Page 63 of Hawk & Sparrow

Ada frowned. “What is it?”

“I’m not sure.” Vesper opened it up and began flipping through the pages while Ada looked over her shoulder. “I found it in Belver’s office,” she explained. “I think it may have belonged to him or maybe Francis, but I can’t prove it. There’s no name anywhere in the journal.”

Ada held her hand out. “May I?”

Vesper handed her the journal, and watched as Ada went through the pages more slowly. Her brow furrowed, then she looked up at Vesper and shrugged.

“I’ve never seen anything like this before,” she said, shaking her head. “It looks rather technical.”

Vesper nodded. “I don’t know what the figures mean, or what they even are.”

Ada pinched her chin. “It almost looks like the figures our family’s accountant creates at the end of each year. I’ve seen them on my father’s desk.” She paused, thoughtful. “I could show this to him, if you’d like? He won’t know whose journal it is, but he might be able to tell me what the numbers and calculations mean?”

Vesper hesitated. Until now, her investigation of Francis Gladwell’s murder had stayed between her and Maximilian. She didn’t mind Ada knowing, she trusted her, but she wasn’t sure about anyone else knowing. On the other hand …

You only have twelve days left, that needling voice she’d tried to smother returned. If you want different results, you have to try a different approach.

She looked from the journal, then back to Ada, then nodded.

“Thank you,” she said, “I appreciate it.”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I hear from him.” Ada stood. “I’ve got to go, my parents are waiting for me. Are you going to be all right here?”

Vesper nodded. Ada started to walk, then stopped.

“For what it’s worth,” she said. “If there’s anyone I believe can solve this murder, it’s you, Vesper.” She left without another word.

Vesper stayed on the bench, staring past the oak tree’s thick branches. Storm clouds were gathering now, she knew it was likely about to rain, but she couldn’t make herself move. The fourth stage of an investigation was deduction, when the investigator took all the information they’d gathered and analyzed and used it to tie everything together and ultimately come up with a conclusion and verdict. But every time Vesper tried to grasp at the strings of this investigation they seemed to slip from her fingers. Even if Ada’s accountant could tell her what the numbers in the journal meant, she still had several unanswered questions.

Who had really killed Francis, and why?

What had happened to the champagne bottle?

How had the killer gotten in and out of the maze?

Who had Francis Gladwell really been, and where had he gotten his money?

Vesper sighed and stood. She wasn’t going to answer any of her questions sitting alone in a cemetery. Gradually, she made her way back into Basalton proper, grateful that the threatening rain hadn’t started yet. It was past two, late in the day. She might have time to work on at least one of her articles this afternoon if she hurried back to the Globe. She was at the intersection of Oliver Avenue and Pierce Street when she looked up and saw something that stopped her.

At first, she didn’t believe her eyes. The man walking toward her was slim, slightly haggard. His head was bent and his eyes were downcast as the wind picked up. But those eyes were green. Vesper would have recognized them anywhere.

They were Francis Gladwell’s eyes.

TWENTY-ONE

FRIDAY, 18TH OF NOVEMBER—2:12 P.M.

Vesper’s heart thundered in her chest.

She watched as Francis Gladwell continued in her direction. Every nerve ending on her body tensed as he drew nearer. He was just about to pass her, and he hadn’t even looked up. Vesper acted before she could stop to consider it. She reached out and grabbed the inventor by his wrist. He immediately tried to jerk away, but she stepped around him and crossed her ankle behind his, so that he was thrown off-balance and went toppling to the ground, hard. She felt slightly guilty when he groaned in pain.

“What’s your problem, miss?”

There was no doubt that the man glaring up at her had Francis’s facial structure—his cleft chin, his high cheekbones, his distinct, pea-green eyes. But the longer she studied him up close, the more certain Vesper became that this was definitely not the man she’d met at the museum. This man’s face was careworn in a way that the inventor’s had never been; there were deep lines in the corners of his eyes and around his mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I … I thought you were someone else, a man named Francis.”

The man had been trying to get to his feet, but when she said Francis’s name, he flinched. He didn’t meet her eyes as he stood and brushed himself off.