, I am angry with you for costing me my reputation and for jeopardizing the most spectacular find in biology in two generations!”

“You should be angry with yourself—and with Dr. von Helrung—for lying to me.”

“I have lied?” He threw back his head and laughed.

“By omission, yes! If you had told me who that man was in the Monstrumarium, had shared with me your arrangement with the Camorra that resulted in his death . . .”

“Why would anyone share that with you?”

“Because I am . . .” I stuttered to a stop, face burning, hands clenched at my sides.

“Yes. Tell me,” he said softly. “What are you?”

I wet my lips. My mouth was bone-dry. What was I? “Misinformed,” I said finally.