Page 66 of Hawk & Sparrow

Stanley fidgeted a moment, then leaned in too. His voice was barely above a whisper. “I saw my brother with some Thally Rousers.”

“What?” Vesper straightened. “You’re sure?”

The corners of Stanley’s lips turned down. “Very. Those boys are hard to miss.” He tapped the side of his neck. “They like to mark themselves.”

Vesper started, remembering something from the exhibition. There’d been a server there with a black tattoo just above his collar. She hadn’t been able to see it in detail, but she remembered that the server had been keen not to talk to her much. Her pulse quickened. If what Stanley was saying was true, this was the kind of development she’d been looking for. It changed everything.

“Do you think your brother might have joined the Thally Rousers?” she asked.

Stanley shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. “But I do know one thing: I saw my little brother with a bunch of Rousers once. Next thing I know, he’s dead. Make of that what you will. I certainly have.” Without warning, he pushed back from the table and brushed the crumbs from his hands. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “I’m covering a night shift, and I need sleep before I start.”

Vesper stood too. “Thank you, Stan, for everything.”

Stanley gave her a curt nod before heading out of the coffeehouse and up the street. She didn’t notice until he was gone that he’d only taken a single bite of his sandwich. Some part of her was sad about that, just as some part of her was almost sure she’d never see Stanley Dawson again. Vesper picked up her own sandwich and kept eating as she considered what he’d said. Certainly, she’d gotten several of her questions answered.

Now she just needed to know what Francis Gladwell had been doing with the most notorious crime syndicate in the city.

By the time Vesper returned to the Globe’s office, the rain that had held off since Charles Belver’s funeral had begun to fall in a light drizzle. She ducked into the Quander Building as it began to fall harder, and found Nell, Tom, Rory, and Ronaldo standing in the newsroom, laughing.

“Miss Evans!” Tom held up a small bag. “You’re just in time. Someone dropped off fudge for the staff!”

Vesper smiled and was about to set her satchel on her desk, when she noticed a small envelope was already on it. She held it up.

“Who dropped this off?”

Nell shrugged. “Postman brought it in about an hour ago,” she said. “No return address, but it had your name on it.”

Vesper examined the front and the back of the envelope. It only said VESPER in red block text on the back. Carefully, she tore it open and pulled out its contents, a single paper. She read it, and froze.

“Miss Evans?” Tom was pouring his hot chocolate now. “Everything all right?”

“Yes!” Vesper looked up quickly and smiled. “All good. I’m just going to go up to my room for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

The rest of the staff nodded, then returned to their conversation. Quietly, Vesper hugged the envelope to her chest and darted up the stairs. Once in her apartment, she tried not to let her hands shake as she sat down. She pulled the paper out of the envelope a second time, then took a deep breath as she read over the words.

It was a crudely cut clipping from an article she’d written earlier in the week about Charles Belver’s death. Her eyes skimmed the brief write-up.

OIL TYCOON SLAIN AT FARMER’S MARKET

BY

BASALTON, Vic. (November 15, 1898)-This weekend’s festivities in Basalton were cut tragically short when violence erupted during the city’s last Main Street Farmer’s Market of the year. Authorities say Charles Belver, 67, was gunned down in an isolated incident involving an apparently disgruntled former employee. Jon Riggs, 29, was later taken into custody and charged with capital murder. Riggs maintains that he is innocent, and was participating in a legal protest for workers’ rights at the time Belver was shot. He has entered a plea of not guilty, and his next scheduled court appearance will be on the 14th of December. When asked for comment, Police Chief Frederick Stettner noted that the investigation into Belver’s murder was ongoing, but emphasized that any and all parties found to be culpable would face prosecution to the fullest extent of the law.

Vesper stared at the article for several seconds without moving. The clipping was perfectly ordinary, except for the fact that her name had been circled several times in red ink. There were two words scrawled underneath it in the same block text her name had been written in on the envelope. She read them slowly, over and over.

YOU’RE NEXT.

TWENTY-TWO

SATURDAY, 19TH OF NOVEMBER—6:49 P.M.

There were no signs that marked the place where the neighborhood of Shalescreek began, but Vesper still knew the moment they’d entered it.

She peered out the window of Maximilian’s coach and watched the cityscape change before her very eyes. With every passing block, the streets grew filthier, the buildings more dilapidated. A group of hard-eyed young men stared as they rolled by, and she backed away from the window quickly.

“Do you really think this is going to work?” Across from her, Maximilian was sitting as he always did, one ankle crossed over his knee. His eyes, mahogany brown today, were intent.

“I think we’ve got to try,” she said. “Elizabeth Duxley and Charles Belver led us to dead ends. The Thally Rousers are the only other compelling lead left.”