Page 45 of Hawk & Sparrow

FRANCIS GLADWELL

1856–1898

Her eyes flicked from the years inscribed on the stone, then back to the name. Was the man who’d called himself Francis Gladwell really in there, or had they buried an empty casket? It didn’t escape her notice that his headstone was made of expensive white marble too, and a part of her still wondered who’d paid for it. Where had Francis Gladwell gotten all his money?

She did a quick calculation and realized that Francis had been forty-two, the same age her father had been when he’d died. Vesper hugged herself tight. There was no gravestone in this cemetery for either of her parents, or for her sister. Death didn’t discriminate, but funeral parlors and cemetery managers certainly did. Without warning, grief shot through her like a lightning bolt. She blinked away tears. There was no use staying in a place like this; she needed to leave.

She started to turn when the snap of a branch to her left made her head jerk up. She turned, squinting. A fog had descended over the cemetery, so thick that only the headstones nearest to her were visible. It was quiet, still, but Vesper couldn’t shake the inexplicable feeling that she was being watched. It reminded her of how she’d felt in the maze, the uncanny sense that someone was nearby that she couldn’t see. Was it the groundskeeper?

“Hello?”

No answer. Vesper’s eyes panned across the silvery mist. Slowly, she backed away from Francis’s grave, distracting herself by going over her list of to-dos.

Tom had noted that her work for the Globe lately was lacking, and she needed to make up for it. The holidays were approaching, and there were plenty of things to write about in celebration of the season. She was still gnawing on the corner of her thumbnail, trying as she walked to prioritize which part of her work to tackle first, when she heard it: the dry snap of a second twig, the crunch of leaves underfoot.

Vesper whirled around. “Who’s there?”

There was still no answer, but as she squinted through the fog, Vesper thought she made out an approaching gray shape. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as an internal voice gave her a single, instinctual command.

Run.

Vesper’s heart thundered in her chest as she turned on her heel and broke into a sprint. Her pulse leapt as she heard footsteps behind her, but she didn’t dare turn around to identify her pursuer as she ran between headstones, mausoleums, and divots in the dirt. They were getting closer to the border of the cemetery; its wrought iron gates were already beginning to appear in the distance. Vesper picked up her pace. If she could run just a bit faster, she could get out …

The world upended as her foot caught on a tree root, and she fell forward. She threw her arms out to break the fall, but a sharp pain shot up her ankle as it twisted. She groaned, lying in the dirt for several seconds with her eyes screwed shut. Slowly, she sat up. She lifted her dress’s hem slightly and examined her ankle. Her hosiery had some dirt on it, but she was relatively unscathed. She looked around, but the cemetery had gone silent again.

She waited several seconds before she rose, brushing the dirt off her and heading toward the cemetery’s exit, albeit more slowly. She crossed the road, and started up the street to head back to the Globe’s office. A dull pain had already begun in her ankle, and she suspected it might swell. She swore again. That was the last thing she needed while trying to conduct this investigation.

“Miss Evans?”

Vesper turned, then nearly jumped. Mrs. Oelrich was heading her way quickly, her too-smooth face stretched into something meant to resemble a smile.

“I thought that was you!” she said brightly. “Are you all right, dear? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Vesper schooled her expression quickly. “Yes, thank you. I just had a fall.”

“Oh, you poor thing!” Mrs. Oelrich put a hand to her chest. She might have been concerned, but her face didn’t move or show any expression. Perhaps that was the consequence of too much cosmetic sorcery. The woman leaned in. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m quite all right.”

“Good.” Mrs. Oelrich smiled. “Now, you must tell Mr. Kite that I haven’t forgotten about his request for the map of the maze. I intend to get it to him as soon as I can.” She sighed. “I’ve just been so busy with the children. They’re quite a handful when they’re young, you know.”

“You have young children?” Vesper didn’t quite manage to keep the incredulity out of her voice. Mrs. Oelrich had to be in her sixties. As though she could read Vesper’s mind, the woman smiled.

“I don’t have any biological children,” she said gently. “But what my womb didn’t give me naturally is made up for in other ways. I volunteer at the Heathnor House, one of Basalton’s shelters for underprivileged children.”

Vesper started. She hadn’t been expecting that. “That’s … very noble of you.”

The corners of Mrs. Oelrich’s eyes crinkled. “You’re sweet to say so, dear. I do try to stay active in the community.” She glanced up the street. “You’ll have to excuse me. I’m late for a tea. Do take care, and I so hope to see you at the Belvers’!”

Vesper didn’t have time to ask what was happening at the Belvers’ house before the woman continued down the street. Once she was gone, her thoughts returned to the cemetery.

Who had been the figure at Francis Gladwell’s grave, and why had they chased her? They were just more unanswered questions, and ones she was less and less sure she’d ever get the answers to.

The fog lifted as morning gave way to afternoon. Vesper ambled through Basalton’s streets until she realized she’d reached City Hall. The form Tom had given her was still in her bag, and she remembered that he’d asked her to drop it off at the Treasurer’s Office. She sighed.

Better get it over with.

She stepped into a large foyer with three corridors, turned left, then followed the signs until she reached the door that marked the Treasurer’s Office. Inside, a middle-aged woman was sitting behind a small desk.