Bing! The open hallways echoed the high-pitched chimes of the giant grandfather clock in the parlor.

Cordelia Green rolled her neck, then resumed her craned position looking down the hall. She listened to the bells ring four more times. Five o’clock.

She stood, tired of reading Mr. Blackburn’s books. She returned the hefty tome she had been working on to the shelf, placing it (Curious Findings in London) next to Ghost, Spector, or Spirit: A Guide.

She then left the drawing room and began down the hall. It was still unfamiliar to her: the layout of the house, the strange paintings on the walls, the ornate rugs and flowing curtains. It was very much like her previous residence in many ways, and so, so different in others.

The young woman paused just shy of a mirror, hesitant to walk past. She finally peered delicately in, finding her own wide, dark eyes staring back at her. They, at least, remained unchanged.

Her skin, though, was shockingly pale, very nearly white. She reached up and pulled the veil she so often wore nowadays over her face, shrouding herself in the dark mesh.

“Miss Green,” greeted a low voice.

Cordelia yanked her eyes from the mirror in a near guilty manor, and swung them to Gladwich. The footman, middle-aged but maintaining a quite boyish face, looked back at her innocently.

It still unnerved her that the servants in this household were so forthcoming; her servants had always been rather reserved.

“Any chance you’ve seen Mr. Blackburn?” Cordelia asked, looking past him to the parlor.

“Not since the morning, Miss Green.” Gladwich raised a brow at her then. “And I must say it’s a shame, for Missus Dowling has just made the most marvelous looking oyster pies.”

Cordelia gave a spiritless smile to the footman and replied, “Thank you, Gladwich.” It appeared she would be dining alone.

--

Next chapter: https://theprose.com/post/290295/2-missing

Cordelia had only eaten a few forkfuls of oyster pie when she heard the front door open. Even from the dining room the sound was unmistakable.

The front door was a peculiar piece of the house, though not the most peculiar. When it opened, the rush of air caused the curtains in the front hall to fly up and flutter down, effectively mimicking the sound of a colony of angry bats flying away.

Immediately, Cordelia stood and left the room, meeting Mr. Blackburn in the front hall, where Gladwich was attempting to retrieve his coat.

Mr. Blackburn himself was an interesting figure, although outwardly he dressed like any other man of class. He wore a top hat, a long, black frock coat, and linen shirt with a patterned cravat tied around his neck.

The man underneath the hat, however, was unlike anyone Cordelia had ever known. He was decently young but lived alone, and he had sharp features. His eyes, in particular, were unusually bright, as they were a light turquoise color. They perfectly matched the sphere of turquoise stone that topped the cane he so often carried.

“Gladwich, please, I’m on my way out,” Blackburn said, dodging the footman’s efforts to remove his coat.

“I’ve got an address!” Cordelia said proudly over Gladwich’s voluble objections to Blackburn.

“Ah, Miss Green,” greeted Blackburn. “I, too, have an address, of sorts. One we will be heading to at once. The carriage is out front.” To Gladwich he said, “Gather our traveling cases.”

“But you’ve only just arrived,” griped Gladwich, but he retreated into the house to do as he was told.

Blackburn immediately cocked his head at Cordelia. “Where on earth did you obtain an address?”

Cordelia, quite smuggly, pulled a note from her pocket and offered it to him. “I do not sit idly around the house, Mr. Blackburn.”

His mouth quirked, and he received the note. “There is much to learn about you, Cordelia.”

She shook her head at his informality. They had only known each other for near three days, but they got along decently. Although, Cordelia didn’t have any other options, really, for she desperately needed a place to stay.

“Unfortunately, you’ve agreed to help me first, so your investigation must wait. To the carriage!” Blackburn said, ushering Cordelia outside the house.

* * *

“We’re staying the night someplace else?” Cordelia asked, peeking out of the carriage’s curtains. They had just set off, and the sky was beginning to darken.

Blackburn tapped a finger on the head of his cane. “Yes, if that’s acceptable for you. It’s a half hour’s ride to Dulwich Wood.”

“And what is the nature of this… case?” Cordelia asked. She had made a deal to assist Blackburn in his day-to-day job, which seemed to be solving low-profile mysteries and disturbances around London.

Blackburn took a small photograph out of his coat and handed it to her. “The woman I met with today, Malissa Bellingham, says her husband went missing in these woods.”

“And are you qualified to find him?” Cordelia asked pointedly. She looked at the photograph, a man with a curly mustache and a woman laughing, holding her bonnet to her head.

“Well,” Blackburn leaned back in his seat, “It’s within my range of... interest. Mrs. Bellingham said she’d just been to the woods with a friend, and they’d bumped into some fortune tellers. When she came home with her fortune, Mr. Bellingham was not just skeptical, but furious.”

“What was the fortune?” Cordelia asked, leaning forward. A few weeks ago, she’d shake off fortune tellers as evil and hearsay, but things were different now.

“That she’d never bear a child. So, the husband, Samuel, came to see for himself. And that was two days ago.”

“Why not take this to someone else? Can’t the parish send out people to find him?”

Blackburn’s turquoise eyes turned to her, looking solemn. “The parish doesn’t deal with cases such as this. Fortunes, otherworldly forces, the like. No one else wants to deal with this. That’s why I do it.” He punctuated this statement with a dimpled smile.

Cordelia scoffed, surprised. Were they really the best people in all of London to find Samuel Bellingham?

--

Previous chapter: https://theprose.com/post/289588/1-miss-cordelia-green

Next chapter: https://theprose.com/post/292199/3-meeting-marfleet

Cordelia pulled her veil off her face and looked up. ‘Yellowwood Inn’ read the sign. The building was fairly small, and she could smell the sourness of spirits even from outside. She had a feeling she was not going to love her stay.

She turned and looked down the dirt road they had been dropped off on. There was no town here, and few other buildings. Really, there was only forest.

“Miss Blue?”

Cordelia started and turned, pulling her veil back over her face. She cocked her head at the man in front of her. “Greetings, Mr. Marfleet.”

The man was exactly as she had last seen him earlier that day: tall, verging on lanky, and well-dressed. He wore a deep blue vest under his coat with a plain black neck tie, neatly tied. And his shoes were still primly shined, despite his current position standing on slightly muddy ground.

Marfleet removed his hat to reveal curly, but well-styled, brown hair, and bowed slightly. “I would’ve expected you to have been at your cousin’s house by now, considering your earlier state of distress,” the man said, his brows drawn together in a thoughtful way.

Cordelia gave him a tight-lipped smile, her mind whirring. “Ah, fortunately I received a letter when I got home that told of good news. It turned out my cousin is now in quite good health.”

Marfleet’s face remained unreadable as Cordelia held a fragile smile.

“It seems unusual to me to find you here, especially all by yourself...” Marfleet said next. His eyes held a slightly suspicious glint.

“Well,” Cordelia cast her eyes to the ground, “It’s just that the news of my cousin’s sickness, it’s made me consider the fleeting nature of this life. Tonight, I am not alone.” She gave him a sultry laugh. “You may call this my vacation.”

Marfleet’s eyebrows rose considerably after hearing her piece, and his nostrils flared in a dissatisfied way. “Do not do anything you might regret, Miss Blue. Life may be fleeting, but that’s no reason to be rash.”

“I believe it is every reason to be rash,” she said lowly.

“Ah, are we discussing rashes?”

Blackburn had appeared at her elbow, which seemed to give Marfleet quite a shock. From the way his eyebrows drew and his mouth shaped into a scornful ‘o’, it was clear that Marfleet was not happy with the surprise addition to their party.

“You’re vacationing. With him!” Marfleet looked ready to throw Cordelia over his shoulder and take her away.

“Yes… the vacationing. Lovely out here,” Blackburn said slyly, leaning casually forward on his cane.

Marfleet bristled and turned his attention to Cordelia. “Miss Blue,” Blackburn gave a quiet snort, “Forgive me for my frankness, but if you know anything about this man you’d know to spend as little time with him as possible.”

Bemused, Cordelia glanced between the two men, who had engaged in a heated sneering contest. When the men realized that Cordelia was doing nothing but observing them with an unimpressed look about her face, they stopped.

“I take it you are not who you say you are,” Marfleet finally said, looking down his nose at her.

She smiled warmly. “Cordelia Green, temporary London investigator.”

Grudgingly, Marfleet shook the gloved hand she offered him. “Temporary?”

“This is all fine and well, but the lady and I do have some… vacationing to do,” Blackburn said, tipping his hat.

Before they departed, though, Marfleet asked, “How did you hear about Samuel Bellingham?” He planted his feet and folded his arms, waiting for an answer.

“Same way I always do… I received a letter!” With that, Blackburn shrugged and started off. Cordelia stood a moment more, long enough to give a mischievous smile and a ‘farewell’ to Marfleet. Then, she hiked up her skirts and followed Blackburn down the path to the forest.

--

Previous chapter: https://theprose.com/post/290295/2-missing

Next chapter: https://theprose.com/post/293154/4-summoning

“You were quite friendly with Marfleet,” Blackburn said darkly. He swung his cane at the forest’s underbrush as they walked.

Cordelia plunged steadfast into the dewy plants, despite the realization that it would dirty her best (and only) leather shoes. “Well, I met him this morning, obtaining the address.”

Blackburn looked over at her, throwing up his hands. “He works for the Scotland Yard! Now we have him on our tails… he’s always pedaling around in my business.”

“If he’s also on the case, perhaps he could help?” suggested Cordelia, stepping over a tree stump.

Blackburn huffed and stabbed his cane into the ground. “Harvey Marfleet--” Blackburn violently yanked his cane back out of the ground, “has never helped anyone but himself. He will only make our work more difficult.”

Cordelia shook her head, but only because she was a step behind Blackburn still, and out of view. She pondered asking why the two had such animosity towards one another.

Instead, she was stopped by Blackburn’s arm, which had been suddenly thrown out in front of her. Nimbly, she dodged around it, trying to see why they had stopped.

“Stop that,” Blackburn said sternly.

She did, but only because she saw it: a circle of stones on the ground. She looked down at it, her feet just an inch away, her skirts swishing around her.

“Do not step in the circle,” Blackburn said, holding out a hand as if testing the air.

She looked at him, and noted the curiosity on his face and the eagerness in his eyes. “And why would that be, Mr. Blackburn?”

He actually rolled his eyes, making Cordelia purse her lips in a suppressed smile. “Cordelia,” he said lightly.

She waited for him to say more, but he instead stared silently into the circle of stones. Finally, he asked, “The time, Miss Green?”

Sighing, Cordelia dug into her skirt pocket and procured an old, but accurate, timepiece. She lifted her veil to better see it, and tapping the face, read, “Just a hair past nine.”

Blackburn was silent a moment, then said, “Indeed, indeed. Strange, isn’t it?” He had the smallest of smile on his lips.

Cordelia could not help but raise her brow, her mind recalling all the strange things she had read about in the books in Blackburn’s house. “So it is what I believe it to be?” she asked, looking back at the stones.

Blackburn lifted his cane, looking satisfied. “Yes, Cordelia, a conjuring circle.”

“Conjuring what exactly?” Cordelia asked, taking a step back from the circle of stones.

Blackburn nodded to himself in a thinking sort of manner, then replied, “That I do not know. The answer to all of our questions, I assume, will come from the fortune tellers in these woods.”

Cordelia glanced around as if the fortune tellers would appear at the mere mention, but the forest was still and dark. She had no idea how one would go about finding them.

Blackburn, on the contrary, sprang into action. Throwing back his coat tails, he knelt and began to dig into the earth around the stones.

Cordelia’s brows drew together in distaste; she was still unused to his utter lack of respect towards precedence. His hands and clothes--they would soon be filthy!

“Keep one eye on the time, will you?” Blackburn called over his shoulder, now removing the stones from the ground and rearranging them.

The timepiece still sitting in Cordelia’s hand read 9:03, the same time she had seen before. “The hands, they’re not moving,” Cordelia told Blackburn.

He tossed a rock beside him, then began digging again. “Yes. In a traditional summoning ritual, there is a closing procedure, much like locking the door to your house when leaving. That hasn’t been done here, and the air is full of… stale magic, you could say. It’s suppressing the time.”

Cordelia stepped back to avoid a rock that Blackburn tossed behind him. “So time is stopped?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Not stopped, exactly, just moving at a different speed...” Blackburn said, trailing off slightly. “The time now?”

Looking down, Cordelia saw the hands tick steadily onwards. “It’s moving! Four past nine.”

Blackburn stood, his hands and coat sufficiently muddied. “Excellent. I’ve discharged the circle, so nothing else will come through.” His mouth quirked as he looked at Cordelia. “Now, we get to find what came through in the first place.”

--

Previous chapter: https://theprose.com/post/292199/3-meeting-marfleet

Next chapter: https://theprose.com/post/294546/5-watch-your-ankles

The sky was dark now, and Cordelia and Blackburn stood in the midst of what felt like a thousand looming trees. Occasionally an owl hooted or the trees rattled in the wind, but otherwise the forest felt still.

“Fortune tellers want to be found,” Blackburn was explaining. He had already begun to walk in a seemingly random direction. “Generally they set up somewhere in the moonlight; better for predictions and for getting the attention of wandering tourists.”

“Are there are a lot of wandering tourists in these woods?” Cordelia asked, scrunching up her nose. She couldn’t imagine anyone of class traipsing around the woods at night.

“If you’re looking for someone to read your future, sure. It’s more common than you think,” Blackburn responded, sensing her skepticism.

“So, do--oomph!” Cordelia let out an unladylike grunt as she tripped and hit the rocky ground. Her gloved hands scrabbled at the dirt, and she pushed her upper half up, but something was still wrapped around her ankle.

She shook her leg, twisting to see what had her, when she felt herself being pulled backwards. She saw it: hands.

“Mr. Blackburn!” she shrieked. The arms were strong, and they kept a tight grip on her leg. She felt her skirt rip, snared on a broken branch, and she kicked out at her attacker. “Blackburn!”

All at once he was there, grabbing her hands, trying to pull her away from the hands attached to her ankles.

But her silk gloves were too slippery, and Cordelia was yanked away, while Blackburn was left clutching her gloves.

Heart pounding, Cordelia twisted until she could see her capturer: a man with a large red beard and disturbingly blank eyes. In fact, his entire face was slack and expressionless, as well as covered in dirt.

Then, a pistol fired. A tree snapped above her head, and Cordelia gasped, eyes wide.

To her relief, the grip on her ankle disappeared, and she scrambled away right into Blackburn, who grabbed her hand and assisted her up. He gave her an odd look as she stood, whirling, to see the red-haired man holding the tree branch above his head. He seemed to have caught it.

“Are you alright?” Blackburn asked, turquoise eyes flashing back and forth between the man and Cordelia, who stood slightly behind him.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly, eyes trained on the red-haired man. He did not move, but Cordelia refused to look away.

“Do you hear that?” she whispered after a moment, listening. There was rustling in the forest, like someone was running.

A figure emerged, pistol in hand. Marfleet. “Found you! You are under arrest, Mr. Notley!” he called out.

The man Notley made no attempt to run or attack. Instead, he set the tree branch down on the ground and put a hand to the tree it had fallen from.

As Blackburn and Cordelia looked on, Marfleet approached the man and bound his hands with rope. Still, Notley said nothing. His expression didn’t even change.

Satisfied, Marfleet nodded to the two onlookers. “Looks like I beat you to this one, Mr. Blackburn.”

“You think this killed Samuel Bellingham?” Blackburn asked, stepping forward to peer at Notley. The man stood motionless, his bound hands still laying on the tree trunk.

“This is Lyman Notley. He’s a been living as a hermit in these woods for twenty years. That is the kind of thing to drive a man mad,” Marfleet said, one brow raised in challenge.

Cordelia, who had just recovered from her near kidnapping, listened to their conversation from some feet away. She squinted into the dark forest. “Is the tree supposed to be doing that?”

Inexplicably, the tree seemed to be growing a new branch, exactly in the spot that it had lost one.

“Excellent work, Cordelia,” Blackburn breathed. He stared upwards, transfixed.

“What’s going on?” Marfleet asked impatiently, grabbing Notley by the shoulder and wrenching him away from the tree. Notley swung limply in the direction Marfleet pulled, not unlike a rag doll. The whole ordeal made Cordelia shiver.

“Look, it’s stopped,” said Blackburn, gesturing at the tree. “Notley isn’t the killer; he’s a healer.”

--

Previous chapter: https://theprose.com/post/293154/4-summoning

Next chapter: https://theprose.com/post/299187/6-someone-is-dead

“You think Mr. Notley isn’t a killer? He just tried to kidnap Miss Green!” Marfleet said. He kept a tight hold on Notley with one hand, leaving the other free to gesticulate.

“Let him go.” Blackburn said with the utmost confidence.

“Mr. Blackburn!” Cordelia reprimanded. “I must agree with Mr. Marfleet. This man is certainly dangerous, if not our killer.” She shared a brief look with Marfleet, who gave her a curt nod.

Blackburn opened his mouth, then shut it again. “So be it. Marfleet, do what you’d like.”

Cordelia immediately sighed and shifted back and forth on her feet, eager to leave the damp, darkness of Dulwich Wood. However, neither of the men moved an inch.

“What are you waiting for?” she prompted brazenly. Her old habit of ladylike passiveness was well on its way to being snuffed out completely.

Marfleet glanced over her way. “Mr. Blackburn never makes my job so easy. He has given in without a fight.”

“Enjoy it,” Cordelia said emphatically. “Now, please, can we get out of these woods?”

* * *

Marfleet had dragged a listless Notley back in the direction of his carriage, leaving Cordelia and Blackburn alone.

“Off we go,” said Blackburn, starting off and glancing at Cordelia out of the corner of his eye.

Even though she was quite keen on getting out of the woods, she was slow to follow. “Are you going to tell me what just happened?” she asked. In habit, she tried to adjust her gloves, then remembered that they were missing. She glanced around, but did not see them on the forest floor.

Blackburn adjusted his top hat and replied, “How do you mean?”

She narrowed her eyes at his back and hiked up her skirts so that she could better catch up to him. “You know what I mean, Mr. Blackburn.” She walked ahead of him, body turned sideways to look at his face.

His turquoise eyes stared right back at hers, just as stubborn.

“You agreed with Mr. Marfleet to make him go away,” she said proudly. That much she’d deduced.

Blackburn gave her a sly smile. “Alright, Cordelia. But walk beside me; I fear you may trip, sidestepping as you are.” He took her wrist to guide her beside him. His hand felt hot on her skin.

Hastily, she pulled her arm away. For a moment, neither said a word, and their footsteps seemed to resonate through the woods.

“You’re dead,” Blackburn finally said in a grim tone. Ever steady, he continued to stride forward, his cane thumping the ground in time with his step.

Cordelia, however, faltered. The world stopped for a moment, fear constricting her chest more than any corset she’d ever worn. She tripped forward, only just catching herself.

Blackburn shot out a hand to steady her, but she ducked away, making sure he didn’t touch her skin again.

She blew out a breath. “I don’t feel very dead,” she said hotly.

He looked down, as if amused, then stopped, looking her straight in the face.

Blackburn looked at her with gentle eyes, but still Cordelia stared beyond him.

His eyes cast down to her hands then up to her neck, and finally to her face, obscured by her veil. By now Cordelia knew how pale her skin looked, and she was sure the moonlight only highlighted this fact.

“You want to know what happened; Notley came after you and no one else. Why? And your skin,” Blackburn put out a hand, but didn’t actually touch her, just hovered near, “is so cold.”

Cordelia closed her eyes, willing the memories to stay away. The night, it could have been any night. “You think Notley attacked me because I’m dead?” She forced herself to laugh. “What an odd man you are, Mr. Blackburn.”

But Kent Blackburn was not easily dissuaded. “Notley healed that tree. That much I know you saw. That was the work of a nature spirit, not a human.”

Cordelia bit her lip, his words sounding a little crazy. But not fully crazy. Because she knew that the unbelievable could become reality. “You’re saying Mr. Notley isn’t human?”

Blackburn leaned forward on his cane, as if confiding in her. “He used to be. But something in this forest has used his body as a sort of... vessel.”

Cordelia’s eyebrows drew together in concern. “So something killed Notley to use his body? Would they have killed Samuel Bellingham too?” They should not just be standing in the forest if there were murderous forest-dwellers running around.

“Perhaps,” Blackburn began, beginning to walk again. Cordelia almost sighed in relief as they seemed to have dropped the topic of her… liveliness.

“But I don’t think this is the case. More likely, it is the work of nymphs. Generally they try to heal their forest, as we witnessed Notley doing. They also clean up, so they will recycle the bodies of the dead.” He gave her a pointed look. “Which is why Notley wanted you.”

“Or,” Cordelia retorted, “you see spirits where there are none, and Mr. Marfleet is actually correct.”

To this Blackburn did not reply, and Cordelia heard only their soft steps through the damp grass. Cordelia looked over at her companion, who was clutching his top hat due to a sudden burst of wind. Cordelia shivered, realizing only then how significantly the temperature had dropped during their escapade.

“Why have you gone silent?” Cordelia asked when he still would not acknowledge her.

He glanced her way. “I am letting you think, Cordelia. I am letting you decide what you would like to believe occurred. If you truly believe Marfleet is correct, then I will not try to convince you otherwise.”

She sighed, because of course she did not believe Marfleet was correct.

--

Previous chapter: https://theprose.com/post/294546/5-watch-your-ankles

Next chapter: https://theprose.com/post/303473/7-yellowwood-inn

By the time Cordelia and Blackburn had trekked back to the Yellowwood Inn, Coredelia’s feet ached and the midnight cold had seeped through her body, leaving her numb.

She was so tired that she barely batted an eye at the inn’s crooked, worn door, or the way it squealed on its rusty hinges.

The inside was exactly what one would expect from an inn if it was located on the edge of a forest and had seen little to no civilization. The lighting was dim, the air was warm, and the smell was sour. And even though the room was nowhere close to packed, the patrons were rowdy enough to imitate a large crowd. Men hefted great cups of beer, and they called out loudly to each other, laughing and shouting joyfully. What a bunch of blunderbusses!

The few women, in contrast, were quiet in speech and quite talkative in body language. Cordelia caught one of them looking her up and down as if sizing up the competition.

Cordelia could not wait to be away from this place.

“Excuse me!” Blackburn called across the room suddenly. He then followed the direction of his voice and maneuvered efficiently towards a man Cordelia assumed was the innkeeper; a stout man with a bushy mustache and a merchant’s grin. She could see the roguish glint in his eye from across the room.

Cordelia followed much less gracefully, getting bumped and jostled by nearby drunkards.

After a quick conversation and a couple of overexaggerated smiles from the innkeeper, the pair learned that their luggage was already upstairs. And even though she didn’t like Yellowwood Inn at all, Cordelia was more than happy to follow the innkeeper to her room. She was more than ready to be rid of her dirtied dress and be able to rest.

* * *

Cordelia slept fitfully. The mattress was hard, the room was cold, and the noise from downstairs was unbearable. Even when the murmur of conversation died down, it seemed she could hear every squeal of a door or creak of a stair.

And when she did finally sleep, she dreamt.

She was in her old house. The high ceiling of the morning room arched above her, and the sun painted the whole room blindingly white.

She picked up a teacup, but when she brought it to her lips she smelled it was beer. Disgusted, she dropped it, letting the little china cup shatter on the thick rug.

The doors to the morning room rattled, and she heard a muffled voice on the other side.

Panicked, she knelt down, trying to pick up the china pieces. She saw that her skirts, originally white, were now stained with crimson.

The voice at the door became louder, and the walls turned to trees. A familiar figure stood in front of her, but instead of running, she turned around. Blackburn was there. He pointed at her hands.

“Silly things, those.” he said.

Cordelia didn’t understand what he meant, and when she looked down, she was cupping a pile of rocks.

* * *

“Drink your tea, it’ll sharpen your senses.”

Cordelia gave a stern look to Blackburn over the rim of her cup. He simply flashed her a smile, all dimples and boyish charm. Well, that wasn’t going to work on her.

She still felt like she needed another day of sleep, but she’d gotten up and changed into the other dress she’d had packed anyway, which was a grossly cheerful light blue. Luckily, she had also packed an extra pair of gloves, which she had gratefully slipped on before meeting downstairs with Blackburn. Her other pair was probably still on the forest floor.

The two of them sat quietly in front of the hearth, both sipping tea. Normally Cordelia would feel inclined to prompt Blackburn into conversation, but not this morning.

“Hmph,” Blackburn finally said, setting down his teacup with a clatter.

Cordelia looked up, saw the aggravated set of his mouth, and drew a conclusion.

“Miss Green, Mr. Blackburn,” said Marfleet from just beside them. Cordelia turned and stood, giving a small curtsy.

Blackburn stood rigidly. “I had not expected such an abrupt return. Or any.”

Marfleet adjusted his hat and looked at Cordelia in bemusement. Unfortunately for him, she did not share his expression, and instead raised her brows as if to say, what are you doing here?

She had not expected him either.

“I thought you two would want to be informed of Mr. Notley’s untimely death. He passed in the carriage before we made it back to Rotherhithe.”

Blackburn’s expression didn’t change, and Cordelia said only, “Do you know the cause of death?”

Marfleet gave her a perplexed look. “I hardly think that this is a matter to be discussed in front of a lady such as yourself.”

“Oh, I believe Cordelia is more than capable of handling herself in the presence of death,” Blackburn said pointedly.

Cordelia bristled, but bit her tongue.

Marfleet gave the two of them a baffled expression, then pressed on. “Well, I took the body to the coroner. Nothing of note happened on the ride; he just became more and more weak, then stopped entirely. I should have an answer by evening.”

Blackburn shook his head slowly and murmured thoughtfully, “As I suspected…”

Ignoring this comment, Marfleet said, “In the meantime I’ll be paying Mrs. Bellingham another visit.”

“Yes, yes, well. Cordelia and I are dying to get back to work.” Blackburn replied.

“I’ll be going with Mr. Marfleet,” Cordelia blurted out. Both men’s heads swiveled in her direction, but with different expressions. Marfleet simply raised a brow in surprise, his eyes sparking. Blackburn, on the other hand, looked like she had just said she was going to go feed herself to a pack of wild bears. His eyes were wide with unsaid warnings.

Cordelia drew herself up. “It will be to all of our benefits for me to be present during Marfleet’s interviews. I shall then carry information back to you, Mr. Blackburn,” she nodded to her companion. “Thereby saving Mr. Marfleet the trouble.”

“I say, that’s a clever idea,” Marfleet said with the beginnings of a smile. He intentionally stared holes into the side of Blackburn’s head, but the other man would not look back.

“Are you quite certain this is what you’d like to do?” Blackburn said, polishing an imaginary spot on the top of his cane.

Cordelia replied flippantly, “It’ll only be an afternoon.”

Blackburn nodded to himself, then met Cordelia’s eye. She couldn’t quite read him. “Very well,” he responded steadily. With that, he turned away.

“The carriage is waiting, Miss Green,” Marfleet said with a short bow in her direction.

Cordelia peeled her eyes away from Blackburn’s retreating figure. “Ah, of course.”

--

Previous chapter: https://theprose.com/post/299187/6-someone-is-dead

Next chapter: https://theprose.com/post/317053/8-a-visit-to-mrs-bellingham

Cordelia settled herself into the carriage by adjusting her skirts and veil, then placing her hands neatly into her lap. She resisted clutching them together and tried her best to keep them relaxed.

Even without looking at him, she knew that Marfleet was studying her from his position across the carriage. He knocked on the carriage’s ceiling, then leaned back as they started forward.

“So what are you trying to learn from Mrs. Bellingham?” Cordelia asked, eyeing the man across from her.

He met her gaze, a calculating look in his eye. He was the picture of ease, leisurely taking a pipe from his coat. Although Cordelia owned none of the loathing that plagued Blackburn, looking at Marfleet like this gave her an inkling. “I would like to learn whether Mrs. Bellingham knew Mr. Notley. But why are you here, Miss Green?”

“That is your real name?” he added after a beat.

The only sign that Cordelia was annoyed was in the way her eyes momentarily flicked upwards to the heavens. “Yes; I have no reason to lie now.”

“And you did before?” he asked, the unlit pipe still in his hand. She was beginning to think it was nothing but a prop to make him look more of a gentleman.

“Well, you understand the nature of investigation. Oftentimes it’s better to remain unknown.”

“Is that what your veil is for?”

She sat still as a statue, and replied cooly, “Perhaps.” He would get little out of her asking questions like these.

Marfleet sighed and tapped a finger against his pipe. “Miss Green, if you don’t mind me saying, I would recommend you rethink your employment with Mr. Blackburn.”

Cordelia watched the the trees pass by outside. “And why would you say that, Mr. Marfleet?”

The man folded his hands carefully, as if physical politeness would transfer into his speech. “Surely you’ve heard at least some things about the man. And you’ve met him, of course.” Bitterness seeped into his voice. “He’s peculiar.”

“And you aren’t?” she asked pointedly, a thin smile on her lips.

Marfleet’s mouth twitched in a gentle tell of frustration. “I work for the Metropolitan Policeforce, a credible group of men. Kent Blackburn has no affiliations or qualifications,” he said, sweeping a hand through the air in agitation.

“Yet you still request his help in investigations? I’d say that qualifies him,” Cordelia responded.

“My point being, Miss Green, that if I were you, I would not trust the man. Or his methods.” Of course, Cordelia said nothing to this, and Marfleet learned forward. “And I’d say you don’t fully trust him, do you?”

Cordelia’s eyes fell to her lap. “No man is worth trusting,” she said coldly.

Marfleet settled back in his seat. “On that, at least, we can agree.”

* * *

They arrived at Finland Street just past noon. It was littered with modest houses, none too large, and Mrs. Bellingham’s was no different.

Marfleet made it to the door first, and struck the door knocker twice. Cordelia stood a bit behind him, peering curiously into the first-floor window from afar. The curtain was pulled back, and she could see a round table set out with candles, all lit, despite the morning light. Something about it struck her as familiar, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

A young maid opened the door and curtseyed. “Please, come in,” she said shyly, holding open the door. They were shown to the drawing room where a woman already sat, ringing her hands.

Mrs. Bellingham was younger than Cordelia had expected. She wasn’t sure why, but she hadn’t pictured a woman near the same age as herself. Mrs. Bellingham was pretty, with light eyes and even lighter hair, braided neatly around her head. She stood when they entered.

“Mr. Marfleet, do you--do you bring news?” She blinked worriedly.

Marfleet straightened and gave a sympathetic smile to the woman. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bellingham. We just have a few more questions.”

It was as if Mrs. Bellingham hadn’t noticed Cordelia until then. Perhaps she hadn’t. “Oh, yes, hello,” she said, eyes bouncing from Cordelia’s veil the ground.

“How do you do, Mrs. Bellingham; I’m Miss Green. I’m an associate of Mr. Blackburn’s.”

Mrs. Bellingham nodded hesitantly. “Oh, please sit, both of you,” she said suddenly. “And Adah will bring us tea.” The maid, who had been lingering by the doorway, scurried back out of the room.

They sat, Marfleet and Cordelia positioned across from Mrs. Bellingham, who resumed the fidgeting that they had presumably interrupted upon their entrance.

It was Marfleet who spoke first. “Do know that we are doing everything we can to find your husband, Mrs. Bellingham. I’m just curious, have you ever heard of a Mr. Lyman Notley?”

Mrs. Bellingham’s eyebrows crinkled delicately together. “No… no, I don’t believe I have. Why?”

“We found him in the woods yesterday, when we were looking for your husband. It’s nothing, really,” said Marfleet.

“Do you think Samuel knew him?” Mrs. Bellingham asked.

Marfleet shook his head. “There’s no way to know,” he admitted. “He passed this morning.”

“Oh my,” said Mrs. Bellingham sadly, waving her maid, Adah, over to them. She came, balancing a tea tray.

As Cordelia watched Adah begin to serve tea, she asked something that had been on her mind for a while. “Why do you suspect that your husband is still in the woods?”

The other woman looked up from her steaming cup. “Where else would he be? He went to those woods, and he never returned home.” Her voice wavered at her last sentence, and her nostrils flared slightly.

Cordelia accepted her cup of tea and pressed on. “I don’t mean to upset you, Mrs. Bellingham. But perhaps we should consider that he could have gone somewhere else?”

Mrs. Bellingham shook her head violently. “He wouldn’t have. And don’t mind me asking, but how does a woman come to obtain this sort of job, anyway?”

Cordelia heard Marfleet sigh, and saw him sip his tea. Fat lot of good he was. Cordelia forced a smile. “I wasn’t cut out to stay at home,” she said.

Mrs. Bellingham made a face, but Marfleet spoke up. “One more thing, Mrs. Bellingham; did you meet anyone else in the woods that night, other than the fortune tellers?”

“No, no one else,” she said, still eyeing Cordelia.

“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Bellingham. I think that will be all,” Marfleet said immediately. Clearly he was not inclined to let Cordelia get in another word.

“Oh, you don’t have to go so soon. Please, at least finish your tea,” Mrs. Bellingham urged them. “I’m practising reading the leaves,” she said proudly.

“Sorry, but we’d better be off. We’ll be in contact, though. Good day, Mrs. Bellingham,” Marfleet said, getting up and smoothing out his vest.

“Good day,” parroted Cordelia, worried to say anything else.

“Goodbye then,” Mrs. Bellingham responded sadly, her comment clearly addressed to Marfleet and not Cordelia.

And with that, Adah showed them back out of the house.

--

Previous chapter: https://theprose.com/post/303473/7-yellowwood-inn

Next chapter: https://theprose.com/post/322199/9-the-maid-speaks

Cordelia followed Marfleet out the door and onto the front stoop, but the door didn’t shut behind them. Turning, Cordelia saw that the Adah, the maid, was still in the doorway. Her wide eyes latched onto Cordelia’s.

“There’s—there’s something you should know,” she said in a low voice. She shifted nervously in the doorway.

This caught Marfleet’s attention. “Yes?” he prompted.

Adah seemed to shrink under his gaze, but took a tiny step towards them. She pulled the door almost completely shut behind her. “Well, I—your question, Madam,” she said, addressing Cordelia, “Master Bellingham did go to Dulwich woods.”

“And how do you know this?” Marfleet asked.

The young maid looked back at the mostly shut door and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Mistress Bellingham never saw any fortune tellers. She told Master Bellingham that story because she doesn’t desire any children.”

Cordelia exchanged a surprised look with Marfleet.

“Adah?” called Mrs. Bellingham distantly.

The maid nearly jumped from her skin. Her face reddening, she pushed the door back open, about to slip inside.

But Cordelia wasn’t going to walk away without more information. Quickly, she stepped into the doorway, using her body to prevent Adah from shutting the front door. Adah looked at Cordelia, her mouth slightly agape.

“Is someone here?” Mrs. Bellingham said shrilly. Within moments she appeared in the doorway to the drawing room. She looked beyond disappointed to see Cordelia standing in the front hall.

“Mrs. Bell—” Cordelia began before being interrupted by Marfleet.

“Our sincerest apologies, Mrs. Bellingham,” he said smoothly, stepping to Cordelia’s side and putting a light hand on her shoulder. Surely Cordelia’s face portrayed her dislike of this action, but Mrs. Bellingham didn’t seem to notice. “but Miss Green is feeling too ill to ride in a carriage at the moment. In fact, she’s been feeling rather off all day. Isn’t that right, Miss Green?”

Marfleet’s fingers dug into her shoulder. “Unfortunately, yes,” Cordelia said with a weak cough.

For a silent moment, Mrs. Bellingham just stood and blinked at them, as if pondering the validity of their story.

Cordelia decided then to raise her veil, pretending it was only to better fan her face with her hand. In reality, she was letting Mrs. Bellingham notice the sheet-white color of her face.

It didn’t take long.

“Oh, why, you do look sickly, Miss Green. Perhaps you should have a seat?”

Marfleet let go of Cordelia’s shoulder and gave her a smile, then stepped past her, towards Mrs. Bellingham. “Why don’t we let your maid take care of her? I would like to speak with you for a moment more,” Marfleet said, guiding Mrs. Bellingham back into the drawing room.

“You can have a seat here, in the morning room,” Adah said, showing Cordelia to another room. Cordelia was about to decline when she realized it was the room she had seen into when they’d first arrived at the house, with the table and candles that she’d felt like she’d recognized.

“You can sit anywhere, Madam,” Adah said, noting how Cordelia had stopped in the middle of the room to look around.

“I’m not really sick,” Cordelia reminded her, pulling her veil back over her face.

The room was decorated with royal reds and elegant creams, and the furniture looked to have the reddish sheen of mahogany. So why, then, was the table a dark oak, set with a pale white table runner? Not to mention the strangeness of the five candles, lit despite the sunlight and set out in equal distances from each other.

“What is this for, Adah?” Cordelia asked, running a finger along the edge of the table.

“Oh, Madam, I wouldn’t touch that,” the maid said, taking a step toward Cordelia. “That’s Master Bellingham’s table. The Mistress moved it here when she found he was missing.”

A memory came to Cordelia: A darkened hallway, doorways, her silent footsteps. Stop: light. A room, a man, a table.

“Where did he get this?” Cordelia demanded suddenly.

Five candles. Illuminated face. Rolled back eyes.

The girl flinched at Cordelia’s tone. “I don’t know, Madam. He’s had it since before I was employed.”

Cordelia nodded, forcing her suddenly tense body to relax. “Sorry. What were you saying about Mrs. Bellingham at the door?”

Adah frowned slightly, but replied, “Mistress Bellingham thought Master Bellingham would believe her if she said she had seen fortune tellers. The master had some… unconventional beliefs.”

“But he went to Dulwich, so he didn’t believe her?” Cordelia asked.

“No, he went to Dulwich because he believed her. He wanted to speak to the fortune tellers.”

“Is that why you said you knew he went to the woods?”

Adah nodded. “I was there when he left, and he had told me not to tell the Mistress, not to worry her.”

Cordelia nodded thoughtfully. “And was Mrs. Bellingham upset about him going? Did she seem angry?”

“She was a little upset.” Adah straightened. “But she wouldn’t hurt him; she wasn’t upset like that. She’s lost without him,” the maid stated sadly.

Cordelia looked at the dark wood table once more, then said, “Thank you, Adah. I think Mr. Marfleet and I should be on our way now.” Adah bowed slightly, and led Cordelia to the drawing room.

Once there, Marfleet made quick work of their goodbyes. He apologized again to Mrs. Bellingham, thanked her for her hospitality, and ushered Cordelia out the door.

--

Previous chapter: https://theprose.com/post/317053/8-a-visit-to-mrs-bellingham

Next chapter: https://theprose.com/post/322654/10-arrival-of-a-courier

Marfleet walked briskly down the block, scouring the empty street for carriages that weren’t there. Cordelia followed at a near skip, hastily trying to keep up.

She had already informed him of Adah’s account, and he had recounted his conversation with Mrs. Bellingham. Apparently, Marfleet was able to get her to admit that she hadn’t seen fortune tellers in the forest that night, but she had been in Dulwich. Mrs. Bellingham had lied because she felt guilty for tricking her husband, and being the initial cause of his disappearance.

He had been brusque with her through the conversation, but she didn’t ask why. Now, he was looking for a carriage, because apparently he hadn’t told the one that dropped them off to wait.

Suddenly, Marfleet whirled on her. “What was that? I’m the detective here, not you.” His brown eyes were alight with pent-up frustration.

Cordelia took a step back from him, her eyebrows bunching together. Clearly the lack of carriages on this street was not improving his mood. “Excuse me?”

Marfleet narrowed his eyes and leaned in towards her. “Were you trying to upset Mrs. Bellingham? You shouldn’t talk like that to a grieving woman.”

He was upset that she had questioned Mrs. Bellingham’s word? Even after they’d found out she’d lied? That was what this was about? Cordelia stiffened defensively. “I didn’t know asking an important question was going to prompt her to insult me!” she retorted.

The man just shook his head. “You should have let me do the talking. No wonder you work with Mr. Blackburn; both of you are insufferable.”

“Really? You seemed quite pleased at first that I’d chosen to come along with you.”

“At first. But you’re apparently some sort of… actress. I can’t trust a word that comes out of that pretty little mouth,” he said matter-of-factly. His anger seemed to have dissipated as quickly as it arrived; now he only looked down his nose at her.

Cordelia didn’t bother holding back a snort. “I don’t think you—”

“Miss Cordelia Green?”

The two of them had been so caught up in their fuss that they completely missed the courier run up. He bent over, sucking in a breath.

Cordelia quickly composed herself and turned to the young man. “She is I.”

“I thought for a moment I’d missed you,” he said, regaining his breath. “A letter. From a Mr. Kent Blackburn.” He offered her a folded up paper.

“Thank you,” Cordelia said, taking the note. Marfleet stepped closer to read over her shoulder as she unfolded it.

Cordelia (NOT Marfleet),

Samuel Bellingham is found.

Do not tell anyone yet. He is like you.

Come to Dulwich at once.

Kent

“What does he mean, like you?” Marfleet asked, reaching for the paper.

Cordelia pulled away and tucked the note into her glove. “I have no idea.”

Marfleet gave her a disbelieving look. “I’ve never met a woman full of so many lies.”

Cordelia gave him a closed-lipped smile. “Then you haven’t met very many women. Now, we best be off to Dulwich.”

He shook his head, his brown curls shaking slightly, even from beneath his hat. “I’m telling Mrs. Bellingham. She deserves to know.”

He is like you. Mr. Bellingham was like her. Cordelia put a hand out in warning. “No! Don’t. What if he’s dead?”

Undeterred, Marfleet took a step towards the Bellingham house. “Wouldn’t your Kent have said? I say it would be most important to mention.”

She scoffed. “Perhaps not! Clearly Mr. Blackburn only just scrawled this note. And in a haste, I’d say. Don’t give her false hope based solely on the absence of words.” She hoped by appealing to his mistrust of Blackburn he would hold his tongue.

She saw in his face that her argument convinced him. To a degree. Sighing, Marfleet said, “I’m going to tell her he’s been found. Dead or alive, she’ll have to learn later.” He turned on his heal and walked away.

--

Previous chapter: https://theprose.com/post/322199/9-the-maid-speaks

Next chapter: https://theprose.com/post/323460/11-cottage-in-the-woods