“He’s dead, Montgomery! Heart clawed out, just like the rest . . .” I choked on the thought of the bodies in the morgue. I thought the Beast only killed those who had wronged me, but the professor did nothing but provide for me, believe in my chance for a future, treat me as a father should treat a daughter. Those thoughts turned to the Beast’s snarling lips as he’d held me down in my workshop, twisting Edward into a fiend before my very eyes.
I never should have forgotten what he really was.
“You know who did this,” I hissed.
Footsteps sounded in the doorway. I looked up to find Inspector Newcastle, dressed in finery as though he’d been called away from a state supper. His copper breastplate was gone now, as was the revolver at his hip, and it made him look younger somehow. He paused in the doorway, exchanging a few low words with Elizabeth before taking in the body with the calm eyes of an inspector who had seen this sort of thing countless times.
“Miss Moreau. How sorry I am for your loss, and in such a manner . . .” He swallowed, looking for once unprepared. I doubted he’d had much practice speaking to ladies on Highbury Street about murder.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, stepping forward and extending his hand to Montgomery.
Montgomery introduced himself and added, “I’m Juliet’s fiancé from Portsmouth. I’ve been staying here a few days.”
Elizabeth cleared her throat and excused herself, though as she left the room she gave Montgomery a careful glance, her eyes settling on the bulge at his side where his revolver was holstered. She was a shrewd woman. Before the night was out, she’d want an explanation for why my supposed fiancé was carrying a pistol.
“I’ll have to examine the body before we move it,” Inspector Newcastle said. “Terribly sorry. It would be best if you weren’t here for that, Miss Moreau.” He raised his hand as though he might give my shoulder a reassuring pat, but Montgomery cleared his throat, and the inspector let his hand fall. “Perhaps you might stay, Mr. James, for a few questions.”
Montgomery turned to me, a question in his eye. I nodded.
“I’ll be in the kitchen,” I said, and started to leave.
“You’ll have to be questioned as well, I’m afraid, Miss Moreau,” Newcastle said. “They’ve already taken Elizabeth’s statement.” But he must have seen the look on my face, because he quickly added, “I’ll get what I need now from Mr. James, and you and I can speak later, at a more appropriate time.”
I didn’t answer, just slunk into the hallway. I heard the cuckoo clock squawk on the hall landing, then squawk twice more in quick succession, and looked up to find Elizabeth standing before the clock, winding it again and again to make the little wooden bird pop out so she could pet it as the professor used to do. It made my heart clench to see her so lonely, so lost, capturing this echo of his habits.
My dress shoes echoed too loud in the quiet room, so I kicked them off and walked in my torn stockings to the kitchen. I’d always felt comfortable there, among the roaring fire and Mary’s herb box in the windowsill. But I stopped in the doorway. The two chairs at the kitchen table were already taken.
Balthazar sat in one. I’d been so distraught over the professor’s death that I’d scarcely given him a thought since we came home. He kneaded his big hands together, mumbling soft reassurances.
In the other chair sat Sharkey. He must have slipped inside during the commotion. I realized that Balthazar wasn’t just mumbling to himself; he was assuring the little dog that everything would be all right.
“Balthazar,” I said, though my voice cracked.
He jumped up, lips moving as he awkwardly searched for words. “So sorry, miss,” he said. “So sad, what happened.” He gestured to Sharkey and added, “I’ll put him out again, miss, if you like. Only he looked so cold outside those windows, I thought I’d just let him warm up a bit.”
“It’s fine.” I stepped into the kitchen, where the stone floor froze my stocking feet. I picked up Sharkey and held him in my lap. I scratched the scruff of his neck and stared into the dying kitchen fire.
“His name is Sharkey,” I said. It felt good to talk about anything other than the body upstairs. “He belongs to me, in a way. I never told the professor about him because I feared what he’d say. But now . . .” My voice trailed off. “Well, I can’t imagine Elizabeth would deny me a comfort after what’s happened, even if he does bring fleas into the house.”
Balthazar nodded his agreement. “That’s good, miss. No one should be alone. Not a girl. Not a dog, either.”
At last I set Sharkey down and went upstairs to my room, where I locked the door and climbed onto my silk bedcover, then opened my journal to the page with the pressed white flower. I picked it up by the stem, afraid to touch the delicate dried petals. Edward had warned me that his transformations were coming more frequently and unpredictably. I had been so arrogant to think I could cure him of an illness so insidious.
I replaced the flower and closed the journal angrily. If only I’d just told the professor everything, this might not have happened. He might not have been home alone, or opened the door for a stranger.