“Would you be able to provide his address?”
“I don’t remember the exact address, Galvan, but it was an old row house on St. Mark’s Place. There should be a copy of the search warrant in the archives. Check in the file around March 1894. And before you ask, inspector, Enoch had no family. He was the last of his line, lived off dwindling family wealthalone, and last I heard, he split his time between booksellers, auctions, and the Guttenberg Club. I suppose we can also add housebreaking to his list of pastimes.”
As Turpin pushed to his feet, Oliver quickly asked, “I know you haven’t seen him in years, but do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill him?”
“No. Enoch was a thief, but he wasn’t malicious. Apart from someone taking revenge because he stole from them, I cannotthink of a reason to kill him.” Staring at the mortuary cabinet that held Enoch Whitley’s body, Turpin let out a world-weary sigh. “Then again, humanity’s cruelty continually astonishes me. If that’s all, gentlemen, I’ll take my leave. Dr. Barlow, can you carry the book upstairs for me? I would like to speak to you privately if you have time.”
Oliver froze even as his pulse quickened and a flash of fear sparked like flint on the other side of the tether, but the latter went out as quickly as it came. He opened his mouth to ask Mr. Turpin what he wanted to speak about or if they could just do it here, but the head librarian was already halfway to the door. Felipe’s warm hand closed around his shoulder with a squeeze.
“I’m sure it’s nothing bad, Oliver,” Felipe said, reaching back to grab the library’s copy ofThe Corpus Arcanumoff the bench. “I’ll put the other book away and find Enoch Whitley’s address in the archives while you’re gone.” When Oliver nodded but didn’t say anything, Felipe leaned close and warmly whispered, “Three tugs for an emergency, two tugs if you need me, and one if you love me. You know I’ll be there in a heartbeat if you need me.”
A hesitant smile spread across his lips as he gave the tether one tug and took the book from his hand. He was being silly. Turpin probably just wanted to talk about helping out in the library again or to reprimand him for sending Gwen too many lunch notes. He hadn’t done anything to cross him.
“Meet me in the upstairs apartment when you’re done?”
When Felipe nodded and gave him a nudge forward, Oliver squared his shoulders and caught up to Mr. Turpin in three strides. The other man didn’t so much as look at him, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything, especially after realizing he lost someone he knew. No, Oliver had done nothing wrong.
He hoped.
***
Oliver followed a step behind Mr. Turpin, shortening his stride to keep from overtaking the older man. Their silent walk to the library had only stoked the anxiety growing in his chest, but he resisted the urge to pester Mr. Turpin as he had done to Gwen. It hadn’t been his finest moment, and Turpin would certainly take it with less grace and patience than Gwen had. As they rounded the last bend before the library, Oliver darted ahead to open the library’s great bronze doors for the other man. The moment his hand closed around the handle, he jolted at a zap of electricity passing through his fingers and into the door. He must not have been picking up his feet, Oliver thought as the lock snicked softly under his hand. When he pulled the door open to let the other man pass, Mr. Turpin gave him a shrewd, lingering look but merely murmured his thanks and tucked his key back into his pocket.
As they passed, the globed lamps lining the perimeter of the hall sparked to life. Oliver had been to the library numerous times after hours to help Gwen and the other librarians with projects or just to keep her company as she worked, but he wasn’t accustomed to it being so desolate. Their footfalls rang loudly against the boards, and with every light they passed, Oliver could hear the buzz of electricity half a second before they blinked on. He had never felt uncomfortable in the library when alone with Gwen, but this felt different, almost as if the building waited for them with bated breath. For a moment, Oliver thought Turpin would lead him into the staff room or the special collections to talk privately, but instead, he led him down an aisle of bookshelves that ended in a simple door that blended into the paneled wall. Oliver had visited the library more times than he could count in his decade with the society, and he was certain he had never seen that door before. A brass plaque nailed to it readWilliam Turpin, Head Librarian.
“You aren’t the only one who doesn’t want to live on the dormitory floors, Dr. Barlow,” Mr. Turpin said as if sensing Oliver’s confusion. “If I did, people would be banging down my door to let them into the library or fetch them a book at all hours.”
Considering Oliver’s original room was only accessible through a closet in the morgue, he didn’t have room to talk. Turpin unlocked the door with an iron key and ushered Oliver inside. Somehow, the room was exactly what he had expected from the head librarian. While the rest of the Paranormal Society appeared to have been remodeled at some point in the last fifty years, Turpin’s room remained a relic from the previous century. The ceiling was lower than the rest of the building, and Oliver nearly ducked, even though the beams were inches above his head. Pale yellow plaster reflected the light from the heavily curtained window and drew out the sepias and browns in the dreamy landscapes hanging on the walls. Below it, on most of the walls were paneled in dark teal wainscoting that looked nearly grey until the light hit it, making it glow green like the verdant paintings. On the wall with the fireplace and the door that Oliver assumed led to Turpin’s bedroom, the molding ran to the ceiling and nearly hid the door.
A small couch and two armchairs in matching gold damask crowded around the fireplace while a mahogany desk with claw and ball feet lurked in the corner, stacked with books, a candle, and enough paper to make Oliver nervous that an open flame was anywhere near it. He could picture Turpin working at the desk in a nightcap and banyan or reading a book before the fire until he fell asleep, and Oliver suddenly wondered if Mr. Turpin slept in a canopy bed with curtains that matched the era of his parlor. As long as he had known him, he had never stopped to consider what his rooms looked like or even where they were. Looking around the room, Oliver wondered how much of theoriginal structure of the Paranormal Society lay hidden just under a few layers of wood and plaster.
“You may leaveThe Corpus Arcanumon the desk, Dr. Barlow. I’ll return it to the special collections later,” Mr. Turpin said as he tied back the curtains to let in more light.
Oliver stared at him blankly for a moment only to remember what he had been holding. The fear of the book had disappeared under the fear of a tongue lashing, and while he wasn’t thrilled with leaving it out in the open, he did as he was told and set it on the desk. When he turned, he found Mr. Turpin kneeling beside the fireplace with bellows in his hands. Oliver took a lurching step forward to help, a reflex from spending so many years living with his grandmother.
“I can do that for you, sir,” Oliver said softly, hoping he wasn’t overstepping, but Turpin had struggled up the stairs as if his knees or hips bothered him. He couldn’t imagine it was easy for him to squat beside the grate or stand back up after.
“Thank you, but I’m perfectly capable of getting the fire going,” he replied gruffly but without malice. “Come, sit.”
Hesitantly drifting to the sofa, Oliver pretended to look out the window until Turpin rose from the hearth with a grunt and sank into the nearest armchair. Oliver sat stiffly across from the head librarian, his back ramrod straight and his ankles crossed tightly. Unsure what to do with his hands, he folded them in his lap. Mr. Turpin was the closest thing Oliver had to a strict grandfather or great-uncle, and he found he cared for and feared the man in equal measure. Oliver tried not to squirm beneath Turpin’s pale-eyed gaze as the full weight of his attention fell upon him.
He knew he should compliment his sitting room or comment on something in the antiquated apartment, but all that came out was, “Have I done something wrong, sir?”
“No, Dr. Barlow, and it would behoove you to not act guilty when you have done nothing wrong. Expecting censure usually brings it.”
Oliver snapped his mouth shut. His thirty-seven years of life proved that it didn’t matter whether he acted guilty or not, people would still be mad at him for reasons he didn’t fully understand. Better to air on the side of assuming he had done something wrong rather than carelessly trampling over other’s feelings because that was usually the case.
His thoughts must have shown on his face because Turpin said, “People will think what they will of you no matter what, but if what you’re doing isn’t hurting anyone or part of some larger moral failing, then there’s no reason to apologize for it. You don’t apologize for being with Inspector Galvan, professionally or otherwise, and Galvan certainly doesn’t apologize for his missteps.”
Oliver’s jaw clenched. Turpin always thought the worst of Felipe, though he barely knew him. He might not apologize incessantly like Oliver did, but Oliver knew Felipe silently agonized over how his actions affected others. Oliver wouldn’t be with him if he didn’t care.
“Felipe cares a great deal about the harm he might cause. Just because he doesn’t apologize to you for something petty, like leaning against a shelf or being pushy, doesn’t mean he never apologizes.”
“So you are capable of pushing back when it suits you.” A ghost of a smile curled the older man’s lips as he gave Oliver a pointed look. “All I’m saying is that if Galvan is worth defending, so are you, especially the ways in which you are different from the others.”
Swallowing hard, Oliver stared down at his hands. If Turpin was trying to hint at telling people about his necromancy, there was no way that would happen. He wasn’t ashamed of who hewas or what he could do. Being a necromancer allowed him to learn things he never could in the field or at the autopsy table. It helped him solve cases, and he tried very hard to be ethical in how he dealt with the reanimated dead. And it brought Felipe back. Felipe— Oliver had broken all of his reanimation rules and the rules that governed nature for Felipe, but he regretted nothing. He would do it a hundred times over no matter the consequences, and that was why he couldn’t tell anyone about his powers: because if they knew, they might look too closely and realize what he had done. He would take any punishments, but he couldn’t bear the thought of anyone hurting or scorning Felipe for something he had done.
“With all due respect, sir, that isn’t going to happen. There are plenty of people at the society who would throw me out if they knew what I was, and they would do far worse if they knew what I had done. There’s a reason you haven’t told anyone in charge about me or Felipe.”
