Rather, he felt lost.
Brogan tucked the papers carefully into the inner pocket of his coat, then pulled it on, followed by his hat. Determined not to make a scene, he slipped back out, making his exit as quietly as possible. Though he wanted to leave unnoticed, it hurt a little how easily it was managed.
No one offered a goodbye. No one seemed to care that he was leaving for good. The ache in his heart turned to a piercing stab of pain. He’d let himself dream again, as Móirín had suggested. Those dreams had seemed to be nearly within reach, only to be snatched away.
Reclaiming dreams might not have been selfish, but it had proven foolish in the extreme.
Brogan stopped at Soho Square, an unassuming green in the midst of this rough area of town. He stopped beneath an obliging tree and looked over the papers he’d nipped off with. Perhaps focusing on the mystery he’d been tasked to solve would prove enough of a distraction to ease the pain in his chest.
The letter was covered with notes about adjusting the formation of certain letters, of keeping aspects of the handwriting consistent. A great many things were noted about the signature in particular.
The document printed on a press rather than written by hand was a list of names, money amounts, and phrases such as “evidence” and “verbatim testimony” and “will offer no information.” Despite the fact that these documents must’ve been printed in the last day or two, they were dated 1824.
Among the nearly identical lists, he found a paper containing nothing but Baron Chelmsford’s signature, written again and again, only the slightest differences between them all.
In a flash of understanding, Brogan knew what he was holding.
Forgeries.
This was the print job, the lucrative opportunity Mr. Sorokin had been so excited—and so secretive—about. Vera had been confused by her father’s refusal to discuss any part of this job, but that made perfect sense now. It also explained why Mr. Sorokin had been hanging about the embassy and the concern the ambassador had.
Sorokin was involved. And it seemed he was keeping the truth of it from Vera. Brogan wanted to be relieved at that, but he wasn’t. Forgeries were a dangerous business, and ambassadors made powerful enemies.
Brogan kept his posture as casual as he could manage. The green wasn’t empty, and ’twouldn’t do to draw attention while he was in possession of forged documents. The people behind the deception wouldn’t be happy with the arrangement, and the police would never believe he hadn’t had a hand in making them.
He tucked the papers in his coat once more and leaned back against the wide tree trunk. Fletcher needed to be told about the papers, but rushing off would only make Brogan more conspicuous. Time slowed as he stood there, pretending all was right in the world when absolutely nothing was. There was something painfully fitting about being required to lie even to himself now.
When time enough had passed for him to appear to be lazily wandering away, Brogan made his way to Fleet Street. He searched the faces he passed, looking for one bootblack in particular. Henry, Fletcher’s most active and helpful urchin informant, always knew how to get a message to him without drawing the least notice.
The moment he spotted the boy he was looking for, Brogan pulled from his watch pocket an etched penny. All of the Dreadfuls used these precise calling cards. Some of them were given to their contacts to use when getting them messages. They each possessed one penny that granted them access to headquarters; Brogan had been required to turn that one over. But this penny was one he’d marked with his own symbol. The Dreadfuls used those to send word to a fellow Dreadful when they needed to discreetly discuss something.
Brogan leaned up against the wall beside Henry. He spun his penny around in his fingers. Henry gave only the tiniest indication that he noticed.
“Think you could get this to a mutual friend of ours?” Brogan asked.
Henry made a noise of agreement. Brogan tossed the penny to him, and he caught it easily. Henry pocketed it but didn’t move. Brogan had done this often enough to understand the rest. He would walk on. When enough time had passed to not draw notice, Henry would do the same.
Brogan pointed himself in the direction of his flat. Perhaps working on the next installment for his publisher would give him something to think about other than the shattered remains of his heart and the echo in his mind of Vera spitting out his name in disgust. He’d lost her, and with her, every hope and dream he’d kept in his heart.
by Brogan Donnelly
Day Four
William watched from the first-story windows of the museum the next morning as Amos paced the grounds below. The man had arrived nearly three-quarters of an hour earlier but had not come inside. The calm air with which he had taken on the task of solving the mystery William had presented to him was growing thin. His once-tidy appearance had given way to a haphazard one. A frantic detective was, he supposed, better than no detective at all.
Unaware he was being observed, Amos made yet another circuit of the wide expanse of lawn situated outside the Dead Zoo. How was a simple matter of thievery baffling him so entirely? He couldn’t wrap his powerful brain around it. It wasn’t even a sophisticated scheme. Displays were hastily opened. Specimens were made off with while no attempt was made to cover up the effort.
This was hardly a complicated matter, and he was not a simpleton. On and on he paced. The tension in his shoulders grew by the moment. He’d not slept more than a few moments here and there. Though he’d not passed anyone upon his entrance to the grounds, he felt certain the Royal Dublin Society members stood about somewhere, laughing at him. Mocking him.
“That’s why I feel eyes on me,” he muttered to himself, pushing his mess of hair away from his face. “That’s why I feel followed.”
He eyed the museum. He remained on the grounds, not out of fear of going in but as a means of watching delivery persons coming and going. Who else could arrive regularly with a cart and haul items in and out without arousing suspicion?
That was who he was looking for. It had to be. He could not be wrong again. He was Amos Cavey, an intellectual and a logician. He would not be felled by so simple a mystery.
Yet half the day passed without a single workman coming onto the grounds. Nothing entered or exited the museum beyond a few members of the society. Even William Sheenan didn’t make an appearance outside of the building.
The two men’s eyes met in midafternoon, Amos standing in the grass, William standing inside at a window. Long minutes passed with them simply watching each other. Neither knew what the other was thinking but would, no doubt, be surprised if he knew.
William was holding out hope that the man he’d selected to undertake this difficult task did not mean to abandon it.
Amos’s frustration was turning to anger. He, who prided himself on his logic, on his unflappable intellect, stormed toward the building, his movements angular and stilted.