He tapped his pencil against the page with a frown. “So this man somehow got into the house, went into the library, found this book or stumbled across it, started reading it, and unleashed the magic that killed him. My question is, was it an accident or did someone set him up to die? Or was Mr. Livingston the intended target and not our John Doe?”
“The Livingston’s don’t seem to have any ties to magic, though we’ll have to check to make sure, but it seems unlikely unless someone wanted to kill him in a very gruesome way.Poisoning him would be far easier, especially considering how many other books he has. He might never read it.”
“How hard do you think it would be to activate a book laced with magic? I would assume there had to be some kind of trigger, like opening the cover or reaching a certain page.”
“Something that wouldn’t be set off by normal handling, I suppose. I’ve never dealt with a death-by-magical-book case, but I bet Gwen and Mr. Turpin would know more.” Nodding to the pile of discarded linens on the floor, Oliver added, “As long as those aren’t truly evidence, we can use them to wrap the book up when we leave, so no one can accidentally touch it with their bare hands. It can ride in the back with the deceased. Speaking of which, want to help me get him onto the stretcher?”
Oliver handed Felipe a spare pair of leather gloves before setting up the stretcher next to the desk. After months of working together in the laboratory dealing with bodies, they moved in a well-rehearsed dance. The morbid had become mundane in the ten months they had been together, but Felipe didn’t mind. Between the two of them, they straightened out the man as much as they could to keep him balanced on the stretcher and wrapped him tightly in a shroud. He was sure the photographers outside would have a field day when they carried the body out to the steamer, but it was far easier to carry the stretcher than to lug the coffin lined with preservation spells to and from the steamer.
Stepping away to let Oliver finish tying the shroud, Felipe ran his gaze over the rest of the room for anything out of the ordinary. He shook out the linen the maid had dropped, but there was no sign of the dead man’s clothes. The catwalk was empty, the shelves of books looked to be in order, and the hearth hadn’t been used since it was last cleaned. The room looked immaculate. As he bent to pick up his camera again, his eyes snagged on something under the leather sofa. Lying on hisstomach, Felipe swept his arm under the chair and came away with a sleeve full of fur and a large cat claw. He measured it in his palm against the ones Louisa would often lose in jaguar form, and while this one was bigger than a Pomeranian’s claw, it was significantly smaller than a jaguar’s. With a grunt, he tipped the sofa back enough to stick his head under and found more wads of hair and a series of idle scratch marks on the couch’s frame, as if the cat had sharpened its claws out of boredom. Felipe picked off a larger wad of fur and examined it in the light. Pale orange with grey tips.
“Oliver, I think I figured out how our John Doe got in here,” Felipe said, turning to Oliver with the fur and claw in his palm. “Unless the Livingstons keep a pet bobcat, I think we can safely say he was a bobcat shifter. He probably snuck inside in bobcat form and has been lurking around the house for god knows how long. There’s quite a bit of fur under the sofa.”
Oliver held out a vial for him to deposit the evidence into. “It would explain the nakedness and why no one saw him. I wonder how long he was hiding out. Surely, someone noticed droppings or food going missing. He isn’t emaciated.”
“He probably ate mice or birds, and he could have found some secluded corner of the attic or basement where he could relieve himself.” At Oliver’s look of disgust, Felipe added, “I would say he was here at least a week, based on how much Louisa and the Pomeranians shed. It could have been more if the maids used a carpet sweeper. I think him being a shifter is a safe—”
Felipe and Oliver’s attention snapped to the library door at the sound of raised voices on the other side. For a moment, he wondered if Mr. Livingston had returned from business and demanded to be let in or if a policeman had gotten it in his head that they were taking too long. He had gotten halfway to the door when the knob jingled with a key being forced in the lock. Aman’s voice rose on the other side a second before a policeman’s knock sounded and the door opened. The officer who had been stationed outside the door poked his head in only to be pushed out of the way by a harried redhead. The officer’s hand moved as if to grab the other man, but irritation gave way to a look that suggested the man was not his problem. The door had barely shut when the redheaded man barreled across the room. The man’s pale cheeks were flushed and his hair mussed as if he had run to the house rather than hail a steamer or carriage, and while he wore the sedate business attire of the upper class, he had an air of foppishness about him. Felipe instinctively reached for his revolver but stopped when he realized the man was making a beeline for a shelf across from the fireplace as if they weren’t there.
“Thank the Lord, they didn’t get the Marco Polo or the Boccaccio,” the man cried with obvious relief as he sagged against the shelf.
“Excuse me, this is a crime scene,” Felipe called, stepping forward. “Unless you are a police officer, you need to leave.”
The other man whipped around and stared at Felipe and Oliver as if seeing them for the first time. He couldn’t have been much older than Teresa, but the mask of haughtiness he quickly drew over his features rapidly aged him. Smoothing a hand over the fine fabric of his coat, he straightened to his full height.
“I will not. Mrs. Livingston has ordered me to stand guard of the library,” the man said, a dulled British accent poking through on the last word.
“And you are?”
“Franklin Ramsey, Mr. Livingston’s personal book agent. The library ismydomain, and I have been tasked by Mrs. Livingston with making sure the integrity of Mr. Livingston’s library remains intact in his absence.”
Ah, so Mrs. Livingston assumed they would steal from them. He didn’t put it past the police to collect “evidence” and never return it, but they were far more likely to pocket loose money or a watch than books. When Felipe rolled his eyes, Ramsey gave him a disdainful look.
“There has already been one theft. Has there not? Should Mrs. Livingston not want to protect the rest of her husband’s collection?” Ramsey demanded.
“It was a murder, not a theft as far as we can tell,” Oliver said.
Following Oliver’s gaze to the dead man wrapped in a shroud, the color rapidly drained from Ramsey’s face. “Good heavens. Who was it? Tell me it wasn’t Mr. Livingston. He was supposed to leave for England yesterday. I hadn’t even considered—”
“It was not anyone known to the family or the staff.” Catching Oliver’s eye, Felipe motioned for Mr. Ramsey to follow him to the stretcher. Sometimes, the easiest way to get rid of a bothersome interloper was to ask for their help. “You are intimately acquainted with the house and staff, Mr. Ramsey. Perhaps, you might recognize him.”
For a moment, Felipe thought Ramsey might make his excuses and bolt, but his hopes were dashed when the man squared his shoulders and gave him a tight nod.He’s either foolishly cooperative or hoping helping will get him in with the Livingstons even more deeply, Felipe thought as he pulled back the shroud to reveal the dead man’s face. Ramsey blanched and swore under his breath. Felipe hoped if he was sick, it would be away from the corpse, but his undisguised horror quickly turned to concentration. Oliver and Felipe exchanged a look over his back.
“Do you recognize him, Mr. Ramsey?” Oliver asked slowly.
“I— I’m not certain, but I dare say, I think I do. It’s hard with all of the,” he made a vague gesture around his face. “Even so, he looks so familiar. I can swear we aren’t acquainted. I wouldn’t know his name, but I’ve seen him before.”
Felipe frowned; the man might have been casing the house. “Did you see him standing on the street outside the house or maybe he knocked on the door selling something?”
“No, definitely not. This area doesn’t have those sorts around.” Ramsey huffed and stood. “Where the blazes do I know him from?”
Mr. Ramsey squinted and walked in a circle around the man until he was almost in profile before walking back the way he came but slower. As he stepped back, he stopped and his mouth opened in silent clarity that bordered on anger.
“I know exactly where I saw him. He was at M. H. Vaude’s. It’s a shop up on Fourth that specializes in rare books. I saw that man when I was talking to Mr. Vaude about a shipment of books that was coming in for Mr. Livingston.”
“When was that?”
“In mid-October. That man was prowling around the shelves, listening to us talk about the books I purchased for Mr. Livingston. I should have known he was planning to rob me by the way he was staring. Book collecting can be averycompetitive vocation.”
