“And you believe he is correct?”
“I believe,” he said carefully, “that Holt believes it. Whether he is right is another matter.”
Her heart beat harder. “You think I might not have it?”
“I think,” he said, “that you are hiding something.”
She did not know whether to be relieved or unsettled.
“You heard him speak of the cipher,” she said, once more stating facts as she saw them.
“Yes.”
“What did you hear?” Perhaps he had heard more than she.
“That the key was essential to unlocking what they needed in order to continue,” Mr. Leigh answered. Elise’s fingers clenched within her cloak. Blake’s warning burned in her mind. Someone was using the cipher. Perhaps they had only copied some of the symbols if they were looking for the way to read it.
“And you?” she asked. “What do you believe?”
He was silent for several steps.
“I believe,” he said at last, “that your husband died pursuing men who never truly disappeared as had been thought.”
Her breath caught. She stopped again. “You presume?—?”
“I presume nothing,” he said quietly, “but I know this: operations of that scale do not dissolve simply because one man is killed. The perpetrators fragment. They wait. Then when conditions are favourable—when memories fade and vigilance lapses—they resume.”
“Do you think Holt is part of that?”
“Yes.”
“And Singleton?” she asked, watching him closely.
“Singleton was one part of a much larger machine.”
She searched his face, looking for judgement, for condemnation. She found neither, only something harder to name in the steadiness of his voice.
“You speak as though you mourn him,” she said.
He met her gaze. “I mourn what he destroyed.”
That was answer enough. They reached the school gate. Elise laid her hand upon it, then hesitated.
“Who are you?” she asked quietly.
“Someone who seeks the truth.”
“That is not a complete answer.”
“It is the only one I can give.”
She turned to face him fully now, lantern-light catching the planes of his face. He looked tired, she realized—not merely from the night’s exertions, but from a deeper weariness. This was a man long accustomed to carrying weight without relief.
“You are not what you pretend to be,” she said with conviction. “Yet you expect me to trust you.”
“I expect nothing of the sort,” he corrected gently. “I mean to find what I was sent here for, and I believe Holt has it.”
She pressed her lips together.
