The Damsel and the Daggerman (Blud #3)
Page 4Jacinda knew when an interview was headed downhill. She would find a better time to talk to the girls about their own stories when they weren’t on the offensive—or packed together in a giggling gaggle.
With a warm, professional smile, she stood, tucking her notebook under her arm without a single word written on the page. This interview had been doomed from the start, but she had learned more than she anticipated. Now she knew why Marco wouldn’t talk to her. And she also knew that he hadn’t been breaking hearts among the young and easily breakable. He went up a notch in her estimation, considering how very easily he could have preyed upon these moon-eyed girls. It shouldn’t have mattered, as she was simply a journalist gathering facts. And yet . . . it mattered.
“Thank you all so very much for your time.”
“But what do you know about Marco?” Demi asked, her eyes almost pleading. “Did he really do it?”
Jacinda reached out to pat the contortionist on the shoulder, forgetting for a moment that the girl was bludded and seeing only a tender young soul filled with longing, as she herself had once been. “That’s what I’m going to find out, dear,” she said.
She moved across the dining wagon to a booth shared by the bookish couple she recognized from her earlier encounter with the clockwork bird. They sat hip-to-hip on the same side, their heads together as they shared a joke. She cleared her throat, and they both looked up, suddenly going silent.
“Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?” She held out her notebook and pen with an inviting smile. Without a word, the man slid out of the booth, tipped his hat farther over his eyes, and disappeared.
“You’ll have to forgive Mr. Murdoch,” the lady said, moving over as if trying to absorb whatever warmth he’d left behind. “He’s very shy of strangers.”
“And I’m as strange as they come.” Jacinda picked the woman’s looks apart with professional interest, noting her pretty face, owlish costume, shabby gloves, and guarded copper-colored eyes. “Are you part of the circus?”
The woman chuckled softly to herself. “I don’t look much like a caravan act, do I? Not at all bright and flashy. I run the butterfly circus, you see. And Mr. Murdoch is the caravan’s artificer, who invented my equipment and all the clockworks. I’m Imogen, by the way.”
“Jacinda Harville.”
“A journalist, yes. I’m here to write a book about the caravan.”
“Oh, that sounds fascinating. The city folk will just gobble it up, won’t they?”
Jacinda grinned. “That’s what I’m hoping. Are you from the city, then?”
Imogen blushed and looked down. “Yes. London. And it was just as dreary as the penny dreadfuls make it sound. I’d be glad to show you the clever intricacies of my butterfly circus sometime, if that will help your story.”
A flutter of color caught Jacinda’s eye, and she noticed a small orange butterfly slowly flapping dotted wings from its perch on Imogen’s hat. Her breath caught.
“Is that . . . real?”
Imogen chuckled. “Of course not. Everyone knows butterflies are extinct. Mr. Murdoch is very talented, you know, with his machines.”
Jacinda’s face didn’t change, as she knew how to mask her emotions—unlike Imogen, who couldn’t lie worth a damn. The keen-eyed journalist would have bet everything in her conveyance that the butterfly on her companion’s head was indeed real, but judging by the way Imogen was wringing her hands and glancing nervously at Jacinda’s notebook, she would have to change course soon or lose the meek woman’s trust forever.
“What I’m really curious about is the new knife thrower. Do you know anything about him?”
Imogen sucked air through her teeth. “He’s a bit of an enigma, that one.”
“Have you seen the papers?”
“Have you spoken to him?” Jacinda’s pen tapped against the paper.
Across the booth, Imogen ducked her head and shrugged into herself. “I spend most of my time with Mr. Murdoch. Or reading. I’ve seen Marco throw his knives. But I know almost nothing of the man himself.” She looked around the wagon, taking in two dozen people of all shapes, sizes, and species. “I suppose I should be more concerned about having a suspected murderer among us. But in my short time here, I’ve come to understand that Criminy and Letitia wouldn’t let anyone in who would bring us to harm.” She looked closer at Jacinda, perking up with curiosity. “Has she glanced on you, perchance?”
Jacinda’s skin prickled, remembering the warm, dry feel of Letitia’s palm against hers, the fingers gripping tightly as a little ripple of something passed between them.
Before she could speak, Imogen chuckled softly and said, “Of course she has, or else they’d never have allowed you in to question us. I’m sorry we can’t be of more help, Hen—I mean, Mr. Murdoch and me. Good luck.”
As Imogen swept her dishes off the table and left, Jacinda looked down at the creased old paper and unfolded it. It was the London Gazette, one of her favorites. She’d made a habit of picking it up in major cities around the world during her travels. Skimming went against her nature, but she would save her in-depth reading for another time. Instead, she flipped through until she found the Wanted poster, only a quarter of a page and clearly done by a sensationalist hack. The image looked nothing like Marco Taresque as she’d seen him.
The drawing showed a devil of a man with a cleaver in his hand, dripping black blood.
WANTED: THE DEADLY DAGGERMAN
In conjunction with the underhanded disappearance of one Petra Incanta on 22 February 1906, being a petite woman with dark hair and the knife thrower’s ill-fated assistant. Deliver to London Coppers dead or alive. Reward ten silvers.
And that was all. It didn’t even mention his name, which explained how he could perform here without being dragged off by a lynch mob. She pored over the periodical, but there was no reporting, no quotes from family, friends, or Coppers. Just the poster, sure to induce fear in the easily frightened children of London. Jacinda folded the paper and snorted. Idiots, all of them, and sloppy reporting to boot.
Journalism was more than work to her—it was a passion, a calling, one that her husband had died pursuing by her side. Although she was outgoing and accustomed to learning quickly the customs of a given society, she missed having someone insightful with whom to discuss the day’s findings over a cup of tea. All the people she had met so far at Criminy Stain’s caravan had been kind and welcoming, if not actually helpful. But she missed Liam more than ever, the way they had worked so intuitively as a team to unearth secrets and treasures and stories. He would have loved the caravan.
Try as she might, there were some things that men would only tell other men, and her late husband had been adept at sidling in with a cigar or a bottle of brandy. But he was gone now, and she was alone, and she wasn’t giving up, even if this was one story that was going to have to come straight from the bludmare’s mouth, as they said.
This time, when she approached the clockwork bird, she found Mr. Murdoch blocking her path. She could barely see his eyes through the thick goggles that hid the rest of his face.
He cocked his head at her as if she’d forgotten her shirt. “Lose your mutt?” he asked.
“Your clockworks appear to be the only ones that don’t require recharging. Brutus sleeps more than I do.” She pulled out her disruptor, and he held up a hand covered in a thick leather glove.
“Put that device back where it goes, madam. I can’t have you mucking about, destroying my work.”
She waved the disruptor under his nose, her finger hovering over the red button. “How do I get by, then?”
He harrumphed. “I suppose we’re stuck with you for a while, at least until you finish your blasted tell-all book. Look, they’re guards. You see? Keep the rabble out of our private space. You want in, you walk up to this clockwork—this bird only—and say, ‘posthumous orangutan grotesque.’ He’ll freeze for a minute, and you can squeeze through. Do you understand, or has your career choice corrupted and shriveled your brain?”
At his three peculiar words, the bird stopped its strange dance, freezing in place. Jacinda leaned closer, listening for the telltale ticking of machinery. It was faint, and Mr. Murdoch smirked at her, waiting for the questions she was sure to ask and he was sure to dodge. Instead, she struggled to hold her tongue until the bird began to gyrate again.
“Posthumous orangutan grotesque,” she said clearly, and it froze. She nodded and ducked around its tail. “Thank you, Mr. Murdoch.”
“You’re not going to interrogate me?” he asked. “I was fully prepared to evade you.”
She looked him up and down from behind the mechanical bird, taking in the hat, the goggles, the layers of clothes, the leather mask that hid much of his face. “I know a closed book when I see one.”
Leaving Mr. Murdoch chuckling in her wake, she trod the same path she’d taken yesterday toward the heavy thunking of blades in wood. There was a steady, powerful laziness to the sound. Not rushed. Not unsure. Perfectly measured, every time. Along the way, she greeted the carnivalleros she’d met by name, introduced herself to others. She shook hands, laughed at jokes, and avowed she couldn’t wait to learn everyone’s story. And it was true, which made them like her even more. She’d begun her career as Liam’s assistant on a desert caravan and was proud of her knack for fitting in with new cultures and people, no matter how bizarre they might at first appear. It seemed the clockwork caravan would also soon be under her spell.