Witch in the White City: A Dark Historical Fantasy/Mystery (Neva Freeman Book 1), Nick Wisseman [best novels for students .TXT] 📗

“I’ll hold you to it.” Hatty picked up the basket, approached the door that led to the main portion of the house, and stopped to exhale. Slowly. “Goodbye, child,” she said once she’d gathered herself. “Until next time.”

“Goodbye.” Neva took a deep breath of her own before ascending the backstairs. There was no danger of being seen by a DeBell—they never used the “servant’s steps.” And the servants themselves would all be in the kitchen or dining room by now.

Still, she didn’t relish the thought of encountering anyone else. Especially while she was looking for a reason why Mr. DeBell had gone to an establishment as idiotic as the White Chapel Club. At least Hatty’s suggestion to write a note made for good cover. Neva was already composing it in her mind as she walked into the opulent study and its shelves and shelves of books. “Dear Mr. DeBell,” she’d begin, or maybe “Dearest Mr. DeBell,” if she wanted to seem as far from conniving as possible ...

The mess of papers on his desk gave Neva pause—from the looks of it, Mr. DeBell had been drafting his own note. And not very successfully: there were at least ten versions of an opening to Derek scattered about. Most of them began with “My son,” or “Derek, my boy,” but one of the sheets started with “I should have told you this long ago.” There was no body to any of the messages, however, no indication of what Mr. DeBell had been trying to disclose. The only words on the pages were what seemed to be comments he’d written to himself, usually of the “Get on with it, man” variety, or “Spit it out, for God’s sake!”

“Curious,” Neva murmured as she bent to look in the wastebasket.

“Indeed,” Mrs. DeBell agreed from the doorway.

Neva hid her surprise—and guilt—better than she would have thought herself capable of. “Mrs. DeBell!” she exclaimed in an easy tone. She didn’t straighten immediately; that would have been a dead giveaway. Instead, she rummaged noisily through the wastebasket before removing a piece of paper at random. “I can be so clumsy when I’m not dancing,” she said as she stood. “I came to leave Mr. DeBell a note, but while I was looking for a pen, I knocked this piece of paper off the desk—right into the wastebasket!”

“Heavens,” Mrs. DeBell said mildly. Her hair hadn’t been done yet, but she’d already donned a gray-green gown whose flowing curves did little to soften the angularity of the person beneath.

“He’s really missing?” asked Neva, mostly to change the subject while she unwrinkled the bit of paper—a receipt?—she’d rescued from the trash.

Worry joined the suspicion in Mrs. DeBell’s expression. “Who told you that?”

“I went to the Stockyards yesterday. Bat Wiggins said they’re all worried about him. I’m sorry to call so early. I was just hoping Mr. DeBell had returned.”

“Bat has a kind heart,” Mrs. DeBell allowed after a second.

Neva didn’t disabuse her.

“Sadly, he has the right of it. I haven’t heard from Edward in more than a week.” The suspicion in her gaze remained, but it had shifted, taking on the same knowing glimmer Hatty had evidenced a few minutes earlier.

“He didn’t say anything before he left?”

“No.” Mrs. DeBell nodded at the desk. “But he did come home that last day—came home early, in a bit of a state. He tried to write something.”

Neva pretended to read one of the drafts for the first time. “A letter to Derek?”

“So it would seem. He made quite the hash of it. I’ve never known him to waste so much paper. Something must have been on his mind ...” Mrs. DeBell turned her fearsome eyes to the window, and without their scrutiny, Neva found—to her shame—that she breathed easier. Time to get on with it.

“This may sound odd, but was Mr. DeBell much involved with the White Chapel Club?”

Mrs. DeBell looked back at Neva.

She schooled her face to casualness. “Bat mentioned that Mr. DeBell had gone a time or two, and the papers have been carrying some queer rumors about the club ...”

“What sorts of rumors?”

Too late, Neva remembered that the club hadn’t been mentioned in the article she’d read. But Mrs. DeBell had a dim opinion of the local newspapers—she probably hadn’t gone through the most recent editions in any detail. “The killings at the Fair. Some people think the White Chapel Club might be involved.”

Mrs. DeBell made a perfectly contemptuous face. “They might be involved in talking about the killings and drinking to their ghastliness—no more. They’re fools, but they’re harmless fools. Edward only went the once because a colleague insisted.”

Neva found herself agreeing. Bat and the other White Chapelers weren’t exactly guileless babes—last night had proven that. But even drunk, they hadn’t seemed like true disciples of Leather Apron. And in either case, Mr. DeBell wouldn’t have associated with them. Not willingly, not for long. He just wouldn’t have.

Nor was Mrs. DeBell likely to believe an ex-servant’s alibi for poking about the study. “I don’t want to keep you from your breakfast,” Neva said, taking a small step towards the door.

Mrs. DeBell moved aside to let her pass. “And I don’t want to find you here again unannounced. You and your brother have been afforded certain liberties because of your father’s service to Edward, but that doesn’t excuse the lack of common courtesy you’ve so often displayed.”

Neva couldn’t find the words to respond—the mention of Augie had choked her up, not least because she wasn’t sure Mrs. DeBell would care that he was gone.

The white woman’s heart wasn’t completely cold, though. “Oh, stuff, girl. I’ve never known you to fall apart because of a rebuke. I’m sure Edward will turn up.”

Neva nodded and tried to hurry by.

“Neva ...”

She stopped and glanced at Mrs. DeBell, who seemed to be chewing something over. Almost literally: her mouth moved up and down as if working on a tough piece of meat.

“You’re not my first caller this morning,”