Page 24 of The Devouring Time

Rather than answer directly, he says, “I think you weren’t yourself at the time. I don’t know if Hart had you under some strange influence, or if a new form of shell shock had you in its claws, or what. But the police won’t care about that. At the least, you’ll be hauled in for questioning. Is that what you want?”

The sense of being adrift returns, stronger than ever. My only ally thinks I ordered a murder. James is dead, probably because of me. The police will suspect me of killing him if I turn to them. And someone wants to murder me for reasons I can’t remember.

I’ve never felt so alone in my life.

I take a deep breath, then another. “All right, then. No police, at least not now. But James deserves justice.”

Adrian nods. “Agreed. You look around, see if anything is missing or disturbed.” He turns to the back of the store. “I’m going to inspect the murder weapon.”

Many of the books filling the shop are familiar, like old friends. It isn’t uncommon in the rare book trade to have something sit on a shelf for years before the right buyer comes along. Other books, with more obvious value, move quickly, if they even reach the selling floor at all rather than being passed on directly to a collector.

Unsure what I’m looking for, I wander in the direction of James’s desk. In my absence he’s acquired an 1872 printing of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam—spare a thought for the Peacock Edition lying at the bottom of the ocean with the Titanic—an assortment of Byron bound in a hideous shade of mustard, and a haphazard stack of etchings along with other things. The Poe that haunted the top shelf nearest his desk for years is gone, presumably sold at last.

It feels wrong to sit in James’s chair, but I do so anyway. I know he keeps unanswered correspondence in the upper right-hand drawer, so I start there.

The first two sheets of paper are bills, but beneath that is a letter. The letterhead consists of the image of a tall tower with what look like glowing eyes peering out of its windows, the words Widdershins University beneath it.

Department of Metaphysics

Widdershins University

Widdershins, MA

September 15, 1927

Dear Mr. Olden,

I’m relieved to hear you would not make such an impudent request as I received! I will certainly keep an eye out for Mr. Caine. It sounds as though he’s gone “off the track,” as my students would say. I’ll make sure my colleagues know not to trust any correspondence claiming to be from you.

Sincerely,

Dr. Jessica Dane

I stare down at the letter. I was impersonating James? Writing to a professor of the Department of Metaphysics in the town where I apparently returned to my right mind? But why?

I tuck the letter into my pocket to show Adrian, then riffle through the rest of the stack. Nothing of interest stands out, so I reluctantly return to my desk.

The sight of poor James hits me in the gut all over again. The ghastly pallor of his face, the blood beginning to go sticky. Adrian removed the knife from his throat; it lies on his handkerchief upon the desk.

The shape isn’t like any dagger I’ve seen before. Even at a cursory glance, it looks like the hand of a clock.

Adrian is going through my desk. When I approach, he says, “Can you tell me what he was working on?”

Grief wraps a hand around my throat, and I step to look over James’s shoulder and scan the paper in front of him. “He…he was cataloging the books. That used to be my job. No wonder he was in on a Sunday.”

Adrian looks around. “Did you notice anything missing?”

“No. But I wouldn’t know—books get sold, new ones come in to take their place.”

“There’s no sign the store was tossed by whoever killed Mr. Olden. Indeed, going by the freshness of the blood, they must have left right after murdering him. He was at his desk, so we can assume he didn’t surprise a burglar.”

“So they came here specifically to kill him.”

“It would seem so.”

“I found this.” I pass him the letter.

He reads it, frowning. “What were you looking for, Sterling?”