CHAPTER FIFTEEN

IN THE KITCHEN, they found Owen at the table across from Henry Nolan. A cup of tea sat steaming in front of him, but when he saw them, he stood abruptly. “Forgive me, Mr. Nolan,” he said to Henry. “I’m afraid I must be on my way.”

Guy stepped forward. “Mr. Smith—”

But Owen strode past them as if they were ghosts. He ducked his head and took to the stairs. Catherine called after him, “Mr. Smith, where are you going?”

He didn’t answer.

Henry made his way over. The fire in the grate cast him in shadow and light, accentuating the lines at the corners of his eyes. “He seems rather upset.”

“Sydney was unkind to him,” Guy replied. Rubbing his forehead, he turned to his father. “What did he tell you?”

“Nothing of it—I could see it on his face. Is he a friend of yours? He said he’s an apprentice at the coffin shop on Burnside Lane.”

Catherine glanced to Owen’s neglected teacup.

Oh, Mr. Smith.

Then Henry’s attention settled on her. “Hello again, Miss Daly,” he said lightly.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Nolan.” She nodded to him even as her heart thudded with unease. She clasped her hands together in the hopes of steadying herself. “My apologies, but I must be getting back to the Chronicle.” Giving Guy a pointed look, she added, “Mr. Nolan, if you might accompany me…”

“Of course, Miss Daly.”

They turned for the door. Before they left, Henry said, “Come home directly, Guy.”

Guy hesitated. He looked as if he were weighing his next words, but in the end he said only, “Yes, Father.”

Outside the shop, the street was not as busy as it was earlier in the day. Few people were about, and fewer carriages. Catherine looked along the row of buildings on the other side of the street. Painted shopfronts, white sash windows.

“Where do you think he’d go?” she said, turning to Guy. “Shall we try the park?”

He nodded tightly.

When they came to it, they walked the same path they’d taken that morning. Tree branches shivered in the breeze, some leaves still clinging in place, autumn colors of yellow and red-brown. The pond across the green glinted in the evening light, fallen leaves circling its edges.

Owen Smith stood in the middle of the footbridge. His coat was the same dark gray as the water below, and he looked faded as a shadow, his shoulders hunched as he stared down into the murk.

Catherine said, “Mr. Smith, are you all right?”

He didn’t look at either of them, but his mouth crooked down. He shook his head.

“Sydney shouldn’t have spoken so carelessly,” said Guy. “I should have—”

“Is it true?” Owen whispered. “He’s a resurrectionist?”

Guy leaned against the bridge beside him. “Yes.”

Owen swallowed hard, looking down at himself. “Would he have dug me up?”

“No.” Guy glanced to Catherine. He cleared his throat. “No, Mr. Smith, you were—I mean, your body was rather… You had been dead for a long time. The anatomists—they need fresh corpses.”