He opened his mouth to begin what he anticipated would be a very impressive denunciation, but William spoke before he could.
“We’ve something else missing,” he said in a low voice. “I saw it was not in its display this morning but assumed it had been taken out by order of Mr. Carte. I have only just learned it was not.”
Something of panic lay in William’s words. That hadn’t been present before when he’d spoken of missing items. This, then, was different.
“What is it?”
With a shaking breath, William said, “Our hartebeest is missing.”
“Hartebeest?”
Amos quickly thought back to his previous wanderings in the Dead Zoo. He could picture the animal in his mind’s eye. An antelope, two- to three-hundred pounds in life. No doubt, lighter in taxidermied preservation, but still quite large. Too large for carrying off undetected. Not without assistance, and assistance beyond a single partner. One would have to have access to a cart of some kind. And it could not be done in sight of others.
A sense of foreboding settled over him. He’d nearly lobbed another accusation that would have proved humiliating. He’d nearly made an absolute quiz of himself once again.
How had he been so wrong twice? Twice?
What was happening to him? What dark spell was this place of death casting over him?
Brogan couldn’t manage to write a single word. His publisher would have his neck if he was late with the next installment, but he couldn’t concentrate. Vera had returned to the print shop that morning, having passed the night safely at the flat. ’Twasn’t one of Brogan’s days for working there. Thus he was at home, meant to be putting pen to paper.
His mind, though, was with her. A growing part of his heart was as well.
Was the shop safe? Was she planning to talk with her neighbors? Would his being there have been helpful today? He wished he knew for certain.
By midmorning, he’d accomplished exactly nothing when someone knocked at the door. Hadn’t been that long ago when an interruption in the middle of his writing day was an annoyance. Today, he was grateful.
Until he opened the door.
’Twas Elizabeth Black, headmistress of a respected girls’ school and writer of respectable novels. She was also secretly the author known as Mr. King, and the only female member of the Dread Penny Society. Brogan, of course, knew her well, but having her at his door now that he was considered a former member of the DPS had the potential to deal him as much of a blow as his encounter with Doc had.
She also knew Móirín. “M’sister’s not here. She’s off doing the day’s cleaning.”
“Perfect.” With that, Elizabeth stepped inside, the click of her heeled boots echoing around the entryway. She’d never lacked for boldness.
Brogan closed the door and followed her to the sitting room. He was not left to wonder long what she’d come to discuss.
“I had a most enlightening conversation with Ana Newport yesterday.” Her tone gave the declaration significance.
“How is Ana?”
“A better question is ‘How is Ganor’?” She folded her arms, one shoulder tipping higher than the other, and skewered him with a look. “Why’re you using a false name, Brogan?”
“Mr. Newport knows me as Ganor O’Donnell. Ana told me her own self not many weeks past that she thought it best we not burden his mind overly much by correcting that name now.”
Elizabeth’s only reaction to that explanation was the slightest tip of her head.
“Ana really did ask me not to—”
She cut him off with a lifted hand. “She said the report she received was that someone else was there with you who didn’t seem at all to doubt that Ganor O’Donnell is your name. That’s an identity you used during your DPS years. Why’re you using it now?”
Keeping secrets from Móirín had always been difficult; keeping them from the Dreadfuls was proving nearly impossible.
“I’d never’ve been hired at the shop where I’m working if they knew who I really am.”
Her gaze narrowed on him. “I thought your latest story was selling well. I see it all around London.”
She was too clever by half. ’Twas like having yet another Móirín. Brogan didn’t like lying, but it seemed that was all he did anymore.
“A bit of extra coin in m’pocket might mean Móirín and I could begin building lives of our own. It’d mean a lot to the both of us.”
Though Elizabeth didn’t look convinced, she didn’t press. “Why wouldn’t this shop hire you as yourself?”
“The owner harbors a deep dislike of authors.”
She grinned, looking as if she were barely holding back a laugh. His lack of amusement must’ve made a quick impression; her smile faded.
“You are in earnest.”
He nodded.
“Why does this shop dislike writers so much?”
Brogan shrugged. “Something in the family’s past.”
“And you’ve fallen in love with the shop girl anyway?”
He actually sputtered, something he tried very hard not to do. “’Tis a bold assessment from Ana, considering she wasn’t even there during our visit.”
Laughter entered Elizabeth’s eyes. “Her father offered that evaluation.”
“And you’ve come because you’re concerned I might be courting someone who hates writers and doesn’t know my actual identity or profession?” Mercy, that was a discouraging summary.
“It was a convenient excuse.”
“Excuse?”
She shrugged. “I’ve wondered how you’ve been doing since parting ways with the rest of us.”
“Middling,” he answered, matching her shrug with one of his own. The gesture tossed his thoughts to Vera. She had such an endearing way of shrugging. Was it odd of him to be so fond of a gesture? To smile inwardly when he thought of it?
“The Dreadfuls are struggling.” Elizabeth broke into his wandering thoughts. “I’m told you’re the first member to have left. It’s thrown things into a bit of uncertainty.”
He rubbed a hand across his forehead. “Doc did seem put out with me when I saw him a week or so ago.”
“You were a hardworking part of the group. Making up the difference with you gone is not an easy thing.”
“Foot soldiers like me are easy to replace,” he said. “You’ve plenty enough captains and generals to fill that gap.”