Page 55 of Hawk & Sparrow

“I’m so sorry, Miss Evans,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean to bring up something painful.”

Vesper shrugged. She was never very good at this, figuring out how to balance comforting someone else for a grief that belonged to her. “It’s all right,” she said. “My mother passed away before I was old enough to want to do things on my own. If she was alive, I’d probably feel the same way you do.”

Bess seemed to hesitate a moment, then entered the room and sat on the couch. “I’m not being fair to Mother,” she murmured. “The truth is, she has every reason to want to keep an eye on me, after what happened.” She looked up at Vesper. “You know what I’m talking about,” she said. “What Sarah alluded to at the polo match. I’m sure you’ve already heard a version of the story, about me and Francis Gladwell.”

Vesper nodded. “I have.” There was no point in pretending otherwise. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but I think your version of that story matters too, if you want to share it.”

Bess’s brows rose. “No one’s ever asked,” she whispered. “No one wanted to know my side.”

Vesper held her gaze. “I do.”

A single tear slid down Bess’s cheek. “I met Francis earlier this year, at the start of spring,” she began. “Everyone was fawning over him, but he made a point to talk to me at every social gathering. He told me that he’d moved here from the west, and that his family had built their fortune in real estate all over the world. He was a bit older, but he seemed to come from ‘good stock,’ as my mother would say. Plenty of girls wanted him because he was rich, handsome, and successful.” She met Vesper’s gaze. “But if you can believe it, I liked him because he was kind. He made me laugh. He was incredibly charismatic. In a roomful of people, Francis could make you feel like you were the only one there.”

Vesper thought about her one and only encounter with the inventor at the exhibition. Even from that brief interaction, she knew exactly what Bess meant.

“One evening, I was on my way home from visiting a friend when I saw him walking on the sidewalk,” Bess continued. “The weather was especially poor—cold and rainy—but he told me his coach was being repaired. I insisted on giving him a ride to the men’s club. I was just trying to be kind. Once he got inside, he…” She looked away. “I know I shouldn’t have let him kiss me, especially when the coach was parked outside the men’s club, but it was only a kiss, nothing more. He told me he cared for me deeply. Not that any of that mattered.” She sighed. “I wasn’t upset at first, that people knew. I assumed Francis would do the right thing and propose to me, to protect my honor.” She shook her head. “That was when I met the real Francis, I suppose. He’d completely changed, I barely recognized him. He said I’d misunderstood him, that he wasn’t at all ready for marriage. When I pushed back and asked him why he was acting so oddly after saying he’d cared for me, he called me emotional and clingy. I learned later that I probably wasn’t the only woman he was courting. As I understand it, there’d been several others.”

Vesper cringed. “Is that why you went into the maze the night Francis died?”

Bess shook her head. “It all sounds silly, now that he’s dead, but I’d hoped…” She trailed off. “I knew he was going to be at the exhibition. He kept looking at me, and I thought maybe if I could just get him on his own and talk to him, maybe the commitment wouldn’t be so scary to him. I told myself everything could be salvaged if we married in the end, but…” She shrugged. “It was all for naught. We kissed a few times, but he was so drunk he could barely hold himself up, let alone hold a proper conversation.”

Vesper sat up. “So he was already drunk when you met him after the exhibition?”

Bess nodded. “He was absolutely tossed. I knew he liked his drink, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that bad.” She looked away and chewed on her bottom lip. “Francis did hurt me, it’s true, but I never wanted anything to happen to him. When I found out he’d been murdered…” She blinked tears away. “He might’ve been a rake, but he was still a brilliant man, and he didn’t deserve to die.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Bess.” Vesper found that she meant it.

Bess withdrew a handkerchief and sniffled. “Thank you for being the only person who bothered to ask for my side of the story, and for being the only person willing to listen.” She tipped her head, then left. Vesper stared at the place in the doorframe where Bess had stood for several seconds. Tom had taught her that fact always superseded speculation, but something more innate told her that what Bess had just shared was the truth. She thought of the sorrow she’d seen in the young woman’s eyes, the pain in her voice, and she knew. Bess Duxley hadn’t been the one to kill the inventor.

Vesper rose from the couch and stepped back into the hallway. There was no sign of Bess, and Mrs. Belver hadn’t returned. To the left she noted a set of stairs that led to a second floor lined with several closed doors. She eyed them, considering.

No, some responsible voice in her head said. Don’t be foolish, it’s not worth the risk.

Of course it is, another voice argued. She was annoyed to find that it sounded a lot like Maximilian’s. When are you ever going to be in Charles Belver’s house unattended again? This might be your only chance.

Vesper checked left and right, then darted up the stairs. The second floor was quiet and blessedly carpeted, which muffled her footfalls. The first two closed doors she tried led to bedrooms, and the third appeared to be some sort of drawing room. Vesper reached the door at the end of the hall, and held her breath as she gently turned its knob and stepped inside. Almost at once, she was hit with a strong burnt-cedar smell. It took Vesper a few seconds to recognize it as the same smell of cigars she’d noticed on Francis Gladwell the night they’d met. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She let her gaze pan the entire office to see what she could deduce.

The immaculate tidiness of the place told her that Belver was probably a disciplined man, someone who appreciated order. Her eyes fell to the floor-to-ceiling shelves on either side of the desk, and she leaned forward to inspect some of their titles. Most of the books were collecting dust, which suggested that Charles Belver wanted to appear well-read, even if he wasn’t. Vesper noted the mounted ivory tusks against the wall too, and scowled. He killed for sport. A chill ran the length of her body at that thought. Carefully, she tugged open the narrow drawer in the middle of the desk. There was a business ledger, as well as an array of papers. She picked up one of them and read. The letterhead was from the Bank of Basalton.

Dear Mr. Belver,

We regret to inform you that we are unable to extend your line of credit due to your unpaid balance.

Vesper frowned. Unpaid balance? Charles Belver was supposed to be one of the richest men in the city. She picked up another letter, this one from the Basalton Men’s Club.

Dear Mr. Belver,

Our records indicate that your membership fee for the month of October has not been remitted. Please contact our director to resolve this at your earliest convenience.

The furrow in Vesper’s brow deepened. All this time, she’d believed Charles Belver was wealthy—Francis Gladwell and Maximilian had separately confirmed it—but these letters told a different story entirely. Charles Belver wasn’t rich at all.

He was … bankrupt.

Vesper’s thoughts began to race. If Charles Belver was in truly dire financial straits, he wouldn’t have been able to improve his offer to Francis, which could have made him desperate …

She was about to close the drawer, when something else caught her eye. A journal. It was covered in plain brown leather, just larger than her hand. Vesper opened it carefully and flipped through the pages. There were more sketches of the Gladwell Machine inside, but also a series of what looked to be complex math equations. She frowned. Was this Francis Gladwell’s? And if Belver had this, what else might he have? Her eyes panned the room, then stopped on an oak armoire in the corner. Vesper tucked the journal under her arm and opened the armoire’s door with her uninjured hand. She drew in a sharp breath.

The wooden box was scuffed and splintered in one corner as though it had been dropped, and the glass dome affixed to its top right was cracked, but Vesper would have recognized the Gladwell Machine prototype anywhere. Chief Stettner had said his men hadn’t found it at the museum, and now she knew Charles Belver had taken it—why?