Legacy of the Clockwork Key (6 page)

I ducked out the secret door and burst into the study. Yanking the key from around my neck, I threw it into the ashes of the long-dead fire.

I didn’t want to see it again. I didn’t ever want to hear that song again.

A hollow whistle drifted up from the stairs.

I glanced up at the cherub with the glassy eyes. I had no way of knowing what Rathford could see, or when he was using his glass. I couldn’t leave the door open. If the baron knew I’d been sneaking around his secret workshop, that I’d read the letter, and that I knew my grandfather suspected him of murder . . .

Fear closed in, and the air itself seemed to grow heavy.

With haste, I pulled the key from the ashes, gently rubbing it with the hem of my petticoat. It didn’t feel right not to have it around my neck. It’d been important enough to my father that it had been the one thing he’d tried to save from the fire. It was possible he had died for it.

It was mine now, and I was the only one who could use it.

I placed it in the clock and pressed the button. The song played and keys revealed themselves as before.

I played the notes without hesitation this time, and with relief watched the fireplace return to normal.

As I entered the kitchens, the house remained still. Nothing had changed. I stopped on that thought—outwardly, nothing had changed, but in truth I felt everything had. I
eased onto my tick and pulled the blanket to my neck, but my mind found no comfort.

I couldn’t believe my grandfather was involved in such a scheme. He’d always been so sweet and odd. He was the type to hide trinkets and draw maps to them, not the type to be involved with murderous plots.

There was no way to know if he was alive or if the murderer had found him. I never knew the details of his supposed death. I only knew that his carriage had gone into the river. They’d never found the body. That must have been the first attempt on his life that he mentioned in his letter. It had happened three years before the fire struck the shop on Oxford.

Papa could have traveled anywhere by then, and he likely had never heard about the fire. If he had left the country, how could he know? He could be out there still thinking we were safe and happy on Oxford Street. If he returned, he wouldn’t know where to find me.

Then there was the question of why the baron took me in. Perhaps he felt guilty and wanted to make up for whatever falling-out they’d had. Unless he was keeping me to lure my grandfather back.

The memory of the giant clock wheels and arms filled my mind.

What was S.O.M.A.?

Endless questions plagued me until nearly dawn. I still hurt. Deep in my heart I ached. In the end, the one thought that rose above all the others was that my grandfather might be alive out there somewhere.

He was the only one who could answer the swarm of questions buzzing through my mind. I had to find him, but where to start?

Asking the baron was out of the question. I had to begin with the last person who had seen my grandfather alive, Simon Pricket.

How was I to find this man in all of London? How could I begin such a search? I had no clue to his occupation or location. The only way to start was to leave the mansion and ask questions about town. I had no opportunity to do so.

I needed help.

I needed Will.

IT WAS A FULL THREE DAYS BEFORE I COULD ESCAPE TO
the carriage house. At every moment I felt I was being watched. During the day, Agnes scrutinized everything I did. Whatever friendly rapport we had shared was gone, vanished under the dark glare of suspicion.

Day and night, thoughts of the baron haunted my every move. I still didn’t see him. In all respects, nothing in the house had changed, but I felt the threat of his presence now in a way I never had before. I found myself searching out glints of black glass and wondering if they were part of the spy glass. My only recourse was to work hard and diligently
to disappear into the routine of the house, so no one would notice me or think to question what I knew.

It was well past midnight of the third day when I finally dared to sneak out of the house. The weather had grown warmer, bringing with it heavy rain that melted the snow and turned the path to the carriage house into muddy soup. It was dark, too dark for the lion’s eyes to see me move across the courtyard in my black dress. I held my skirts with great care, fearing the mud would mark my guilt on my hem.

All was still as I pushed through the carriage house door. I hurried to the stables, holding my candle high.

“Will?” My voice came out as a hushed squeak. A horse swished its tail. “Will?” I tried again.

A hand grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around. I tried to scream but another hand clamped over my mouth. I slammed against the stall door, a hard body pinning me to the wood. My candle fell to the floor, the holder clattering to the hard bare stone. The stable plunged into total darkness.

“Have you gone barking mad?” Will whispered near my ear. I felt his hot breath slide over my neck as he eased his hold and lowered his hand from my mouth, but he didn’t back away.

His body pressed against mine, and even through the layers of clothing, I felt the heat of him.

“Will . . . ,” I stammered.

“Hush,” he scolded. “You’re going to get us both sacked. Get back to the house.”

“Please,” I whispered. “I need your help.”

He stiffened, then let go, retreating from me. I grabbed the front of his shirt. My fingertips brushed smooth warm skin, and I nearly lost my grip on the fabric.

“Let go, Meg.” His hand closed over mine, his touch gentle in spite of the warning in his voice.

“I can’t.” I dropped my head and my forehead touched his shoulder. “Hear me out. I’m not here to cause trouble.”

He took a step back, shaking off my hold and leaving me alone in the dark. “You’ve caused enough trouble. I’m not going to lose the only home I’ve known for you.”

“Did Lord Rathford discover us?” I held on to the stall door to steady myself.

“No.”

I almost collapsed to the floor in my relief. For as frightened as I’d been the last few days, I didn’t want to be thrown out onto the street either.

I could see the outline of Will in the dark. He turned.
“That doesn’t mean he won’t. Coming here in the day is one thing, night is another.”

“I had no other choice.” I took a step toward him, leaving the safety of the door. Adrift in darkness, I took another step to close the gap between us.

“Why are you here?” he demanded, and I retreated, flattening my hands against the worn wood.

“There’s a man named Simon Pricket.” I wished I could tell him more, but I couldn’t bring myself to. I felt I was in danger for knowing what I did. I didn’t want him to be in jeopardy as well. “I need you to help me find him.”

Even as I said it, I feared I was drawing Will in too far, asking for his help to pull me out of a net that could easily catch him, too.

“I don’t believe this.” He crossed his arms.

“You can leave here any time you want, and no one minds. You can take the horses.” He had freedom I didn’t have. I couldn’t do this without him.

Will kicked a pail, sending it crashing against the stone wall. It clattered along the floor. The horse behind me kicked the stall door and neighed. I jumped away, startled by the sound. Without anything to cling to, I felt lost in the darkness.

“No,” Will insisted.

It felt as if the horse had landed a second kick to my chest. Fine.

He was right. I shouldn’t have expected any more from him, and I shouldn’t have taken the risk to come.

“I’ll have to search myself,” I whispered.

I moved toward the carriage house door, resigned. I had to find a way to do this alone.

Will sighed. “Dammit, Meg.”

Stopping near the coach, I turned toward his voice. A small slant of dim moonlight cut across the empty dark and fell on him. He hung his head. “I’m such a fool.”

A lightness came over me. He’d help.

“Who is he?” Will asked. I could hear the irritation in his voice.

“A man who knew my grandfather. His name is Simon Pricket. He’s in the west of London. I don’t know any more than that.” The words came out in a rush.

“Get back to the house. If I find anything, I’ll come to you.”

I fought the urge to run forward and embrace him. “Thank you.” He held up a hand and retreated into the shadows.

I felt along the floor to gather my candle, then stumbled out of the carriage house and returned to my bed.

• • •

Every day that passed felt like a lifetime as I waited for Will to leave me some sort of sign that he’d found something. Every quiet moment alone was a moment of hope, then disappointment.

I obsessed over the key around my neck and the clock on the mantel, taking extra care when polishing them to ensure I hadn’t missed some clue to the connection between the baron and my grandfather.

After two weeks of torment, I had begun to give up hope that Will could help. Perhaps he’d offered to help just to make me leave, and he’d never searched for Simon Pricket at all. Or maybe Simon Pricket didn’t want to be found.

What was I to do? I could hardly start making inquiries on my own. I could ask to accompany Mrs. Pratt on market day and try to discover something, but it was unlikely that Mrs. Pratt would allow me to come when I had so much work to do in the house. Besides, I knew she wouldn’t let me speak with any of the vendors.

The sack of hay beneath me felt thin and worn as I watched the embers glow in the fire. Agnes snored from her bed in the pantry. The rest of the house remained quiet.

Perhaps I needed to return to the secret workshop. I
had left in a rush after discovering my grandfather’s letter. Maybe I could find another clue if I looked more carefully, but I had no way to know if Rathford was working within it. There must be a way to close the entrance to the passage from the inside. In fact, there had to be some other way in. The large gears I had seen could not have fit down the stair. I didn’t wish to think about what might happen if he caught me there.

I had to take the chance.

I clasped my key in my hand, crossed the kitchen, and opened the door.

Will stood in the doorway like a wall, his hair damp from the rain. It fell across his brow in dripping curls, while the wet shirt I’d mended clung to the muscles of his chest and arms.

“Will.” Breathless, I looked him in the eye, trying to gauge whether he had good news for me. His dark brown eyes looked as black as the stormy night.

Suddenly I realized I was standing before him in nothing but my underclothes. My skin felt as if it had just caught on fire as I grabbed my blanket and covered myself.

“You could have given me some warning.” I sat down at the table, holding the blanket tight under my chin.

He smiled. “You didn’t give me any last time you visited.”

He eased down across from me. “Fair enough,” I admitted, though I had a feeling my modesty meant slightly more than his. “What have you discovered?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. Pricket is dead.”

My heart pounded. “How? When?”

Will ran his hands through his hair, slicking it back over his head. He wiped his face, then clasped his hands on the table. “He died in July nearly four years ago. Shot in the back. The murderer wasn’t caught.”

I brought my hand to my mouth and fought to tamp down my thundering heart. Simon Pricket had died a month before the date on my grandfather’s letter, one month after Papa’s supposed death.

My disappointment felt as heavy as a leaden blanket. None of this made any sense.

I looked at Will and time seemed to slow as I watched the low firelight flicker over his stoic features.

“My grandfather said he visited Simon Pricket in the west of London that August.” I stood up from the bench and retreated to the fire. I watched the embers slowly dying. “But that’s not possible.”

“You mean the cemetery?”

I turned to Will so fast one of my braids swung over my back. I nearly dropped the blanket. “Pardon?”

“People call the Winchester cemetery over in Brompton the West of London.”

I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. That was it. Pricket was one of the men who had been murdered, and my grandfather had promised to do something at Pricket’s grave.

That was where I’d find the next clue.

I looked at Will in earnest. “I have to go there.”

WILL PUSHED AWAY FROM THE BENCH AND HEADED
straight for the door. I ran to him.

“Will?”

“No.” He grabbed the handle and opened the door to the stairs. A damp wind swirled into the kitchen. “I’ll have no more of this.”

He slammed the door loud enough to rattle some of the hanging pots. I stiffened, afraid that if I ran back to my bed it would only increase the disturbance. Had the others woken? I listened for the harsh rumble of Agnes snoring, but heard nothing. A single
tick
cut the silence, but it was only the house settling. Agnes choked, coughed, and her familiar snore
resumed. Only then did I ease onto my bed. Each crinkle of the straw sounded like the crackle of snapping kindling in my ears.

I let my head fall onto the musty pillow.

He didn’t need to storm out of the house. I hadn’t even asked anything of him yet. Surely helping me visit a cemetery wouldn’t be so difficult. I nursed my sore mood with a heavy sigh.

I was on my own.

Sneaking away and walking to the cemetery was both dangerous and impossible. I could barely make it to the carriage house—not that I planned on ever going there again. Brompton was all the way out near Chelsea.

Inspiration struck, and I nearly shot out of my bed. I hadn’t gone to visit the graves of my parents since entering this house.

Perhaps it was time.

The following day just after tea, I sought out Mrs. Pratt. She pinched her already thin lips tight as she looked up from her ledger. On the morrow she’d be leaving for the market, and I didn’t want to miss my opportunity.

Dropping my gaze to the floor, I bobbed a short curtsy in respect.

“What are you about, child?”