Page 132 of Sinister

“Yes, of course. How do you do, young man?” Andrew replies, shaking my brother’s hand with a measured nod. “This is my wife Caroline, and this is my daughter, Petra.”

I incline my head, as does my mother. We don’t speak—because we haven’t been given leave.

“This is Mr. Andrew Snowden,” my father announces, his voice swelling with admiration. He launches into a stream of compliments—eminent, respected, generous—but I stop listening, distracted by the sudden click in my memory.

Snowden. The name has appeared in the Radcliffe Herald countless times. One of the wealthiest men in the region, known for his dominance in textiles and recent investments in railway construction. The papers often mocked his pretentious airs and flamboyant displays of wealth, but what stuns me more than anything is that he and my father are friends.

Snowden isn’t a member of our congregation, so when he spoke of “our community” in the square, he must have meant the town, not the church. But how does someone like him know my father?

And why would my father—rigid, devout—defer so readily to a man outside the faith?

A servant enters, announcing that dinner is served. We rise and follow, filing into the grand dining room where our places are already set.

Leah is seated next to my brother. My father takes the spot beside my mother, opposite Mr. Snowden. I find myself across from him, a position that makes me uncomfortable.

There’s something about this man—something far more unsettling than anything I’ve ever felt when it comes to sin or temptation. It’s deeper. More dangerous.

“Thank you so much for joining us today,” Mrs. Snowden begins with a smile. “It’s a wonderful occasion for our families to get to know one another.”

“Of course. My son and daughter were very excited to be here,” my father replies.

Lies. At least on my part. My brother, for all his efforts to impress, is clearly trying to earn favor, eager to seem older, more important.

“We’re grateful you made the trip,” Snowden says. “Especially with how unpredictable things have become, it’s not always safe to travel after dark.”

“And whose fault is that?” my father growls. “That damned Arnoult. We must catch him before he does something else to shatter the peace of our city.”

Snowden snorts. “Don’t worry. I’m making it my personal mission to see that he’s caught, and punished, for all he’s done.”

“Yes, yes, I have no doubt,” my father agrees. “You’ve got your own score to settle with him.”

Snowden sighs. “Can you believe he used to rent properties from me? Said he needed spaces for academic use. I had no idea he’d turn them into dens of iniquity.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask what he means, but I stay quiet. From the corner of my eye, I see Leah stiffen, her shoulders trembling. Strange.

“What properties?” my brother asks, thankfully voicing what I can’t.

Snowden waves a hand, as though brushing away something distasteful. “As you may know, I own most of the buildings surrounding St. Anselm University—or what’s left of it.”

He chuckles darkly.

“Arnoult rented several of them from me. One became his personal residence. The others were used for his . . . seminars.” He pauses, then adds with a pointed smile, “At the time, I didn’t question it. The university is large, with plenty of rooms. I assumed he wanted privacy. But now I see that he needed somewhere unobserved. Somewhere hidden.”

“So you’ve known Mr. Arnoult for quite a while?” my brother asks.

Mr. Snowden nods. “Seventeen years, maybe more. He arrived in Radcliffe nearly two decades ago. No one suspected anything at first. It’s only in the last few years that the rumors started—about his seances, his gatherings. Some say he holds rituals on the full moon. Some even claim he invited Madame Blavatsky.”

My father frowns. “Who’s that?”

“She was one of those self-proclaimed mystics who claimed to hold all the secrets of the universe,” Mr. Snowden explains. “She died five years ago, but there are rumors she came to Radcliffe shortly before her death to meet with Mr. Arnoult.”

“You really think he was behind the murders?” my brother inquires.

“Of course. Who else?” my father says curtly.

But Mr. Snowden clicks his tongue. “Now, let’s not be hasty, Jeremiah. Arnoult couldn’t have acted alone. We already suspect he was in league with that industrialist, Rutherford. After all, those properties he rented from me weren’t cheap. And I seriously doubt a professor’s salary from a provincial university could’ve covered the cost. He had to be backed by someone.” He leans forward, lowering his voice slightly. “And considering how Rutherford died, I’d say it’s obvious he was involved, too.”

“Didn’t you think it was strange?” I blurt, unable to hold back. “That he could afford them, I mean, when you rented the properties to him?”