Page 4 of The Devouring Time

“If you could show me the books in question,” I say, hoping to move things along. A grandfather clock along one wall ticks loudly, a reminder of my limited time.

Hart follows my gaze to the clock. “You’ll have to stay here tonight. You won’t be able to do a thorough job and make the train.” I start to protest, but he holds his hand up. “Please, I insist. Allow me to make up for my confusion with the dates by offering you my hospitality. We have a telephone, if you need to call your wife.”

“I’m not married.”

“A family member expecting you, then?”

I could call James and harangue him…but there would be no point. “No.” The last thing I want to do is stay the night in this dismal place, but if the books are truly worth looking over…

I’ll inspect them, then make my final decision. For the moment, I say, “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Hart.”

Myers’s footsteps clomp back toward the room. “Myers!” Hart shouts, as if his servant is going deaf. “Pour us some drinks.”

3

“No, thank you.” I hold up my hand, forestalling any further hospitality at the moment. James would have accepted the drink most likely, and taken the opportunity to chat with our potential client. Ensuring repeat business or at least hoping Hart would recommend us to others of his social circle.

But I’m tired, and sweaty, and the tightness in my cheeks makes me suspect I acquired a sunburn wandering around the countryside with no shade. If there’s any possibility of returning to my own apartment and my own bed, I want to take it.

“Are you certain? I have a lovely brandy—it’s been in my cellar since long before Prohibition.” Hart’s mouth shapes a smile, but his eyes fix on me with an odd sort of intensity. Given the state of the track leading here, they likely get few visitors. Maybe Hart is lonely for any company that isn’t that of his servant.

The grandfather clock ponderously ticks away the seconds behind him, and a glance confirms that I might yet get out of here in time for the train, if I hurry.

“Thank you for the offer, but I’d prefer to get right to work. I’d hate to waste any of your valuable time.” I turn to Myers, who’s standing in the doorway. “If you could just show me the books?”

Myers looks to Hart for permission. “If you insist, Mr. Caine,” Hart says grumpily. I’ve offended the man; James won’t be happy about that.

Well, I simply won’t tell him. He can’t scold me for something he doesn’t know about.

“This way,” Myers says, and damned if he doesn’t look just as annoyed as his employer. As though not having to fetch me a drink is some sort of inconvenience.

Trying to keep my expression blandly pleasant, I follow the butler out of the room and up a sweeping staircase to the second floor. It’s stifling up here, the windows shut and curtains drawn against any chance of a refreshing breeze. Myers stomps down a hall lined with paintings, then opens a door. “In there.”

Beyond is a small library, though with the drapes drawn I can’t see much of it. “Is there a particular shelf, or…?”

“Boss says anything is fair game.”

My estimate as to how long this is going to take rises, and I silently curse. It seems I’ll be forced to stay overnight after all. “Thank you.”

Myers grunts and leaves, heavy footsteps fading away into some other part of the house. The moment he’s gone, I cross the room and throw open both drapes and windows. Despite the general disrepair of the house, the windows slide open with only a slight protest, for which I’m grateful.

Sunlight floods the room, along with a breeze laden with salt. I stick my head out for a moment, taking a deep breath. Outside, trees rustle and birds sing, bringing a lightness to my oppressive mood.

In France, all the trees were blown to flinders from years of shelling and mortar fire. All the birds dead or driven away. Every breeze carried years of decay, the stench wafting up out of the very earth, where blood as much as water created the mud under our feet.

I turn my back quickly on the scene outside. This is why I don’t leave the city.

As for the library, the layer of dust on everything else in this house is absent here. There’s a large desk with only a lamp and a fountain pen on its surface, three wing-backed chairs, worn upholstery testifying to their use, and a fireplace for winter. Except for around the fireplace, every wall is covered by built-in bookcases, all of them stuffed full with tomes.

Praying that Hart uses some system of organization, I begin to scan the titles in hopes of getting an overview. Thankfully, the books seem to be grouped according to subject. The first bookcase I look at is dedicated to gardening, the second to cooking and the domestic arts, and a third to the occult.

This section seems to have the oldest books—which doesn’t necessarily mean the most valuable. Rare book collectors have specific interests, and magic and folklore is a niche one at best. Still, it is one we’ve filled before. I’m always surprised at the nonsense people will pay good money for.

I spot quite an old binding and reach to ease the book from its place on the shelf to examine it more closely. As I do so, the entire bookcase sways slightly.

I jump back—it must not actually be built into the wall, but instead ready to crash down upon me.

But no—the bookcase isn’t falling. Rather, it’s shifted position slightly inward along one edge.