But who, she found herself wondering, buoyed him?
Either Móirín or Ganor showed the sketch of Clare to people in the various corners they visited. Two thought her face looked familiar. The others didn’t recognize her. But all promised to consider the matter and send word if they twigged any clues.
“Do you always do so much walking in an afternoon?” Vera asked as they made their way from yet another stop, the streetlamps having been long since lit. Darkness came early in the winter.
“We don’t usually make so many stops in one day,” Móirín said. “But we’re needing as many eyes peeled as possible looking for your mysterious Clare.”
“But you’re not doing only that,” Vera said. “You’re helping people too.”
“They’ve enough to worry about without us interrupting their day for something that’ll be of no help to them,” Ganor said.
The O’Donnells paused at a vegetable cart near Covent Garden, though whether doing their own grocering or gathering food for others, Vera didn’t know.
A harsh “psst” caught her attention. She looked about, searching. A moment later, she heard it again. On the third go, she spotted the woman making the noise and waving her over.
Vera closed the distance, which wasn’t far. “Are you needing something?”
“Only a word.” The woman sounded Irish. “I’ve seen who you’re here with.”
Vera tilted her head. “The O’Donnells?”
Frowning, the woman shook her head.
“You’ve confused them, it seems,” Vera said, kindly. “That’s Ganor and Móirín O’Donnell.”
“’Tisn’t, though. Móirín she is, but his name’s Brogan. And they’re the Donnellys. They’re too well known in Dublin to be mistaken for anyone else.”
Brogan Donnelly? The writer of “The Dead Zoo”? No, it couldn’t be.
But at the sibling’s flat the night before, Móirín had called him “Brog.” Vera had assumed at the time it was an Irish word. What if, instead, it was a nickname tossed out by habit?
Brogan Donnelly. No. He’d told her his name was Ganor. Ganor O’Donnell. He answered to it. People who knew him called him that. He’d not have perpetuated so large a ruse. He’d not have lied to her so much and for so long.
“I’d not pour rumor broth in your ear if I didn’t think you ought to be warned. I can’t imagine you know or you’d not—” The woman clamped her mouth shut and shook her head fast and furious.
“Cain’t leave it there,” Vera said. “Spill your budget.”
The Irishwoman’s eyes darted in the direction of the brother and sister, worry and something like fear tugging at her expression. “Donnelly is a name well known in Dublin. These Donnellys.”
Ganor had said he and his sister had fled their hometown with the blue-bottles close on their tails.
“They can’t go back, they can’t,” the woman added.
“I’ve heard that.” Ganor had said the two of them would be in danger if they returned to Ireland. That this woman was saying the same about him while calling him by a different name was too great a coincidence to be a coincidence.
“And do you know why they can’t go back?” the Irishwoman pressed.
“I’m beginning to doubt I know anything,” Vera muttered.
“’Twasn’t a small thing that triggered their run from the Peelers,” the woman said. “’Tis why I had to talk to you, why I had to warn you.”
Vera’s heart dropped ever further. What else had he lied about? “What was it that sent them fleeing from Dublin?”
Another darting look at Ganor—Brogan—and Móirín delayed the woman’s answer. But when it came, Vera wasn’t the least prepared for it.
“Murder.”
It had been two days since Vera had accompanied him and Móirín on their mission to Somers Town, and Vera had been very quiet toward him ever since. She’d not been herself, and it was fretting Brogan. Though he’d not give Móirín the satisfaction of knowing she’d read him right, he’d admitted to himself that he’d begun falling in love with Vera. He thanked his lucky stars every time they were together, and he missed her when they were apart.
He, who had long ago given up on his once-cherished dream of a family and home of his own, was letting himself imagine that again. They could teach each other bits of the languages of their homelands. They could fill their home with reminders of where they’d come from, of family members they’d lost. They’d continue on with the work he and Móirín undertook in the struggling corners of London. He’d read her his stories before sending them to—
That caught him up short. She didn’t know who he really was. She didn’t know he was a writer, a member of the profession she distrusted and despised. He’d do best not to build castles in the clouds until he knew how likely they were to come tumbling to the ground.
When Brogan reached the print shop, Peter was at his cart beneath the overhang, calling out to passersby, telling them he had “fine fruit” and “perfect pippins.”
“How’s today’s apples?” Brogan asked, pausing in front of the shop door.
“Perfect,” Peter said.
“That is the word on the street.”
Peter perked up. “Who’s been talking ’bout my apples?”
“You have.” In a decent imitation of the man’s monger shout, Brogan repeated, “Perfect pippins!”
The fruit seller laughed and waved him off.
The pause had allowed Brogan to regain a bit of his footing. He knew he would eventually need to tell Vera his real name and profession. But he was being honest with her in most other respects. He’d told her of fleeing Dublin, of being unable to return. He’d told her of struggling with his sister’s unhappiness. She’d gone along with him as he’d looked in on the struggling people he tried to help. They were working together to solve the mystery of the Protector. No matter that she didn’t know Brogan’s name, she knew him better than most of the people in his life.
He simply had to trust that, in the end, it would be enough to give her some faith in him.
Vera was standing near the display of penny dreadfuls, giving instructions to Olly and Licorice. It’d been ages since both children had been working there on the same day. Olly popped him a salute. Licorice offered a quick nod.