“He did callus here, so I doubt he’s involved,” Gwen whispered.
“Besides, he’ll probably eavesdrop in the kitchen if we say no. That’s what I would do.”
Felipe flashed Oliver a curious look.
“Don’t let him fool you, Felipe, Oliver enjoys gossip as much as I do, but I do think it’s better to include him and know exactly what he’s heard than to have him fill in the blanks.”
“Then, no talk of the magic,” Felipe whispered before straightening. “Take a seat, Mr. Allen. First, we’ll start with Dr. Barlow and Miss Jones’s findings. Then, we can talk about what you shared with me.”
The innkeeper’s brown eyes brightened as he nodded solemnly and took the seat beside Felipe. As Oliver and Gwen spoke about the dead, Mr. Allen filled their cups and listened intently. Beside him, Felipe had slipped back into the façade of an investigator. Every so often, his brows would furrow, and he would furiously scribble something down. At first, Oliver worried Mr. Allen would be uncomfortable hearing the details of his former neighbors’ deaths and decomposition, but if he was, he didn’t show it. When Oliver posed a hypothetical date of death, the innkeeper was able to narrow down the window even further. They would have to double-check those later just to be safe, but the corrections were helpful. As he discussed their findings in regards to Horace Ridder, Oliver caught himself before he spoke about the magic clinging to his corpse. Felipe was right. It was better to avoid a conversation about his necromancy with a stranger if he could help it. The bugs were far easier to explain.
“Is there a river or creek near town?” Felipe asked Mr. Allen when Oliver finished.
“The river that powers the mill starts in the Dysterwood and flows out of town toward the Delaware. There’s also a small creek not far from the schoolhouse people like to swim in, but that isn’t big enough to hide a body. I’d wager he was in the river, not the creek.”
“Do you think you could show us to the river,so we can take a look around?”
“Of course, though I would appreciate it if we could take your steamer as it’s a far walk.”
Felipe nodded and reread the page of notes he had taken. “Dr. Barlow, you said Mrs. Lindstrom had a wound on the back of her head?”
“Yes. The placement is consistent with a fall or a blow to the head, so I would need to properly autopsy her to confirm either way. Even then, we would need to talk to whomever was with her when she died, and it wouldn’t tell us if it was foul play or an accident.”
“Was there a police report or an inquest made?” Gwen asked.
Mr. Allen shook his head. “As I said before, everyone thought her death was a sudden tragedy. Her husband was beside himself with grief. Dr. Miller being called in was merely a formality.”
“And the sheriff?”
“I don’t know. I assume he came out to take a look, but we can stop by the sheriff’s office and see if Ridder filed anything.”
Tapping his notepad, Felipe pointedly met Oliver’s gaze. “You’re definitely going to want to speak to Dr. Miller too after you hear this.”
The more Felipe and Mr. Allen told him of Annabelle Harrison’s life and death, the more Oliver wanted to shake the town doctor. The man was either lazy or incurious or both, and Oliver hated him on principle for it. Perhaps, he was still sensitive after dealing with the consequences of what was going on at the Institute for the Betterment of the Soul, but he would have bet good money he knew why Annabelle was sick and why she went after her mother in death. How the good doctor didn’t see it was beyond him, especially after the second child only grew illafterthe first died. Outrage constricted Oliver’s ribs, but from across the tether, he felt the balm of Felipe’s presence gently pressing against him like a squeeze of the hand. Drawing in a calming breath, Oliver nodded for his partner to continue with the profiles of the other necromancy victims.
Ultimately, they had one man who died in a mill accident, two “tragedies” that might be murders, a seemingly natural death that was also probably unexamined by the town doctor, and a probable murder.
“Did Sheriff Ridder have any family?” Gwen asked their host when Felipe finished.
“No. His wife died about two years ago. She was a Jarngren.”
“A what?”
“The Jarngrens are the founding family of Aldorhaven. They came to New Jersey when it was still New Sweden and founded the town after they discovered iron in the woods. Silvia Jarngren is—wasLucien Stills’s cousin on his mother’s side and Willard Jarngren’s older sister. That’s how he ended up sheriff; he married into the mayor’s family, not that anyone was dying to be sheriff after my father passed. Anyway, Silvia and Horace’s son died about a year before she did. He couldn’t have been more than ten, and Horace took it very hard. Losing his son started the drinking and dark moods. Once Silvia died, they got worse.”
“Could he have committed suicide?” Felipe asked as much to Oliver as to Mr. Allen.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t close enough to him to know what was going on in his head, but he seemed to be doing all right or at least better than he was. If he wanted to die, there are much easier ways to do so than throwing himself into the river.”
“There were no ligature marks on his neck or head wounds. I don’t know if the insects have reached his lungs yet, but I might be able to see how much water is in them if they’re still intact. That could tell us if he drowned. Obviously, it can’t confirm foul play,” Oliver added, though he did not want to get anywhere near the man’s body again if he could help it.
For a long moment, Gwen stared into her teacup before suddenly setting it aside and grabbing her notes. “Did you notice he was the only one who was dirty?”
“Who?”
“Horace Ridder. He was the only one who had dirt on his skin and clothes. He came from the river, so it makes sense that he would be extra filthy, but the others came out of graves. Shouldn’t they also have dirt on them?”
“I noticed that, but I don’t know if it’s significant,” Oliver replied. “I had assumed some of them were in those mausoleums we saw or that whoever woke them up had disinterred them instead of letting them claw their way out.”
