“Professor,” she said, “there’s a Stephen MacAlasdair to see you.”
The professor stiffened. “MacAlasdair?”
“Yes, sir. I can send him away, if you’d like, but—”
“No. No, by no means. I’ll see him.” Professor Carter got to his feet, brushed at his coat, and pulled on his tie, the creases in his brow never fading. “Have Mrs. Evans send up tea and scones, Miss Seymour.”
The brief diversion to the housekeeper’s lair meant that Mina entered the office just a step ahead of the professor himself, who looked over MacAlasdair with, to Mina’s eyes, considerable shock. “Good Lord, MacAlasdair, you haven’t aged a day.”
“Flattering,” said MacAlasdair, “but untrue. It’s good to see you looking well, Carter. Professor, I should say.”
They each smiled, but Mina didn’t think either expression genuine. Professor Carter kept playing with the top button on his coat, a sure sign that he was nervous, and MacAlasdair had lost none of the tension in his frame. There was more to this than two old friends meeting again.
When the door closed behind them, she broke her own rules and listened for as long as she was able.
“And when did you post Cerberus at your gates?” MacAlasdair asked.
Mina nurtured a brief but intense wish that he’d trip on the stairs and break his leg, or at least his nose.
Professor Carter made a reproving noise. “I’ve become an object of interest for more than a few people. Antiquities have caught the popular eye, you know. Miss Seymour does an admirable job of keeping the peace. And I daresay she’d have been more amenable if I’d known you were going to call.”
“Ididn’t know I was going to call,” said MacAlasdair, and now his voice was grim. “Not until I read the news. I take it you’ve seen the same piece.”
“I—yes—” said the professor. They were climbing the stairs now, and their footsteps drowned out most of the conversation. Mina caught one name, though: Moore.
She stood very still for a second.
She’d read the paper too.
Colonel James Edward Moore, age sixty-three, had been found dead in his flat two days before. TheTimessaid that “signs”—they wouldn’t be more specific, and Mina was glad—pointed to assault with a heavy weapon. Scotland Yard was investigating but had named no subjects.
Apparently the professor had known Moore. Well, that might have explained his mood over the last day and a half. MacAlasdair had known him too. On the stairs, though, they hadn’t sounded like they were discussing a brutal and mysterious crime. They’d sounded as if they might know what was behind Moore’s death, and fear it.
Mina sat down again and resumed her typing. But she kept listening for noises from upstairs, and she kept one eye on the clock.
She knew, therefore, that half an hour had passed when MacAlasdair stormed down the staircase, slammed the back door open, and stalked through the office and out into the street. He didn’t so much as look in Mina’s direction on the way, and she found herself rather glad of that.
As soon as she’d closed the door behind MacAlasdair, Mina started toward the stairs, moving at a fairly rapid clip herself, and ran into her employer as a result. Her “Sorry, sir!” had a distinct note of relief to it.
Mina didn’t think that Professor Carter noticed. He barely seemed to notice the collision. “Miss Seymour.”
“Are you all right, Professor?”
“Yes, quite.” Except that his face was at least a few shades paler than usual, and his eyes did not see her at all. He thrust a hand forward almost blindly, clutching a haphazardly assembled sheaf of papers. “Here are my notes from this morning. The section on Abyssinian relics might be a bit tricky. Let me know if you have difficulties. I’ll be upstairs.”
With the motion, the cuff of his jacket fell back a little, revealing a wide silver band around his wrist. Mina glimpsed strange, angular shapes running down the middle. Then, as Mina took the papers, the professor dropped his hand, somewhat hurriedly, and cloth fell over the bracelet again.
He’d never been a man for much adornment. Not as long as Mina had known him. And she thought she would have remembered the bracelet. “Sir,” she asked, “what’s troubling you?”
The urge to speak showed itself plainly on his face for a moment, as bright and wide as the bracelet—and as swiftly concealed. “An abundance of questions,” he said gruffly, then cleared his throat and patted her shoulder. “You mustn’t concern yourself about me, Miss Seymour. I’ve weathered more storms in my life than you’ve, er, typed notes on Abyssinia.”
Mina smiled, as the professor clearly wanted her to, but shook her head. “If there’s anything I can do—”
“Nothing anyone can do just now, much less a young lady.” He was back to gruff. “Get on with your work, Miss Seymour. The day grows late.”
Before she could reply, the professor turned away. The door closed behind him with a neat click, leaving Mina with unanswered questions and a pile of paper.
At least she could do something about the latter.
