Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) (17 page)

“Gideon Dosett,” Simon confirmed. “A strong relationship with the governor has clearly served him well during his rapid expansion into Haversham. If he is a hypnotist, it would also explain why Misters Orrick and Tambor seemed so quickly drawn under his spell. Yes, it all does seem to make a remarkable amount of sense.”

The two men descended the stairwell, their booted feet clicking on the marble steps.

“Except that it doesn’t explain why the werewolves despise him so,” Luthor said as the reached the second floor landing, on which both their rooms were located. “Certainly some innocuous hypnosis isn’t justification for the amount of damage they’ve caused to Mr. Dosett’s various businesses.”

Simon frowned as he considered Luthor’s comment. “No, I wouldn’t assume so. Nor would I assume that the werewolves would justify killing so many of Mr. Dosett’s employees simply because some of their number fell under his thrall.”

They walked down the hall, approaching their respective rooms. An image of a brash, redheaded woman flashed through Simon’s mind.

“Mattie said that if we understood why the werewolves hated him so, then we could finally conclude our investigation. If the members of this estate have mental reservations from answering our questions, then tomorrow we’ll have to seek the answers elsewhere.”

Simon pulled a key from his pocket and slid it into his door. With a turn, the door clicked open. Luthor did likewise, though he paused in his open doorway. His eyes locked on the window across the living room and the stars that reflected through the glass.

“Sir,” Luthor said in a panic. He glanced hastily around his room, searching for rope or similar cord. “The moon is rising. If the change is to occur, it’ll happen soon. Quickly, you must restrain me.”

Simon slipped his key back into his vest pocket and smiled at his companion. “My dear Luthor, the moon rose while we were still at the party. Clearly it holds no sway over you, nor are you evidently infected with lycanthropy.”

Luthor released a breath and his shoulders slumped with relief. As quickly as his relaxation appeared, his shoulders tensed once more. “You knew that evening would come while we attended the party. You risked uncountable lives by taking me there on tonight of all nights.”

“I had a hunch that we would be able to debunk your concerns of a transformation.”

“A hunch, sir?” Luthor asked, visibly shaken. “It’s terribly irresponsible to risk lives on nothing more than an educated guess.”

“A correct educated guess,” Simon corrected.

Luthor shook his head. “Hindsight is hardly a justification for irresponsible behavior. There’s no way you could have known.”

“Just as there was no way I could have foreseen the indigenous population being the werewolves, and yet I did. Someday, you’ll learn to trust me. Perhaps after we expose Mr. Dosett for the criminal he is.”

“You’re unconscionable. Good night, sir,” Luthor said. “Sleep well but do be cautious, especially in regards to Mr. Dosett. If he has this remarkable ability, it behooves us to approach him with caution when we are forced to confront him. It won’t do us any good to solve the mystery, only to fall under his spell.”

Simon cringed at Luthor’s blasé use of “spell”. Though the werewolves were clearly mystical in nature, Simon was perfectly content thinking that the reason for their incited anger was something far more mundane.

“Until tomorrow, Luthor. Sleep well.”

Simon stepped into his room, closing the door behind him.

Luthor sat at the dining room table the next morning, looking far more refreshed than he had in days. Having found himself not infected by the werewolf’s bite, he had fallen quickly to sleep and awoke energized.

He took his knife and spread marmalade onto the toast in front of him. Taking a bite, he savored the crisp orange flavor. Setting the toast back down onto his plate, he glanced over his shoulder but saw no one coming. Despite the late morning hour, Simon still hadn’t made it downstairs.

Luthor picked up the Capital Gazette and read the headlines. For a moment, he arched his eyebrow in confusion. He had read these headlines before, shortly before he and Simon departed the capital on their trip to Haversham. His gaze fell to the date. The headlines were familiar because it was the very newspaper he had read before their departure. Very possibly, the stack of newspapers had been carried on their zeppelin.

With a disappointed sigh, Luthor folded the paper and set it back down on the table.

The sound of heavy footsteps on the stairwell startled him as he reached for his tea. He glanced over his shoulder just as Simon reached the foyer. The Inquisitor noticed Luthor and waved excitedly for him to hurry along.

“Come along, Luthor,” Simon said as he placed his top hat on his head. “We’re off.”

“No breakfast for you this morning then, sir?” Luthor asked as he took a rather large sip of his still hot tea.

“There’s no time. Far too much demands our attention today.”

Luthor sighed and set his teacup gently down in its ornate saucer. He stood, gathering up his napkin from his lap and dabbing the corners of his mouth. As he set the napkin over the toast, he nodded appreciatively to the servant, who hurried to clear his plate.

He turned toward the door to see Simon tapping his foot impatiently. Luthor gathered his coat, hat, and cane before joining him.

“I presume you have a plan for today?” the apothecary asked.

“I spent quite some time thinking about our predicament last night, staying up far too late into the night. That is hence why I slept so late this very morning.”

“And to what determination have you come?”

Stepping out the door, they tried to acclimate to the biting cold. They nodded to the guards on either side of the door before stepping into the lane that led to the estate’s main gate. “Miss Hawke told me to find out why the werewolves disliked Mr. Dosett.”

Luthor smirked. “I believe she used some less tactful language.”

Simon continued as though he hadn’t heard the interruption. “I was reminded of our conversation with Misters Orrick and Tambor as well, where they decried Mr. Dosett for purchasing land and businesses at such a low cost; land and businesses, I might add, that had been in families for generations. If he is a hypnotist and is using his abilities for nefarious purposes, that would explain people’s willingness to sell their properties for mere copper pieces.”

Luthor shoved his hands in his pockets and lowered his head against the wind. “It’s a perfectly viable theory, but what does it have to do with the werewolves?”

It was Simon’s turn to smirk. “Who do you think owns the land on which Mr. Dosett’s businesses are drilling?”

Luthor smiled. “A keen observation. How do we prove it?”

“In a town controlled by the crown, it’s the law that a meticulous record be kept of all land transactions. Haversham will have a Hall of Records, in which will be the sales transactions. If Mr. Dosett truly did cheat either his fellow citizens or the indigenous people out of their land, then there will be evidence in the records.”

They walked through the city, opting again to stay above ground rather than moving through the tunnels beneath the city. Though it was bitterly cold, the surface streets were nearly deserted and lent itself to private introspection as they walked.

Simon led the way, taking them through turns seemingly at random. Before long, they walked past the telegraph office. Simon’s eyes lingered on the building for a brief second before they moved past it.

Before too long, they stopped in front of a one-story brick building. A pair of columns flanked the front doorway, supporting a jutting stone awning. A bronze plaque, the corners of which were coated in a faintly blue frost, hung from the brick edifice just left of the doorway. The simplistic words read—Hall of Records.

Luthor grabbed the protruding door handle and pulled the door open, stepping out of the way and gesturing for Simon to enter. He stepped inside, taking off his top hat and brushing off the accumulated snow. As the door swung shut behind him, he was temporarily blinded by the general dimness of the building’s interior. Blinking away the lingering spots that danced in his vision, Simon took a deep breath and was welcomed by the familiar scent of oiled leather and ancient parchment.

As his vision cleared, he noticed a bespectacled, gray-haired woman watching them both inquisitively. Her finger was poised over a ledger, marking her place.

Simon smiled and approached the desk behind which she sat. “Good morning, madam. My name is Inquisitor Whitlock. This is my associate, Mr. Strong. We’re here to examine some of your records.”

The woman glanced slowly over her shoulder toward the row after row of leather-bound ledgers neatly stacked on wooden shelves. She turned back toward Simon and Luthor equally slowly.

“Perhaps you could be more specific, sir.”

Simon rubbed his red-rimmed eyes and leaned back in his wooden chair. Lifting his left hand, he rubbed his index finger against his thumb in an attempt to remove the dark ink that had stained his skin. When he realized the stubborn ink wouldn’t be removed so easily, he surrendered and retrieved the leaking pen from atop the parchment beside him.

The Inquisitor jumped as Luthor slammed two more thick tomes onto the wooden table between them.

“This is impossible,” the apothecary complained. “Just reviewing the ledgers from the past year would require a staff of dozens. These are perhaps the most thorough ledgers I’ve ever had the displeasure of coming across.”

Simon tapped the end of the pen on the parchment, noting the dozens of sales to Gideon Dosett that they had already located within the books.

“Haversham, for all her faults, is a town of thorough record keeping,” Simon agreed. “The information we have retrieved thus far has been most telling, though. It leaves little doubt in my mind that Mr. Dosett has been purchasing land through some means of coercion.”

When Luthor didn’t respond, Simon continued vocalizing his concerns. “This is further begging the question, however, of how did Mr. Dosett manage to hypnotize practically the entire town. You don’t think it’s possible that he has employed some sort of device, do you? Perhaps he is utilizing something to amplify his ability, in order to affect so great and diverse a group of people.” He tapped next to a number of names. “It seems highly unlikely that he personally visited so many people throughout the city, hypnotizing them one at a time, though I guess anything is possible for a sufficiently dedicated villain.”

The Inquisitor looked up and realized that Luthor’s face was buried in one of the tomes. “Luthor, are you even listening to me?”

“Admittedly no,” Luthor responded as he excitedly tapped the list before him. He looked up with a smile. “I haven’t heard a word you said, though I promise it was for a good reason.”

He spun the ledger so that Simon could read its contents. Before Luthor could point at the section in question, Simon located the interesting sales transactions.

“These sales were all made within days of one another,” he remarked, dumfounded. “Three copper pieces for seventy acres. Eight copper for over one hundred. These prices are preposterous! This is more than just underhanded business dealings—this is outright criminal behavior.”

Luthor nodded. “My sentiments exactly. Mr. Dosett paid the tribes not even a handful of copper pieces for huge tracts of land. At least for those within the walls of Haversham, there was the illusion of equitable costs. Not with the tribes, however.”

Simon continued to look over purchase after purchase. “This list goes on and on. How much land do you suspect he purchased from the tribes?”

Luthor shrugged. “A quick estimation—all of it. I would be surprised if the indigenous people even owned their campsites in the foothills of the distant mountains.”

Simon whistled in amazement. “It’s no wonder the werewolves despise him so. Though they may be abominations, I at least can respect their desire to destroy everything Mr. Dosett has built on their stolen lands.”

“Did you notice the names of those who sold the lands?” Luthor asked. “I found that fairly telling as well.”

Simon looked at the list once more, following a further column that identified from whom Gideon purchased the land. Though the names were unfamiliar, the title of “Chief” preceded each. There were at least seven unique names listed for different land sales.

“Tribal leaders?” Simon asked.

“That would be my assumption, sir. Not only did he hypnotize one or two of the leaders, he evidently hypnotized them all.”

“They would have been hypnotized as a group, which would be the only acceptable explanation as to how they all sold their lands within forty-eight hours from one another. I would wager that if we delved deeper into these records, we could find evidence of a meeting of tribal elders shortly before these sales took place.”

Simon ran his hand through his thin moustache as he slowly nodded, deep in thought. Luthor watched for a moment before daring to interrupt his mentor’s train of thought.

“I’ve seen that look before, sir, usually moments before closing a case.”

“Indeed, Luthor,” Simon said. “I have the evidence I require. I believe it’s time to confront Mr. Dosett.”

Simon’s expression darkened slightly. “I believe that we have also answered the ‘why’ to this case, the question to which I’d been seeking an answer for far too long. It’s now time to send that telegraph to the Order of Inquisitors.”

Luthor blanched, though Simon failed to notice. “Very good, sir.”

Simon stood and closed the dusty books, leaving them stacked haphazardly atop the table. He retrieved the handwritten list of sales from beside his elbow and folded the parchment, slipping it into his inside jacket pocket. Luthor stood as well and walked around the table, joining his friend. They walked toward the entrance to the building, passing the elderly woman as they did.

“I hope you found what you were looking for,” she said politely.

“That we did and far more, madam,” Simon replied. “We greatly appreciate your hospitality and your forgiveness for the mess we left in our wake.”

“You would hardly be the first.”

Simon placed his hat on his head and tipped its brim to her before walking back into the glaring sun and frigid winter winds.