Felipe was about to set aside the 1889 dues list when he checked the last page and his blood ran cold at the penultimatename on the list.Dr. Jonathan Yates. He knew the man who ran the Institute for the Betterment of the Soul had been a member of the Grolier Club, but he must have joined the Guttenberg Club before he took up the anti-magic crusade in earnest. Felipe couldn’t prove anything without getting the club’s financial records, but what if the man who sponsored Holbrook’s membership was Dr. Yates? The connection to the current murders made sense. Yates had preyed upon the magical community for profit, telling them he could cure them of their magic all while murdering them and using their blood to enhance his own powers. He didn’t want to rid the world of magic. He merely wanted it consolidated in the hands of the people he deemed worthy of it while the rest were culled. But how did Yates and Holbrook meet? It could have been through a professor at Holbrook’s college or even a social event. Hell, they could have been related for all he knew. He would figure that out later.
Felipe sat back on his heels and stared at the papers. Holbrook had a direct conflict with Enoch Whitley and had apparently held a grudge for years, Felipe had nearly run straight into him at the charity bazaar, and DeSanto had said he was speaking to a man who could help him take college courses. Scrambling up from the floor, Felipe flipped through his notebook for the addresses and calendar entries he had copied from DeSanto’s room. He had assumed M. H. was meant to correspond to the Morningside Heights address—and maybe it still did because that was within walking distance of Columbia University—but what if M. H. was Morris Holbrook? Felipe needed to go to the records room to check the directories. One of them had to have Morris Holbrook’s address. Every murder had Holbrook’s fingerprints on them, and now, he was planning the community’s biggest event in order to cause maximum devastation when he unleashed one of his cursed baubles. Thatwas why he had to villainize Oliver and cut out DeSanto’s tongue to keep him from talking after death. They both knew too much.
Stuffing the papers into his pocket, Felipe holstered his gun and loaded his knives into their sheathes. He didn’t think he would run into trouble but better to be prepared. He quickly wrote out a note for Oliver and left it on the desk in case he finished DeSanto’s autopsy before Felipe returned. Oliver would think he had lost his mind, but time was of the essence. Cranking open the window as far as it would go, Felipe took off his shoes and climbed onto Oliver’s bed. He moved the quilt out of harm’s way and said a silent apology to Oliver as he slid through the narrow opening and shoved the window closed behind him as much as he could. Slipping his shoes back on, he dropped to the alley below, and trotted toward the front of the society. If he was right, then he had enough evidence for the head inspector to get a search warrant for Holbrook’s home or to at least put a moratorium on gatherings until they could get things sorted. He just had to get him to listen.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Anchorites
Oliver glanced up at the clock above the laboratory door. It was nearly time to talk to Mr. Turpin and Mrs. Van Husen. Against everything that happened that morning, talking about being anchorites felt trivial. He almost wanted to ask Turpin if they could push it back to another day, but it was too late to do so. Oliver shook out his hands. It would be fine. The autoclave burbled and hissed as he hosed the remaining antiseptic off the autopsy table. He would write up his report later, but apart from the skull fracture and the burns, the rest of DeSanto’s autopsy had been unremarkable. After Felipe helped him so much in the lab, he nearly forgot to take pictures while he worked, but it was better that Felipe didn’t see it.Felipe. Oliver eyed the closet door. He had been surprisingly quiet. Oliver had felt a thrill come across the tether followed by annoyance a while later, but that wasn’t unusual for Felipe. When he didn’t ask if he could come out or get antsy, Oliver assumed he had fallen asleep. It had been a long day for both of them.
The knob on the inner lab door jiggled and abruptly stopped before a knock sounded on the other side.
“Come on in, Gwen. The coast is clear,” Oliver called as he checked his clothes in the mirror for stains.
“Look who I ran into on my way to get you,” she said, stepping inside with a flourish to reveal Felipe standing sheepishly behind her.
Oliver stared at him for a long moment before turning to the shut closet door. “How did you—?”
“The window,” Felipe replied, shutting the door and herding Gwen down the steps. “I promise, it was for a good cause, and now that I have you both together, I can tell you what I found. Morris Holbrook is the killer. I don’t know if he’s working with anyone, but he was involved in all of the murders.”
Oliver’s heart hammered in his ears. “Holbrook? But he’s—”
“A fox in the hen house.”
Felipe laid out what he had discovered in the dues ledgers, the connections to the institute case, and the evidence Tony had left behind. Oliver shook his head. It made sense. It all made horrible sense. No wonder Holbrook had reacted so strongly when he suggested they postpone the open house.
“I went straight to the head inspector once I confirmed Holbrook’s address.”
“Did he say anything about not dropping the case?” Oliver asked.
“There was some yelling and cursing, but once he finished, he immediately sent someone up to Holbrook’s house to bring him in for questioning. I guess we’re forgiven for now. They already found evidence someone used one of the society steamers to transport DeSanto’s body. They just hadn’t known who borrowed it since the key hadn’t been signed out or taken.”
“Holbrook can manipulate energy,” Gwen said. “That’s probably how he started it.”
“We can stop by the head inspector’s office after the meeting, so you can tell him your theory. Right now, we should get going,” Felipe replied, glancing at the clock.
As they made their way up to the library, Oliver turned over what he found in DeSanto’s autopsy in relation to Holbrook. The burns on DeSanto’s chest had been a puzzle he couldn’t work out. They were far more superficial and controlled than what a firemancer could have done with their bare hands, but heat was energy. When Holbrook had made the lights dim during that first meeting, he had been manipulating the filaments, not the electricity itself as Oliver first thought. Perhaps that was how he made the cursed book and ball. He had heightened his powers by drinking DeSanto’s blood and channeling all of his power and malice into the curses. He should have considered Holbrook sooner.
Since it was dinner, the halls were thankfully empty, and when they reached the library doors, they found them locked with a sign noting they had closed half an hour before. Gwen let them in, but as Oliver waited at her side, he felt eyes on his back. The upper balconies were bathed in shadows as the lamps lit their path to Turpin’s rooms, but he couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched. The prickling anxiety ebbed the moment they filed into Turpin’s private parlor. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, and while Felipe’s eyes roamed over every surface, Oliver only had eyes for the woman standing at Mr. Turpin’s side. He knew Mrs. Van Husen had to be close in age to Mr. Turpin, but she gave off the air of someone’s eccentric great aunt. Her gown was cut from bright lilac silk overlaid with swathes of intricate grey lace in a style that was somehow a step out of date but still timeless. Her smiling, sea glass green eyes watched him from behind half-moon spectacles that hung from a chain of colorful seed pearls. Where Turpin was a mourning dove, she was as colorful as a pigeon. Felipe swept forward to kiss her hand and introduce her to Oliver, but when their eyes met, Oliver realized he knew her.
“You were at my interview,” Oliver said as he took her hand.
“I was, and I’m very happy to see how you’ve grown,” she replied, her eyes pointedly darting to Felipe.
“Inspector Galvan,” Mr. Turpin said flatly with a nod. When the head librarian turned to Oliver with a nod, there was still a hint of cautious distance. “Dr. Barlow, Miss Jones, I hope this will help you both come to a decision.”
Oliver said nothing as Turpin motioned for them to take a seat on the sofa. It was a tight squeeze, but he was relieved to have Gwen and Felipe on either side of him, especially when Turpin turned his probing stare upon them. When the head librarian opened his mouth to speak, Mrs. Van Husen held up a hand.
“Why don’t we let the young people speak first, William, since they were the ones to ask for this meeting?” Mrs. Van Husen said. “What is it you wanted to know about being an anchorite?”
They exchanged a look before Gwen went first. “How do webecomethe anchorites? What is the physical process?”
“Once you decide you want to become the anchorite, we will start acclimating you to the magic beneath the society, so the transition isn’t so jarring. We will guide you on how to channel the magic through your body without hurting yourself. This will probably take a few months, and when we’re confident you’re ready, we will relinquish our holds on the magic and let it fully pass to you. Over time, the magic will fully infiltrate your body. Aging will slow, your abilities will expand, and you will more easily be able to alter the building to your liking, though Dr. Barlow already has an affinity for that.” At the heat rising to Oliver’s cheeks, Mrs. Van Husen leaned forward to pat his knee. “It rewards those who call it home. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Would the anchorites no longer be able to leave the society after that?” Felipe asked.
“For the first few years when the connection is still growing, you can probably travel as far as Brooklyn, but by the time you hit fifty years, you will be unable to go more than a street or two from the building. The leash gets shorter as the connection gets stronger.”
