“You will survive this, Esme,” he said.
She eyed him warily, disbelief shining in her eyes. He said nothing else for the remainder of the ride.
Twenty minutes later they were standing on Mr. Nichols’s front stoop.
“Ring it again,” Esme pleaded.
Fielding did so and again there was no answer. “Something has happened to him. I know it, Fielding,”
Esme said, dread thick in her voice.
“Stay close,” he said. With one great shove he managed to get the front door open. Heeding his warning, Esme practically attached herself to Fielding’s side. “Mr. Nichols,” Fielding called.
But there was no answer.
They stuck close to the wall as they crept along the hallway. The first room they checked was the room in which they’d met Mr. Nichols on their previous visit. It looked much like it had that day, quiet and tidy, but today it was empty.
The next room was much the same, although it appeared to have been unused for quite a some time. White sheets covered the chairs, and the rest of the furniture was sparse.
Two more rooms and no sign of Mr. Nichols. “Perhaps he went out of town,” Fielding suggested.
“What of his servants?” Esme asked. “Someone would be here.”
They found the kitchen, which appeared empty except for a loaf of bread sitting on the counter. Mold ate at the corners. Two dirty pots sat near a drain bin.
The bottom floor was empty. Together they climbed the stairs, then entered the first door on their right. It was completely dark inside, and the windows were shuttered from the inside. Without them open, the room had no light save that which leaked in from the hall.
“Stay here so you don’t stumble,” Fielding told her. Carefully he maneuvered through the room until he could open a pair of shutters. Cloudy light from outside dropped onto the floor, providing some visibility, though it remained dim.
“Oh, no,” Esme whispered.
Fielding followed her gaze to a chair and table behind him. There, slumped over in the chair, was Mr. Nichols. His small calico wound around the dead man’s legs and mewed. “Esme, wait in the hall.”
She shook her head, then her fingers found their way up to her necklace. “What if they’re still here?”
Fielding touched his hand to Mr. Nichols’s neck. “I believe he’s been dead a while, love. Go ahead and step out so I can look around in here.”
“Come here, Pandy, kitty-kitty,” Esme called, though her voice cracked. The cat flipped her tail in the air and darted straight for Esme. She bent and cradled the crying creature. A few scratches behind the ears and soothing words soon quieted the mews to purring.
Once Esme no longer stood in the doorway, Fielding moved to Mr. Nichols’s body to take a better look. Blood covered his white shirt, and a hole straight through the fabric indicated a gunshot wound. He’d been a kind man, and no matter Fielding’s conflict with Solomon’s, Mr. Nichols had not deserved this.
There was no note, no written message, but Fielding knew this was a warning meant for him. To remind Fielding that neither Esme nor anyone else he knew was safe. It had nothing to do with Mr. Nichols, and now the poor old man was dead.
Damn the Raven. Damn him straight to hell.
He made his way through the room, looking for anything that seemed out of the ordinary, but since he hadn’t truly known the victim, it was hard to tell. In the end he decided this was best left to the police detectives, so he stepped into the hall and found Esme leaning against the far wall. Her eyes were still wide with shock.
“I’m sorry,” he told her.
“I tried to warn him,” she said. “But I was too late.”
“You did what you could,” Fielding told her.
She scratched under Pandy’s chin. “I’m taking her with me.”
He nodded.
“The Raven killed him, Fielding. And he could get to Thea or me. Or you.” The eyes that looked up at him were completely washed in fear. “How can we be safe?”
