Clever, he thought to himself, as the seal was a polar bear’s natural prey. He hadn’t realized the taxidermied animals could be repositioned.
The Dead Zoo possessed an unavoidable degree of eeriness, being so full of creatures that had met their demise. Row after row of skeletons, of long-dead and, at times, not-long-dead animals frozen in poses meant to mimic life but never fully capturing it. How chilling was the effect of a dangerous, deadly animal, focused unblinkingly on the very animal that constituted nearly the entirety of its diet, but both animals nothing more than skin and fur stretched over expertly formed frames.
The janitor trudged past, pulling his mop and bucket with him, grumbling something neither William nor Amos attempted to overhear. As soon as he was out of sight, William addressed the matter at hand.
“I’ve asked you here because pieces of our collection have gone missing. I dismissed the first few disappearances as items being misplaced or pulled off their shelves for repair or cleaning, but they have never returned.”
“You wish me to solve for you a string of petty thefts?” No man in possession of as much pride in his cleverness as Amos could help but feel disappointed at the request.
“These are no ordinary thefts.” William guided him past kangaroos, posed in mid-jump, and an armadillo preserved in full armor. All around were skeletons and glass-eyed forms. Tall displays cast odd shadows. Rows of displays broke up the large space into small, sometimes confining sections.
Amos glanced backward as they walked, fighting the oddest sensation that someone was there, watching or wishing for his attention. But he saw no one. Only row upon row of animals. Bears. Lions. A magpie.
From the long-ago years of his childhood came the familiar refrain of the well-known nursery rhyme about magpies.
One for sorrow.
Two for joy . . .
He’d long ago outgrown superstitions, but that lone bird sent a shiver over him, one he clamped down with effort.
The two men paused at a display of rodents, many of a variety unseen in Ireland. William indicated three separate empty places. “These are newly missing, but they were held in place by strong metal bands and thick bolts. Freeing them from their confines is not a simple task. These specimens couldn’t simply be picked up and slipped in one’s pocket. This required time and effort, yet we’ve seen nothing.”
That bit of additional information did offer some degree of intrigue to the mystery.
“And what does the museum director have to say about these thefts?” Amos asked.
William glanced in the direction of the director’s private office. “I would rather not tell Mr. Carte about this, not if we can discover the thief’s identity and recover the stolen items.”
While Mr. Alexander Carte was not a vindictive man, there was no doubt he would be none-too-happy to hear that the museum, whose collection was not yet what he wished it to be, was being diminished by thievery. The director’s displeasure might very well cost William Sheenan his position.
“Are these the only specimens to have been stolen?”
“No,” William said, “only the most recent. We have lost mammal skulls, taxidermied rodents, even a couple of small felines.”
“And how long has this been happening?”
William’s expression grew ever wearier. “For a week now. Something has disappeared every day. That is all I know for certain. The items disappear, though I know not when or how. I’ve seen nothing, can explain nothing. I am at a loss.”
Amos took a slow look around the enormous display room. Row after row of specimens spread out over three floors, the ground-level floor not yet completed. The museum was quite popular, owing in no small degree to Carte’s exhaustive efforts to raise funds, expand the collection, and build interest.
Discovering who amongst the many visitors could possibly be pilfering items would be a challenge, indeed. A challenge worthy of a finely honed mind.
Amos tugged at his right cuff, then his left. He smoothed the front of his sack coat, then straightened his neckcloth.
“I will return in the morning,” he said, “when the museum is open once more to visitors. I will observe, study, sort, and, I have no doubt, solve these mysterious thefts.”
William offered his gratitude along with expressions of confidence in Amos’s ability to do just as he had promised. One would be quite justified in wondering if he offered the praise as a matter of sincerity or in the hope of convincing himself that the disaster awaiting him should his superior discover the thefts could yet be avoided.
“Until tomorrow.” Amos dipped his head quite regally.
“Tomorrow,” William repeated.
He watched as the would-be detective left, a spring in his step and an unmistakable confidence in his stride. He watched with heavy expression, tight pulled lips, and tension radiating from him. The situation was a dire one, more so than Amos Cavey yet realized.
Brogan smoothed the front of his shirt, making full certain it was tucked in all around, and adjusted the fit of his rough-spun trousers. He’d assumed any number of false identities over the years. He’d done so when he and his sister had fled Dublin. He’d done so in his work for the Dread Penny Society. When he and Móirín made their regular journeys to the struggling corners of London, they did so in garb meant to blend in.
This persona felt different, though. It felt more uncomfortable, more uncertain. For the first time, he was undertaking a pursuit entirely alone.
Móirín came down the stairs with her usual air of mingled amusement and determination. “I see you’re hoping to make an impression on your first day at the new job.”
“’Tis physical labor I’ll be doing. Wouldn’t make sense to arrive dressed for a night at the opera.”
She looked him over. “You opted for ‘a night at the squalid pub’ instead?”
“I ain’t so scruff as that. I’d wager you have your usual boot accessory.” He eyed her footwear.
“I’ve a knife on m’ person even when I’m sleeping.” She pulled on her plain, serviceable cloak.
“And where is it you keep your derringer when you’re asleep? In your nightcap?”
“Of course not.” She yanked on her bonnet. “The gun’s under m’ mattress.”
Though Brogan laughed, he felt certain she wasn’t jesting. “I suspect if I didn’t love you, I’d be terrified of you.”
She eyed him sidelong. “You ought to feel a wee bit of both.”
“Likely.” Brogan pulled on his wool jacket. “Shall we go for a merry jaunt?” He did his best impression of a proper London gentleman, the effort marred by the unshakable influence of Ireland in his voice.