Clara set her delicate straw bonnet to rights. “Mr. Arthur. I feel it only fair to warn you that should any harm come to my favorite bonnet on your account, I shall be inclined to resume my loathing of you.”
Rigid as the Baroque statues adorning the bridge, Mr.Arthur gazed at the glistening Vltava River. “That man was here when last we crossed. I’d wager he paints in that exact spot every day.”
Clara peered around Mr. Arthur’s broad shoulders. A giraffe of a man with easel and paint-splotted palette was stationed beside the statue of St. Joseph. She vaguely recalled the same painter being here during their encounter with the pickpocket. “Why, exactly, are his artistic pursuits of interest?”
“Because sitting here every day makes him privy to all the comings and goings on the bridge. Passing conversations of locals and tourists. News from here and afar. Before we move on, I should speak with him. Acquire any information he might have about Drosselmeyer.”
“Whatever for? We have Grand’s clues to follow, and if need be, we could always purchase a newspaper.” Once they were well away from the bridge’s crowded confines.
Mum rubbed her thumb along Clara’s hand. “Sometimes you can learn more from people than paper, ducky. There’s something to be said for meeting an individual’s gaze and listening to their unique perspective.”
“Right-oh, Mrs. S.” A flicker of a grin brightened Mr. Arthur’s face. “There’s also something to be said for pausing to evaluate the information at hand. Verify its accuracy. Corroborate its totality. Charging ahead on misinformation never ends well.”
Before Clara could query his experiential tone, Mr. Arthur sidled up to the artist, who exceeded him in height despite being seated. Placing their carpetbags on a dry section of the sandstone pavers, Mr. Arthur flexed his fingers. Rolled his wrists. Then, with crutch propped atop his forearm like an ornamental cane, he made a show of examining the near-finished painting on the easel. “Jolly good work, my man. You’ve really captured the essence of Old Town.”
Clara suppressed a snort. Essence? My, my. Mr. Arthur had certainly recovered quickly enough. And truth be told, she was glad of it.
The street artist expressed his thanks in heavily accented English and proceeded to converse with Mr. Arthur for several minutes about his work. Lighting and shading. Color and composition. Until, finally, Mr. Arthur indicated the righthand corner of the artist’s scenic landscape. “What is this object just above the Powder Tower?”
The artist’s brush stilled over the canvas. “That is the great owl.”
An ache gripped Clara’s heart even as it quickened, and her free hand sought the journal in her pocket. “Did you actually see the owl, sir?”
The artist nodded. “It flew right over my head. Drew such a crowd onto the bridge as I have never seen—and I’ve seen many. My easel and I were almost crushed, but it was worth the pressing to behold such a sight. I only wish my brush could convey the wonder of it.”
Clara gnawed on her lip. She only wished Grand had the sense to fly under the cover of night as he’d done in London. “Could you see the pilot?”
The artist shook his head. “The owl keeps its face to the clouds. How it flies, where it goes, no one seems to know. It is like a piece of art that people gather about but cannot understand. It evokes questions as well as awe.”
Mr. Arthur rubbed a hand over his flaxen beard. “We’re not the first to ask you about the owl, I take it?”
“Not the first. Nor the only foreigners. Another Englishman questioned me about the owl. Just three days ago, I think it was.”
Odd coincidence. That was the very same day they’d arrived in Prague.
“I must admit, I’m relieved to see that not all Englishmen have his poor taste. Polished as a new penny he might’vebeen, but as an artist, I found the young man’s choice of color lacked sophistication.”
Mr. Arthur shook his head in mock gravity. “Always a shame when a bloke fails to represent the fine tastes of his queen and countrymen. Tell me, what did the distasteful chap look like? Should I happen upon the fellow, I’d like to censure him severely.”
The artist chuckled and blue paint dripped from his brush, splattering shoes already speckled with color. “He was about your age and height. Brown hair and eyes. Groomed to a fault. He wore a traveling suit of chocolate brown with a subtle pattern of cream plaid and the gaudiest waistcoat ever manufactured. Whoever produced that yellow aniline dye ought to be arrested for assaulting the senses.”
The fine hairs along Clara’s neck raised. It was a coincidence. It had to be. Surely more than one Englishman owned a yellow waistcoat. Surely—
“Rusted cogs.” Mr. Arthur exclaimed under his breath, eyes flashing with heightened alertness. “He’s right on our tail.”
A vein along Clara’s temple flinched. “What are you going on about?”
Mr. Arthur gave no answer. Instead, he propped his crutch under one shoulder, snatched up their bags, and thanking the artist for his time, shepherded them down the bridge and out of the artist’s hearing. He tucked them against the low sandstone wall, shielding them bodily from the flow of pedestrians, which his darting gaze now searched. His hands fisted, primed to defend.
Unease churned in Clara’s stomach. All those backward glances ... he’d been watching for someone. Someone pursuing them. Someone he believed was dangerous. “Did you spot another pickpocket, Mr. Arthur?”
Focus intent on the sea of passing faces, Mr. Arthur spoke in tones hushed and foreboding. “Back in Amsterdam, I sawa man watching us ... or rather, watching the pair of you. Unfortunately, he ran off before I could determine his intentions. When I spotted him again at the Orloj yesterday, I realized he was, in fact, following us. A fact confirmed by our artistic friend’s narrative of the distasteful Englishman. His description matches the man I saw, right down to the painfully yellow waistcoat. It’s no coincidence this chap was seen in Prague the same day we arrived. He’s tracking our movements. And he’s gaining ground.”
The vein pulsed faster, plucking at Clara’s eye. She pinned a finger to her temple. No. She refused to panic. She refused to think—let alone voice—that man’s name. That would make it real. And she refused to let this be real. “Are you truly suggesting that someone is pursuing us?”
Mum cupped a hand over Fred’s wee ears. “Like a hunter?”
“Near enough. I suspect the man is a reporter from London who’s using us as bloodhounds to lead him to his real prey.” Mr. Arthur met her gaze, brow furrowed. “He knows, Miss Stanton. Somehow he knows you have a connection to the owl.”
