February 16, 1889: Afternoon
Sibyl’s cottage was on the outskirts ofBath, down near the river Avon with an attached waterwheel that was in such disrepair it no longer turned. The old millhouse was small and covered with ivy, flanked by thorny rose bushes whose leaves hadn’t returned yet, and surrounded by tall, yellowing grass. A black carriage was parked beside it. A dappled horse tied to a post was straining its neck to reach whatever it could graze on. The sky was dim with grey clouds and Mira couldn’t help the sense of dread that came over her as they climbed out of their own carriage and started down the path. Walker split off a few yards from the house and made his way around the side.
Once he was out of sight, Byron rapped on the door. It opened a crack, revealing Sibyl’s face, which paled upon recognition.
“What are you doing here?” she hissed.
“We’re here to see Hoddle. Or Suchet. Whichever name he’s using now. May we come in?”
Byron didn’t let her answer, pushing through the door and pulling Mira along with him.
Hoddle sat at the table, a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. His eyes bulged at their sudden appearance, his strickengaze skittering towards the stairs.
“Where’s my sister?” Byron said, tone calm.
“You need to go,” Sibyl said. “He’ll kill her. I know he will.”
Mira frowned. The way Sibyl spoke held the same desperation as when she’d talked about Circe in the Roman Baths. It was then, and only then, that she remembered Sibyl had mentioned three men involved with the burglaries. Not two. She stepped back. “Who will kill her?”
Sibyl kept her voice pitched low. “If you know what’s good for you—and your sister—you’ll leave and send the documents like he asked.”
There was a creak from the floor above. “Who’s there, Sibyl?” A man’s voice called down. It was deep, raspy, and vaguely familiar.
“Just the milkman delivering some milk,” Sibyl called back. She lowered her voice again. “You really must go.”
Byron’s eyes flicked towards the stairs. “Is my sister up there?”
Sibyl nodded. “Please, go.”
A thump sounded above them, followed by a heavy tread on the stairs. A man descended, holding Mary in front of him, arms bound, mouth gagged, and a knife to her throat. He was broad-shouldered and had a ragged scar that ran from the corner of his eyebrow to below his cheekbone. He towered above them on the stairs, a sly smile on his lips.
“I didn’t know you delivered milk, Detective Constantine,” said Aaron Dennis.
Mira’s breath caught in her throat. Had Monty known that his former partner was working with Sibyl?
“And I didn’t know you drove carriages.” Byron’s voice was steely and cold as he pushed Mira behind him.
“I’ve driven you more than once, I’ll tell you. To think that I was able to pull one over on the ‘Great Detective Constantine.’”His smile spread into a toothy sneer and a chill spread across Mira’s back. She glanced over at the hooks on the wall and found a grey muffler. They’d been driven across Bath so many times. How often had Dennis been the driver?
“Now hand over the documents, else this will get unpleasant.”
“You would add another murder to your list of crimes?” Byron said.
Dennis laughed. “This is a familiar scene, ain’t it? You and me, a dagger between us. And you said nearly the same thing back then, don’t you remember?”
Byron’s jaw tightened.
Dennis scowled. “I suppose you wouldn’t. It’s another day for you. I’d wager you never thought of me again after arresting me.” His eyes darkened. “But I dreamt of this moment every night in that prison in Reading. I didn’t think it would happen. I thought you would be smart enough to follow the ransom instructions. But here we are. Just the same as before. Though this time I’ve got insurance.” His hold on Mary tightened. “And I am fully prepared to kill her if it means you’ll hand over the documents.”
Byron stood tall. “You assume that we’ve found them. You only gave us three days to find something your people haven’t been able to find after eleven years.”
“Well then, you made a mistake in coming here. Your last day has been shortened to ten seconds. If you don’t hand the documents over in that time...” He pressed the knife closer to Mary’s neck and she let out a muffled cry.
“Ten.”
Byron stilled. Mira didn’t know what they could do. It was his sister or the documents. Documents that might prevent a war and millions of deaths.
“Nine.”
