Unraveled (Turner #3)(28)

“Hmm,” he said, after he’d flipped through ten pages. “This is his arrival record.” He tapped it. “I didn’t see any record of his release. Or of a transfer. Curious.” He didn’t mention the possibility that he might have missed it.

“Is that bad?” Miranda asked.

He turned and plucked a more battered volume off the shelves. “The roll call,” he explained without answering her question. He flipped through a handful of pages and then stopped. “He was here five days ago. He wasn’t the day after.”

“People don’t just vanish into thin air.”

“No.” Turner frowned. “They do not. Maybe he escaped.”

Miranda shook her head. “Not George. Why become a fugitive the day before he was to be set free? I find that unlikely.”

He met her eyes. “I do, too. The most probable answer is that there has been an error. He was moved, or he was released, and it simply wasn’t recorded. These things happen.”

Miranda wasn’t so sure. Accounting errors did happen. But if this was a simple failure to record, where was George?

Turner crossed to the gaoler, sketched out the situation in a few words. The man listened, and then shrugged.

“Sometimes,” the gaoler said, “they disappear each other down there. Takes a while to notice it.”

Miranda swallowed. But Turner simply nodded, as if such casual mention of murder meant nothing to him.

The gaoler continued with an indifferent shrug. “Only way to find out is to ask.”

“Ah.” Turner didn’t move. He stood in the foul-smelling murk for a moment, staring straight ahead of him. “Of whom should I make these inquiries?”

“The prisoners,” the gaoler said. “Who else?”

Turner had set his hat to the side of the book when he entered. He picked it up now and turned it over in his hands. “Is there some kind of an interview room up here? How does one go about having prisoners brought up?”

“Interview room? Brought up? What do you think this is?” The gaoler laughed. “No, you can talk to them right where they are. Don’t worry; they’re shackled. They’ll be at the water wheel now, the ones this fellow would have been with. I’ll take you down.”

“We need to go down there,” he repeated. If Miranda hadn’t known better, she’d have thought Turner uneasy. His voice sounded sure. Something else in his face gave her that impression, but she couldn’t have identified it. A trick of shadow, no doubt.

The gaoler shrugged again.

Turner set the hat down on the table, looked at Miranda once and then shook his head—a short, fast shake, as if he were shaking off raindrops. “Take us, then.”

The gaoler led them back into the main hall, around a bend, and down a cramped staircase.

If it had been dim above, it was beyond black below. The darkness seemed to eat at the faint illumination from the lantern. Miranda could scarcely see the stone floor, strewn with straw; some feet away, she could make out the dim shape of thick iron bars. The scent of sewage grew heavier, almost overwhelming. Miranda slid a handkerchief in front of her nose, but it scarcely had any effect on the smell.

Somewhere in front of them, she heard the splash of water.

Turner stopped. “What is that? That noise.”

“The water wheel. The prisoners that are here for hard labor, of course, need to—”

Water splashed again, this time in a louder rush.

“Never mind,” Turner muttered beside her. “Not worth it.” He turned in his tracks and started back up the stairs. Miranda stared at his retreating form. She couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t leaving. He couldn’t be leaving.

She scampered after him. He mounted the steps so swiftly, she was out of breath by the time she caught him halfway up. “Wait. We haven’t talked to anyone. Just a few people. A few minutes. Turner.”

He said nothing; just turned into the hall.

“Is it the smell?” she asked. “You’ll grow used to it, soon.”

“It’s not the smell.”

She had to run to keep up; his long strides took the stairs two at a time, then three. But he didn’t look at her when they came out into the dark corridor, didn’t look as she came abreast of him.

“Listen to me,” she started, reaching for him. “I’ll ask all the questions. You don’t even need to—”

He caught her hand. “I told you before.” It came out almost as a snarl. “I’m not kind. I’m efficient.” He pushed her away and turned down the hall. “Open the door,” he called, and from down the corridor, a widening slit of gray daylight cut the darkness.

“I understand,” she said, running to catch up with him. “It is a bit much to take in. But I promise, if you’ll just stay—”

“You don’t understand anything,” he interrupted. His voice shook. She felt as if he’d slapped her.

“I don’t believe you. You’re acting like an unfeeling brute, and—”

“Believe it.” The door opened to the day beyond. Clear air streamed through. He strode into the open gray of the rain outside. He kept walking, not looking to see if she followed.

Miranda darted in front and held up her hands to stop him. “No,” she said. “If you think I’ll allow you to walk off—it’s my friend who’s back there. My friend disappeared. How can you care about justice and not care about what happens once someone leaves your court?”